I didn't find out Jean was a binge drinker until after we were married. In fact, there was a lot I didn't know about her and her various problems. That's what happens when you marry somebody four months after meeting them.
So nine months after the wedding I was divided. Some days I deeply regretted our quick marriage and other days I tried to convince myself that nothing was wrong. All newly married couples go through a period of adjustment ... right?
Right.
Jean and I had driven to Vail to spend the weekend skiing with two other young couples. They were old friends of mine who Jean knew slightly. They had skiied that day so we met them as the lifts were closing at a popular Mexican restaurant in the village.
There was a long wait for a table so we sat in the bar drinking margaritas and stoking our thirst with salty fried chips. I slowed down after my second drink and my friends were also pacing themselves. But Jean slammed down the margaritas like she was dying of thirst.
Soon she was obviously drunk. And when I whispered to her to slow down ... she speeded up. Her drunken behavior got more and more outrageous ... loudly criticizing our waitress, ordering and gulping two drinks at a time and flirting suggestively with a stranger at the next table.
Finally the tequila seemed to catch up with her and she fell silent, staring unfocused at the table and wobbling slightly in her chair. I thought the bizarre behavior was over, but it was just beginning.
"You don't looove meeee," she slurred, suddenly glaring at me with frightening intensity.
"Of course I love you," I said, taking her hand. She jerked it away and slammed her open palm down on the table.
"No you DON'T! You don't love me and you NEVER DID!" she growled, red-faced. One of the other girls put a comforting hand on her shoulder and got a hard shove and a curse for her trouble.
"You all HATE me and think I'm WORTHLESS!" Jean cried, drawing uncomfortable chuckles or pitying stares from everyone within earshot.
From accusing us of hating her and thinking her worthless, Jean moved on to calling herself hateful and worthless.
"I'm a stupid, ugly BITCH ... no good to anybody!" she proclaimed loudly. People were trying to avoid catching her eye while I was trying to get her focused on me ... to somehow bring her back from whatever brink she was teetering on. But every calming word I uttered seemed to drive her farther away.
Finally I suggested we were both tired and should head for the condo to sleep. That put a new idea in her head.
"I want to leave. I'm not staying here. I want to leave right now and drive back to Fort Collins."
"But honey it's late and there's a storm coming," I said quietly. It was true, but the storm had already arrived. The blizzard that had been predicted for 36 hours was driving millions of big, fluffy flakes against the window beside our table. We could barely see the lights of the store across the street.
The more we tried to talk sense to Jean, the louder she demanded to leave immediately for Fort Collins. Finally she screamed an obscenity, grabbed her coat and purse and headed for the door. I briefly apologized to my friends and rushed to follow.
I caught up with Jean on the street and by this time she was sobbing, babbling and even less coherent than before. It took me three tries to get her into her coat and she couldn't navigate the snowy street without leaning most of her weight on me. Eventually we made it to our car. I considered making a last effort to get her to the condo, then realized I had no idea where it was. I sighed grimly, got Jean into the car and headed up I-35 towards Vail Pass.
The next hour provided some of the worst driving I've ever encountered. We crept up and over Vail Pass in a near whiteout and only made it because we followed a snowplow most of the way. It didn't help that Jean was passed out and snoring quietly before we had been on the road 10 minutes. On the other hand, unconsciousness was less distracting than drunken babbling.
Driving all the way to Fort Collins was out of the question, so when the snowplow took Exit 203 at Frisco I followed him down the ramp. A four-story motel was the first thing I saw, so I turned in, got lucky and booked the last available room.
"This town fills up fast when the roads get bad," said the guy at the front desk. He was amazed we had made it from Vail. "They just closed the pass in both directions."
Getting an unconscious Jean up to the room proved easier than I thought when the desk clerk offered the use of a wheelchair kept for the use of injured skiers. I took her upstairs, got her undressed and in bed before returning for our luggage. She was out like a light.
Returning to the lobby a few minutes later, I noticed the wheelchair was already in use again. This time the occupant was a man who sat nodding groggily while one leg stuck out, encased in a thick brace. A dark-haired young woman was pleading with the desk clerk as I walked up seeking change for the vending machines.
"We'll take anything," she begged tiredly. "We've tried every other motel in town and you're our last chance. He can't spend the night in the car!"
The clerk frowned regretfully and shook his head.
"I'd like to help, but we're full. I don't even have any folding beds."
I sympathized with her problem since I had nearly faced the same dilemma. Then I impulsively offered a solution.
"Excuse me," I said, getting their attention. "There's a second bed in our room if you would consider sharing."
"Really?" she said, turning around eagerly. "You wouldn't mind? We'd do our best to be quiet and stay out of your way."
"You won't get in our way," I said, grinning. "My wife is sleeping like a log and I spent a year staying in youth hostels in Europe. A little crowding won't bother me."
She held out her hand to shake mine and I looked down at a pale, pretty face framed by thick brunette hair.
