It feels like home. Something in my body lets go. I can’t afford to keep the house, but for now I can crash here. Get my life together.
“Let’s go look,” I say.
At 1:00 a.m., I’m lying in bed listening to the rise and fall of the waves. Cosmo sleeps next to me. I run my fingers through his fur, taking pleasure in the feel of his ear, his throat, the spiky hair along his shoulders. His belly is hot.
Outside, waves crash to shore. The sound comes in through the french doors, along with a cool breeze that whispers over my skin, brushing its fingers through my hair. The bed is deep and comfortable, a king that barely fits in the twenties-era room. The covers smell of fresh air. Meadow’s touch, no doubt. She has a gift for homemaking, all those little things that make life just that tiny bit better—line-dried sheets, ironed cup towels, really good scented candles, the best soap, homemade bread tucked into a basket with one of those ironed cup towels. I don’t have the gift, which women say now like a badge of honor, as if there is something suspect or maybe even laughable about homemaking, but I wish I did. I am just not domestically inclined, but I do appreciate it when someone else is. Rory has inherited it, of course. She likes to pick up antique linens when she finds them, and embroidered doilies, and old sheets and pillowcases that she sometimes dyes for the fun of it.
I just would never think of doing that. Or making all the beds for a returning child, like Meadow. Or inventing some fabulous dish like my dad.
I never had a passion until I discovered the alchemy of wine, that incredibly beautiful mix of soil and light and climate and grapes and time. It was the one thing that felt like it belonged to me. I have a palate and a nose, and from much too young an age, I could tell a great wine from a merely good one.
But I have to admit that being a vintner, especially the past few years, mainly gave me a great excuse to drink. Drink a lot. Drinking was my true passion, not the wonders of wine. From the very first sip when I was eleven years old, I felt that burst of relief. Oh. This.
The longing for it burns in my chest right now. I can close my eyes and imagine it, that sharp citrus flavor pouring down my esophagus, easing every nerve in my body, head to toe. Making everything go away. Stop. Making it all stop hurting, making my thoughts stop whirling around with such urgency.
I can’t believe I will never—
My sponsor’s voice nudges me. Stay where your feet are.
My feet are in this bed, in the room that belonged to my father until recently. It’s not as weird as I thought it might be, again thanks to Meadow, who scrubbed him out of the space with a thoroughness that surprises me. It feels like a hotel room, smelling of lemon verbena and peppermint, the wooden floors gleaming, the little bathroom tidy, even to small wrapped soaps on the sink. My father might never have lived here at all.
None of which helps me fall asleep.
I haven’t been able to sleep very well, not for ages. I thought this would get better with giving up the booze and getting into healthier habits, but that does not seem to be true.
What I do know is that lying here, trying not to think about drinking, is counterproductive. Trying not to think about anything is impossible. Leaving the puppy asleep, I swing my legs out of the bed and putter toward the door in my pajamas. They’re soft, pretty, and I have a dozen pairs thanks to Meadow and my dad, who sent care packages every week with all kinds of things like this—pajamas and soft socks, organic lip care and expensive oils for my hair.
The house is dark. I tiptoe past Meadow’s door, wondering again if I made the right choice. Should I have let her sleep in the bedroom where she spent so many years? I worried that it would make her sad, and I also really didn’t want to sleep in my teenage bedroom and feel all the things that would bring up—the roots of my talent for obsessive love affairs, for obsessive thinking, ruminating, unhappiness. I’ve got enough feelings to sort out without facing my own teenage angst.
The stairs are cold underfoot. There was talk for years of installing underfloor radiant heat, but the cost was prohibitive. When I lived here I wore slippers with rubber soles because the tiles are not only cold but slick. Tonight I’ll just live with it.
In the kitchen, the light is on over the stove. I open the fridge and just stand there, staring at the well-stocked shelves. Pellegrino and Topo Chico and other bottled water I know costs a fortune. The cheese drawer is full. Plump red grapes fill a yellow glass bowl, and small plastic containers hold portioned celery and carrot sticks, deli turkey, pickles, and condiments.
Not a single bottle of wine or beer or hard seltzer, which is what I’m subconsciously searching for. When I realize it, I sigh and reach for the grapes instead. The glass bowl makes a clank against the counter, and I remind myself to be careful here. The kitchen counters at the house at the winery were softer, polished wood. Another memory flashes, me and Josh on a random summer evening before the pandemic, listening to the calm melodies of Fleet Foxes or sometimes Bach or other baroque music, which Josh loved. On my own I tend toward female singers, everyone from Joan Baez to Pink, but I never insisted on my music with him. I didn’t mind his choices, after all.