Surviving Love (5 page)

Chapter Five
 

Drake ~ 11 Months Later
 

It’s Saturday night, my one free night to forget about the pain in my life and get obliterated. I drive to
The Slab
and park in the back next to Reggie’s Camaro then make my way to my designated seat at the bar. The noise hits me like a brick, but the sight of booze calms me immediately. I sit at the far end of the bar, closest to the opening and the farthest place from other patrons, and begin to drink myself stupid.
 

I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t want to make friends or have pleasant conversations. I just want to get drunk then go home and pass out. I don’t have to care for my daughter tonight. I can sit and drink everything away, allowing my tense shoulders to relax slightly as I chug beer after beer.
 

Tonight, like every Saturday night, Mia and Mrs. Fields are having their weekly slumber party. Since Mia turned two, Mrs. Fields has asked if she can spend the night so they can do fun girl things together. Mia loves Mrs. Fields and I wouldn’t come between them. Then, on Sundays, I go over for lunch and spend the afternoon with the two of them.
 

It’s been comforting to have Mrs. Fields in my life, and I think she’s picked up on that. Mrs. Fields’s daughter lives several hours away with her only grandchild, and having Mia and I around gives her purpose. So for the last couple of months, I spend Saturday nights drunk and Sundays with the only two women in my life.
 

As for the rest of my family, I really don’t have too much interaction with them—only when it requires me to do so. For the most part, they leave me alone. Of course, we still have conversations, and I know the remaining members of my family care for me, but they don’t know how to deal with me. In true Evans fashion, they just leave me be and are probably waiting for me to make the first move.
 

The mood in the house has changed dramatically since Delilah has moved in. For a while there I was so sure Reggie and Darcie were going to split, as angry as they would get toward each other. There were many nights when something would get broken, voices would elevate and tears would inevitably be shed, yet the moment Delilah moved in, her happy personality became infectious to everyone. Well, everyone but me.
 

I am incredibly happy for Jake and Delilah, but it is hard to watch them be so happy together. I was once Jake—so head over heels in love, with the only person who mattered in life being the girl standing before me. I find it sort of ironic how life can change like that in a split second.
 

Now, I want nothing to do with any woman. I don’t want to be happy, or fall in love, or even make a friend. I just want to survive this life the only way I know how—complete detachment from everyone except my daughter, and now, Mrs. Fields.
 

Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of Presley’s death. It’s impossible to think it has been an entire year since I’ve held the love of my life. It remains incredibly raw to me. I can still feel the weight of her dying body in my arms. I can still feel the blood as it soaked through
my jeans and saturated my hands. I try to forget that night—more than I try to breathe—but it’s always there the minute I close my eyes. I can’t even think about the good times I spent with Presley because all I can see is the blood and death. It takes over my mind, haunting me constantly.
 

When I found out Jeremy was dealing and when I thought I lost Mia forever, my life took a radical turn toward hatred. Over the last year, I’ve transformed into a living, breathing villain to others. I never smile anymore. Hell, I don’t know what it feels like to regularly smile anymore. The only person who can make me crack a smile is Mia, and she is the only person I will shed my anger for.
 

The only other times I can truly dissolve some of my anger is when I’m drunk, or when I’m in the garage beating the shit out of the punching bag. Often times, when my nights are sleepless and the dreams of losing Presley are too daunting to bear, you’ll find me in the garage, slamming my fists into the bag. Needless to say, I’ve been in the garage every night since I got Mia back. As my world lies crumbled at my feet, I feel for a small moment that I can put it all back together when I beat the shit out of something.
 

As Darcie passes me a shot of whiskey and a mug of Guinness, I quickly slam the shot back and then chase the burn with a big swig of my favorite beer. The taste is delicious as I move from being pained and sober to free and intoxicated, releasing my demons if only for a moment.
 

And this is me. I’m a man who never looks up anymore. I don’t care to see the world around me. I don’t want to see happiness because all it does is piss me off. Any kind of happiness, even an intoxicated happiness, makes me extremely angry.
 

I keep my head down whenever I’m around others. I don’t talk to anyone at work unless I have to. I barely talk to my family who lives with me, and I sure as hell don’t talk to anyone when I’m in the bar. I don’t want to appear inviting to anyone because I’m anything but. I just want to keep to myself and survive long enough to get to Saturday when I get drunk, then I will go home and pass out. It’s the only night a week I can sleep without the interrupted thoughts of my dying girlfriend running through my head.
 

***
 

The light in the morning is always painful on Sundays. I’m nursing a pretty bad hangover this morning, more painful than most, but last night, the buzz wasn’t coming fast enough. I needed to be numb. Six shots of whiskey and five beers later, I was passing out on the bar and Reggie took it upon himself to drive me home. I remember him dragging me to the couch in his office, but after that, it’s all blank. However, I did get several hours of uninterrupted sleep. It’s something I look forward to every Saturday night.
 

I stand from my bed and stretch then make my way to the shower. A year ago, I was literally skin and bones; all my muscle mass was gone. Now, I’ve bulked myself up again, maybe more than I was. Working the heavy bag is a perfect way to let off some steam and beat out all the pent up anger, and for the last year, that’s all I have had inside me—anger. Every night, after Mia’s tucked away in bed, I go out to the garage for hours and slam my fists, legs and knees into the hard, leather bag in an attempt to shed the pain and rage. It works momentarily, yet it soon comes back when I’m reminded of how shitty my life has been.
 

After my shower, I grab my keys and head toward Mrs. Fields’s apartment with the thought of the anniversary of Presley’s death haunting the back of my mind.
 

Since I walked out of the funeral home the day she was buried, I haven’t acknowledged her death visually once. I have yet to visit her grave, and in all honesty, I don’t think I ever will. There is no part of my brain willing to accept that she’s dead. I just want to live in my semi-peaceful oblivion with my head down. I have a constant reminder whenever I close my eyes at night of what I’ve lost; why would I go to a grave and relive that pain when I’m awake? Nothing good will come from it, so why put myself through that? Existing for my daughter has worked for the past year and I don’t want to upset the balance. I just want to exist for Mia and everything else can simply fade away into nothing. Staring at a headstone in the middle of a graveyard won’t bring Presley back, so what’s the point?
 

Pulling into the apartment complex, I reflect on how it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. Now that Carter is rotting in prison, I’ve come to terms with being here and don’t find it difficult to control my anger every time I pull in to park.
 

Nothing has changed since I’ve lived here. The building is still rundown, the shrubs overgrown around the broken pool, and the security gate still doesn’t lock. When Presley was pregnant, I was so sure this was the happiest place on the planet because we were finally making a home outside the walls of where I grew up. The three of us were going to be a family and create happy memories I never had when I was a child. Again, I find it ironic how utterly wrong that was—my stupid, optimistic disposition.
 

I can hear cartoons on the TV when I walk into the apartment. Mia is sitting on the floor playing with her dollhouse people.
 

“Dadda!” she squeals then comes running into my arms. It warms my soul hearing Mia’s first word, and that word is my name. The smile I almost never don always surfaces when I look at my daughter and it’s spread across my face now. All I have to do is wrap my arms around my little girl and my smile breaks free from its aching prison.
 

“Hi, my sweet girl. How’s my baby?” I kiss her cheek and she snuggles for a moment, resting her head on my shoulder, something she always does when I hold her. It’s a very brief gesture, but incredibly precious and only ours.
 

She’s grown so much in the last year. The doctor says she’s in the ninety-eighth percentile for her height and eighth percent for her weight, but he told me she’s completely healthy. Her baby face is starting to slim since she’s constantly running, jumping or dancing with happiness. I am amazed at how well she’s adjusted to life since her first year in this world was so traumatic. The doctor has reassured me how resilient children are, and that, with the proper love and care, Mia will grow to be a well-adjusted child.
 

I’ve had to complete a year’s worth of random drug testing and home visits from Cindy with the Child Protective Services office. She was responsible for getting Mia back into my arms so quickly when she was taken, so I did anything she asked to keep myself in her good graces.
 

The first test was very insulting; I clearly remember how impossible it was to keep a lid on my anger. I couldn’t get Jeremy out of my mind. It was still very new to everyone, and the house was fueled with a toxicity we could not cure. However, I managed to keep myself under control
long enough to get through the first visit, and after that, they seemed more manageable.
 

As always, Mia looks absolutely adorable dressed in her purple and pink outfit with cats on the front of her shirt. Delilah has been a godsend when it comes to the care of a little girl. She helps me shop for clothes and has taught me how to braid her hair.
 

I want to do everything for Mia now that I’m her only parent, so I’ve insisted on learning how to brush and care for a little girl’s hair. It wasn’t easy at first—I would have to chase her around the house just to get a comb through it—but we’ve established a routine of Mickey Mouse and fruit snacks while I attempt to tame her wild head.
 

She still looks a lot like me—her caramel skin matches mine, as well as her high amounts of energy—but her eyes are all Presley. They are the same honey-brown color, wide and expressive just as her mother’s were. I get lost sometimes looking into her eyes. They remind me of a happier time and make me miss my love every single day.
 

Mia leans back in my arms with a look on her face that is very serious, and I know she’s deep in thought. She lifts her hand and points to her shirt. “Titties?”
 

I panic slightly, thinking Jake has taught her something inappropriate for his own humor. He is always trying to get Mia to say something stupid, and I have this horrible feeling when she starts preschool next year she will be teaching her classmates some colorful new words. However, when I look again to where she’s pointing, relief washes over me.
 

Suppressing a laugh, I try to correct her. “Kitties.”
 

The cutest giggle comes from her mouth, and she smiles with delight. “Titties.”
 

“No, kitties,” I attempt to correct again, putting more emphasis on the
K
sound. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind then squirms out of my arms, resuming her play with her dollhouse people. Apparently, this conversation is over.
 

“I’ve been trying all morning to correct her, but she’s quite stubborn.” Mrs. Fields comes from the back room and walks up to me, giving me a hug. “She’s a little spunky thing sometimes, but I always manage to laugh.”
 

I return her hug, feeling a small amount of peace as she shows me affection. I’ve never really had a mother’s love, but when Presley died, we established a relationship that very much resembles what a mother would have with a son. Even though she’s old enough to be my grandmother, I still think of her as a mother.
 

I go into the kitchen and start pulling dishes from the cupboard, setting them at the small table in the dining area. We work in comfortable silence together as we get everything settled for lunch.
 

When Mrs. Fields dishes up the food, I pull Mia from the floor and put her in her chair. I place a bib around her neck and blow on her food in an attempt to cool it off while Mia waits contently for her lunch. When I place it in front of her, she giggles and digs in. Mashed potatoes immediately cover her face as she shovels her food in her mouth. The sight makes me laugh and reminds me of her first birthday when she shoved cake in her mouth. She just can’t get enough and must take after her daddy with her unquenchable appetite.
 

Mrs. Fields joins us at the table and dishes up our plates. My mouth waters when I smell the roast chicken, mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables in front of me. I love Sunday dinners
with Mrs. Fields because she always goes all out and never runs out of food. She knows how much I eat and I think she enjoys taking care of someone again. Before Presley and I moved next door, I got the feeling Mrs. Fields was very lonely. Then, when she started watching Mia, she sprung back to life and has enjoyed looking after us since.