It's rarely good news when the phone rings in the middle of the night, but with Erin pregnant and looking like that baby wants to pop out through her navel, we didn't presume that when the phone rang at 3 this morning that it was anything other than Miko calling to tell us she was in labor. He's under orders; call no matter when, because with this being their third baby, her labor is possibly going to be short, and we want to be in the waiting room when he's born.
But, it wasn't Miko calling, it was my brother. He sounded miserable, in agony, and terrified; the first thing that shot through my head was that something had happened to one of his kids, or his grandkids, or our sister. But before I could ask, he made it clear that the only thing wrong was him; he'd been sitting there staring at a bottle of bourbon for several hours and was losing the battle. He was past wanting to open it and at the cusp of needing to, and just wanted someone to give him a reason not to.
He says he's been sober for all of two weeks; he doesn't “do” AA and has no sponsor to turn to, his kids don't answer the phone, our sister would prefer he drinks so she has someone to drink with, and he didn't know who else to call.
Months ago I was mad as hell because TK gave Craig our phone number; Char told me to get over it, because “everything happens for a reason, and sooner or later you'll know why.”
This call may have been why. Who knows.
Craig's given first name is Conor, after our father. He's never gone by it; I don't think even as an infant our parents called him Conor. At three this morning, he was agonizing over never having lived up to the name, wondering if they had seen even when he was a baby that giving him that name was a mistake, that they should have reserved it for the son who wouldn't disappoint them over and over.
He's tired. He doesn't know how to fight anymore. He doesn't want to fight anymore. He wants one last chance; he's been trying to stay sober on his own and knows it's a battle he's losing. He's managed to stay off of everything except alcohol, and it's kicking his ass.
Craig has angered me as deeply as possible before; he's annoyed me and frustrated me, and made me wonder where that fine line between love and hate lies, but this is the first time he's damn near broken my heart.
I don't want to die, but if I open that bottle I think I might.
He knows that if he takes the next drink, it will lead to the next thousand, and he doesn't think he can come back from that.
I have slapped his sorry ass into rehab more times than I can count, but it's always been my idea, my will, and my force that's gotten him there. This is the first time he's asked for my help.
While I had him on the phone, Char managed to get in touch with Craig's oldest son; he agreed to go over and babysit his father, keep him from drinking, until I can get there.
So in a few hours I'm heading for the airport and getting him back into rehab, and praying that this time it works; he's hit rock bottom, I think, and he wants it.
Erin better not have that baby while I'm gone.
It says a lot that he called you, Murf...even more that you didn't hang up on him before he had a chance to tell you what he needed. I might have slammed the phone down as soon as I knew who it was.
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