The Best of Me - Nicholas Sparks [12]
She had a hard time pretending the same about her marriage.
She wasn’t, nor ever had been, under the illusion that marriage was a relationship characterized by endless bliss and romance. Throw any two people together, add the inevitable ups and downs, give the mixture a vigorous stir, and a few stormy arguments were inevitable, no matter how much the couple loved each other. Time, too, brought with it other challenges. Comfort and familiarity were wonderful, but they also dulled passion and excitement. Predictability and habit made surprises almost impossible. There were no new stories left to tell, they could often finish each other’s sentences, and both she and Frank had reached the point where a single glance was filled with enough meaning to make words largely superfluous. But losing Bea had changed them. For Amanda, it spurred a passionate commitment to her volunteer work at the hospital; Frank, on the other hand, changed from someone who drank occasionally into a full-blown alcoholic.
She knew the distinction, and she’d never been a prude about drinking. There’d been several occasions in college when she’d had one too many at a party, and she still enjoyed a glass of wine with dinner. Sometimes she might even follow that with a second glass, and that almost always sufficed. But for Frank, what started as a way to numb the pain had morphed into something he could no longer control.
Looking back, she sometimes thought she should have seen it coming. In college, he’d liked to watch basketball games while drinking with his friends; in dental school, he’d often wanted to unwind with two or three beers after his classes had finished for the day. But in those dark months when Bea was sick, two or three beers a night gradually became a six-pack; after she died, it became a twelve-pack. By the time they reached the second anniversary of Bea’s death, with Annette on the way, he was drinking to excess even when he had to work the following morning. Lately, it was four or five nights a week, and last night had been no different. He’d staggered into the bedroom after midnight, as drunk as she’d ever seen him, and had begun to snore so loudly that she’d had to sleep in the guest room. His drinking, not Tuck, had been the real reason for their argument this morning.
Over the years, she’d witnessed it all, from a simple slurring of his words at dinnertime or at a barbecue to drunk and passed out on the floor of their bedroom. Yet because he was widely regarded as an excellent dentist, rarely missed work, and always paid the bills, he didn’t think he had a problem. Because he didn’t become mean or violent, he thought he didn’t have a problem. Because it was usually only beer, it couldn’t possibly be a problem.
But it was a problem, because he’d gradually become the kind of man she couldn’t have imagined marrying. She couldn’t count the number of times that she’d cried about it. And talked to him about it, exhorting him to think of the kids. Begged him to attend couples counseling to find a solution, or raged about his selfishness. She’d given him the cold shoulder for days, forced him to sleep in the guest room for weeks, and had prayed fervently to God. Once a year or so, Frank would take her pleas to heart and stop for a while. Then, after a few weeks, he’d have a beer with dinner. Just one. And it wouldn’t be a problem that night. Or maybe even the next time he had one. But he’d opened the door and the demon would enter and the drinking would spiral out of control again. And then she’d find herself asking the same questions she’d asked in the past. Why, when the urge struck, couldn’t he simply walk away? And why did he refuse to accept that it was destroying their marriage?
She didn’t know. What she did know was that it was exhausting.