Johnathan didn’t know how long he was holding his breath. Panic rose from the depths of his stomach, clawing through his chest and grasping at the back of his throat trying to escape. There was no peace, no serenity to be found at that moment. He kept thinking he shouldn’t be frightened or uncomfortable being laid back into the warm water by the hands of his pastor in baptism. Seconds after the water envelopes him, he is ripped back out. As he gazes upon the unfamiliar people clapping and cheering below the glass balcony. He firmly shakes the pastor’s hand before walking up the dark gray, stone tiled steps shivering; water dripping from his clothes.
Johnathan’s best friend, Nichole, is standing in the baptistry in support of him. She lays her hand gently on his shoulder to congratulate him. “It was about time, don't you think?” She smiles. His muscles relax under her light touch.
His mother, Roxane, smiles cordially and stiffly hugs him, “I'm proud of you, Mijo.” Johnathan’s chest tightens. He steps back, giving them a quick “thank you,” and ducks into the tin-box sized dressing room behind him.
Johnathan studies himself in the full-length mirror, still drenched from head to toe. He knows he should feel different. Feel something. He slips into a change of dry clothes meticulously in a sorry attempt to avoid a confrontation with his mother. He knows all she cares about is the photo opportunity to show everyone that her life and her family are doing perfectly fine, even without his dad around. Almost as if to say, “Look at me, I can do it all. I don’t need your pity or your help.”
His stomach retches just thinking about it. He suppresses the thoughts and pushes open the pine door. He steps out into the hallway, nearly knocking Nichole over.
“Are you ready to celebrate? Let’s grab lunch!”
“Sounds good. Meet you there? Grab us a table before it gets super busy.”
Jonathan spots his mother standing impatiently outside of the main doors. She taps her foot and looks at everyone passing by to make sure she catches Johnathan on his way out. Of course she wouldn’t leave without getting the perfect ‘after’ photo for Facebook, wet hair and all, he thinks.
Jonathan puts on his winning smile. They don't speak a word until after she gets the photo op she needs, “I will see you next weekend when you and Briana come over for dinner. Don't forget to bring flowers, she just got a promotion at work,” she says.
“I wouldn't dream of forgetting.”
“Ay, always with the attitude. Flowers are all you need to bring. You can leave the sarcasm at home.” Without another word she is gone in the crowd of people leaving the church service.
Johnathan slumps down into his driver’s seat and reaches for his pack of cigarettes that he keeps carefully tucked away in the overhead glasses compartment. He wants nothing more than that first drag of a full-flavored cigarette. He strikes the lighter. Its flame warms the tip of his thumb. His eyes close in bliss and a sigh of relief escapes his lips along with a thin puff of smoke. He puts his car into drive as the tobacco ash crawls up the stick and breaks off onto the floorboard.
-
“I thought you'd never get here! I'm starving.” Nichole’s bright smile makes Johnathan's heart pound in his chest. They are quickly seated. “How are you feeling after this morning?”
Johnathan takes a deep breath, “I feel good. It was different than I had expected. I'm glad you were there for me. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”
“Oh, don’t say things like that. I'm just being a good friend.”
He can't help but relive the last night she came to his rescue. He remembers getting off work late in the evening, coming home, and then downing whatever whiskey he had in his cabinet. He got lost in his bottle. Nichole found him passed out in a pool of his own vomit.
“I've been meaning to talk to you about the other night, actually,” She says, “I think you should find some help. Real help. Like a psychiatrist or something.” Johnathan feels a pang deep inside his chest. “I'm really worried about you. I think if you sought some kind of treatment at a hospital-” she is interrupted by him standing abruptly, nearly flipping the chair over.
“I can't believe you. Don't you see I'm doing the best I can? I go to church and pretty much everything else you ask me to do.”
“John, you and I both know you can't just do the bare minimum to fix your drinking problem. You might not be so depressed and angry all the time if you got help. I can't keep worrying about you like this.”
“You want to just stick me onto someone else so I'm not your problem anymore? Is that it? Shove medicine down my throat till I don’t even know who I am anymore. Just great. Tell you what, I'll make it easier on you.” He storms off before they had the opportunity to order. He slams his car door, and yet still looks back in his rearview mirror to see if she is following. No one is there.
The rock station starts playing in his car: strictly 80’s hair metal. He grew up listening to that with his dad before he split. It brought him a strange sense of comfort. He doesn’t remember his dad’s voice or what he really looked like but he knows the excitement he felt as they sped down the road, music blaring. It wasn’t until Johnathan was a teenager that he found out why his dad left. His mother sat him down at their kitchen table and told him flat out that his father loved alcohol more than he loved either of them.
-
His front door sticks to the frame. With a forceful shove, it swings open to a spacious room lit by the setting sun streaming through the windows. Empty bottles are strewn on the stained couch. The floor is covered by an area rug he picked up off the side of the road. A TV set buzzes in the corner of the room from the absence of a connection.
Johnathan rummages around the kitchen. He pours a smooth, brown liquid into a glass. He knocks several drinks back trying to forget Nichole, his dad, and everyone else that has pushed him away. It looks as though two empty bottles are staring him in the eye despite there only being one.
He stumbles over to the TV and aggressively hammers the buttons thinking that would get a channel working, forgetting he hasn’t paid his cable bill. He kicks it over, nearly going down himself. Jonathan grabs a decanter he keeps on a shelf in the living room. As it empties, he begins to get woozy.
His head spins. His breath is shallow. Darkness creeps in from the outside of his vision. Stumbling towards the hallway to his room, he bumps into the end table nestled against the couch knocking the lamp over and shattering the bulb across the hardwood. He doesn't stop to pick it up. A warm bath is all he cares about to ease the pain in his stomach.
Condensation created a moist film across the chunky, gray-marbled tiles. He almost fell but caught himself on the ivory white countertop. Leaning over it, he glances into the mirror. A grimace soon forms his face.
The rushing water continues to fill the tub as he lowers his body into its blanket of serenity. He slips further down, water covering his head. There isn't an ounce of energy left in Johnathan’s mind, soul, or body to pull himself up. Water enters his lungs as he weakly gasps for air. The burning in his chest urges him to scream or move. He doesn’t. Peace finally overcomes his limp body, and he opens his eyes. The colors of the floral wallpaper, left there by its previous tenants, dance and swirl before him. It reminds him of Abuela’s wallpaper that plastered her walls. Growing up, her home was his haven.
His parents fought constantly when he was younger. Every time there were screaming fits of rage between them, his Abuela would show up to take him back to her house to sit at the kitchen table, eat as much ice cream as he wanted, and talk about Jesus.
The pattern seems to move farther and farther away from his vision until he feels nothing. All he could see now was darkness covering his eyes and filling his head. No pain, no sadness, no fear, just the inviting grip of death putting its arms around him.