Darkness protects us from seeing the things we would rather not see.

In the bedroom, darkness shrouds me with denial, but he's in the next room. I can hear the steady drone of his open-mouthed snores and the muted buzz of the late-night host saying goodnight to his guests.

A part of me nudges my conscience. I should get out of bed, turn off the TV and cover Luke with a blanket. There was a time when I would plead with my husband, ask him to leave the booze alone.

"Come to bed, darling. You need your sleep." Feral grunts in reply, Luke couldn't face the darkness. He chose alcohol and bright lights as sleeping aids.

He is afraid of the night, the demons that come to him in dreams, and I--I am afraid of the light--afraid that if I am forced to look at the carcass sprawled on the sofa, I might go mad. Darkness is my guardian, the protection against truth.

The man I once loved is the father of my children. He's gone now, replaced by a stranger I don't understand. By morning he will rally, tickle the boys and make them laugh, then grandstand by proffering gifts, unexpected surprises. He swirls mouthwash before he decides to play daddy. As always, I'll find traces of mucous in the kitchen sink. Listerine sits in the cabinet beside the fridge. It's too far for Luke to walk down the hall to the bathroom.

I drift, and sleep in snatches of time. Moments of clarity punctuate the blackness, invading my slumber, shaking me awake.

"You must leave him," voices whisper in the night. "Protect your children."

Squeals of joy penetrate the walls.

"Daddy's home," Robby says, bursting with joy as he runs to the side of the bed to give me a spontaneous hug. The boys think Luke has been on a business trip. That's what I call his sudden disappearances--business trips. In reality, these trips are binges, prolonged drunks. The longest he's been away is four days. He switches to beer at home. "Helps me sober up," Luke tells me, as if I should understand.

I do understand--understand what is expected of me. After Luke has been gone for twenty-four hours, I buy a six-pack to make sure he has his 'health juice' when he finally returns. I hate myself, I hate that I buy booze for an alcoholic, but sobriety is even more frightening.

Luke is a happy drunk, content to watch television with glazed eyes, feeling powerful with the remote control clutched in his bulbous paws, the hands that once caressed me.

Sober, his rage can't find an oasis until he makes contact, finds a target, slapping me to the ground. He kicked me once. I lied to the doctor--I always do.

I pull the blankets over my head trying to preserve a moment of darkness. There is no escaping-- truth awaits me as I rise. In the morning light, I move about, shower, dress, and check the dresser drawers to see if anything has been forgotten.

I listen, memorizing the animated conversation, Luke's overcompensation, his form of atonement to the children for his absence.

I walk into the kitchen with a smile pasted on my face, open the fridge and pass a beer to Luke. A shy grin spreads across his face, and for a moment, I almost recognize the man I married.

"You're so good to me," he says, gurgling, nuzzling in my neck. I try not to pull away.

He flops down on an easy chair in the living room and peels back the tab on the can. I hand him the remote.

I dress the boys and gather up their favourite toys in the waiting backpacks.

"Where are we going, Mommy?" The boys stand, looking at me with suspicion.

"We're going on an adventure," I say and promise ice cream.

I've timed it well. Luke is snoring. Three empty beer cans sit on the coffee table, consumed during the hour I spent in the boys' bedroom.

"Sssh," Robby whispers,holding a finger to his lips. He is used to his father's exhaustion after coming home from a business trip. "We need to tip-toe so we don't wake Daddy.'

The suitcases are already packed and in the trunk. I put the car into reverse as the sun slips out from behind a cloud. I let the car roll, start the engine and merge with traffic, never looking back.