Gwen, love, can you truly have no pity for him? Dorothy Parker wailed, her voice echoing through the dim hallway. Hell vanish without you, you knowcompletely disappear.
I said nothing. Outside, in the little back garden, a gang of boys kicked a battered football. A lone girl in a pink coat lunged after it, trying to wrest it back. The boys laughed, shoved her aside, and she kept pressing forward. It must have been her ball, snatched by the boys who now claimed it as their own.
The scene filled me with a melancholy as sour as stale milk. I thought of the way I once pressed my way into Toms life, only to be met with his sneering laughter. He would get angry, and he would lieso often. His own actions pushed me away, yet I believed I could rescue, rebuild, save him. For three years I gave myself to him, neglecting my own pulse. All my thoughts turned to the night aheadwhere would he be, what would I find?
Can you hear me, Gwen? a familiar, trembling voice snapped me from my reverie. Please, I beg you, speak to him one last time. He always listened to you. You could have steered him.
I turned. Dorothy sat on the edge of the sofa, a tattered handbag shielding her knees.
Mrs. Parker, I breathed, I lived with him for three years. I nursed him, pleaded with him, wept for him. He promised, and then started again. You know all of this.
I know, dear, I know, she crooned, rubbing a trembling hand over her cheek. But now hes at rock bottom, can you see? He was dismissed from his job two weeks ago. I cant even recognize the flat he lives in. Its a wreckno dishes washed, no sheets changed. I drop by once a week, tidy up, cook a meal, and all he can think of is a bottle and his mates. The only thing he asks of me is, Mum, could you spare some money?
I nodded, my eyes dull and wet. Dorothys gaze fell to the window, where the girl in the pink coat finally clutched the ball to her chest and fled, her face lit with a triumphant grin. She had reclaimed what was hers.
If you go back, hell change, Dorothy promised, her voice quivering. I know hell. Hell do anything for you. You know how he loves you.
Loved, I corrected, when he was sober. He loved fiercely. When drunk he cursed, threw plates, and hurled furniture. Do you recall the night I ran to you in a nightdress, bare feet, because hed hidden the keys and left me standing in the hallway, accusing me of scolding him for coming home in a state? I wasnt made of steelI cracked, you understand? When your feelings are trampled day after day, they evaporate completely.
Dorothy averted her eyes, sighing heavily. We sat in silence, the air thick with unspoken grief. She fiddled with the cracked strap of her bag, her fingers twisting the worn leather.
He didnt want to. He didnt understand what he was doing, she finally whispered.
What else could she say? I understood: a mother losing her son, powerless to steer his course.
He didnt understand, I agreed. Mrs. Parker, I saw it allhim stumbling home at three in the morning, the arguments that followed, the hidden stashes in the toilet cistern, the cupboard, behind the radiators. I saw him pilfering from my purse without asking. I fielded calls from his drunken mates begging me to take Tom home. I saw it all, and thats why I left.
But hes your own flesh and blood! she cried. Your husband! You swore to love him through storm and sunshine!
She rose so abruptly that her handbag slipped from her lap, spilling crumpled receipts, a motheaten handkerchief, and a tiny bottle of tablets onto the floor. We both stooped to gather the sad remnants.
I swore, I said, but the sorrow was too heavy, Mrs. Parker. There was no joy left, not a drop.
She seized my hand with cold, firm fingers.
Gwen, he wont survive without you! Do you hear that? The doctors say his liver is failing. One more year of this, and its over. Do you really want that?
Mrs. Parker, I replied politely, I dont want that. Honest word, I dont. But I wont kill myself either. If I return, Ill probably die before him, or Ill become an eternal caregiver, chasing his shadows, sniffing out his problems, rescuing him forever. And what of any children? How can they live like that? I want childrenhealthy, normal children!
But you loved him too, she whispered, tears spilling. You loved him, didnt you?
I loved, I admitted, in a former life. That life ended when I realised love isnt a heroic sacrifice, isnt martyrdom, isnt rescue. Love is when both are well. We were never well, Mrs. Parker. I certainly wasnt.
She dabbed her face with the handkerchief, drew a breath, and tucked it back into her bag.
So, you wont help, she said, halfquestion, halfstatement.
I wont help, I affirmed. Because I cant. Physically Im exhausted. I simply dont have the strength.
She stood, misbuttoned her coat, shuffled to the door. One button missed the loop, unnoticed. At the threshold she paused, voice dropping to a hush:
He asked about you yesterday, when he was sober. Thats rare these days. He said, Hows Gwen? I told him, Shes fine, love, shes doing well. He nodded and said, Good heavens. Let her live well; shes earned it.
A wave of sadness washed over me, a longing for the Tom I once adoredcheerful, tender, caring. He had been that until the bottle lodged itself between us like a stone.
Please tell him I wish him recovery, I asked. Really, I do. But without me. Let him heal himself. I cant live for him any longer.
Dorothy nodded and slipped out. I heard her footsteps fade in the stairwell, the click of the flat door closing behind her. I walked to the window. Dorothy moved slowly, hunched, tiny, helpless. My heart ached for her.
Then I recalled the last night we shared, his voice shouting that I had ruined his life, that because of me hed turned to drink, that I was selfish and didnt understand him. I remembered packing a single suitcase and thinking, How fortunate we have no children.
Now I live alone in a rented studio flat, work a ninetofive job, and in the evenings lose myself in books, BBC series, or the gym. Weekends are for coffee with friends. My life is ordinary, calm, untouched by upheaval. I refuse to return to that inferno, to spend each night fearing Tom might relapse, fearing he lies somewhere unconscious.
I will not return.
Because I chose myself, my own peace. It isnt selfishness; its sanity.
Tom chose the bottle, long before I entered his world. I simply didnt see the warning signs, or I chose blindness for loves sake. That was his decision, his responsibility, his life. Not mine.
