Circle Game

So - back to J.'s girls.

Eventually, the conversation had to turn to the subject of his drinking.

Ironically, I had blown through a bottle of wine in record time in advance of the discussion. How nice. 

Evidently, the girls had figured out the excessive drinking. Long before I had.

I explained that while I had had very little doubt that J. drank a cocktail occasionally, I had had no idea of the madness until his friend the judge had mentioned it. 

I told the girls how he'd always seemed to judge me if I had gotten tipsy on wine on a Friday evening on the patio. He'd never seemed to overindulge.  I though his worst vice was the smoking. Something else he lied about. I always thought he was so conservative about alcohol. One is fine. Two is trouble. Three is unacceptable.

I had thought news of his drinking would have come as a surprise to them.  But oh no. 

They had noticed a strange habit that he had. He was always drinking something. A soda, or juice or iced tea.  But if they had asked for a sip, or reached for his glass to wet their whistles, he'd object. Vehemently object.  Like a five year old who doesn't want your cooties.

He had something to drink everywhere they went.  In the car. On a walk. At cheer leading competition.  They'd started speculating, and then one day, when they were all in the car, he stopped for gas. Since he'd never qualified for his own credit card when Sandy left him, he went inside to pay with cash.

And Moira did it.

She reached into the front seat, took the cup from the cup holder and took a swig.

And nearly choked.

Loaded with alcohol.  In the car. At the wheel. With them in the car.

They'd known.  They knew I hadn't known.  Knew they could not tell me. He'd know they said something and murder them for wrecking his relationship. How sad.

But sadder still was the secret life they'd been leading, as part of the charade J. was keeping up. 

I'd always been under the impression that they were so adoring of him. That there time together was so precious.  That family gatherings were so special. They were always laughing.

No.

Abby told me that all through high school, J. had made her cancel plans, rearrange her schedule, turn down invitations, so that she could be at the house on the nights I was there. Eat my cooking. Talk girl talk. Join me on shopping excursions. Entertain my kids. Go bowling. Like she had nothing better to do.  All under penalty of God only knows what.

And Moira told me of plans he'd make with me or my family that directly conflicted with obligations they had.  He'd make them cancel their family gatherings, parties, sporting events to attend mine.  And if that wasn't enough, he'd threaten them, that there would be Hell to pay if they didn't put smiles on their faces and act like there was no place else on the planet they'd choose to be on Christmas Eve, or Easter, or on my birthday, or on Charlotte's boys' game days.

And I'd never meant to suggest they needed to be at any of it. I had only wanted them to know that they were invited. Included. Welcome.  Never obligated. They were family, not POWs. I never had a clue that they had been dragged to anything kicking and screaming.

I tell them that I am amazed that they didn't come to resent me. Hate me. Hate what I represented. 

Somehow they hadn't. I don't know how.

And at this point, we all had a little cry. A cleansing, relieving, well overdue cry.  And a round of real, genuine, heartfelt hugs. 

I went to bed feeling terribly guilty that night. I should have known. Should have dug deeper. And when things got tough in J.'s life and I hung in there, I had felt that I was living up to a commitment. Had I known the truth, I would have done differently.  My staying only allowed J. to perpetuate the charade for that much longer. Perpetuated their torment.  Every time I helped him, stayed with him, found a solution, I'd put a road block on their escape route. Had things gone bad sooner, they'd have gone with Sandy sooner.

And he'd been so singularly devoted to locking up a life with me, he'd willingly sacrificed his children's happiness, their childhoods, their sense of worth.  What a monster. And by staying, I'd kept the wolf at their doors.

When they'd left I'd hugged and kissed each of them.  Reassured them that they always have a confidant in me, that I will always be rooting for them, near or far, and my door is always open.  We'd all come to the places we'd needed to get to, eventually, however circuitous the route.  We had all landed safely on our feet, even if our legs were a little wobbly at first. We'd come full circle.  At last.