Adeline in the next room while you’re packing your bags, snorting something with the trash asshole who sold it to her. Glasses of whiskey clink, blending with the sounds of laughter and raindrops lightly plinking the window. Whiskey. Even though her stomach is so bloated she looks pregnant. This is called ascites. The pressure is low, the birds quiet, hiding. Pressure so low your bones ache deep. A storm is moving, moving alive with lightning strikes, high winds, and possible floods.
Adeline in the eighth grade playing the clarinet, her hair Manic Panic red. Everybody called her Red. Later, she played you better, oh she played you much better than the clarinet, so you called her Slushie because she was your cherry slushie, sweet and toothsome as a kiss. She pulled out a flask and offered it up, but you had to get back to class. She said fuck algebra and took a long swig.
Adeline and this total douchebag sloppy drunk with mouths so wet you hear it over the raw weather. Drunk. Even though her skin is yellow. This is called jaundice. The rain hits the panes harder now. You pause packing for a moment to caress the purple cashmere sweater, the one she gave you on your thirtieth birthday, against your cheek. Fifteen years later, it still feels like her.
Adeline pouring her dad’s box wine and fucking you until your dad is outside honking. In the car he says you stink over and over—so disgusted that you admit you drank. It never occurred to you that sex had a smell. Better for him to think you were drunk than gay. She laughed when you told her. She said pussy doesn’t smell like wine, dummy.
Adeline in the next room saying let’s do another line, you can do it off my ass. This is called denial. Outside the wind begins to shriek, cutting through houses and working the trees so they rock, groaning, limbs threatening to break.
Adeline holding you in bed, breastfeeding your thin, pale infant son while you wept because your milk wouldn’t let down even though you had four consultations with the lactation nurse. She brushed your hair with her fingers, kissed your forehead. Her son, just a few months older than yours, a fat little lump of snores nestled between you both. Their fathers were long gone, but it barely mattered.
Adeline getting absolutely railed in the next room and you thought her sounds would be familiar but they’re not because she’s so wasted she sounds like an animal.
Adeline in your arms, in bed after her dad’s funeral. Neither of you spoke, you just stayed that way for a long, long time, entwined. After that she spent so many nights at the bars, she lost her teaching job. Sometimes you’d go with her and you’d both show your tits for shots when you ran out of cash. Mostly she would drop her son at your house, and you’d drive the boys to school in the morning while she slept it off. She’s disappearing. But your objections only led to nasty fights and weeks of not speaking. You couldn’t bear her rejection.
Adeline barking like a coyote. You remember her much softer than that, like music. You’re disoriented, a stranger to yourself. The downpour devours the house. You close your eyes and attempt to shake the beast loose.
Adeline in your kitchen at Thanksgiving burning the sweet potato pie and you laughed and said it’s okay only the marshmallows burned—it’s like s’mores—and you licked the charry gooey mess off each other’s fingers, giddy with drink and the fact that the boys were both coming home that year. She kissed you then pulled your shirt over your head. She sucked your nipples then took a vial of coke and tapped a bump onto each one. You protested—the boys would be there soon—but she waved a never mind as she led you to the bedroom.
You’re lost. Her place as unrecognizable as she has become. You fold your jeans and imagine the whole house ripped, lifted from below and flowing wild and dangerous, careening down flooded streets. You pack faster. Your phone pings so loud you almost notice.
Adeline calling you from the hospital asking if you could drive the four hours to pick her up. The doctors used words like significant scarring and immediate lifestyle changes. They used the word death. You wondered if you could have helped. The word enable had no meaning inside the hollow you built together. She was quiet on the ride home except for her promise to quit, to get sober. Dense with grief, you believed her. You rubbed her feet, three times their normal size, with lemon oil. Washed her hair with lavender shampoo, made turmeric tea, and cooked low sodium soups because you googled what’s good for liver failure.
Adeline cumming before you’re done packing your bags. The sound is a desperate thing. Something black is crawling its way into your throat and you swallow it down and pack faster. The rain is tearing down, each drop its own deafening despair. The zipper on your bag gets lost in the noise.
Adeline heading you off in the kitchen, begging you not to go but you remind her she promised, she fucking promised. You tell her you need to leave right now. You can’t watch anymore. She says the storm is too bad, that you can’t possibly drive in this. Her eyes used to be so blue. Now they’re creature-feature yellow, the creature that’s killing her. Google said the next step is called hemorrhaging esophageal varices. She’s sobbing as you close the door behind you.
Adeline watching out the window as you run to the car. Drenched and shivering, you start the engine. The storm really is bad. You got an alert on your phone earlier. It’s heading the same direction as you but, if you drive fast enough, it will break eventually.
