You’d think eventually the cravings would go away. They don’t. I can be around others who drink. For that matter, my only employable skill is bartending, so I continue to spend my life surrounded by booze. Certain things, however, still whisper to me like words from a long-lost lover. The scent of hops. The clink of ice cubes hitting a glass. The creamy richness of perfectly poured foam.
I should go to a meeting after this. I should also sleep through the night, find joy in my heart, and relive a happy memory.
But I remain me. A woman capable of dining with two new acquaintances, and yet who still feels alone in a crowded room. I don’t remember the exact age I had my first drink. I was young, very young, but then plenty of kids steal sips of their parents’ drinks, trying to unravel the mysteries of adulthood.
Most recoil at the lighter-fluid punch. Whereas for myself . . .
I don’t remember my first kiss. I don’t remember my high school graduation. Even the phone call informing me of my parents’ deaths is a hazy affair, like something that was happening to someone else.
But my first stolen sip of my father’s drink . . . Liquid gold, burning down my throat. A seeping warmth that made my restless limbs and racing brain slow, steady, quiet.
Alcohol is my first love and most abusive relationship. All else has paled in comparison. Even my love for Paul.
The waitress arrives for our orders. The restaurant is so loud and crowded we have to semi-shout to be heard. I go with fajitas. Luciana orders grilled chicken. Bob requests nachos, rib eye, and a side of maple-fried Brussels sprouts. For the table, he says.
The waitress pauses mid scribble. She looks up for the first time. I recognize her harried attention span from my own lifetime in food service. Her gaze travels up Bob’s enormous torso to his beaming face.
“I’ll bring you extra bread,” she says.
“Excellent!”
She walks away, still appearing a bit nonplussed. I smile, already imagining the stories she’ll be telling in the kitchen.
* * *
—
The bread arrives. Bob dives in, butters up. None of us are talking, but it feels companionable. Luciana is texting someone on her phone. Bob is happy with his bread basket. I’m content to study my fellow diners and imagine how happy and perfect their lives must be, even if I, of all people, should know better.
Eventually the food arrives: a plate for myself, a plate for Luciana, half a table for Bob. Luciana puts away her phone and we all dive in.
Between bites of food, I learn that thirty-something Luciana is from Colombia, though her family moved to the States when she was eight and she doesn’t remember much before that. She always loved animals and started out volunteering at the local animal shelter, where she met a woman who specialized in animal training. Eventually, Luciana started working with Belgian Malinois, which led to SAR dogs, which led her to Daisy.
Rescue work pays as well as my job does—or Bob’s for that matter. Many people don’t realize this, but even supplying world-class SAR dogs is a volunteer gig. Luciana doesn’t frequent missing persons boards such as Bob and I do. Being part of a larger disaster response team, when her phone rings, she and Daisy are off. There is a network of volunteer pilots who ferry the teams for free. In international situations, the primary agency, say, the Red Cross, might pay for food and lodging—but that’s about it.
Professional project manager for an online insurance company by day—she smirks—training in the Batcave at night.
Bob’s turn. He grew up in Idaho, one of five kids, and swears he’s the runt of the family. We don’t believe him till he produces a family photo on his phone. Technically speaking, his mother and sister are slightly shorter, but they also appear significantly rounder. His father and brothers are truly massive, looking like the defensive line of a professional football team. The entire family gravitates to horticulture and animal husbandry, which makes Bob’s interest in cryptozoology understandable.
Bob lives in Washington now, where his daytime gig is teaching: biology at a local high school. Summers are reserved for Bigfoot hunting.
“Why Sasquatch?” I ask now, expecting some personal story of a close encounter of the ape-like kind.
“Why not Sasquatch?” Bob replies, scarfing down the last of the nachos. Then, when I’m still peering at him skeptically, “Why missing persons cold cases?” he challenges me.
“Because someone has to find them, and sadly, the authorities often aren’t looking.”
“Exactly.” Bob beams at me. He has cheese in his copper-colored beard. If anyone can pull off the look, it’s a Norse god.