Mostly Sober (eBook)

Chapter 5

Second and
Third Dumb Moves

Frank is in the bar Monday night when I get off work. He waves me over. I should walk away, but don’t. He’s nineteen years older than I am. He doesn’t talk about money, but tells me his house is here in Tiburon, on the water. It must be worth a fortune. He had a real estate business that apparently did very well. He’s got kids close to my age and a couple of ex-wives, maybe three. He wasn’t clear on the number, and I didn’t press it.

Frank buys me a glass of chardonnay and asks, “So, how about I take you to dinner?”

“I’m kind of seeing someone.”

“Kind of?”

“Sort of,” I say.

“Well, would you, kind of, sort of, want to go with me to The Cliff House the next night you’re off?”

Of course, I’d heard of the acclaimed Cliff House but had never been there. Out of my student price range, as well as the budgets of the other guys I’ve dated.

“I’m off on Wednesday,” I say, not sure that this is a good idea at all.

“It’s a date.”

Frank picks me up. He’s wearing black wool slacks, a sports coat, and a tie. He’s got cool jazz playing in his classic Jag. This has never been my scene. Most of my dates have driven beat-up Hondas, played Led Zeppelin, and wore jeans and tee shirts.

“Who’s on the stereo?” I ask.

“Keith Jarrett. Man, I love that guy.”

It is beautiful music, but I feel as though I’ve just entered another universe where I am unsure of even who I am. I’m uncomfortable until we approach the Cliff House. A valet opens my car door, and Frank and I walk inside.

Thick beige carpeting creates a quiet and luxurious atmosphere. My shoulders relax. The lighting is soft, intimate. I smile. Frank has requested a window table and pulls my chair out, giving me the full, stunning view of sky and sea where the relentless surf crashes against massive boulders. He orders a pricey bottle of champagne, and asks if I like oysters. Yes, I do, very much. He recommends cioppinos for our entrees. Our conversation is easy, even friendly. He asks me questions and seems genuinely interested in my determination to become a pediatrician. As we savor the spicy cioppinos in their tomato and wine broth, the sky turns from a silvery gray to fuchsia as the sun slips below the horizon. Buttery clouds scutter above the swelling waves.

I’m tipsy as we leave the restaurant. It’s nice being treated so well, and the meal was perfection. Frank has his arm around me. Before we get into the Jag, he kisses me.

“Back to my place?” he asks.

“Thanks, but no.”

“I’d like to see you again.”

“Maybe.”

I can understand how Frank was so successful. This guy will not take no for an answer. We’ve been dating for a couple of weeks and he’s treated me to one swanky spot after the next. So, against my better judgement, I began spending the night at his classy house on the Bay. Second dumb move, but it feels so good to have his strong arms around me. The sex is good. Actually, really good. It’s been quite a while for me, and I’ve missed it.

There are photographs of his four kids throughout the house, and it’s a little creepy because I resemble one of his daughters. We’re both fair with wide faces and hazel eyes. She wears her hair shoulder-length like I do. Maybe she’s prettier than I am.

I’m not in love with Frank, but I’m lonely. There’s been no man in my life for well over a year. He’s funny. He’s smart. He takes me to beautiful restaurants. I get the feeling that he likes showing me off.

He has lots of friends in town and pays their bar bills. He’s the Pied Piper of Tiburon with a well-used credit card instead of a magic pipe. Frank is too old for me and too much of a drinker. But I’m a bit lost right now and keep seeing him.

I’ve told him about med school, and he’s offered to get me out of debt and pay my tuition when I return. I’m already sleeping with him; so, what if he pays something down on my loan? He’s got a ton of money. He writes me a check for five hundred dollars that I deposit in the bank. While I have no intention of becoming wife number three, or four, I take his money. I think I’ve just prostituted myself. But it’s for a good cause. Right?

Frank says that he can’t have any more kids, a zero sperm count. Still I use a diaphragm. Almost every time. I also keep track of when I’m ovulating. I’m responsible, even though he’s infertile.

Now that I’m not in school, I question who I am. Several mornings a week, I read my med school books. Damn this Immune System. Will knowing every freaking detail of a lymphocyte make me a better pediatrician? Hardly.

But in the evenings and after work, I don’t resist the sensuous, irresistible pull of alcohol, the thing that makes my relationship with Frank possible. In fact, we have never had a date without a drink in our hands. I know one of the reasons that I drink: Wine and vodka are armor against the imposter syndrome that only dissolves when I have a drink in my hand.

Leaving Frank’s house one achingly beautiful blue morning, I see a couple—maybe my age or a little older—jogging together. I feel as if I’ve been slapped and gut punched. I know they are everything I’m not: successful, financially secure, healthy professionals. In love and probably married with a nice house. Why isn’t that me out there, running with my up-and-coming, age-appropriate husband? Still in my waitress uniform that smells of fried fish, lemon, and smoke, I’d had too many drinks last night. Did I remember my diaphragm? Not that it matters. Frank can’t have any more kids.

As the couple jogs away, I pull to the side of the road, put my hands over my face, and sob. What the hell am I doing?

Zero sperm count is apparently not zero. I’m pregnant. Third, and dumbest move of all. I tell Frank. He’s delighted. I’m horrified. Is he kidding? A baby? With him? No way, but he won’t pay for an abortion—says it’s murder. And, he tells me I cannot use the five hundred he gave me to pay for one. I nab every bottle of wine that’s not empty and stash it in the back of the service station. My rationale: Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll miscarry. But I know all too well—that idea is a misconception. A misconception, boy, is that the right word. Anyway, fetal alcohol syndrome is a risk, but not one I need to worry about since there will be no baby to harm.

Later, that night, over a drink at Sam’s, I tell Frank, “We can’t see each other anymore.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Why?” I’m incredulous. The usual laughter and enthusiastic popping of corn now strike me as mocking, even malicious. “You lied to me. You told me you couldn’t have any more kids. What the hell was that about?”

“I didn’t think I could. I was with my last wife a long time and she couldn’t get pregnant. I didn’t think I had enough of a sperm count.”

“You didn’t think? You weren’t tested?” I’m snarling at him.

He glares at me. No response.

“You lied to me!” I yell.

He takes a long swig from his bourbon and slams the glass down on the wooden table.

“I cannot be pregnant.”

“You know how I feel about abortion,” he growls.

“Your feelings don’t work with my future.”

Looking at me with contempt, he sneers, “Do you really think you’ll make it through med school?”

“Go to hell!” I slap ten dollars on the table and walk out, almost as furious with him as I am with myself.

At home, I see that my neighbor’s lights are on. I knock on her door. Leigh—my occasional drinking buddy—lives behind me. She’s about my age and has a mane of wavy, red hair. She rarely sits still and talks a lot. Leigh’s an aspiring singer with a Janis Joplin vibe. She’s good. I’ve heard her tapes. Her door’s always open, and I need a sympathetic ear right now.

“Hi, can we talk?”

“Come in,” she says. “What can I do you for?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

She pours a couple shots of frozen vodka into a glass. I’ve already had a glass of wine. But just one. We sit at her kitchen table.

“I hate myself,” I say.

“Where in the hell did that come from?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Leigh frowns. “You sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Damn, Annie. That’s F-ed up.”

“Literally. Would you…” my voice catches in my throat, “drive me, to Planned Parenthood?”

“You know I will.”

“Thank you. I’m so messed up.” Tears fall down my face.

“Hey, come here you skinny bitch.”

We stand, Leigh smiles, and hugs me.

After our hug, she hands me my vodka. “This will help.”

“Thanks.”

I take a sip of the frozen comfort and sigh.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life right now,” I say.

“Don’t be so damned hard on yourself.”

“I don’t even know if I’ll be able to finish med school.”

“’Course you will,” says Leigh.

“This little habit may not be helping,” I say motioning to my glass.

I take another sip of the frozen vodka and my shoulders soften. “This is...