Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [77]
He parks along the side of the road. We make our way down, over the bluff. How long has it been since I’ve seen sea grass? The ocean? How long has it been since I’ve seen the ocean sober? I have a sudden longing for a Cape Codder.
At first, the water is so cold that I can’t even stick my toes in it. My mother and I have taken a holiday at the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia. She’s on the empty beach writing in a notebook beneath the overcast sky, and I am trying to make it ankle-deep into the water. I move in gradually, with much foot-stomping. And eventually, I am able to swim in the frigid water. I swim in circles, dog-paddle. I lose all sense of time and space. The icy water seems to hypnotize me.
“Augusten, come out of that water!” my mother yells from the shore.
I paddle back toward her.
“Good God,” she says, “you’re blue.” She checks her watch. “Jesus. You were in there for over an hour.”
I feel so happy, loose and warm, like I could fall asleep right there, standing up, dripping onto my mother’s fresh page. I never lost time like that before. I never lost time like that again.
The shore is rocky, littered with pieces of smooth driftwood. The sand is not fine and soft, but coarse and blended with broken shells. Foster rolls the cuffs of his pants midway up his calves. He slips off his loafers, carries them with two fingers hooked inside the heels.
I take off my sneakers, then my socks. I ball the socks up into one of the shoes, and roll up the legs of my jeans. I head for the shoreline.
Foster drops his shoes next to mine and follows me. I step onto the wet sand, feel the cold water being sucked away from beneath my toes. A wave rolls in, splashing all the way to my knees. I inhale deeply, close my eyes.
From behind, he wraps his arms around my body. His legs and chest are pressed up against me and I can feel his erection pricking up against my butt. Yet there’s something oddly unsexual about this embrace. It’s sensual, I guess. That’s the difference. The sensation of looking out and seeing nothing but water and the distant horizon, coupled with feeling so close to him, makes me feel like I have taken a hit of NyQuil. I lean my head back against his shoulder. He kisses my neck. Runs his fingers across the stubble on my cheek. I turn around. And I can see it right there on his face.
He’s in love with me.
His lips taste like sea salt. In the back of my mind I hear myself whisper, Well, I guess one glass of wine couldn’t hurt.
There’s no traffic on the way home. The sunroof is open and I have my head in Foster’s lap, looking up at the sky. It’s so clear and black, with tiny pricks of white everywhere. You don’t see stars in the city. It’s easy to forget they even exist. The last time I saw stars was in rehab. These look very different from the rehab stars. And immediately, I know why. Stars should not be seen alone. That’s why there are so many. Two people should stand together and look at them. One person alone will surely miss the good ones.
Foster’s right hand never leaves my chest. He drives the whole four hours with his left arm.
I don’t think we say a single word the entire way.
It’s after one A.M. when I finally reach the door to my apartment. I try to sneak in quietly, so I don’t wake Hayden. But as soon as I close the door, the light next to the sofa goes on. Hayden’s blinking at me, fresh from sleep. He raises himself to his elbows. “God, I was just having the most awful dream about you,” he says. “I dreamt that you were being carried away on a stretcher.”
All week, I am at the office until after eight. I cancelled my group therapy and have totally blown off AA meetings. To be honest, the meetings are just not doing much for me. I mean, they’re depressing. Why talk about not drinking all the time? Why not just not drink? Besides, my life is too stressful now to deal with AA. And anyway, I’m fine. I’m going crazy, yeah. But in terms of the not-drinking thing, I