Clean

by Amy Reed

  CHRISTOPHER

  I haven’t done crazy things like everyone else in here. I haven’t been arrested. I’ve never been to a party (unless you count church functions). I’ve never even been to downtown Seattle. It seems like everyone in here is pretty used to getting in trouble, or at least pissing off their parents, but I’ve never even been grounded before. How embarrassing is that? It’s like I don’t even deserve to call myself a teenager. My mom still treats me the same as when I was five. She still calls me her “little angel.” Doesn’t it just make you want to throw up?

  KELLY

  I think the idea is that if we realize we’re not completely to blame, then maybe we’ll start believing there’s some good left in us after all, and maybe that will make us want to get sober. I mean, nobody just becomes a drug addict for no reason, right? Nobody just decides they’re going to be totally lame and lose control and get bad grades and make their parents hate them. I get it, but it’s just not going to work for me. All it does is make me feel worse, because now it’s just that much more obvious that there’s no excuse for why I turned out the way I did. No one ever abused me. No one in my family is an alcoholic. Nothing traumatic ever happened to me. The truth is, my parents are the nicest people in the world and I keep breaking their hearts for no reason.

  CHRISTOPHER

  This could very well be

  the first Sunday of my life that I’m not at church. Even with chicken pox or the flu or a fever of 103, my mom has always dragged me with her—as much as she can drag with her limited mobility. And I guess it should feel liberating to be away from her, like I’m finally free or something. But the thing is, I like rules. They make me feel safe. The predictability of my boring life makes everything make sense. I guess that makes me a freak, but I’m okay with that. You get to a certain point and you just realize there’s no use in trying to pretend you’re normal.

  But now I’m here and I’m surrounded by drug addicts and criminals, and I’m the kid who doesn’t fit in because, among a million other things like the fact that I’m homeschooled, I’m also the weirdo who’d rather be in church or at home with my mom. Instead of listening to a pastor preaching the word of God, we’re listening to a doctor lecture about the synapses and receptors in the addict’s diseased brain, and Olivia’s taking notes like this is some kind of class, like we’re getting graded on how good a patient we are, and everyone else looks like they’re going to fall asleep. If my mom were here, she’d be furious at them for filling my brain with such scientific nonsense. She’d start wailing her fire and brimstone, and then it’d be time to take her home and make her a snack. Once she was fed, she’d be ready for a nap, and then everything would be okay and we could go back to normal.

  But Mom’s at church and I am here, which is probably the farthest you can get from church, except for maybe hell, but I don’t plan on going there anytime soon. But who knows? I’m not doing so well so far, am I? The counselors promised that there would be time for God on Sundays because supposedly this is a spiritual program, even though I haven’t heard anyone mention Jesus since I got here, except to take His name in vain. They told my mom that leaving the facility, just for an hour once a week to go to church, would hurt my recovery and was “against medical advice,” which in their language means “sin.” They said, “Do you want your son to get better?” and of course she knew she couldn’t say no, not with all those people looking. What kind of mother would take her kid out of rehab? So she let them have me, and now this is supposed to be my church. Instead of stained-glass windows and framed pictures of Jesus, we’ve got construction paper self-portraits lining the walls, next to dusty posters that say ONE DAY AT A TIME and KEEP IT SIMPLE and—my favorite— DENIAL is NOT A RIVER IN EGYPT, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  Maybe Olivia has the right idea. Maybe I should be taking notes like a good student, like this is a school assignment. Maybe it’s not about being good or bad, but just how hard you study, how well you do your homework, and how many questions you answer correctly. Could it be as simple as that? Maybe I don’t need to get down on my knees and pray for healing and for the Lord to take these demons out of me. Maybe I don’t need to beg to be cleansed of my sin. That’s not how they do things here, and quite frankly, I was getting tired of it anyway. The doctor says my sin is a disease, and I have to admit that sounds like a great alternative to what I’m used to.

  The doctor pops in once in a while to give a lecture and meet with us for five minutes to check on our meds. That’s about as far as the interaction goes. I can’t even remember his name, but apparently he’s the one running this place. I have so many questions, but I’m too afraid to ask Shirley and I never get a chance to ask him. Maybe there are some questions I’m just going to have to figure out on my own.

  This is what I want to know: What’s the difference between a sin and a disease? If a disease isn’t the same as a sin, does that mean there’s not supposed to be any shame? Is there no shame in being sick? Is this disease from the Devil, or is it just a matter of chemical reactions in my brain like the doctor’s talking about? Does that mean it’s not my fault? And if it’s not my fault, then who’s to blame? If it’s not my fault, then how should I be punished?

  I know this is a lot of questions, but I can’t help it. I just need someone to tell me how I’m supposed to feel, because I honestly have no idea.

  DRUG & ALCOHOL HISTORY QUESTIONNAIRE

  QUESTION #1:

  How old were you when you first used or drank?

  Tell the story, and how you felt.

  JASON

  I guess I was, like, nine or something and my dad had some of his old navy friends over. He never let me come in the den when his friends were over, so of course that’s exactly where I wanted to be. I’d hide behind something and watch them until they kicked me out. And it was fascinating, you know, all their dirty jokes and cursing. It was the only time I ever heard my dad laugh at something other than me or my mom.

  OLIVIA

  I’ve never been drunk. I’ve never done real drugs. I’m not that type of person. Do you think they can kick me out for not being enough of a drug addict?

  EVA

  The girl was halfway between a child and a woman. Summer left her broken and without a mother. Ninth grade arrived in another part of town, where there was no boyfriend, where there were no friends, where there was nothing at all familiar, and she had no idea there were so many different kinds of lonely. But she does not want your pity. She just wants you to understand what can happen when you’re a million kinds of lonely all at once, when you find yourself among identical strangers you do not want to get to know. Do you realize how easy it is to decide to try something new, how easy it is to close your eyes and spin around and start walking toward the first thing you see? She saw people across the street from school that did not look like the others. They were smoking and they were laughing and they had something new to show her.

  KELLY

  The first time I drank was with Chris Henderson. He was seventeen and I was thirteen. He lived down the street. He wasn’t my boyfriend or anything, but I’d go to his house after school sometimes and we’d make out. We did that a few times and then I’d go home before his parents got home from work. But this one time, his parents were out of town and he gave me a big glass of vodka and orange juice.

  CHRISTOPHER

  The first drug I did was cocaine. I was fifteen. It wasn’t even a year ago. That and meth are the only drugs I’ve ever tried. I’ve never even tasted alcohol.

  KELLY

  The drink tasted awful, but I wanted to impress him so I drank the whole thing really fast. Then we were making out and I realized I was drunk at the same time I realized he was taking off my pants. And, I don’t know. I guess at that moment I just sort of knew that the two things go together: sex and alcohol, alcohol and sex.

  EVA

  She smoked pot with them at lunch that day. She was afraid she wasn’t doing it right, but no one s
eemed to mind. Their smiles were easier than most people’s, and there was something safe about sitting in a circle in the park with all those misfits, something that didn’t judge, that didn’t require, that didn’t disappoint. They didn’t ask anything of her, but they gave her smiles and smoke and a place in their circle, and that’s exactly what she needed.

  CHRISTOPHER

  I was with my neighbor Todd. He’s the only person I’ve done drugs with. No one else I know does drugs. I don’t think any of them have even smoked a cigarette before. They already think I’m weird enough, but they’d be horrified if they knew what I’ve been doing. The story my mom came up with is that I’m missing church because I have mono. Even Pastor Tom agreed to keep the secret, and he’s, like, a pastor, and I’m pretty sure it’s part of his job to tell the truth.

  JASON

  They were watching the game, and my dad saw me and said, “Come here, you little pussy.” So I walked over even though I was sure he was going to kick my ass. But instead he gave me a beer and said, “Drink this. It’ll put hair on your chest.” And everyone laughed, and I was like, I’m gonna show these assholes what a man I am. So I downed the whole thing, like chug, chug, chug, and everyone was cheering and clapping and my dad goes, “That’s my little man,” and he let me watch the rest of the game with them.

  OLIVIA

  My mother, Janice, decided that fourteen was too old for baby fat so she got her doctor to write me a prescription for diet pills. He’s the kind of doctor who can charge his rich clients insane amounts of money because he’ll write them prescriptions for anything they want. Janice’s medicine cabinet is proof of that.

  CHRISTOPHER

  Todd and I used to play together when we were kids, but I wouldn’t say he’s my friend. Actually, if I went to his public school, I’d probably be one of the kids he beats up. He’s that kind of guy. But for some reason he started talking to me last year. His house is on the route I walk to church for youth group twice a week, and one day there weren’t any other kids around to see him being nice to me, so we started talking. Then we started hanging out a little, but always in secret. He’d climb up the tree outside my window and knock on the window like, “Hey, Chris, are you decent?” even though he knows I hate being called Chris. Then he’d laugh and jump through the window without even waiting for me to say anything, and my mom never even knew he was there.

  EVA

  The truth is, it felt good. The truth is, it was exactly what she needed—getting high and laughing a little, not having to think about all of the things that would make her sad, not having to think about the million stupid things that would fill her head and remind her not to smile.

  KELLY

  The alcohol felt good and it made me not care that I was losing my virginity to this guy I knew didn’t care about me. It made me okay with that. It made me okay with everything.

  JASON

  I was nine, so I guess I was pretty little and didn’t have a tolerance or anything, so that one beer really fucked me up. I remember sitting in the den thinking all the navy guys in that room had probably killed somebody, and there they were yelling at the big-screen TV in my house, and what a fucking honor that was, you know?

  OLIVIA

  My mother handed me two bottles of pills one day and said, “Take two of these every morning. More if you need it. Take the other ones when you need to sleep. Tell me when you need a refill.” And that was that. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t realize the pills would actually feel good. I just took them because I didn’t want her looking at me the way she does when she’s disappointed. I didn’t want to overhear her telling my dad how much I embarrassed her.

  KELLY

  After he was done, he told me to leave because his friends were coming over. I remember how it hurt to walk home. My parents were out somewhere with my sisters, so I went in their liquor cabinet and made my own vodka and orange juice. I wanted to keep the feeling going, because I knew if I didn’t, I would think about what I’d just done with Chris Henderson.

  CHRISTOPHER

  At first Todd would come over with cocaine, but then he started bringing meth instead because he said it was cheaper and lasted longer. I know what people say about meth being a white-trash drug, but really, who am I kidding? We have a broken lawn mower and a plastic pink flamingo in our front yard and my mom hasn’t had a job in years. We’re not exactly classy. So Todd and I would just sit around and get high, which was weird because, one, I was getting high, and two, I’d never hung out with anyone like him. The only people I knew were the kids from church, and he was nothing like them. The main difference was that he was funny and didn’t care about being good all the time. He didn’t really care about anything, which was a nice change after being surrounded by people my whole life who’d start praying for you if they heard you wiped your butt backward. It was fun to not feel like a boring homeschooled kid for once. He made me feel like I could be someone besides the person I’d always been, someone besides the person everyone else thought I was.

  OLIVIA

  I remember that first burst of energy when the pills kicked in. I remember all of a sudden not feeling like the awkward, shy, chubby girl I had always been. I felt like I could do anything. It became easier to do all the things I was supposed to do—it was easier to lose weight because I was never hungry; it was easier to stay at the top of my class because I suddenly felt smarter and sharper and I could stay up later to do homework. Those little magic pills made it easier to be perfect.

  JASON

  Everyone says alcohol is an acquired taste, but I can tell you that I loved it the moment I tasted that first beer. I loved everything about it.

  EVA

  The truth is, the girl wanted to feel something else, to be somewhere else, to get out of her body. The truth is, that was the best part. Do you know what it feels like to become someone new? Do you know what it feels like to do something as easy as swallow a tiny little pill and then be transformed into someone you don’t hate?

  CHRISTOPHER

  I don’t know how these

  art projects are supposed to help us, but they’re fun, so I’m not complaining. But Olivia’s sitting over there in the corner with smoke coming out of her ears because they won’t let her use activity hour to do her homework. It’s fine with me if she thinks she’s better than us, but I wish they’d figure out a way to make her happy, because her frowning all the time is making me anxious. The way I see it, they should just let her go somewhere else to be her crazy self and leave us lowly peasants to crawl around sticking our fingers together with glue.

  You want to know what she said in Group this morning? I thought she was going to get murdered, the way everyone was looking at her, even Shirley. Imagine her sitting there all straight, with her hands folded in her lap, looking down on everyone and saying this: “How is it better for my recovery to sit on the floor doing art projects instead of using the activity hour to do my homework? I understand that most patients probably need to have all of their time structured, but I’m not like them. It’s not like I’m a stoner loser who’s flunking out of my mediocre public school. I don’t need the kind of coddling they do.” I swear to God, she really said that.

  But wait, it gets worse. Then she was like, “Why does this place insist that I’m like everyone else here? Is it so you don’t have to work so hard? I suppose it does make your job easier if you don’t have to think of us as individuals. You can just give us the same cookie-cutter treatment regardless of whether or not it actually helps. I understand that you’ve probably never had a patient actually ask you for permission to do their homework. But it’s not like I’m asking to skip activity hour to take a nap or smoke a cigarette.” I’m not even exaggerating.

  Then Eva was like, “How does it feel to be such a fucking snob?” like it’s her job to put everyone in their place, and Olivia was like, “I’m not a snob. But let’s be honest—I am different. I’m just stating the facts.” And Eva just sat there k
ind of smug like she’d known Olivia was going to say that, and everybody just looked at each other like they couldn’t believe what was happening, and Shirley just kind of smiled and said, “Time’s up. See you all tomorrow.”

  So there she is, sitting here with everyone else, working on her “soul box” like she’s not even worried about everyone wanting to kill her. They have this woman, Ingrid, come in and do “art therapy” with us twice a week, which in my opinion is the best thing we do in here, and I wonder what kind of college gives degrees for that and what kind of classes you have to take to get certified to teach drug addicts how to use glitter and construction paper, because that would be a pretty awesome job, if you ask me.

  Dr. Ingrid—I don’t know if she’s actually a doctor, but I like the sound of it—she gave us one Plexiglas box each to decorate so it looks like our soul. Then we’re supposed to stick our bad memories and thoughts in it—pictures, letters, old drug paraphernalia, scraps of paper with a fear or personality defect written on it. Then the magic box takes these bad things away so we don’t have to store them inside anymore. That’s the idea, anyway. I hope it works.