MY TROUBLE, MY JOY
Anna, how long are you going to keep drinking? Im tired of saving you. What must I do to make you say farewell to the bottle forever? Look at yourself youre like a withered willow, I pleaded with my wife, again and again, each word tumbling through the fog of déjà vu.
But when had that ever stopped anyone? Even as I spoke, I knew my begging was fruitless. Anna would swear, solemn as a vicar, that not another drop of gin would touch her lips. A week later, the same strange carnival would roll back in.
Edward, stop with your rescuing. Dont get cross. I only had a little sip, she slurred, wobbling with the lingering echo of some distant, cheerful phone call with a friend who lured her out into the nights drizzle.
You can barely string two words together, Anna. Go on sleep it off.
She made a soggy attempt to kiss me, missed by inches, and I recoiled from her three-day-old gin breath. With a sigh that made the windows shiver, she shuffled off to the bedroom, fell on the bed fully clothed and snored like a cathedrals pipes groaning in a storm.
There were times Id carried her to bed, lifeless as an abandoned puppet, scooping her from the hallway floor. A grotesque spectacle it made, haunting as a childhood nightmare.
For an entire day Id wander alone through the flat, listening to the tick of the clock and the moan of the wind outside. Eventually, Anna would stir, sidle up to me, eyes cast down like a chastened schoolgirl.
Forgive me, Edward. I misjudged things. It was all Charlottes fault, dreaming up ridiculous toasts and making me down every glass.
Id hold my tongue, my stubborn silence the only shield left. Anna would then break into a whirlwind of housework, scrubbing every surface, attacking the dishes, sorting the washing as if she could cleanse the heavy air of guilt.
Edward, what would you like for lunch? Just sayIll do anything, shed chirp, her voice suddenly sweet as marzipan.
Lunch would pass in a haze of warmth and jokes. She cooked like a wizard; the kitchen filled with scents that spun my mind back to happier chapters. Afterwards, wed stroll out, buy sweet buns and fancy cheese, snatching at happiness with greedy hands. The night, for a few trembling hours, would be ours: fiery, tender, dissolving us into one dream-swaddled body. Id have grown hungry for her touch, the willing curve of her side, the words she whispered that soothed me like a lullaby.
A week, two at most and the spell would break. Anna would change, growing sharp as a bramble and just as unpredictable. I always knew with bone-deep certainty: the next storm was coming, another week lost to drink, to tears and accusations, our lives caught between fury and despair.
This endless ballet had spun on for years.
We met when we were seven, both scuffing our knees in the same school playground. In year ten, I confessed my wild schoolboy love to Anna. She answered with a shy, radiant yes. We might have had a child, but she chose instead the white spires of university. I cant say I pushed back my own heart shrank at the thought of nappies and sleepless nights. When Anna returned from the clinic beaming, she said:
Thats that. No need for us to be weighed down with bibs and bottles. Lifes waiting for us!
And so, we drifted apart for a decade, taking different trains through lifes foggy station.
Anna married, and so did I. We brushed past each other again at a school reunion. Seeing her was like tumbling into a honeyed dream Anna, in blossom, all laughter and promise. Memories swarmed like bees. I wanted to hold her, anchor her by my side forever. But the evening faded; we exchanged numbers and parted like ships into another five-year night.
I kept Anna in a secret corner of my mind, nursing private jealousy of her husband. But I had my own wife, a daughter, lifes rivers splitting and winding. One evening, Anna rang, her voice caged with worry:
Edward, can we meet?
I didnt ask; I ran through Londons lamp-lit dusk to her side. Anna sat in Regents Park, perched on a bench beneath the chestnuts, scanning the path. I tiptoed up behind her, covered her eyes with trembling hands.
Edward? she guessed, wrapping my fingers in hers.
Right first time, I smiled, pressing her a bunch of daffodils. Anna, whats the matter? I thought she was crying.
Ive left him. He rarely let a day pass without reminding me Im barren as the Sahara. He wants an heir, she choked out, dissolving into tears.
I did what I could to comfort her. There was truth in her emptiness, and I shared some of the blame.
Not long after, Anna and I were married. Id left my old life behind. My father-in-law (from my first marriage), who fancied himself the Admiral of our family fleet, reminded me I was no more than a commoner in borrowed shoes.
Son-in-law, time to find a better match for my girl and my only grandchild. I wont have her eating cheap ice cream and wearing market rags. If you cant carry the load, pick a lighter basket!
Like a bluebottle banging against the window, he annoyed me endlessly. They say, beware of rich fathers-in-law, as you would the grim reaper. My first wife took his side never enough of anything; my efforts always a penny short.
I packed my things and moved to a little rented bedsit. My possessions: a wardrobe, a lumpy bed, a table, a chair. All the same to me.
When Anna returned to my world, I wanted to dress her in silk, slide pearls on her neck, treat her as a queen. Fortune smiled: I landed steady work, my salary climbing until my shoes barely touched the ground.
Together, we bought a spacious flat in a smart corner of London, fitted it with gadgets and glass and chrome. We bought a reliable car, something foreign and impressive.
I visited my daughter often, bringing her rare books and foreign toys. My old father-in-law, lips pursed, would mutter:
Rags to riches, eh
My first wife stayed single. I suppose the pool of eligible men had dried up at last.
Anna never needed to work; I cared for the house. She mastered the art of food, of making Yorkshire puddings that floated and pies that shimmered. Most days, Anna pampered herself: haircuts, nails, facials a pilgrimage of beauty. I approved, pleased when men turned in the street to steal another look. I lived for her smile, her happiness, as if laying rose petals in her path.
But the sun doesnt always shine on one doorstep. The miracle faded. Anna turned to drink, bit by bit, hiding bottles around the flat, her laughter becoming strange and brittle. I sensed the shift before it broke. To help, I found her a job, but within a month she was told to leave no workplace wants to mop up someone elses wine.
She didnt need drinking friends. She made her own company, drinking until oblivion quieted her mind. Her younger brother died on the front step from an overdose.
I began lingering at work, dreading the haunted look in her eyes, the fume of gin on her skin. No plea reached her. Anna wouldnt seek help.
Dont turn me into a hopeless drunk! You dont understand, Edward. Im trapped, locked up inside myself. Ill never have a child you at least have a daughter.
Pain crept into my bones. I grew exhausted with this shadow play called Drinking. I found comfort, then, in a gentle affair. She was twenty-five, dewy and bright as dawn, devoted to me. I left Anna for her. For two years, I watched Anna from afar, seeing her spiralling ever closer to the abyss, the world receding around her edges. No one would pull her back from the chasm but me; there are always many relatives, but when you drown not many hands reach out. Anna and I belonged to the same ragged road. It might twist, straighten, or end in fog. No one could say.
In separation, the ache for Anna stalked my dreams, guilt gnawing at me. Even now, I love that broken, tangled woman.
I kissed my young lover goodbye and returned to the lonely Anna.
She is my trouble, my joy.
