My Buried Life by Doreen Finn Read Free Book Online Page A

Maybe.
    Almost accidentally I’d found something that helped me. Something that worked. And it was so simple. For the first few months it was easy to restrain myself. Fear of being caught stifled even the strongest urges to drink. Just the thought of my mother’s rage tipping over me was enough to keep me from emptying every bottle in the house. Eventually, of course, I stopped caring. I did it all: watered down the contents of the bottles at home, stole from the supermarket – the big one near my school, never the small local one where I was known by name – pilfered money from my mother’s purse to pay for it when I was too scared to steal, scavenged Maude’s pension pennies. I daydreamed about getting drunk, about the glorious buzz alcohol drove through my veins, blunting my edges, editing my memory. I drank alone, always, and hugged my grubby secret to me. It was easy to go into myself, pretend the rest of the world had faded. I could count on booze to get me out of anything at all. I simply stopped caring.
    Now, though, I don’t have that wonderful abandon of youth. I know what it does to me, know that something is embedded so deeply in me that I can’t just have one drink and be done with it. I’ve read the health warnings, know the signs of physical ruin. I’ve been to AA, collected my chips, fallen off more wagons that I can count, but I know that when things go wrong for me my silent friend is always there, waiting. Its hushed expectation follows me, its eyes watching perpetually. My guardian angel, clothed in black.
    This dark thing in me appals me. It sleeps so soundly that I can forget it’s there. Then it rises and I hide behind a curtain of booze.
    I need to work. Otherwise, I’ll have to go back to New York, and I’m not sure I’m ready just yet. I can’t face the prospect of trudging through the want ads, calling up old contacts, holding out my begging bowl. My sabbatical has kicked in, my replacement already attending meetings in my place, marking undergraduate essays, drinking coffee in the shabby faculty lounge. I want to be there in so many ways, but this break is needed. And I don’t want to run into Isaac. That’s the main thing. A little while longer won’t harm me.
    Today’s paper has thrown out a possibility: a boys’ school needs an English teacher. Full hours, within walking distance, until Christmas. In other words, perfect for me.

CHAPTER 7
    T he principal practically hires me over the phone. ‘We’re desperate,’ he readily admits. ‘I’ve parents ringing me up to complain and we’re not back a month.’
    I can do this. I’ve subbed before, and it’s not like I can’t handle senior English. The principal misreads my silence. ‘Why don’t you give it a try? Come over and meet me anyway.’
    We agree to meet at eleven.

    The job is mine if I want it. I’m not going to languish in indecision, as is my wont. I’ve put on a new blue shirt, a denim skirt that ends above my knees and some high sandals I bought for the occasion, reduced to virtually nothing on a sale rack with the last of the summer offerings. The summer was hot, and my skin has retained the remnants of a tan. Outwardly at least, I appear less of a mess than I feel. If I so desired I could even admit that I like how I look on this lemon-hued September morning. My hair is smoothed into a ponytail. I’ve been neglecting it since Isaac left, and if I’m not careful I’ll end up with dreadlocks. He loved to appease the angry curls, pulling his fingers through the strands. Since the day he closed the door behind him, I haven’t had the energy to bother caring for my hair myself. It’s simply too much of a drag. Maybe I should just cut it all off and send it to him in the post. I can hardly imagine the consternation it would cause in his Central Park West apartment, the betrayal that would ripple along the expensive Italian marble floors.
    The morning is warm as I walk. I pick up the first chestnut of the