“Man’s driving force is the pursuit of inebriation.” I know it was mine on Christmas Day.
As if things weren’t already bad enough, I had a little girl who was simply inconsolable that morning about Fox’s death. It finally hit her a week later on Christmas Day. “It’s not Christmas without Mr. Fox!”
Every single time she looked at the tree, she burst into tears.
Christmas music would make her cry.
She shoved the Christmas cookies Nick made on the floor.
She refused to open the gifts we’d gotten for her.
And then she screamed, “I HATE CHRISTMAS!” and ran to her room: locking the door and refusing to come out.
Okay…no one BUT ME is allowed to hate Christmas Day. No one. I earned that right.
I tried everything to coax her out of her room. Everything. In my desperation I even tried bribery AND blackmail. Nothing worked.
Defeated. I was absolutely defeated by the temper tantrums and tears of a moody and very emotional nine-year old who’s heart is broken.
“Nick, honey please go talk to her,” I sighed.
He tried to talk her out. Nothing. Nothing worked for him either. In frustration, he finally got the key for her door and unlocked it. “Baby girl, please come downstairs?” he asked very sweetly.
“NO! Get out of my room!” she screamed and slammed the door in his face.
Defeated. Absolutely defeated. He sighed loudly.
“Whiskey?” I asked with a bottle in my hand at 11:17 a.m. when he came down the stairs after his thirty minute try.
He shook his head yes.
Forty minutes later: our bottle of premium whiskey was empty.
And then we heard the voice…
“Mom?” Ashlee said very quietly from the stairway.
“Yes Ashlee?” I replied and tried to get up from the couch. I guess I drank more than I should have. I ended up on the floor in peels of laughter while in a position usually reserved for a wicked game of Twister.
Nick boisterously laughed at me.
“Ashlee, why don’t you come here? Your momma’s got some troubles right now,” Nick said while still laughing at me and trying to help me up.
As soon as I was seated on the couch in the upright position again, I watched as Ashlee peaked her head around the corner of the hallway.
“Monkey, what are ya hidin’ back there for? If you wanna talk with us we’re right here!” he smiled at her.
With her hands behind her back and her head down, she slowly shuffled her feet up to us.
“Do you have somethin’ you wanna say?” Nick asked her sympathetically.
She looked at Nick and then at me. Looked at Nick and then me. She lowered her head.
“Ashlee?” I asked.
She burst into tears and jumped into Nick’s lap. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she cried.
“Well now, Monkey, it’s all right, honey! It’s an emotional day for ALL of us, baby girl!” Nick hugged her tightly. “Daddy’s right here. Everything is gonna be okay.”
She cried in Nick’s lap for roughly forty-five minutes. He and I both did our best to soothe her.
When she’d finally calmed down, she leaned back in Nick’s arms and said, “You smell like him. You smell like Mr. Fox,” she sniffled.
Nick looked at me for a minute and then replied, “I guess I do smell like he used to. I’ve been drinkin’.”
“Why?” she sniffled.
“Well…honey, your mom and me…we’re tryin’ to lighten our mood. Mr. Fox not bein’ here today is kinda hard on us too. We do understand how you feel!”
That was all he had to say. Our sweet and well-mannered little girl was back.
And then…
“Do you want some more?” she asked and pointed to the empty whiskey bottle.
“We drank all we had, Monkey. Stores are closed today,” Nick replied and smiled at her.
“I know where there’s more!” she smiled, stood up and took Nick’s hand. “I’ll show you!”
Nick looked at me strangely and got up. Ashlee led him to the basement stairs and walked him down.
A few moments later…
“VIV! You NEED to come down here!” he shouted.
Once in the basement I covered my mouth with my hand in shock when I found them. Nick turned around and looked at me and looked back at the tidy shelves full of whiskey bottles. Some were full. Most were empty.
“There’s gotta be two hundred bottles down here!” Nick said angrily.
After being told repeatedly by his doctors and knowing full well alcohol WOULD kill him, we learned Fox literally drank himself to death.
In tears I grabbed a full bottle off the shelf and began stomping up the stairs.
“Baby?” Nick asked while looking up the stairwell at me.
“GOD DAMN HIM ALL TO HELL! I HATE CHRISTMAS!” I shouted while crying and headed for the garage to calm down.
Fox made me love Christmas. Two hundred whiskey bottles later, he took that feeling he gave me away.
I HATE Christmas. I’ve earned the right to say it.
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