The Best Gift

         He found me in a sea of needles, half-naked in Manolo Blahniks with eyes glazed over. I remembered being slapped gently on the cheeks, his booming voice coming from miles away, and his bright flashlight dancing upon my stoned countenance. I remembered him looking like a god amongst men, or perhaps just amongst the chaos and disaster that was my twenty-first birthday party. I think he lifted me – strong, muscular arms that cradled me like an infant. He smelled wonderful, a far cry from the stench of booze, cigarette smoke, drugs and human waste.

         “You look good today,” he complimented me three days later as I lay on white sheets in the exclusive section of St. Margaret’s hospital. “Hungry?”

         He held up a basket of fresh fruit, my tongue weighing a ton within my mouth, unable to say anything but to stare at this man who kept coming to see a disappointment like me. He talked and talked about anything and everything, telling me of his long hours at the job – how dangerous it was, and how much he longed to have a simple quiet life.

         When I opened my eyes again, it was to see my parents – yelling at each other about responsibilities and who ought to have been looking after me. I wondered where he was. My officer in shining armor. Listening to ma famille was drilling a hole in my skull…to match the holes on my pale flesh – telltale scars of my history with addiction over the years.

         “You have pretty eyes.”

         I think I must have smiled at the compliment, feeling warm inside as he walked in the next day. He apologized for not visiting earlier – something about a homicide on 42nd that he had to take care of. Perfect teeth beamed at me from a bronzed and chiseled face, hard-worn and world-weary. Piercing green eyes that could see my soul sucked me in and held me prisoner. So much more intoxicating than any drug could ever achieve.

         I was in love. Fast I know, but I couldn’t help it.

         I vowed to become clean for him; to lay off the bottle and the need to take myself to another plane when the world became too much for me. I signed up for AA classes (which didn't go so well) leading to a stint at rehab for a month. I came to know where he lived, what he loved, how to please him (which wasn’t hard to do) and actually entertained the thought of having a new life with him.

         In every sense of the word.

         The mound grew with each passing month, but temptation came in the form of being unable to deal with the stress of pregnancy. It was supposed to be a pill to help relieve my feelings of pain and constant exhaustion. I would eventually become hopelessly addicted to it. Taking two, three…four times my dosage to lull me to welcome sleep. Water became a weak substitute and in no time, I would sneak a few bottles of merlot here and there, hoping to give my addiction a little more flavor. It helped that he worked late on most nights, always coming home to see his precious wife fast asleep without suspecting a thing.

         What a fool I was.

         Of course he would know! He was not a detective for nothing.

         I remembered the silence as he pulled out the empty bottles from the closet. He didn’t scream, or hit me, didn’t accuse or hurl insults. His look of sadness said it all and I became angry – slamming my fists into his strong back, calling him names and wishing he would do something to make me see reason. But I could tell, he thought I was a lost cause.

         Our baby almost died due to my negligence; a bitter custody war was raged and he (little Matthew) was taken away from me. I was an unfit mother after all. The courts stated I was never to see my boy – a punishment crueler than death itself.

         However, I forced myself to survive, to work hard at becoming a much better woman for my boy and his father. He remarried a few years ago and moved to another State – a big blow to me for he knew I did my best to see my boy every chance I could get.

         Today, I own a center for women in crisis – a facility to help those who go through the same difficulties I faced in the past. They say my story is an inspiration, but sometimes I wonder if I only end up fooling myself into believing it. It’s been fifteen long years since my greatest mistake, and as I pick up the pen to write another letter to Matthew (they never get mailed and I enjoy pretending that he receives the daily recounts of my life), the phone rings – a direct call to me.

         “Hello, this is Melissa Carter speaking.”

         “…mom?”

         My pen clatters to the table, heart slamming hard within my chest at the strong but shy voice at the other end.

         “Mom? It’s me…Matt?”

         I stifle a small cry, but the tears won’t stop for I am happy and scared – praying it’s not another cruel dream, one of so many I’ve had over the years.

         “…just wondering if I can come visit you,” my son continues. “Dad…Dad says it’s okay now. So…can I?”

         Oh, David…you never gave up on me, did you?

         “Yes,” I finally manage to reply, now laughing and crying at the same time. “Yes, I would love to see you, my darling. And Matt…?”

         “Yeah, mom?”

         “Thank you…this is…this is the best gift your father could have ever given to me, please let him know that.”

         “Sure, mom.”

         I think I can hear the smile in his voice and as we make plans for his upcoming visit, my heart finally rejoices for its second chance at starting anew.



WC: 998