After a night spent making phone calls, John looked up and saw that it was already noon. Having abstained from alcohol for so long, he had forgotten about how the next day felt, and made a note to call the patients that were expecting him and reschedule, perhaps indefinitely. These would be difficult calls to make, and he reminded himself that these were people who had placed their trust in him to guide them through their own troubles. He tried to think and formulate a plan, but found his head simply would not cooperate. He didn’t miss feeling like this.
He reminded himself again that alcohol was a luxury he could not afford for the next couple of days, as he still had to keep up appearances, and more importantly, find some kind of words to say that might help make sense of what had happened. He didn’t relish the task, as he felt quite sure that no such words existed. He could wax poetic, and draw on years of rehearsed words meant to comfort and console, but deep down he knew they would be a lie.
He got out of bed and made some extra strong coffee, and began to write down some of the things he had to do over the next couple of days. He knew he would not be the only one in pain, and a part of him drew on the idea that others would be counting on him to be a source of strength. Still, he knew that he would be an imposter in this role, as the only things that ever made him truly feel real were no longer here.
After making his call, he threw on an old pair of corduroy pants and a sweater, and began walking towards the lake, something that has always brought him comfort. Evanston in the fall is a beautiful place, as the old trees begin to change in color and reflect these new colors against the backdrop of the lake behind it. He stopped often as he walked, thinking as he did about am old poem “footprints” from his childhood about Jesus carrying someone when they were going through a particularly difficult time. He was not a religious man, and had always found the poem a little silly, even as a young child. Now he thought he would give anything to feel that kind of comfort, as he had never felt more alone in his entire life. He wondered if he would ever find anything to believe in again.
He walked mile after mile down Lake Michigan, taking in the city he did and thinking about how each neighborhood had a little piece of his own personal history locked inside of them somewhere. Still, each step came with a corresponding bit of pain, as he thought about places he and his family had shared together. There was Moody’s in the Edgewater neighborhood, where they had shared some of their first dates together and had spent hour after hour in conversation. He passed through Wrigleyville and thought about going to Cubs games and street festivals, and all of the crazy times they had there as well.
When he finally got to Navy Pier he had been walking for miles. He walked back to the Beer Garden in the back, passing as he did all of the happy families walking along the boardwalk who were taking in the city. He felt a terrible, physical pang of loss, and quickly went to the nearest vendor and ordered himself a drink. It was his most primitive and dangerous response to pin, but right at this moment she couldn’t think of any better way.
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