That
dinner now sat, cold and untouched, on the kitchen counter. Bette
didn’t feel much like eating. Kit had left hours ago at Bette’s adamant
insistence. She had practically begged Bette to allow her to spend the
night.

Just in case Bette wanted to talk.

Just in case Bette needed anything.

Just in case Bette thought about doing something stupid.

Just like she was, in fact, doing now.

Bette
carefully peeled the plastic seal off of the bottle and twisted the
cap. Tipping it slowly, she watched as the amber liquid trickled out,
filling the small glass until it was dangerously close to the rim. Setting the bottle back down, she reached for the glass. Hesitating,
she instead grabbed the cordless phone lying nearby. Turning the device
on she began dialing a number she knew by heart. However, before she
could press the last number she quickly hung up.

She
gathered the various papers and pamphlets scattered about on the table.
She had read them and reread them until she understood every sentence.
Every medical definition. Every statistic. Bette rubbed her eyes
tiredly, glancing up at the clock. 11:45 PM. She had been sitting there over an hour staring at the unopened bottle, the empty glass, and the silent phone. She had work in the morning and needed to sleep. Although sleep was the last thing on her mind at the moment.

Bette wasn’t an alcoholic. She didn’t like the taste of beer. She
indulged exclusively on wine at dinner. When going out to a club she’d
order a mixed drink, usually something with a fruity or nutty taste.
Hard liquor was out of the question. Bette learned early on that
whiskey wasn’t something she wanted to acquire the taste of.

Shortly after Bette’s mother had left, Melvin had gone away on yet another weekend business trip to New York.
A still hurting and upset Bette took a bottle of whiskey from her
father study and quickly drank a quarter of it. And for a short time,
Bette didn’t hurt anymore. The pain from her mother’s departure and her
father’s indifference to the situation, seemed to lessen with each
swallow of the bitter liquid. Her
stomach felt like it was on fire, but her head felt pleasantly numb. It
was a nice feeling. It just didn’t last long enough. She had been sick
for three days following her drunken high. But on some level, it had
been worth it to Bette. She didn’t think that she could ever feel pain like that ever again. What could feel worse than your parent abandoning you?

Bette had recently discovered the answer to that very question.

Losing your wife.

Losing yourself.

Bette knew that Kit was somewhat correct when she said that Bette had a problem. She didn’t want the alcohol. She didn’t crave it. She just wanted to stop the pain for a little while. What’s wrong with wanting to be free of pain? Bette Porter wasn’t an alcoholic. At least that’s what she told herself.

Bette didn’t need the alcohol.

Bette needed someoneshe needed Tina.

But now

Bette once again reached for the glass. This time she brought it to her lips and cringed as the liquid burned a numbing trail down her throat. Alcoholics liked the taste of alcohol. Bette Porter did not.

Placing
the now empty glass on the table, she again reached for the phone. This
time she dialed the complete number and brought the phone slowly up to
her ear. It rang four times and just as Bette was about to hang up, she heard the other line pick up.

Bette: (quietly and hesitantly) HelloAlice?