My grandmother attends the church basement on Tuesday evenings. I saw him there among the metal folding chairs and antique coffee pots, his figure trembling under the fluorescent lights that buzzed like dying insects. She wears the same powder blue pullover she was buried in, the one with pearl buttons that catch the light like little moons.
Others can't see it, of course. They just feel a sudden chill as they pass by where she is, or smell the ghostly smell of her Shalimar perfume mixing with the smell of burnt coffee that never leaves these rooms. But I see clearly. He's been following me to AA meetings for three months since I got my first white chip after five years of being back in the bottle.
"Your grandmother was my godmother in 1985," old Pete told me after tonight's meeting, hands shaking as he poured a seven-pack of Sweet'n Low into his coffee. "Toughest godmother I ever had. She saved my life."
"Mine, too," I said, not specifying who I was referring to—when she was alive and serving as my godmother fifteen years ago, or now, when her ghost stops me from walking past the Monroe Street Liquor Store. The church basement is now empty except for me and his shadow. I stack the chairs like I promised Larry, trying not to look directly at him. He taught me this trick when he was alive: how to look at someone without letting them know you were looking. “Alcoholics are like scared horses,” he said. “If you attack them head-on, they’ll run away every time.”
“I know you’re here, Grandma,” I said finally, setting the last chair against the wall. "You don't have to pretend."
Then it materializes more completely, becoming almost solid. Almost true. Her blue cardigan glows softly in the dark corner where she stands. "Pretending has always been more your style than mine, Jackie."
His voice sounds exactly the same—that mixture of gravel and honey, decades of Virginia Slims layered over a Kentucky childhood that never left. I have to hold on to the back of a chair to stabilize myself. "Why are you here?" I ask myself, even though I think I know.
"For the same reason as the first time. You needed a sponsor and fate left you in my lap." He moves closer and the temperature drops ten degrees. "But I have to say that being dead makes anonymity a lot easier."
I want to laugh, but my throat is too tight. - I miss you, Grandma.
"I miss you too, honey. But that's not why I'm here. »
"Then why?" »
She gives me that look - the one that always made me feel like she could see through my shit. "You know why. The same reason you avoid breaking up on dates. The same reason you don't call your mom. The same reason you always keep that flask in the glove compartment even though you haven't touched it in three months .”
My hand automatically goes to my car keys. "I do not know..."
"Don't lie to your godfather, Jackie. Especially not to someone who might follow you home."
The truth flows from me like blood from a wound. "It was my fault. If I hadn't gotten drunk that night, if I hadn't called you crying because Brian left, if I hadn't kept you on the phone for so long…
"Stop it." His voice broke like ice. "You have no right to take responsibility for my heart attack. It was between me and my four decades of cigarettes and bacon grease. »
"But if I don't..."
"But nothing. Do you think you're the first alcoholic to try to take responsibility for someone else's death? Hell, honey, this is practically the thirteenth step of this program." He steps closer and I can smell Shalimar, strong enough to make my eyes water. "The only thing you're responsible for is what you do with your discretion. Then and now."
"I can't do it without you."
"You couldn't have done it with me last time either. Or have you forgotten how it ended?
He had not forgotten. How could I have? Five years of sobriety under his patronage, after the night she died, after the slow slide to the bottle. When I hit rock bottom this time, I had lost my job, my apartment, and any illusions that I could afford just one drink.
"It's different now," I said. "Really? Because from where I feel - and trust me, dear, I've got pretty good eyesight these days - you're always trying to punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault. kind of penance"
He approached the old coffee pot, his hand passing by like smoke. "Do you want to know why I'm really here?" Why did he call me that night. Because even if you were drunk and crying over your worthless ex, your first instinct was to get help. This is the purpose of this program. That's what I'm trying to teach you. »
"And look how much I've learned." » The bitterness of my voice also surprises me.
"Oh, you have learned very well. You are too stubborn to use what you know." She turned to me and for a moment, she looks exactly like she did the day she became my godmother: hard and loving and absolutely unwilling to put up with my nonsense. "You want to honor my memory? Don't use it as an excuse to blame yourself. Pop that balloon. Call your mom. And for the love of God, go on a date." Your story may be just what someone else needs to hear. »
"I can't..."
"I can't, I just don't want to wear a nicer dress and you know it." » Stop arguing about your boundaries. It starts to fade at the edges, becoming transparent. "My time is almost up, dear. But I want you to remember something: I chose to be your godfather. And twice. Because I saw something in you that was worth keeping. »
"Grandma, wait..."
"There's no waiting. You've already done enough." Her voice trailed off. "Come on Thursday. Tell us your story. Your whole story. Even the parts that hurt. Especially these."
"Are you staying here?"
He smiles and for a moment he is completely solid again, so real that I think I could touch him if I dared. "Sugar, I'm your godmother, where would I be?"
Then she was gone, leaving only the smell of Shalimar and the soft click of pearl buttons on the metal chairs.
I stood there for a long time, listening to the building settle around me. Then I grab my keys and head to my car. The water bottle is right where I left it, pure silver, glinting faintly under the streetlights. It used to be her water bottle, a gift from her godfather when she turned five. She gave it to me when I reached the same milestone, filled with water to remind me that the most dangerous liquid in the world couldn’t hurt if she decided on something else.
I threw it in the church recycling bin. Thursday, I'm back. I'm sharing my story, my whole story. How my grandmother got sober when I was a kid, how watching her turn her life around made me think I could turn mine around when I finally admitted I needed help. How she became my godmother and loved me in my darkest moments. How losing her made me fall back into the bottle. How even death didn't stop him from hitting me one last time to pull me off the edge.
I don't tell him I saw his ghost. Some things always remain between godmother and godmother.
But when I finished speaking, when I finally looked up from my trembling hands, I saw a blue glow of dust in the corner of the room. Just for a second. Just look at his smile.
Old Pete meets me after the meeting. “I heard your testimony,” he said, stirring his coffee. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
“I know,” I said. And for the first time since her death, I really know. The basement of the church is now silent, empty except for the echo of a hundred thousand stories shared between its walls. A story of loss and redemption, fall and resurrection, love that transcends death. My story is just another, added to the mix like cream to coffee.
But as I stack the chairs for the last time, I swear I hear his voice, faint as a memory:
"Keep coming back baby. Keep coming back."
I will, Grandma. I promise.
This time, I mean it.
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