Chapter Text
Apples and Oranges
Her
The corridor smells faintly of citrus-scented disinfectant and strong coffee. It’s the kind of hallway that’s completely forgettable with beige walls, scuffed floors, and bright lights buzzing persistently overhead. Somewhere deeper in the building a door is closed, the sound echoing down the corridor, ricocheting off the walls, before fading into the quiet again.
A corkboard hangs all crooked beside the entrance to the room. Flyers layered over each other in bright but faded paper advertising different classes, different groups, there’s also a poster about a lost grey cat that reminds her of Winston. Various thumbtacks and pins have been bent at odd angles to hold everything in place, but she’s sure that a harsh slam of a door would shake things loose.
Taped to the centre of the nearest door is a simple white sheet of paper with letters printed in bold black ink: AA Meeting in Progress.
She stands a few feet away from it, her arms are folded tightly across her chest, hands tucked beneath her elbows like she’s trying to hold herself together. The fabric of her leather jacket presses against her ribs, but the pressure does nothing to loosen the knot sitting just beneath her sternum. If anything, it seems to tighten the longer she remains standing there.
Inside the room, someone laughs, the sound surprising her. It may be brief but it’s warm, followed by the scrape of chairs against the floor and the murmuring of voices overlapping. The kind of casual conversation that happens when people are settling in somewhere familiar.
But this isn’t familiar to her, well, not recently anyway. “I could come with you, if you’d like?” Her friend, Grace, suggested kindly but she was swift to decline.
Teresa Lisbon has always been independent, perhaps fiercely so, and that can’t stop being the case because she’s now a victim. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing the tightness in her chest to ease, but the sound of ticking from the hallway clock makes her skin heat up and her throat constrict.
She opens her eyes and peers up at it, feeling the time glower down at her. She’s late. Lateness is a pet peeve of hers and she has always prided herself at being timely. It was important in her vocation, not just for reputation but to be able to get the workload done. It now feels like a distant memory.
Teresa fidgets slightly as she stands, she’s only aware of this because of how the soles of her shoes squeak against the floor. It’s quieter inside the room now having obviously started the session but she’s still outside, staring at the door as if she has laser vision so could see through it.
She can imagine it though, vividly. Chairs arranged into a circle, people sitting in them with different stories, clutching their paper cups filled with cheap coffee. A naïve part of her didn’t think it would be this hard. All morning, the plan was going round and round in her head. To get in the car, drive here, find parking, get to the room, and walk through he door. Simple.
Except now that she’s here, her feet have stopped cooperating somewhere between the hallway entrance and the door. The knot in her chest twists even tighter. Through the thin wood, someone speaks again, their voice clearer this time but all Teresa can do is stare at the handle. It’s an ordinary brass lever, slightly worn where countless hands have pushed it down.
All it would take is one step forward, her fingers flex once at her side in preparation, but still she doesn’t move. It’s like she’s frozen to the spot.
No. She can’t do it. It’s too much. She’ll panic, make a fool of herself, have to talk about something that’s so impossibly difficult to talk about. So before she can think too hard, Teresa quickly turns on her heels, the movement abrupt and desperate, boots scuffing the floor as she starts back down the corridor.
But she barely makes it two steps before she collides with a stranger who is walking her way around the corner.
The collision isn’t hard enough to knock either of them down, but enough that she stumbles back half a step, breath catching in her throat as the shock of it snaps through her already frayed nerves. “Oh, I-I’m sorry.” She blurts immediately, words tumbling out so fast they practically trip over themselves.
Her trembling hands lift instinctively, palms half-raised like she is expecting to be scolded. Her green eyes then flick upwards to the stranger and then away again just as quickly, the faintest edge of panic still lingering in her expression. “Don’t mention it.” The reply comes easily, completely unbothered, and when she looks up again, the man in front of her is smiling.
He looks around her age, maybe a little older. His appearance is slightly dishevelled, like he got himself here in a hurry or simply doesn’t care for ironing. Faded jeans sit comfortably on his frame, and a wrinkled flannel shirt hangs loosely over a plain black t-shirt. The sleeves had been pushed up unevenly to his forearms. His blond curls look like they have been run through with distracted fingers more than once already today, and a layer of stubble shadows his jaw giving him a carefree edge. But his smile…
His smile is disarmingly reassuring. The kind of smile that doesn’t ask anything nor expect anything either. The man glances past her to the door that she stared at for almost five minutes, his blue eyes then returning to her barely a second later, curiosity making something crease in his brow. “Are you not coming in?” He nods his head towards the door and the sign and the brass door handle.
The question makes something twist in her gut, her gaze dropping with shame, settling on the toes of her boots instead. The leather is worn, shoes well-loved, and suddenly it’s the most interesting thing in the building. “I don’t know.” Teresa admits quietly.
The man doesn’t react with surprise. If anything, his expression mollifies, like the answer is one he has heard a hundred times before. “We aren’t that scary.” He reassures her. “I promise.” It does make her meet his stare again, shoulders still tense but feeling less panic-stricken now. “There’s no obligation to speak if you don’t want to, but everyone’s real friendly.”
The reassurance is offered casually, but there is something practiced in the way he says it, like he knows exactly what it feels like to stand where she’s standing. For a moment neither of them moves, the door remains shut behind her, and yet his patient smile doesn’t fade.
The silence in the hallway stretches, but the stranger doesn’t rush her. He simply stands there, his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his jeans, like waiting is the most natural thing in the world. It makes the knot in her chest loosen just a fraction. “Okay.” The word comes out small, almost cautious, like she might still take it back.
But she said it and the man’s smile brightens instantly. “Great. I’m Jane, by the way.” Her brow dips faintly on hearing this. “Oh err, Patrick.” He corrects, rubbing the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle. “Sorry.” He gestures vaguely with one hand, as his brain scrambles for an explanation. “Where I work there’s another Patrick, so I’m used to being called Jane.” His words come a little faster now. “Force of habit.” There’s a brief pause before he adds. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I-I do that.”
The tension in her shoulders ease just slightly, a small smile now on her face. It’s broken the ice, his sudden nervousness. On first impressions she saw this guy, this Patrick Jane, as one smooth talker, and the fact he’s human underneath the perfect grin and tousled curls is oddly reassuring. “It’s okay.”
“Good.” He lets out of a breath of relief before tilting his head to the door again. “Shall we?” Her gaze flicks towards it as she visibly gulps down nothing.
Teresa is still on the brink of panic, but now there’s someone standing beside her, and that makes it a little less daunting. Especially when it’s someone who looks unfazed about walking through that door. Someone who has clearly not only done this before but been in her shoes.
She hesitates only a second this time. “Yeah.”
“Alright then.” He steps forward first, reaching for the handle with easy familiarity. The brass lever clicks quietly under his hand as he pushes the door open.
Warm light spills out from the room beyond, along with the richer smell of coffee and the low murmur of conversation. He holds the door open, she takes in a deep breath, before they step inside together.
There’s nothing complicated about the interior of the room, not really. Chairs have been arranged in a rough circle across the worn wooden floor, there’s a trestle table in one corner for basic beverage options, and a stand of various support pamphlets. All Teresa can really focus on though is how the conversation stops as soon as she enters. “Sorry I’m late, Virgil.” Her new acquaintance apologises, taking some of the heat off her.
At the far side of the circle, a gentleman in his late fifties holds a clipboard loosely on his lap and wears a tie which is all twisted. “It’s not a problem. Please sit and join us.” Virgil’s gaze then lands on her. “And hello to a new face. Please take a seat.” She feels every eye in the room glance towards her for the briefest moment, not in a judgemental way, just noticing her presence.
Patrick takes a seat in the empty chair nearest to him whereas she picks one a few spots over, as if making clear that they didn’t actually arrive together. There’s a slight scrape of metal legs against wood as she sits, trying to remind herself to breathe. She clasps her hands together in her lap immediately, fingers fidgeting for a few seconds before going still. Her shoulders remain slightly hunched, as if she’s trying to make herself smaller within the circle.
Around her are around a dozen people. There’s a middle-aged woman with greying hair and kind eyes who is cradling a paper cup between both hands, using the heat of the beverage as a source of comfort. A man in dusty work trousers leans back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, but the set of his jaw gives his apprehension away. A younger man plays with a coin between his fingers, turning it over and over absentmindedly.
Jane looks the most at ease here – apart from Virgil that is – with one ankle resting loosely over the opposite knee, his flannel sleeves still pushed unevenly up his forearms. He gives her a fleeting sideways glance, maybe checking in, before looking back to the group leader. “Let’s begin.” The older man decides and Teresa sucks in a breath. “Would anyone like to share today?”
It’s the man wearing the dusty trousers as if having traipsed in off a building site who clears his throat first to begin speaking. His voice is rough, the kind that has come from years of smoking and shouting over loud machinery. He talks about his arduous recovery, about how he almost lost his job last week when relapsing, and how he’s scared to even be around alcohol.
Across the circle, the grey-haired woman talks next. Her story is less heavy, seventeen years of sobriety, yet she still comes every week. Citing that it keeps her on the right path.
The next person has been sober for three years, the one after that, six months, and then there’s someone who had a drink last night. Different voices, different lives, and yet each story has an air of familiarity. The details may change, but underneath it all is the same current running through each story.
It’s that same shame, that same guilt, that same quiet confession that things had gotten out of control at one time or another. Teresa’s fingers tighten a little where they are folded together in her lap. Keeping her gaze lowered, it strikes her how no one seems embarrassed, even when they reveal some dark parts of themselves. They simply say them, get them out in the open, in this safe space. It would be perhaps unsettling if it wasn’t strangely relieving. “Patrick?” Virgil offers him the floor and Teresa can’t help but focus then, properly focus.
Jane straightens slightly in his seat, sweeping back his curls nervously – the most nerves he’s exhibited since she has met him. “Hi everyone.”
“Hi Patrick.” Several voices reply automatically.
“Yep, still an alcoholic. It’s been… eighty-two weeks now of sobriety.” He admits with a wry smile. “Nothing dramatic to report this week. Business is good at the market. Cabbages have been remarkably popular.” A ripple of soft laughter moves around the circle. He chuckles along with them before continuing, more thoughtful now. “I did walk past a bar yesterday though.” He adds. “And for about half a second my brain decided that seemed like a wonderful idea.”
Another knowing murmur circles the room while he shrugs. “But then I remembered how the story ends. It helped that I was holding my daughter’s hand at the time.” Teresa cocks her head at this. Jane’s daughter is fortunate, she muses, that he’s not throwing his relationship with her away for drink. She wasn’t that fortunate.
Virgil gives a small nod of appreciation. “Thank you, Patrick.” It’s not long before the group leader’s eyes are on her. “And our new face?” He queries kindly. “It’s okay to not talk.” It’s an open door rather than a demand, and as her fingers tense in her lap, she considers shaking her head. Staying silent.
But something makes her open her mouth, even though her throat is as dry as a desert. “Um… hi.” Other members’ heads lift and turn to look at her She ignores how her cheeks have become hot. “I’m Teresa.”
“Hi Teresa.” The response is warm, a routine, but something about hearing her name spoken by strangers makes her chest tighten again.
She swallows. “I-I’ve always had a tricky relationship with alcohol.” Her eyes remain fixed on the floor as she continues. “My father was an alcoholic. I-I promised myself that I wouldn’t become like him.” Teresa shouted that at him once. She was fifteen at the time with three younger brothers reliant on her and she snapped one night when her father, Thomas Lisbon, practically fell through the front door stinking like a brewery.
That day, she bombed a test because she was too exhausted to study. Her teacher, Mr Griffiths, shouted at her in front of the entire class. She got home to find her youngest brother, Jimmy, making a mud castle in the back garden. He was caked in dirt and Teresa knew that it would be her cleaning up. Stan, the next oldest, had tried to get Jimmy to stop, which resulted in a mud fight, and therefore him mucky too.
She stormed up the stairs in search of the oldest of the three boys, Tommy, who’s only a year younger than her, and he was smoking a cigarette while leaning out his window. So she was already very wound up and that was before their father graced them with his presence. It was a mistake to shout at him though. It was always going to end badly.
Teresa can still feel the smack of his palm against her cheek. She ran to her room crying, pushing a chest of drawers up against the door so no one could get in. To protect herself from her own father? Maybe. To hide her tears and protect her brothers from the truth? More likely. “But when things are tough… I lean on drink too much.”
Alcoholic. It’s a strong word that she doesn’t think best describes her, but she’s all too aware of how quickly things can snowball. “Thank you, Teresa.” Virgil says gently on realising that she’s not got anything else to say, and the circle moves on.
Him
Morning at the market begins the same way most days. It can be noisy, with different stall owners calling out prices in cheerful competition accompanied by the rattle of crates sliding across wooden tables. There are diverse scents in the air, fighting for dominance, from fresh fruit to bloody meat.
Jane’s stall is just inside the main entrance, giving him prime spot for passing customers. It’s definitely one of the more appealing looking stands with colourful produce neatly arranged in shallow wooden trays, practically overflowing as they are repeatedly restocked to meet the demand. Some owners see empty stalls as a positive advertisement of their wares, but he has never seen that way. Lots to choose from show a desire to keep the world well fed.
Perhaps he romanticises it – although it’s hard to romanticise it when a passing potential customer accidentally clips the corner of a lowered table with her knee, causing a perfectly balanced mound of apples to stumble and fall.
They tumble across the surface and bounce onto the pavement in a scatter of red and green. A few split when they hit the ground, others bruise, soft dull thumps echoing beneath the market chatter. “Oh!” The woman responsible freezes in place. She looks to be somewhere in her sixties, clutching a canvas shopping bag that is clearly heavier than she had anticipated. Her brown eyes widen as she stares down at the fruit now rolling around her feet. “Oh I’m so sorry.”
Jane crouches down without urgency, picking up the nearest apple and turning it over in his hands. “It’s okay.”
“But your apples-”
“It’s nothing.” He gives the fruit a gentle squeeze, noticing the faint bruise already forming beneath the skin, and then places it aside.
“Let me pay for them.”
“Honestly ma’am, it’s fine.” He collects another apple from the ground and drops it into a small pile beside him. “I will give them to Sam over there so she can make her world-famous apple sauce.” Diagonally across the aisle Sam, who runs the bakery stall, is filling a paper bag with fresh donuts. “Nothing will be wasted.”
The woman still appears deeply apologetic. “Oh… okay. Sorry again.”
“No harm done.” Jane assures her one last time and she does move along the row of stalls, glancing back once more before disappearing into the flow of customers.
He reaches to the side of his stall and pulls out an empty cardboard box before he starts to fill it, one by one, with the fallen apples. A few are salvageable but most aren’t and yet still with the beautiful weather and the busyness of the market, in the grand scheme of things this barely registers as a problem. “Mr Jane, let me do that.”
Jane looks up to find Franklin standing above him, holding a crate of freshly delivered tomatoes which is balanced against his hip. He’s younger than the stall owner and much more neatly dressed, with an earnest expression of someone who takes his job extremely seriously. “Nonsense, Franklin.” He drops another apple into the box. “I can pick up some apples.”
It’s his phone ringing from his jacket, which hangs loosely over the back of a folding chair behind the stall, that pauses the interaction. Franklin is already moving to get it, regularly picking up his employer’s phone because more often than not, the call relates to the stall or the market. It could be a farmer, a supplier, a wholesaler… “It’s the school.” But not today.
Jane tenses, already expecting the worst even though he has no reason to. He gets back to his feet and takes the phone, wandering to behind the stall while Franklin resumes the task of collecting the blemished fruit. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mr Jane? It’s Miss Mitchell calling from Davidson Elementary.”
“Yes, hi.” He says quickly. “Is Charlotte okay?”
Charlotte – his six-year-old – is the centre of his universe. She’s bright, funny, missing two front teeth currently causing the cutest lisp. This morning she chattered on about sloths while struggling to say the name of the animal. If anything were to happen to her… “She’s okay.” Miss Mitchell reassures. “But her teacher has just realised that she didn’t come with lunch today.”
For a moment Jane simply blinks. He definitely made her lunch… didn’t he? Yes, he distinctively remembers smearing peanut on some bread, jam on another slice, before pushing them together and cutting the sandwiches into triangles all because his daughter says they taste better that way. He had sliced up an apple, green because it’s her favourite, and put them in a bowl of water to soak with a little bit of honey so they wouldn’t turn brown.
But then his phone rang. A supplier arriving early with a delivery, so he had to make sure Franklin was there to meet it and suddenly they were going to be late to school. “Shit.” He pauses before his brain catches up. “I-I mean- I am sorry, I…” He pulls the phone slightly away from his ear as he checks his watch.
12:07.
The school isn’t far, but midday traffic around the market could be slow. It doesn’t mean he’s not going to try though. “I will bring her something now.”
“That’s fine.” Miss Mitchell replies kindly. “Lunch starts at 12:30.”
Plenty of time. “Okay. See you soon.” And then he hangs up, huffing a breath through his nose as Franklin peers up at him from the floor. “Forgot Charlotte’s lunch.” He answers the unasked question, reaching for his brown jacket. “I’ll be back in-” Jane pauses putting his arms through his sleeves. It’s Tuesday, he won’t be back.
“You have your meeting.” Franklin remembers.
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry.” The younger man beams. “I’ve got this.”
Jane nods, knowing this is the case and the tightness to his chest isn’t because he doesn’t trust Franklin. He points casually to the stall. “Close at three.” He gives him one more grateful look before picking up the cardboard box of bruised apples from the ground. They shuffle quietly inside as he lifts it.
Instead of heading for the exit of the market, he heads to the bakery stall diagonally across the aisle. Sam is behind the counter, rearranging the last of her bread buns with a gloved hand, looking up as her old friend approaches. “Sam, I need a favour.”
She raises an eyebrow without looking particularly surprised. “When don’t you, Jane?”
Jane sets the box of apples down on the counter. “I forgot Charlotte’s lunch.” The words come out rough, the lump in his throat evident, something that seems to come up whenever Charlotte is involved in one of his mistakes. “Can I give you this box of apples.” He nudges it minutely towards her. “For you to make into your sauce in exchange for a cheese sandwich?”
Sam’s hard expression softens immediately. She has known Jane a long time. Long enough to travel with him on the carny circuit, long enough to stand in the way of his father giving him a beating, long enough to watch him fall in love. She has seen him grown in more ways than one, seen him happy, seen him settle somewhat into fatherhood.
But she has also had to see him stagger through grief. She has seen him fall apart on more than one occasion with her and her husband Pete usually the ones to pick up the pieces. Single parenthood is tough on anyone, but doing it while trying not to relapse, is even harder. “Of course.” It doesn’t take much for her to agree.
Sam turns to the back counter and opens a small fridge before pulling out a plastic-wrapped cheese sandwich. “A plain cheese sandwich.” She tells him, slipping it into a paper bag. Then she adds a small bag of salted chips from a box under the counter, and a chocolate chip cookie from a glass jar. Jane watches quietly, feeling relief begin to flood through him. “I’m sure you can supply some fruit.”
He nods, walking away briefly to pick up an orange from his own stall which she takes from him to drop into the bag. Sam then folds the top before passing it over. The bag crinkles a little when he takes it. “Patrick.” She says his name gently making him pause. “Stop going round in your head. It was an easy mistake.” Jane nods slowly, though the guilt hasn’t fully loosened yet. “Give Charlotte a kiss from me.”
He does smile then. “I will. Thank you.”
On the drive over to the school, Jane’s truck rattles like it always does. The old engine coughs once when he turns the key, then settles into the familiar uneven hum that sounds like it could fall apart at any moment but thankfully it hasn’t yet. His hands vibrate from the buzz of the steering wheel as he pulls away from the market, weaving carefully through the narrow streets.
Even though he decides he has plenty of time on checking the time on the dash, still he drives a little faster than usual. Davidson Elementary comes into view a few minutes later. It’s a low brick building with a playground on one side and sports field on the other. Children’s drawings hang in the windows, created with bright crayons and finger paints.
Jane parks up in the nearest space to the reception. He grabs the paper bag and jumps out of the vehicle before the engine fully calms, before darting to the main entrance – the automatic doors open with a quiet whoosh sound. Miss Mitchell – the receptionist – peers up from the front desk with a kind smile on her face. “Mr Jane. It’s nice to see you.”
“And you. One packed lunch.” He holds up the bag like it’s evidence. “D-Does she know that I forgot?” He doesn’t mean for the question to come out so anxious, and he looks down at his shoes out of embarrassment, missing how the receptionist’s expression softens.
“She’s not mentioned it.” Jane may breathe a sigh of relief, but the statement hasn’t solved everything.
Charlotte is a good kid, a very good kid. She’s bright and observant in a way that sometimes surprises him. She notices things other children her age might not, but unfortunately that includes every shift in his mood. Even though he tries his hardest to mask his grief, to save her from it, he knows that she sees it all.
She has also learned, somehow, not to add to it.
Miss Mitchell takes the bag from the worried parent. “I will get this to her.”
“Thank you.”
Jane steps out of the school’s front doors into the early afternoon sunlight and crosses the cracked tarmac towards his truck. The seat springs creak beneath his weight when he climbs inside and for moment, he just sits there, staring out of the windscreen, trying to focus on his breathing. His heart rate is still quicker than it should be, his body acting like he’s running from a monster more than the simple act of forgetting his daughter’s lunch.
But any mistake involving Charlotte has a way of growing in his mind until it feels enormous. He checks the time on his watch, noting how he has almost an hour and a half before his meeting. Plenty of time. He leans back in his seat and slowly breathes out, willing his twitching fingers to still.
Charlotte is okay, she has her lunch, and when he picks her up later it won’t even be mentioned. It’s not the end of the world. The guilt though, is historic.
In the beginning, he wasn’t a good father. This baby, his flesh and blood, was a reminder of all he had lost more than he had gained. It’s not that he didn’t try, he really did, but it felt impossible. After his wife died, the world became completely greyscale. Grief settled over everything like a thick fog, dulling the edges of days until one blurred into the next.
He tried to keep going, for their daughter, but then the unhealthy habits started and Jane felt a big part of himself slip away. Alcohol initially gave him a brief reprieve and then it became a crutch, something that hollowed him out enough so he would keep going. Some months, he was fine, he got by, and others… He barely recalls them. They’re all a blur.
The Barsockys – Pete and Sam – they are the reasons he can still call himself a father, why protective services never took his daughter away. When Charlotte was two, they got him in a programme to get clean and although he has fallen off the wagon a few times since, he’s been sober for just over eighteen months.
Charlotte is six now. She’s smart, compassionate, and so comical that sometimes he guffaws with laughter. Whenever he picks her up for school, she runs to him with a wide smile, launching into his arms before telling him about her day. The fact that she still hugs him without hesitation, despite his absent periods, feels like a miracle. Sometimes, if he’s honest with himself, it feels like more forgiveness than he deserves.
Feeling himself start to spiral, he makes an instant choice of where his next stop will be. Before, it would have been a pub or a bar or a liquor store, but now it’s somewhere with not a drop of alcohol in sight. Jane starts the engine and the truck rattles to life again, before he pulls out of the car park, in search of some peace.
The cemetery is only a fifteen-minute drive away. It’s a place he sadly now knows very well with its vast green spaces and towering trees. He doesn’t need to look for the correct grave, his feet take him there automatically, winding through the rows of headstones – some weathered and others polished like new.
Hers is well cared for. He’s usually here once a week cleaning it, sometimes sweeping up leaves, other times leaving flowers. Even after all this time though, when he glances down at her name, a part of him is in disbelief that she’s really gone: Angela Ruskin Jane.
Below it is her date of birth but also her date of death. It’s a strange one for him and for his daughter as well, that the day Angela passed was the day his daughter was brought into the world. He’s relieved that he has never resented Charlotte for that. It’s not like it’s her fault. The situation was unlucky, unfair, and perhaps unavoidable. Maybe he should just be relieved that he didn’t lose them both.
“Hi honey.” Jane greets the headstone eventually. He didn’t used to talk to her, it was Virgil that said it could be a good idea, that he may find it cathartic, and he was right. “I forgot Charlotte’s lunch today.” The confession comes easily, but it always does here. “Apparently she didn’t mention it to her teacher, but of course she didn’t… She gets her empathy from you.”
He rubs the back of his neck absently. “I-In my defence, I did make the lunch. I just left it in the refrigerator.” He sighs. “Maybe I am actually improving.”
It’s not that Jane believes Angela can hear him, far from it. He’s not a religious nor spiritual person and he disguises his envy as judgement to the those who do believe. But he hasn’t got many people he can actually really talk to. So these quiet moments, here, away from the busyness of the stall and life, is something he no longer takes for granted.
“Maybe I will get this parenting thing right eventually.” His gaze drifts to the ground near the stone. “You would have got it right. I know you would have done. You were… much more prepared than I was.” His face twists in anguish before he squeezes his eyes shut, reminding himself to breathe again. “I-I’m going to the meeting later.” He always mentions it, a part of him wondering if she would be more proud than disappointed. “Still sober. But… But it’s so fucking hard.”
Jane doesn’t remember sitting down. One second he is was standing beside Angela’s grave, speaking to her as if she didn’t pass over six years ago, and the next he’s on a wooden bench a few yards away, his elbows resting on his knees, staring out blankly across the rows of headstones. Time slipped somewhere in between.
He sits there longer than he means to. It’s a dog barking somewhere in the distance that tugs him back to the present. The next time he checks his watch, he stiffens, because he no longer has plenty of time. “Damn.” He mutters, already doing the maths in his head. He’s most certainly going to be late for the meeting – and he hates being late.
Jane gets to his feet quickly and walks back to this truck at a brisk pace. He gets a little warm on his rushed stroll, so he removes his brown jackets and chucks it to the passenger’s seat before driving off, trying to let his urgency not put himself in any sort of danger. At least Virgil would forgive him for being late.
Still he hastily parks his vehicle crooked in a space outside the community centre, and hurries inside so quickly that it’s like he forgets his own spatial awareness.
Perhaps the sudden collision shouldn’t be so surprising. It’s not really his fault, he supposes, because she definitely isn’t looking his way when she quickly turns the corner walking straight into him. Jane didn’t have time to react, but he does have time to adjust his expression as the woman stumbles backwards. “Oh, I-I’m sorry.” She blurts out, appearing quite flustered.
His easy smile arrives automatically. “Don’t mention it.” She looks like she might bolt.
Jane has seen the look many times before on the faces of newcomers, and he’s sure a similar expression was on his face too for at least the first couple of months of meetings. He peers over her shoulder at the closed door behind her before his eyes return to hers. “Are you not coming in?”
“I don’t know.” This admittance is aimed at the toes of her boots nervously.
“We aren’t that scary. I promise.” But the stranger doesn’t look convinced. “There’s no obligation to speak if you don’t want to, but everyone’s real friendly.” This part is at least entirely true. His first meeting was over two years ago and although he found walking in on that first day terrifying, he really has never looked back. These meetings, an hour a week on Tuesday afternoons at 2pm, have probably saved him.
But that feels too heavy to admit to a woman he’s only just met. Even if they are in the same boat. “Okay.” Her agreement to cross the threshold just about manages to get through to him.
“Great. I’m Jane, by the way.” He introduces himself, swiftly followed by a tongue-tied correction that’s triggered by the furrowing of her brow. “Oh err, Patrick. Sorry.” He’s embarrassed by his own awkwardness, unsure why it’s so hard introducing himself to people. “Where I work there’s another Patrick, so I’m used to being called Jane. Force of habit.” He does take a pause for breath then. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I-I do that.”
“It’s okay.”
“Good.” Jane then manages to find enough composure to nod his head towards the door. “Shall we?”
The meeting unfolds the way they usually do. Without rushing and a whole lot of patience. Attendees take turns, some with casual confidence, others tripping slightly over their words. Jane has been to enough meetings that he has them all mapped out in his mind. In some ways they’re predictable, but in a way that brings him comfort rather than boredom.
He thinks about his newest acquaintance sitting in a few chairs away from him in the circle. He recognises the anxiousness in her expression as she listens, the tap of her foot, her hands wringing together. It’s not uncommon to see any of these traits in newcomers, but not everyone sticks it out. Jane hopes she does, hopes that she finds reassurance in the sessions.
Virgil surprises him when he engages with her directly. “And our new face? It’s okay to not talk.” Jane expects her to shake her head, perhaps because that’s what most people do early on, but she doesn’t. She clears her throat instead.
“Um… hi.” Something that could be pride flutters in his chest – even if he has no right to feel this way. Less than half an hour ago, this woman was a complete stranger. “I’m Teresa.” But now she’s Teresa.
“Hi Teresa.”
He remembers how impossible that first admission had felt. For weeks he kept himself to himself, gnawing at the skin of his thumb as he silently willed for time to go by quicker. Adrenaline would pump around his system, the urge of flight more overpowering than fight, but he knew if he ran, he would bump straight into Pete standing guard outside. Eventually he stopped bringing him because Jane didn’t need anyone to.
Because he knew how much he needed to be here. For him, for Charlotte, and their future that was suddenly not so uncertain. “I’m Patrick and I’m an alcoholic.” The words had stuck in his throat for weeks after he said them for the first time. They made his stomach turn and his body sway with nausea. Saying them made them real, and he despised that they were real.
Teresa, she has courage, or at least she must do to confess her truth on the first meeting, and Patrick admires that.
When their hour is up and chairs start to scrape lightly across the floor, Jane watches her put her jacket back on. He takes a breath and then approaches with the same easy smile he wore in the hallway earlier. “Well done.” Jane praises, witnessing how a flicker of puzzlement crosses her features.
“For what?”
“For speaking.” He shrugs. “I didn’t speak on my first session. I think it actually took six weeks for me to open my mouth.”
Teresa blinks at this, clearly stunned by her own bravery. “Oh.” She fidgets slightly in her jacket, making the clothing sit in a more comfortable position than before, giving her a few moments to think things through. “I just felt like I should.”
“Well, it took guts.” The compliment is genuine. “So will we see you next week?”
She holds his stare for a beat, her nervousness still lingering but it’s much more manageable compared to before. “You will.” This makes his smile become wider, the pride returning and a real happiness setting root in his chest, replacing his earlier self-contempt. “Jane…” He cocks his head to the side, curious about two things: what she’s going to say and why she’s more comfortable using his surname over his first name. “Thank you for giving me a nudge.”
“It’s no problem, Teresa.” He takes a step back, retreating from her and the door to the room as if making it obvious that he doesn’t plan to follow her. It’s something she then doesn’t have to think about, any awkward small talk on the journey back to the car park, so it’s something she’s relieved about. “Have a good rest of your day.”
Teresa smiles, starting to walk away when something makes her pause before Patrick has chance to turn to speak Virgil. She has a look of someone who has just had a thought arrive and isn’t sure whether to speak it or let it go. He tilts his head at her. “People at work call me by my last name too.” She tells him before stammering timidly. “O-Or at least they used to call me by my last name.”
How she’s offering a small part of her to him piques his interests in a way that’s unexpected. “Which is?”
She hesitates for only half a second. “Lisbon.”
Jane repeats it quietly, almost under his breath, testing the sound of it. “Teresa Lisbon.” For some reason it suits her a lot.
He smiles a genuine smile. “It was lovely meeting you, Lisbon. I will see you next week.” Fleetingly she stands still mulling this over, fixating on the certainty in his tone. There’s no doubt, no might or if or maybe. He will see her here next week.
Then she gives him a small nod, before swivelling on her heels to continue her path out of the room. Jane watches her go for a moment before turning away himself, to speak to the group leader who is sitting waiting patiently like he does every week, unmoved from his seat.