I’d been in Santiago for four days, and it felt like all that remained of my once-perfect world were the ashes of a horrific fire that had left me badly burned.
My oldest daughter, April, wasn’t responding the way I’d hoped. Despite my efforts to keep her in check, her reactions were violent and more than a little worrying.
Kelly, my older sister, kept insisting we needed to find a therapist to help heal our wounds, address all our past traumas, and offer guidance on what lay ahead for our future.
By the sixth day, I lost my grip on sanity and any sense of what I was doing. Overwhelmed by April’s bad behavior, I left Kelly’s upscale apartment in a huff and called Juan, ready to beg for reconciliation, a second chance to rebuild our family. But as soon as the call connected, a sweet, feminine voice answered, forcing me to face the reality of what was happening in my old home. It opened my eyes and brought me to my knees, crushed by the lie I’d constructed to shield myself from total destruction.
“Hello?” The woman persisted, making my blood boil. I gasped into the phone, wishing I had the courage to say something, but all I could do was listen to her voice, which hurt me more than I wanted to admit. “If this is you, stop calling…” she said, and I clenched my teeth in rage. “You’re not going to get anywhere like this. Seriously, Kalei, just let it go,” she whispered in her sweet, pretty tone. I broke down in tears the moment she said my name, pronouncing it with ease, as if she’d used it a hundred times before. “Forget about him. He’s mine now… focus on raising your daughters, join a gym, study something useful, travel, do whatever you want. But Juan? Juan is mine!” she threatened, then ended the call, leaving my heart completely shattered.
I was left with no ideas, no positive thoughts about myself, no self-esteem, and no dignity.
I called Kelly and told her I’d be out of the house for a couple of hours to think and sort out my thoughts. My sister, more understanding than ever, accepted my excuses, but I lied to her as I stepped into a modest bar on the corner of the street where we lived.
“What can I get drunk on and just die?” I asked, and the man behind the counter burst out laughing at my ridiculous question.
“I don’t know,” he said, still chuckling as he answered. “Scorpion venom… maybe,” he muttered, leaning across the bar to look at me with curiosity.
“Give me two of those,” I said, and the person next to me laughed, leaning closer to take a look at my pitiful state of depression.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” the man beside me assured, offering me his glass. “It’s whiskey, no ice… it’ll burn your throat,” he warned, and I eyed the glass with curiosity.
“And this will kill me?” I asked, looking up to meet the gaze of a disheveled, older man in front of me. He shrugged, showing indifference to what he was drinking. “If you say it’ll burn my throat…”
“And tomorrow it’ll split your head open. If you don’t know what whiskey is, you’ll probably puke your guts out,” he said with a sad smile, “that is, if you’ve got a soul to lose.” He tilted the glass back and downed the whiskey in one go.
“I do have a soul…” I snapped angrily, then fell silent.
I wasn’t sure if I had a soul or not. I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore. With Juan, I’d lost myself completely. Who the hell was I? Who on earth was Kalei?
The man next to me squinted and grunted as he finished the last of the alcohol in his glass. I figured it must be strong, maybe even toxic. I smiled and, without overthinking it, turned in my seat, ignored the drunk beside me, and ordered two glasses of the same thing the stranger was drinking.
I drank until I started spouting nonsense, feeling ridiculous as I found myself surrounded by four men listening intently to my stupid, repressed stories of a married woman now on the verge of becoming a divorced one with a decent alimony as my prize.
I confessed everything that was suffocating me and let those four strangers toss out different ideas for getting back at my husband, who was probably sleeping with the woman with the sweet voice right at that moment.
“Alright, Kei, neighbor and friend, the bar’s closing,” the bartender, who I’d made laugh for hours, said sweetly as he took the glass from my hand. “Time to head home… April and Violet will be up early…” he added, and I turned to face him.
How did he know my daughters’ names?
“H-how do you know their names?” I stammered, feeling queasy and a bit dizzy.
“You’ve been saying them all night…” he replied, pushing me outside and guiding me onto the street. “I’ve gotta get home. My wife’s pregnant, and I need to make her breakfast or she gets cranky,” he explained. I just smiled at the sweetness in his tone, watching as he locked the doors and turned off the neon sign above the bar.
“No one’s ever made me breakfast. Ever!” I shouted, slumping defeated against the closed door of the bar.
I stayed there, staring up at the glowing sky above, losing myself in the clouds and the chill of the early morning that seeped into my bones. I couldn’t go home like this; Kelly would hate me for being so irresponsible. Trying to come up with a plan, I started stumbling clumsily down the street that led to my sister’s place.
“Hey, you’re going the wrong way,” a gruff voice warned me that I wasn’t alone. I looked back to see the man who thought I had no soul. I nodded and glanced around, watching as everything spun—spun and spun—showing me just how drunk and disoriented I was. “No, not that way either!” he yelled as I crossed the street to head in another direction.
“I do have a soul. I’m sure I haven’t lost it,” I argued as his arms caught me in the middle of a deserted park. “I’ve got a soul, maybe even two…”
“Alright, you’ve got two souls,” he agreed, turning me around to make me walk in a different direction. “Your place is that way,” he pointed out, gesturing in the opposite direction from where I’d been heading. “I’ll walk you,” he offered, and I nodded, keeping pace with his quick steps.
“No, I can’t show up like this. Kelly will kill me,” I said, and the man gave me a strange look. “Do you have any gum?” I asked, and he shook his head, patting the pockets of the thick jacket he wore.
“Are you hungry?” he asked suddenly, not even looking at me.
“Yeah, but I don’t have any money. I drank it all,” I said, laughing at my own stupidity.
God, what an idiot!
“Come on, I’ll treat you to breakfast,” he said, pulling me up with a firm tug from where I’d been resting. “What’s your name?” he pressed, and I shook my head, biting my lips against the city’s cold. “Alright, Kei, I’m Dan…” he revealed. I nodded, a bit confused, feeling the drunkenness fade with every step, making me feel dumb for what I’d done. “Coffee or milk?” he asked, pulling his wallet from his pants. I shook my head, hugging myself, shivering and scared, feeling like a stranger to myself. “Don’t you have a jacket or something? You can’t be out on the street like this in this weather,” he said, and I shook my head again, on the verge of tears. Unable to resist the persistent, pitying look from the man beside me, I broke down, drowning in a desolate, drunken sob. “You can’t cry here, please,” he urged, gently pushing me to the other side of the small diner we’d entered.
“I’m sorry, I’ll go home. Eat in peace,” I whimpered, trying to move, but he held me there, pinned between the wall and his body.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, staring at me with wide eyes.
“I’ve got problems…”
“We’ve all got problems,” he emphasized, giving me a crooked smile. “If you want to die because your husband screwed up your life, you’re just a clueless kid with no soul,” he whispered bitterly, with force, the smell of alcohol on his breath making me dizzy. “Do you have kids?” he asked, and I nodded, on the brink of tears again. “You want to die, but what about your daughters?” he pressed. “What’ll happen to them? Will they stay with your sister, your husband, and his new girlfriend with the pretty voice?” he asked, and when I stayed silent, he shook me by the shoulders a couple of times. He’d heard every word I’d said at the bar. “Shut up, stop crying, seriously, you look like a kid. How old are you?” he demanded, and I blinked, a bit thrown by what this stranger was saying.
“Thirty-two,” I muttered, my voice hoarse and raw from the drinking—and he was right, the whiskey had torn my throat apart.
“You’re getting old,” he said, and I laughed at his words. “Let’s eat, but I don’t want to hear anything sad about you, nothing!” he warned, and I nodded, laughing again. “Damn, look at that smile…” he said, waving his hand in the air, either angry or happy about my smile—I couldn’t tell. I just followed him down the street that led us back to the diner where we’d eat before parting ways forever.
Parting ways forever? No, damn it. From that day on, the stranger appeared in my life like a déjà vu.
You’ve heard the phrase: “Things happen for a reason.”
Right?
Anyone?
Well, even though it never meant much to me or made a big impact, that phrase echoed in my head from the moment the divorce papers touched my hands. It continued through my move to Santiago and my intense reconnection with Kelly, my older sister, and then with him—the drunken stranger who changed my life.