If I Die Before I Wake (11 page)

He's thoughtful before he says, “Let's talk about your children.”

“I had a baby when I was 15. He was healthy. Then, I had a baby girl when I was 17. She was premature, and so little. I thought she wouldn't die, but she did. I watched her struggle
for every breath she took. I prayed every day all day, but she died. I had a baby boy when I was 19. The same thing happened. Right after that my mom, who was an alcoholic and hooked on prescription drugs, committed suicide. I lost a child when I was in my twenties, and then they did an emergency hysterectomy so there would be no more children. But I had my first son, Jon. When he was 15, he was killed. It was hard enough when the other kids died—at least I had him. I carry the pain of his death with me every day. Sometimes it washes over me like a giant wave, nearly consuming me. I don't think I will ever be able to let go of the pain or the guilt.”

Father Ted sits quietly as I ramble on about what a bad mother and wife I've been; how I didn't take care of myself when pregnant; how I raised Jon to be like me, a runner, an addict; how I taught him it was he and I against an unfair world. When I pause to take a breath, Ted says, “Hell no, Barb, you can't let go of that pain. If you do, you'll never have a reason left to drink, to self-destruct again.”

What? Who the hell does he think he is? No one speaks to me this way. I don't think this guy is a real priest. Can priests say “hell”? I stand, glare at him, and slam out the door. I don't have to put up with this shit.

In my cell, I pace back and forth. I hate this room. I hate rooms without windows. They remind me of the basement of our old house. Things happened to me there. Bad things. I've got to get out of here. Outside, I take in great gulps of fresh air and begin walking, with no idea of where I'm headed. As my mind questions everything, I walk faster until I find myself outside
a bar. I can hear music, the people laughing and talking, and remember what it was like to find oblivion in those places. The priest's words come back to haunt me. I'm going back there. I'm going to confront him.

This time, I walk through the door without knocking. “How could you say that to me?” I blurt out, and before he can answer, I say, “You have no idea what my life's been like, what I've lived through. I needed your help, and you judged me.”

He sits in silence until I finish my tirade, then says, “Barbara, anything that causes you that much pain, that you hang on to that hard, you're getting something out of it. If you ever want to find real peace, you have to figure out what it is.”

The words sink in, calming my rage. I drop into a chair. “What do you mean?” I mutter. “I don't want to hurt anymore, but how do I stop it?”

Two hours later, I leave the office, return to my cell, lie down on the cot, and consider what the priest shared with me. Is he right? Could it all be that simple? He said that God wants me to be happy and to have everything I want in life as long as I don't forget where I got it. He said that when I go to God and sincerely ask for forgiveness, but then refuse to forgive myself, I have set myself above God—that when God forgives me, it's like he buries it and it's forgotten, but I keep digging it up and messing in it. He said that if I ever let go of the pain of my mistakes and my losses, I will never have an excuse left to drink, drug, or anything else self-destructive. Apparently, according to him, my defects of character are anything that keeps me from the peace, serenity, and happiness that this God wants for me.

I spoke with Father Ted about my fears about getting married for the sixth time. He informed me that it was time to let go of the past—because I couldn't go back and change it, but I could learn from it. This time, he told me, when you stand in front of the minister with your husband-to-be and you say those vows, you need to hear what you're saying and mean it. He said until I could do that, and not see marriage as a temporary situation, I should remain single.

I told him I wasn't sure I knew how to be a good wife. He laughed and said there was no manual for that, but the best advice he could give me was to mind my own business, to leave God and others, including my husband, to theirs. He said that no matter what I think, what I say, what I do, or how much I worry, other people make their own choices, and they aren't always about me. If I want to be free to choose, I must give that right to others without harsh judgment and criticism. If I truly believed in a God, it's time to understand that as much as I think I am where I am for a reason, others are where they are for a reason, too, and I'm not on a need-to-know basis.

In the backseat of the car on the way home, I close my eyes and think of all I was told. For the first time in years, I feel like I've finally buried my children and let go of my anger toward my mother for leaving me the way she did. I know it's time to take a hard look at the sixth and seventh steps and the character defects that continue to hold me back.

A line in the big book enters my mind. It tells me that in order to know peace, I must stop fighting everything and everyone. I know that includes myself. What a concept.

WHEN I THINK LIFE CAN
'
T GET ANY BETTER, IT DOES
. The past two years—being married to Tom, the love of my life, living in a beautiful home on a lake, not having to work for a living, or worry about paying bills—have been glorious. I'm having a real life, and I stand in awe of it on a daily basis.

It's time for me to do more. I've had my education all these years and have never done anything with it. Today, Tom is taking me for a job interview with a judge to become a parole officer. Excited, I dress in my best black pantsuit with a white blouse,
take time with my makeup, don understated jewelry, and we're on our way. I can picture myself doing this job, helping people who are trying to make their way in the world after paying their debt to society. They aren't that much different from me. The big difference is that they got caught.

Two hours later, we're on our way home. I know I got the job if I want it. Tom says, “You don't seem very excited.” I'm not. Although the interview went well, I had no idea what went into being a parole officer: being on call all the time, having to carry a weapon, juggling huge caseloads. After explaining these things to Tom, he says, “What would you do if you could do anything you want?”

For years I've had a secret dream. I've never said it out loud, but I trust Tom not to laugh at me. “I always wanted to be a costume designer,” I say and wait breathlessly for his response. He asks if I think I could make any money at it. I don't know. Over the years I made extra money turning old clothes into costumes, but to make a business out of it … I just don't know. I shrug my shoulders.

My mind works furiously, and questions tumble through my head. I slip out of bed, through the sliding doors, and out onto the deck. As I stare at the golden reflection of the moon against the water, I consider the discussion Tom and I had over coffee when we arrived home. “God, can I really do this?” I whisper.

Tom's strong arms wrap around my waist. He says, “Want to go for a swim?” I nod. One of our favorite things to do in the heat of the night, when the rest of the world is sleeping, is go skinny-dipping in the lake. I love the feeling of being naked
in the water, of holding each other under the stars, laughing and playing like children. As the lake water sloshes around us, I wrap my legs around Tom's waist. He holds me close and says, “You can do this. If it doesn't work, you can do something else. You'll never know if you don't try.” My heart swells. I've never been with a man who believed in me the way Tom does—who wanted to help me realize my dream. It has been quite a day: starting out to be a parole officer and ending up imagining myself as a costume designer.

By early October 1987, Broadway Bazaar Costumes is open for business. The past few months have been an excited whirlwind of activity. After ruling out several available buildings for one reason or another, we decided to utilize the old apartments on the second floor of Tom's two bars. While Tom and some of his friends carried out the big items—like refrigerators, old beds, and falling-apart furniture—from the four apartments that had been used for everything from a flophouse to storage, I scoured the thrift shops and garage sales for usable items to convert into costumes.

Our days were spent cleaning and painting the biggest room at the top of the steep staircase, installing a dressing area and office, and getting the bathroom in order. All other rooms were left behind closed doors, available when I needed more space. Late into the night, armed with a variety of dyes, threads, and needles, I created the costumes and accessories to be rented out.

Tom and I moved our bed into the guest bedroom. The master bedroom was converted into a workspace, where thirty papier-mâché heads sat here and there, drying out. One day, as I
worked with heavy tinfoil making ears, noses, chins, and eyelids to be attached to the heads before I covered them with fabric, our neighbors and dearest friends, Tom and Jacqui, stopped by with a surprise. They had bought me a treadle sewing machine at an auction. I'd never used a sewing machine before. The simplicity of the old machine called to me. Besides, my fingertips were sore from pushing needles through fabric. I could barely wait until they were out the door to start playing with it.

——

Tom and I stand in the middle of the room, admiring all that we've accomplished. Over a hundred costumes grace the walls leading up to the twenty-foot metal-tiled ceiling. My beloved sewing machine, which has saved me so much time and effort, sits off to one side. When I'm not busy, I can continue working on more costumes. Now, all I need is customers.

Every time the buzzer goes off, indicating someone coming through the downstairs door, my heart speeds up and anxiety overtakes me. I wonder what people will think of what I've done. Will they pay money to rent my creations? Are they good enough? The buzzer sounds. I stare at the open doorway. It's Tom again. I sink back into my chair.

A week before Halloween, I say to Tom, “I think I may have made a mistake.” Except for a few people who've wandered up the staircase out of curiosity, I haven't had one customer. He takes me by the shoulders, and says, “Are you having fun?” It has been great. I could spend all day every day making costumes
and love every minute of it. “Yes,” I respond. He hugs me and says, “Then that's all that matters. The rest will just be gravy.”

Four days before Halloween, the gravy begins to pour in. I can barely keep up with the customers, all clamoring for a custom costume to wear to work, to a party, to a haunted house. My head reels from all the compliments, my purse bulges with cash, and I'm having the time of my life. It's a bittersweet happiness, as I wish Jon was here—how he would have loved this! The last costume I made him was of a member of the band KISS. He was 13 years old. He was the hit of the party in the open-front black jumpsuit, his face painted black and white, wearing a black punk wig. Every time he stuck his tongue out as far as he could, we would scream with laughter.

I have a plan. When we lock the doors Halloween night, we're going to buy leftovers at enormously discounted prices at the chain stores. I need more material, and especially accessories that I can't make myself. Excitement vibrates through my body as we amass our treasures. With the latex heads, wigs, feather boas, makeup, and other odds and ends, I will be able to give my customers a better selection. I can hardly wait to get started on the costumes I'm already making in my mind.

——

After three years in business, I can't make costumes fast enough to fill all the orders for custom work. Everyone wants something special. I don't have time to breathe, let alone pray or attend meetings. I'll get back to it when things slow down. Today I
have to hurry because I have a lot to do before Jacqui and I leave on a trip to Chicago to attend the Halloween and party trade show. I start down the staircase in my fabulous home, and halfway down, I think, damn, I'd like to have a drink. The thought stops me in my tracks. My mind's eye searches the house for alcohol. I know I made Tom get rid of all of it, but maybe he missed something. No, there's nothing … except the cough syrup up in the bathroom. My God, what am I thinking?

Words I've heard my friend George say so many times at the meetings spring into my mind. “I'm an alcoholic. I'll be an alcoholic until the day I die, and if I don't keep something between me and the bottle, I will drink again.” What had I been keeping between me and the bottle? Tom? Work? My good life? Apparently, at that moment at least, it wasn't working. I drag myself down the stairs, pick up the telephone receiver, and punch in my sponsor's number. God, I hate to admit that after six years of sobriety, I'm thinking about drinking. Maybe she won't answer. She does.

As soon as I hear her voice, I start to sob. She says, “It's the most normal thing in the world for an alcoholic to want to drink. You never needed an excuse before, and you don't need one now. Have you been doing meetings?” I admit I hadn't done any recently, but I am busy trying to get my business going, taking care of the house, Tom, and the dog. “Well,” she says, “If you start drinking again, you won't have to worry about any of those things, will you?”

I tell her about my upcoming trip, that I have to leave early in the morning. She says, “Good. That means you have time to
go to a noon meeting and an evening meeting today.” I barely get the word “but” out when she continues, “What could be more important than your sobriety?” I was going to do some shopping, get some new clothes for the trip. I guess I can wear what I've got.

Two hours later, I'm sitting around a long table in the Al-Anon Club where they have several meetings a day. When the chairperson asks if anyone has a topic, I say, “I'm Barb, and I'm an alcoholic. I am living the best life I've ever had. There is absolutely nothing wrong, and I thought about drinking today.”

“
SOMETHING
'
S WRONG WITH ME
,” I tell my doctor. “I'm hot all the time. My skin feels like it's on fire. I wake up every day with my eyes feeling like they have sand in them.”