Wreck and Order by Hannah Tennant-Moore Read Free Book Online Page A

way…Morning now. A woman’s voice perfectly suited to whole wheat toast and Earl Grey tea, under my window, retreating, I can’t make out her last word—come back, please, no need to rush off. Stay. Chat. I won’t judge you, I promise.
    When I managed to get out of bed, the reflection of my naked body in the mirror stabbed me. I looked good, I liked my body. That was the thing I still had. It gave me nothing. I was relieved when the mirror caught me at an ugly angle—belly pouched; breasts pointy; thighs big and heavy, pulling my face to the floor.
    —
    When I complained about Jared to any of the girls I drank beer and complained about boys with, I liked when the word
abusive
came up. It was neat and respected and freed me of responsibility. One of the girls I knew worked at a home for battered women. During a group discussion there, a social worker asked one of the women why she had stayed with her husband. A chorus of female voices crooned, “Because she looooves him!” But I wasn’t a battered woman; I didn’t know what I was. Jared would always apologize and I would always let him back in. And then I had to explain to my friends that his behavior wasn’t really abusive, that he just drank too much and said stupid things. Soon there was no one left to complain to.
    Except for my mother. She loved to talk on the phone when Rick was at work and her new kids were at school. The person who was drunk and invulnerable to his love for me was not really Jared, she assured me; it was the disease. “But, honey, they’re all addicted to something,” she said. “Alcohol is better than strip clubs. Trust me.” I told myself that alcohol was better than strip clubs when Sober Jared finally called and said he missed me and did I want to ride bikes to the diner? Yes, I did. I always wanted to ride bikes to the diner with Jared. Just the idea of it made life feel so decadent and generous, made me and Jared seem like the best of friends.
    I could have tried to get him to stop drinking. But he was self-medicating, and if he stopped drinking, he would be overcome by an anxious depression nursed throughout a neglectful childhood and a decade of partying instead of working, and if I were the one who insisted he give up booze, I would be solely responsible for helping him cope. So after he went to a few AA meetings and pronounced it soul-deadening, I believed him when he said he wasn’t really an alcoholic; he just needed to drink a little less. Some nights—many nights—he met his modest goal and we had fun. Life was fun. I liked drinking, too. And I could not help him change his life in ways he hadn’t the courage to change it on his own. Or so I imagined my mother would have told me, if I had the kind of mom who said things like that.
    KANDY
    I did believe it was possible for a person to change. I had known other versions of myself that allowed me to hope the situation I was in would not be my life. I just couldn’t leave the situation. I loooooved him.
    I decided to backpack around Sri Lanka for a few months, to try to free myself of my addiction to Jared, so that something new might happen. The only thing that had changed tangibly for me since I’d moved to Carpinteria four years earlier was a two-dollar-an-hour raise. Jared thought that if I was willing to take so much time off and spend a grand on a flight, the two of us should have ourselves a delightful holiday much closer to home. “I’m trying to get over you,” I said. “Good luck,” he said, and rolled on top of me. We were lying in his bed on a Wednesday morning; fog pressed against the window; I dug my fingers into the flesh above his hip.
    When I got home from work that night, the travel guide I’d ordered was waiting on my stoop. I looked at the charmingly cheesy photos—palm trees, sunsets over the ocean, monks kneeling before Buddha statues—and booked my ticket. I liked the idea of going to a tropical paradise that was also a recent war zone.