her.”
“No. She’ll see it as a reward, and that would undermine my authority as her mother.”
“What about my rights as her father? I haven’t gotten to speak with her in eight days, Kathryn. All I’m asking for is a few minutes.”
“That’s rich, Stephen. You never had time for Brittany or me when we were married. How many times did I plead for a minute of your precious time? All you ever cared about was your business or your construction buddies or some football or baseball game on television.”
He clenched his teeth as he remembered the vitriol she’d poured over his head. He’d fought the urge to tell her she’d always loved the martyr role too much for him to interfere. Besides, who would want to spend time with a woman who took every opportunity to spew her litany of complaints? He’d almost asked her if she was still having an affair with her boss.
Kathryn McMurray Decker would have loved to put all the blame on him for her miserable life, but the truth was she’d been unhappy long before they hooked up. Before he married her, she’d blamed her unhappiness on her mother’s weaknesses and her father’s abusive tendencies. When he met them, he could only agree, and that put her on the defensive. She started blaming whatever job or boss she had. She always started a job raving about how wonderful everyone was, and six months later would be grousing because supervisors and coworkers weren’t treating her properly, or weren’t giving her the raise she deserved or the credit she felt she was due.
It had taken him two years of marriage to realize that trying to make her happy was a losing battle. When he stopped trying, she blamed her misery on him. She had self-pity down to a science. But then, to make matters worse, he used her as an excuse to drink. When she told him he’d had one drink already, he’d mix another. If she said he’d had enough, he drank more just to rile her. And so the merry-go-round went, round and round, picking up speed, making them both sick.
Old habits die hard.
Every time he called and heard Kathryn’s voice, the urge rose up in him again. The battle against picking up that first glass of scotch was becoming more and more difficult. He passed a liquor store, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to pull into the parking lot. He broke out in a cold sweat because he could almost taste the scotch on his tongue. He gripped the wheel.
Will this ever get any easier, Jesus?
The urge grew worse when he unlocked the door and walked into his empty apartment. The silence closed in around him like a prison. He flicked on the television and found a sports channel. Problem was it reminded him of how he used to sit in his easy chair with a drink in his hand. He flicked the television off and turned on the radio. He opened the refrigerator, but nothing in it appealed to him. Slamming it, he went back into the living room.
He was going quietly nuts in this apartment. He felt as badly as he had the first few weeks he’d checked himself into the Salvation Army facility. In desperation, he picked up the telephone and pressed one of the stored numbers.
“Hello?”
“Mindy, it’s Stephen.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “You’re just sitting down to dinner, aren’t you?” He could hear children’s voices in the background. “I can call back later.”
“No, it’s all right, Stephen, really. Hold on and I’ll get Rick.”
Stephen leaned forward, rubbing the ridge of his nose as he held the telephone.
“Hey, Stephen, I haven’t heard from you in a while. How’re you doing?” his counselor’s deep voice was Stephen’s only lifeline.
“Not so good.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“You’ve heard it all before. Just tell me something, will you? Does it get any easier?”
“Depends on how you look at it: as a curse or a blessing.”
“Right now, it’s a curse.”
“Well, you made the first step in the right direction by calling me instead
“No. She’ll see it as a reward, and that would undermine my authority as her mother.”
“What about my rights as her father? I haven’t gotten to speak with her in eight days, Kathryn. All I’m asking for is a few minutes.”
“That’s rich, Stephen. You never had time for Brittany or me when we were married. How many times did I plead for a minute of your precious time? All you ever cared about was your business or your construction buddies or some football or baseball game on television.”
He clenched his teeth as he remembered the vitriol she’d poured over his head. He’d fought the urge to tell her she’d always loved the martyr role too much for him to interfere. Besides, who would want to spend time with a woman who took every opportunity to spew her litany of complaints? He’d almost asked her if she was still having an affair with her boss.
Kathryn McMurray Decker would have loved to put all the blame on him for her miserable life, but the truth was she’d been unhappy long before they hooked up. Before he married her, she’d blamed her unhappiness on her mother’s weaknesses and her father’s abusive tendencies. When he met them, he could only agree, and that put her on the defensive. She started blaming whatever job or boss she had. She always started a job raving about how wonderful everyone was, and six months later would be grousing because supervisors and coworkers weren’t treating her properly, or weren’t giving her the raise she deserved or the credit she felt she was due.
It had taken him two years of marriage to realize that trying to make her happy was a losing battle. When he stopped trying, she blamed her misery on him. She had self-pity down to a science. But then, to make matters worse, he used her as an excuse to drink. When she told him he’d had one drink already, he’d mix another. If she said he’d had enough, he drank more just to rile her. And so the merry-go-round went, round and round, picking up speed, making them both sick.
Old habits die hard.
Every time he called and heard Kathryn’s voice, the urge rose up in him again. The battle against picking up that first glass of scotch was becoming more and more difficult. He passed a liquor store, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to pull into the parking lot. He broke out in a cold sweat because he could almost taste the scotch on his tongue. He gripped the wheel.
Will this ever get any easier, Jesus?
The urge grew worse when he unlocked the door and walked into his empty apartment. The silence closed in around him like a prison. He flicked on the television and found a sports channel. Problem was it reminded him of how he used to sit in his easy chair with a drink in his hand. He flicked the television off and turned on the radio. He opened the refrigerator, but nothing in it appealed to him. Slamming it, he went back into the living room.
He was going quietly nuts in this apartment. He felt as badly as he had the first few weeks he’d checked himself into the Salvation Army facility. In desperation, he picked up the telephone and pressed one of the stored numbers.
“Hello?”
“Mindy, it’s Stephen.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “You’re just sitting down to dinner, aren’t you?” He could hear children’s voices in the background. “I can call back later.”
“No, it’s all right, Stephen, really. Hold on and I’ll get Rick.”
Stephen leaned forward, rubbing the ridge of his nose as he held the telephone.
“Hey, Stephen, I haven’t heard from you in a while. How’re you doing?” his counselor’s deep voice was Stephen’s only lifeline.
“Not so good.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“You’ve heard it all before. Just tell me something, will you? Does it get any easier?”
“Depends on how you look at it: as a curse or a blessing.”
“Right now, it’s a curse.”
“Well, you made the first step in the right direction by calling me instead
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