Diana Humble For Lisa

DIANA HUMBLE

FOr Lisa

At 18 you couldn’t have paid me to drink.

My godmother Lisa was consumed by it the year earlier. The woman my parents trusted with my life died by the bottle—the same one I nurse now.

She’s on my mind as I swirl my five buck chuck, the cork bobbing inside. I lost my corkscrew around 19; I just force the cork in with a chopstick now. Alcoholism is hereditary, but at 21 I stare down the beast’s throat without flinching.

My grandpa accidentally calls me Lisa sometimes.

I drain the bottle, relishing the cork’s jig as I slam it down upon the chipped island. The house party is packed, so I shuffle empty beer cans aside to lean against the table.

My family doesn’t talk about her much anymore—typical Nordic repression— but I still send messages to her Facebook account. None of us had the heart to memorialize it. I sent her one when I graduated high school, and another when the Wonder Woman movie came out. I cried seven times while watching it in theaters. Lisa always said I reminded her of Wonder Woman; I wonder if she’d say the same now.

My glazed eyes float across the skunk-scented kitchen, catching on a honeyhued bottle. Sandaled feet forge a path across the sweat-soaked room in a haze.

Jack Daniels—Lisa’s favorite.

I watch as my hand moves on its own volition into my field of vision, nearing the bottle. I blink and there’s nothing on the counter.

Warm breath filters across my ear, “You shouldn’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

The lingering wine cools in my blood. He’s well dressed—khaki skinny jeans, colorful headband, neat braids—but there’s a glint in his eyes that draws me in for all the wrong reasons.

I open my mouth, ready to fire off some half-baked retort; instead he deposits the shooter of Tennessee Whiskey into my hand.

“Bottoms up.” He murmurs, clinking a matching plastic bottle to mine. A ghost of a grin floats across his face as I down the shot in one gulp—faster than he can.

Lisa started drinking in college. It began as wine nights with friends, but metastasized into week long benders in the slums. She was a genius— quicksilver—graduated magna cum laude and had a master’s degree in urban planning. I never understood why someone so intelligent could fall for something so fleeting, but it all started making sense senior year of college. I can just imagine her grinding through her senior thesis, candle burning from both ends, her latest fight with boyfriend (eventual ex-husband) Todd fresh on her mind. Her vision grows bleary from lack of sleep. The crucible is becoming too much to bear. The bottle of Jack Daniels catches her eye. All the stress and all the anxiety—all the fear—could melt away with that bottle.

I do more than drink. I guzzle. I gorge. I was away every looming deadline and expectation with ethanol. A smirk slips to my face as the stranger—who introduces himself as Luc—continues to appease me with can after can of fluid. His eyes size me up—appraising the cleavage my coral tank top reveals. His hands curl around my waist and I don’t stop him. Can’t stop him.

I was always jealous of the way everyone gushed over Lisa. She was rarely around, but whenever she was all eyes were on her. We all loved her. She was charismatic—magnetic—with her quick wit and bright smiles. There was a glint of genius in her eyes that I could only ever dream of emulating. One that held your gaze just a second longer—pulled you in just a little deeper.

She was irresistible.

Sometimes she’d catch me watching her at family reunions—the green eyed monster looming over my shoulder—and the smile would lose its luster. It’d morph into something foreign—even hollow—and the she’d wink at me. Filled with resignation and understanding.

I wish I’d told her I love her more.

She knew I hated guns. They scared me—still do—but she made a point of taking me to the shooting range whenever the opportunity arose. My dad and grandpa would come with too. She was great with a handgun. Lisa could unload a clip with precision and accuracy in under seven seconds. I never thought to ask why she could.

She always made a point of including me. She made sure I fired a clip out of every gun. I wasn’t good at it, but I wasn’t bad either. I burned with shame—if I can’t do something well, I don’t do it at all. When my dad and grandpa were packing up the firearms after a couple hours at the range, I told Lisa I didn’t want to go shooting anymore.

She turned those knowing hazel eyes on my and pulled me into a hug.

“I know sweetie,” she murmured. “You don’t like to hurt people—Lord knows I can’t bear the thought of it myself—but as your auntie and godmother you are one of the most special people in the world to me, and I would do absolutely anything to keep you safe.”

My eyes welled with tears as she continued.

“But I won’t always be there to protect you.” Her voice breaks, “And when someday—Heaven forbid—a man lays his hands on you, I need to know that you can defend yourself.”

I nod—eyeliner streaking.

“We Wonder Women don’t go down without a fight.”

That was the last time I saw her.

I’ve never been this drunk before. The world has never spun like this. I don’t run into things. Why does everything have an orange tinge? I’m pulled against Luc’s chest. He’s from California. Only in Iowa for the weekend. His hands only leave my waist to hand me another red solo cup. I don’t know where my friends went or how I got outside, but we’re alone.

His gaze holds like a vulture on day-old roadkill—not prime pickings, but I’ll suffice.

There’s a bright light in my eyes, overexposing my already foggy vision.

“Diana.” He says my name with force. I don’t remember giving it.

It takes a couple seconds to realize he’s talking to me.

“Diana, do you consent to the events of this evening?”

He was recording me. Awaiting a response.

Nothing bad had happened—I was safe.

“Yes,” I slur, before hesitating. “Wait, why are you filming this?”

I’m way past drunk, but I’m no idiot.

I take a sip of the drink in my hand and a wolfish grin takes to his face as I fall back onto the patio railing behind me, knocking my head against the shingling.

His hands are on me again. Ice cold. Calculating in the way they skim beneath my top.

I see Lisa again. For the first time in four years. She’s there.

Cold.

Alone.

Dead.

Overdosed in a crackhouse. Strung out over a mattress—eyes exposed like glassy marbles. All vigor drained. Eyes I won’t forget as long as I live.

The woman who promised to defend me until her dying breath couldn’t protect herself from herself.

He’s on top of me as tears sting. I can’t blink—I can’t look away from her.

She deserved so much better.

She deserved to watch her kids go to prom and graduate at the top of their class. She deserved to walk me down the aisle. She deserved to be happy. She deserved to grow old.

She didn’t deserve to die at 43.

Her eyes plead with me to fight.

And I do. I scream. I scream until I’m alone, until my friend pulls down my skirt and holds me in her arms, until I’m back in my dorm, until there are no tears left to cry.

My friends say they saw some guys mixing something into a cup and handing it to Luc. A cup I probably drank from. I throw up longer and harder than I ever have.

I’ll never forget those eyes. I saw myself in them for a moment.

But I’m not Lisa.

I think she would be proud of me—her Wonder Woman.