A short story by Harleigh Gillespie.
Chuck
A thin shard of early morning light gently fell across Chucks face. Annoyed by the sudden interruption, he turned his head away from the dim light, slowly being pulled into awareness. He became vaguely aware of the stiffness in his neck, the aching in his back and hips from falling asleep in the straight backed, ergonomically incorrect front desk chair, the thick pastiness coating his mouth reminiscent of too much coffee, too many late night cigarettes, the rare nip of whisky from the flask he kept pushed to the back of the employee fridge.
The sound of crunching gravel announced an approaching car, bridging the last gap between sleep and awareness. He looked around stupidly, blinking away sleep. Crunching gravel, momentary silence, the gentle thud of a door. He glanced up at the big bland clock that hung above the front door; 6:20. Tom wasn’t due in to replace him until 8:30. No one would be looking to rent a room at this hour.
Chuck rose slowly, his body protesting his request for motion after so short a sleep, prohibited and accidental as it was. Three of his long strides carried him out from behind the check-in desk and across the small office to the window. Peering out through the thin lace curtains he could see the small gravel parking lot and two of the three sides of the horseshoe shaped motel. The doors of rooms 7-10 were directly across the small parking lot from the office, 3-6 perpendicular and to his right, 1-2 flush with the office door and to his right. Parked in the middle of the lot was a smart looking Toyota hybrid, in front of which stood a short woman, brown hair tossed up carelessly, gray cardigan buttoned crookedly, head turning slowly as she surveyed the motel doors. Of course Kat would be here this morning. How could he have forgotten?
The sight of her always conjured up a muddle of emotions, equal parts adoration, frustration and pity. Her husband, Gabriel, was a useless parasite of a man. Last night, for the third time in two weeks, Gabe had stumbled in to the office well after midnight, breath sweet with alcohol, eyes puffy, face pale and empty, words slurred and repetitive. Vanity kept him from believing his condition was conspicuous, which Chuck found both infuriating and pitiful. Chuck had handed him the key to room 8 and watched as Gabe stumbled out the door and across the lot, proceeding then to stand fumbling stupidly as he attempted to fit the key into the door of room 7. Eventually he recognized his idiocy, staggered to room 8 and disappeared into the dark room. The light never flicked on.
Chuck had stood, a few minutes later, on the stoop of the office, dragging heavily on a cigarette. What a good-for-nothing nobody, Chuck had thought. Weak and pitiful. He was an artist of some sort, not that Chuck knew him personally. He knew he worked part time at Maggie’s, the diner down the street, most likely to supplement his failure of an art career. Chuck had caught glimpses of him in the kitchen of Maggie’s on the mornings he stopped in for the meatloaf special before heading home to get some real sleep. He always looked distracted, gaunt, dim.
In contrast, Kat had always been delightful. She was a real intellectual, a thirty-something professor at the University a few towns over. She taught some adult-ed classes at the rec center, and Chuck had met her there a few years back when he decided to go for his GED. She had been personally responsible for Chuck’s success at passing his exam, not that she knew that. She had been relentlessly uplifting and positive, and had given Chuck the confidence to stick to the classes even when he felt he was doing poorly. Had she not worn the simple gold band on her left ring finger he would have gone back after his test to ask her to dinner, despite her being noticeably younger. How horrifying it had been for him the first time she had come to retrieve Gabe from the motel last year. Kat had called the front desk around 8am, asking if a stocky blond man in his early thirties had wandered through. Chuck had said yes, he was in room 4 but he hadn’t paid his bill at check-in, as was required. Gabe had been in such a state that Chuck had given up and decided to deal with the bill in the morning. Kat had arrived in the office 20 minutes later to settle the bill, and Chuck had barely recognized her in her sweat pants and flannel, dark circles and streaks under her brown eyes, hair unwashed and disheveled. It had broken his heart to see her struggling to support Gabe’s weight as she half-carried him to the car, his head lolling around crazily and his hands pressed against her body like he was offended she was there to save him.
Chuck sighed and returned to his post behind the desk. He couldn’t watch her this time, it was too much. What could she possibly see in a man like that? He thought of his own father, who in his drunken states would strike him or his mother, depending on who was within reach. He pictured Gabe, bottle in hand, standing over a broken and cowering Kat and releasing a manic, hideous guffaw.
The bell over the door tinkled as Kat entered the office. She looked as she always did on these mornings; wan, wounded, weary. She stepped quickly up to the desk and placed the room key on its dull wooden surface, contorting her face into what she must have thought was a good attempt at a pleasant smile. Her eyes remained wide and blank.
“Back so soon?” Chuck said, a little more sarcastically than he meant.
Kat’s eyes fell. She reached in the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a wadded tissue, her keys, and a hundred dollar bill. “Keep the change,” she said, holding the hundred out for Chuck. “He’s puked in the parking lot, please give the extra to whoever ends up having to clean it up. I’m sorry you had to deal with that again”.
“I’m the one who’s sorry for you,” Chuck said icily, placing the money in the drawer and raising his eyes to examine her pretty face. “I don’t under…”
“I know you don’t. You aren’t required to.”
Chuck raised his eyebrows. She’d never snapped at him before.
“I’m sorry, Chuck. I really appreciate that you go out of your way to give him a place to stay. We’re just going through a lot right now. It will get better.”
“I hope you’re right, Kat. It’s painful to witness.”
“I know.” She paused, holding his gaze for a moment before looking down to fidget with her keys. “Thanks again, Chuck. I really appreciate it.” She turned and retreated quickly towards the door.
The bell tinkled, the door clicked shut, and she was gone. Chuck rose and crossed back to the window. She was rushing towards Gabe, whom she had buckled into the passenger side of her two-door and who was now leaning awkwardly out the open door to puke violently onto the ground. She helped him straighten back up and reclined his seat slightly for him, brushing his hair out of his contorted face. She closed his door and circled around to the driver’s side, lifting her face to the sky for a moment before opening the door and dropping to her seat beside her unconscious husband.
“What a waste,” Chuck muttered, shaking his head in pity. He stepped out onto the stoop and lit another cigarette, puffing heavily as he walked around the corner of the office to retrieve the hose to try to cover up the mess that Gabriel had selfishly left behind. “What a fucking waste”.
~
Kat
The sun was timidly peeking through the tall pines that lined the deserted road. Kat gripped the steering wheel desperately, knuckles white, palms damp. She noticed how cold her skin felt, but it didn’t feel like hers. She was separate from it. She was slowly separating from many things.
She had pulled the car over in a fit of emotion and was sitting, hunched and gripping, waiting for the energy to move forward. She swayed slightly back and forth as she cried, tears flowing freely and profusely down her face and into her lap. The shrieks and wailing that accompany devastation had subsided some hours ago, leaving her weak, drained, empty. There was no energy left to devote to emitting sound; maybe soon the tears would even run dry their reserve, then there would be nothing left but routine.
Kat drew in a deep breath and released a long, rattling sigh. She felt like a leaf, shriveled and dead, clinging to a dormant twig long after the rest had deserted, unsure of how much more torturous weather she could bear before her hold failed and she plummeted, dead, to the earth. She reached between the seats and pulled a tissue from her purse, dabbing half-heartedly at her eyes and nose before stuffing it in her pocket and shifting into drive.
Her simple gold wedding band glinted bright white-yellow in the strengthening morning sun. She flicked at it absentmindedly with her thumb. She and Gabe had gotten married while they both were in grad school, both broke, both broken. True to his activist and minimalist nature, Gabe had refused to purchase a ring at a conventional jewelry store, insisting that conventional jewelers supported exploitation of human life, and that the cost for a conflict-free diamond was offensive and excessive. And anyway, he would say, a massive ring would only distract people from Kat’s own beauty and value, physical and otherwise. He had commissioned a friend, interested in fine metal craft at the time, to forge him and Kat simple bands from repurposed gold Gabe had acquired at various pawn shops. He had once equated the use of repurposing old jewelry to the idea of reincarnation, taking what was once loved and giving its energy and matter new purpose and love. This Saṃsāra obsession had in turn pushed him into a phase of exploring circles; big, small, embracive, separate, pale, bold. One of his more beautiful circle works, an oil on canvas, was bought and hung in the library of his home town in Oregon, but the rest coated the walls of their single story ranch home; kitchen, living room, bedroom. Five years later they still incited late night conversations, their beauty and relevancy impervious to the passing of time. His passion, his wonder, his humanity, his intellect, his intensity, his focus… the traits that made him a great artist were the traits she most loved him for.
Kat turned in to the small gravel lot of the motel. He always came here after an incident. They had stayed here the night they closed on the house. She had been offered a teaching position at the University, only two years out of grad school, and the pay increase and rural location meant the small, rundown ranch was more than affordable. They had laid awake that night in mid-July, unclothed and blissful on the tiny motel bed, talking of weekend tiling projects, of removing the horrifying floral wallpaper and dingy plastic floor tiles, of someday starting a family there. The memory of the excitement they had shared for life in those early days, those holy moments before their hope and love was clouded by anguish and affliction, was a reservoir of hope for the future. If only Gabe could drink again from that same fountain.
Kat stepped out of the car and surveyed the motel room doors. There, room 8. The bright yellow plastic number 8 that dangled off the end of the key, which was still embedded in the lock, swung gently back and forth. Recently he had become so fraught and forgetful, so disorganized and muddled, she could often follow a trail of chaos that led her straight to him, at the end of which she would often find him blank, cowering, crushed by the weight of a dark unseen cloud of desolation, of pain, of perceived inadequacy. What she could never decide was if he left the clues for her deliberately, a silent cry for a need for salvation. She turned the key, retrieved it, and opened the door.
The room was dark and heavy. There he lay, curled and unmoving, fully clothed, face glinting with sweat in the dim light. Out of all the aspects, all the yelling and fighting, the occasional slashing and ripping of his art and smashing and breaking of supplies and dishes, this was always the hardest for Kat. He lay unconscious, seemingly dead and separate from the world, knees drawn and broad shoulders hunched, his pale and ashen face strained and furrowed, his eyes puffy from whiskey and tears, his neck and face occasionally twitching, his soft graceful lips clenched tight. Seeing him physically express his pain, unknowingly display his hurt; that was what broke her heart. She was useless in easing his suffering.
She crossed the small room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Gabe,” she said, putting a hand on the side of his face. There was no recognition. “Gabe!” she said, louder, shaking his head gently. His eyebrows furrowed slightly. Raising her hand a few inches from his face, she paused, then slapped him. Gabe drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes opened.
For a moment, he was disoriented. He looked around, eyes unfocused, squinting against the light that was billowing in from the open door. Then he turned his eyes to Kat’s face. Their beautiful pale blue was fringed with red, the skin around them puffy and pink. They lingered on her face for a moment, confused and questioning. Slowly, his lips softened, the creases at the corners of his mouth appearing and allowing for a slight, soft smile.
“Hey, Kitty.”
His breath was sickeningly sweet. “Why do you do this to us, Gabriel?” Kat pleaded. Niceties in these situations were wasted. Better to get to the point, she had found, than risk losing his focus. Her eyes swelled with tears, her face grew hot, her breath grew short and punctuated.
Gabe frowned, dropping his gaze. “I don’t know, Kat.” He had never come around so quickly before. He made a small sound, somewhere between a cough and a gasp. “It’s like that song, you know. ‘This is my way of saying goodbye because I can’t do it face to face.’” Of course she knew it. Radiohead was his favorite.
Kat lost it. The tears came, the nausea, the shaking that seemed to radiate from the fumbling beating of her heart. She leaned over him, one arm over him and one arm reaching under his head, allowing her at once to cradle him and cry to him.
“Please let me do something, Gabe”, she choked softly. “I don’t understand this, and I don’t think I can. There are people who do, and they will understand everything, Gabe, they can help us fix it. I can’t lose you, but I can’t go on like this, we can’t go on like this.”
There was nothing else to say that hadn’t already been said. Every time was the same, the crying, the apologizing, the resolution to try harder. It would last a time, then spiral down. She could always feel it coming before it got bad, before she would come home to him disoriented and embarrassed; he’d lose touch with his purpose, become distant from the things he loved and enjoyed, become agitated and blank. That’s always how she knew he would soon seek the solace of numbness. She could feel him shaking under her, his usually stable and even breathing short and shuddering.
“Help me, Kat,” he whispered.
Kat lifter her head. His eyes were closed. “I don’t know how.”
“Take me. Take me there now. I’ll do it. I’m tired of it too. I’m so sorry, Kitty, I need help. I’m scared.”
Kat stood up. She wiped her face on her sleeve and straightened her sweater. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry, Kat. I can’t do it. I want things the way they were. I don’t want to hate myself anymore.”
“Okay,” she said.
She bent down and grabbed Gabe’s arm, helping him to stand. He steadied himself against her, his legs soft and uncertain, one arm over her shoulders and one crossed in front of himself to hold onto her upper arm. They made their way slowly out the door and onto the gravel and started towards the car.
Without warning, Gabe stopped, doubled over, pulling Kat down with him, and vomited violently on the ground. One long retch, a deep breath, a cough. His breathing steadied, she helped him straighten, and they trudged on slowly towards the car, where she placed him gently in the passenger seat and buckled him in.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, starting to close the door.
Gabe grabbed her hand. “Don’t leave me Kitty,” he whispered. His eyes were closed, his head turned toward her but bent downward.
Kat’s chest tightened, the tears threatened. “I won’t, baby. I’ll be right back.” She placed his hand on his lap and shut the door.
Chuck was sitting behind the front desk in the office, as he always was.
“Back so soon?” he asked.
His sarcasm, though understandable, was always disheartening. He was a good man, a kind man, but even so she knew he didn’t understand. She was tired of having to make excuses, for her behavior and for Gabe’s. She pulled out the contents of her pocket and handed Chuck the money for the room. “Keep the change,” she said. “He’s puked in the parking lot, please give the extra to whoever ends up having to clean it up. I’m sorry you had to deal with that again”.
“I’m the one who’s sorry for you,” Chuck said, placing the money in the drawer. “I don’t under…”
She couldn’t have this conversation right now, again. “I know you don’t. You aren’t required to.”
Chuck raised his eyebrows. Maybe she’d been a bit harsh with him. He was concerned, even if he didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, Chuck. I really appreciate that you go out of your way to give him a place to stay. We’re just going through a lot right now. It will get better.”
“I hope you’re right, Kat. It’s painful to witness.”
“I know.” She paused, holding his gaze for a moment before looking down to fidget with her keys. Gabe was waiting for her. She didn’t have to explain anything to Chuck about her situation. “Thanks again, Chuck. I really appreciate it.” She turned and walked quickly out the door. Hopefully this would be the last time she would have to endure this walk of shame.
Gabe was vomiting again. Luckily he had had the sense to open the door first this time. She rushed to him, reaching over him to grab a tissue from her purse to wipe his face. He straightened and leaned his head against the seat, his eyes closed and his breath slowing. She brushed a lock of blond hair out of his strained, sweaty face. She could see a shadow of his handsomeness, his strength, his grace beneath his pain.
She pulled out onto the main road, towards the Catholic hospital. She felt blank, weary, empty, but there was hope.
Gabe reached over and put a hand on her leg. She looked over at him. His face looked odd as he gazed at her, old, pale and contorted, his eyes still puffy and unfocused. But his hand was firm and steady.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know you do,” Kat said. “I love you too.”
~
Gabe
“Gabe.”
Pressure. How could something at once be felt as pressure both inward and outward? His head was at once spinning and still, threatening to explode and implode; his body was heavy, damp with sweat. Was he alone?
Something collided with his face, dragging him unwillingly into consciousness. His eyelids fluttered open heavily, only to expose his eyes to a burning of bright light. Where was he? He had a fleeting and foggy memory of walking in the dark, a feeling of being lost and wandering. Had that been a dream?
His eyes began to focus. He was lying on his side, and a figure was sitting close to him, and hand on his shoulder. He looked up, a blanket of warmth and joy flooding over him as he realized it was Kat. She was so beautiful, a warm backlight giving her graceful edges a soft glow.
“Hey, Kitty.”
“Why do you do this to us, Gabriel?”
Gabe felt a pang of regret. He looked down, recognizing the brown and burgundy pattern of the blanket under him as not one from home but from the motel. He was at the motel. It wasn’t a dream. He remembered now. She had come home and found him on the couch, dinner burning in the oven, paint smeared on the countertops. He felt the weight of the empty glass whisky bottle in the pocket of his jacket, digging in to him as he lay there on his side. How long had he been here? She had started to cry, to say something to him about them seeking help– he hadn’t been in the mood for questions – so he had left. Walked out the door and somehow managed to make it here to the motel. And she had come here to retrieve him, like a lost child.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
That was a lie. He did know. How could he describe the feelings of guilt, of overwhelming fear and hopelessness that were his only company during the day when she was gone to the University to teach and share and expand all that knowledge and intellect she kept up there in that beautiful? She was the writer, the master of the English language. Any of his attempts to communicate these things to her, these unexplored and unexplainable feelings of inadequacy and uselessness, would fall short of their mark and make him look weak and broken. She deserved more than him.
She had always been so beautiful and strong. Her kindness and intellect had been so attractive to him; he had never met any other girl like her. They had met at a party in grad school, a party he hadn’t wanted to attend but his friend had not wanted to be alone with the girl who had invited him. Well, he didn’t think beforehand that he had wanted to be alone with her. Hence Gabe had been left to wander the crowd alone, only to find Kat staring at a copy of one of Monet’s Le Bassin aux Nymphéas. In a way it was too classic, but that’s how it had happened. Conversation had ensued, and a year later she had said yes to his proposal. She always brought him so much joy, so much wonder, so much inspiration… And what did he bring her? He often felt separate from her, like he was watching her achieve and grow and love, but was removed from her. It was that thought that had spurred him to find his Radiohead vinyl last night, that song that talked about life being a video tape. “It’s like that song, you know. ‘This is my way of saying goodbye because I can’t do it face to face.’”
Kat lost it. She bent over, grabbing him and holding him close, her tears splashing, cool and salty, over his face and neck. His intention was never to hurt her like this, but he always seemed to.
“Please let me do something, Gabe”, she whispered. “I don’t understand this, and I don’t think I can. There are people who do, and they will understand everything, Gabe, they can help us fix it. I can’t lose you, but I can’t go on like this, we can’t go on like this.”
Gabe felt his face tighten, his eyes begin to sting. He didn’t want to lose her either; she was the only thing that held him up, that kept him from drowning to death in his own thoughts of meaninglessness and guilt. Guilt that he couldn’t provide more, guilt when their friends asked if he had been working in the studio recently, shame that he had had to take a food service job just to try to get out of the house during the day and keep his mind busy when he wasn’t interested in being in the studio. He was trapped, sucked in to a cycle of boredom, agitation, depression, desolation, destruction. He couldn’t go on like this either. If he lost Kat, if he kept hurting her, she would be the one to escape to a better life, leaving him behind to struggle with his emptiness and eventually die. “Help me, Kat,” he whispered.
“I don’t know how,” she whispered back.
She had mentioned the rehab and detox center before. She had even brought home pamphlets about it, as was her way. Anything she could read. He had dismissed it at the time, somewhat forcefully, he thought now. He’d been insulted at the idea, hurt that she thought of him as weak and unable to handle his own shit. The stereotypical image the thought of “help” brought to his mind was one of weak, weeping men, pouring their inner feelings and confessions out onto strangers who clapped and affirmed to each other that everything would be ok. The thought of it made him sick.
Last night, before he had stormed out, Kat had mentioned the word “help” again. It hadn’t been demeaning, he thought now, but something else. Pleading, maybe? She had a terrible habit of using the word us or we instead of you when she referenced his drinking, something he had noticed in the past but always pushed aside. Last night it had hit him, though, how she, despite all the awful things he had done to her, the yelling, the fighting, the smashing, the abandoning her late at night, she always opted to shoulder the burden with him. Why? Why did she keep forgiving him when his family and friends had long ago pushed distance between them? Was the false sense of pride and dignity he clung so stubbornly to worth hurting her, hurting them both, like this forever?
“Take me. Take me there now. I’ll do it. I’m tired of it. I’m so sorry, Kitty, I need help. I’m scared.”
Kat stood up. She wiped her face on her sleeve and straightened her sweater. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry, Kat. I can’t do it. I want things the way they were. I don’t want to hate myself anymore.”
“Okay,” she said.
Kat bent down and grabbed his arm, helping him to stand. He steadied himself against her; a wave of nausea caused his legs to go weak. She guiding him gently out the door.
A few steps out the door and it hit him, the consequences of his actions. He doubled over, tears forming, throat burning. One long retch, a deep breath, a cough. He steadied his breathing, she helped him straighten, and they trudged on slowly towards the car, where she placed him gently in the passenger seat and buckled him in.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, starting to close the door.
Gabe grabbed her hand. He couldn’t be alone anymore, separate and distant from her. She was his muse, always his light at the end of the darkness that threatened to consume him. “Don’t leave me Kitty,” he whispered. He kept his eyes closed to lessen the pounding in his head.
“I won’t, baby. I’ll be right back.” She placed his hand on his lap and shut the door.
Later in the car, after another wave of nausea, he felt a weight starting to lift. He had wondered in the past why she had chosen him, why she had cursed herself with him, always came for him after his alcohol infused pity fests. He thought of their home, of the unconditional love and support she always let rain down on him, her consistent and adamant happiness and optimism. It broke his heart to think that his own struggles, his own feelings of inadequacy, his own weakness, was the cause of so much of her pain and anguish. If he got help, started painting again, started exhibiting again, maybe his dark cloud of oppression would lift and he would be free to give himself fully to her.
He reached over and placed his hand on her thigh. “I love you,” he said simply. He would have to show it in the coming months and years, but for now he could just say the words, and hope she would believe him.
“I know you do,” she said. “I love you too.”