Spin

by Catherine McKenzie

  I eye the kidney pan on the dresser. Absolutely not. I will not puke into something that belongs in a hospital or an old folks’ home!

  I pull back the covers and stagger down the hall, trying to remember which door Carol said leads to the bathroom. The second handle I try is the right one.

  Please let me finish peeing before I puke. Please let me finish peeing before I puke. Please let me . . . not quite the Serenity Prayer, but it works. The clenched feeling in my gut recedes and eventually passes.

  I find an empty glass by the sink, still in its hotel-like paper wrapping, and fill it with tap water. The first sip feels like heaven in my cotton-wool mouth, and I drink and drink, refilling the glass again and again. When I’m sure I can safely leave the bathroom, I retrieve my toiletries and fresh clothes from my suitcase. After a shower and a good teeth brushing I feel almost human. Well, OK, a human with a wicked hangover, but this too shall pass.

  What I could really use is the hair of the dog, but something tells me they let dogs bite you around here.

  When I get back to my room, I realize it’s only 6:40, presumably in the morning. I’ve got a lot of time to kill.

  Might as well get to work.

  I take the new journal I purchased at the airport out of my bag and start a fake entry that’s really notes on what I’ve seen and heard up to now. All the puking and prodding will make good atmosphere for my article.

  When I’ve captured every sight, sound, and smell I can remember, I pull out a soft case from my bag that contains the iTouch Bob gave me as a way to communicate with him while I’m undercover.

  “There aren’t any cell phones allowed,” he said, handing me a matte black box. “Fill it up with music, make it look like your own.”

  I felt a moment of panic. A whole month, maybe more, without texting? My friends were going to think I’m dead.

  “Is email forbidden too?”

  “That’s right.”

  No cell phones, no email. Where are they sending me?

  “Sounds strict.”

  “It’s not one of those chi-chi spa places.”

  Damn. I was already imagining myself immersed in a mud bath.

  “So, how am I going to use this?”

  “You’re going to hack into their Wi-Fi network.”

  “I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to do that.”

  He handed me a slim envelope. “The instructions you’ll need are in here. You should memorize them tonight.”

  I opened it and read them quickly. They looked simple enough for me to follow.

  “How did you get the password to their system?”

  He looked smug. “We have our ways.”

  I squash a pillow behind my back and cross my legs into a weak lotus position. I start up the iTouch, hoping the Jameson and Cokes didn’t erase the memorized instructions. Thankfully, Apple has made breaking into someone’s poorly protected Wi-Fi network a piece of cake, and I’m soon entering the Oasis’s password and connecting to the Internet.

  I open my email and write a short update to Bob. Have arrived. In detox. So far, so undercover. I hit send and scan through my inbox. There are three emails from Greer and two from Rory sent ten minutes apart.

  I open Greer’s first. It was sent at 6:44 p.m. yesterday.

  K, is your phone dead? Let’s hook up 2nite. Bring your drinking boots.

  The next one comes from someone named Patrick Morrissey, but the subject line says “From Greer,” so I know it isn’t someone trying to sell me a penis enhancer. It was sent at 8:32 p.m.

  Some scrounger banker let me borrow his BB. Where RU?

  I smile, thinking of Greer flirting with Steve before shifting her attention to a guy in a suit (she hates guys in suits) so she could finagle him into letting her use his BlackBerry. Classic Greer.

  At the time of the last email (11:24 p.m.), Greer was clearly drunk.

  I’m letting this guy take me home and you can’t stop me!

  I laugh out loud, then smother my mouth with my hand. I listen carefully, but I don’t hear anything other than the birds twittering outside. For all I can tell, some psychotic addict has killed everyone in the place and I’m the last person alive.

  Moving my fingers over the touch screen, I write Greer back.

  Sorry about last night. It’s a long story, but I had to go away suddenly for work. I probably won’t be back for at least a month. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch. Love, Katie.

  I hesitate before opening Rory’s emails. The fact that there are two of them isn’t a good sign. Rory usually says what she has to say the first time around, and I’m pretty sure the double email has something to do with the breezy message I left her two days ago.

  “Rory, Rory, quite contrary, something’s come up, and I have to go away on a new assignment! So, I won’t be able to take the job after all. I’ll let them know. Thanks so much for the help! Love you!”

  Maybe I took the coward’s way out, but lying to Rory has never been my strong suit. I knew if I told her the truth she’d be horrified and shocked, and would probably persuade me to be horrified and shocked too. And I didn’t want anyone talking me out of taking this job.

  Joanne was the only one I’d told, because I had to tell someone. She seemed like the safe choice since she has no real connection to my other friends (Rory and Greer both loathe her). Her reaction was typical Joanne—she just shrugged and asked for my share of the rent in advance. The only rehab-related comment she made was that she expected me to pay her back for all the wine I’d drunk when I got out.

  I open the email.

  You’re not answering your phone and you know I can’t stand talking to Joanne. I can’t believe you abandoned this job. I know it wasn’t what you hoped you’d be doing with your life, but it’s time to grow up. I thought you’d have a little more respect for me than this.

  Jesus. She’s madder than I thought. And hurt. I’m an evil, evil person.

  The second email picks up where the first one left off. Clearly ten minutes wasn’t enough time for her to calm down.

  I can’t believe you’ve put me in this position. I really went out of my way to get you this job, you know, even though I knew I’d regret it. Don’t expect me to do anything for you ever again.

  A tear runs down my cheek as I sit on my bed, in rehab, feeling very alone.

  Several hours later, after I’ve attempted to eat some of the breakfast Carol brings me, stared out the window for an hour, and off into space for another, I get an IM from Greer on the messenger service I downloaded onto the iTouch.

  Where the hell RU?

  Secret mission.

  U’ve joined the FBI.

  No.

  CIA?

  No.

  Cult?

  No.

  Joanne says UR in rehab.

  God fucking shit, Joanne! The last words I’d said to her were “Don’t tell anyone where I am.”

  Joanne’s an idiot.

  It’s OK if UR. I went to rehab 1x.

  You did? When?

  In 6th form.

  How come?

  Mam and pap thought I smoked 2 much pot.

  Why?

  Cuz I smoked 2 much pot.

  What was it like?

  Like pot.

  LOL. I meant rehab.

  Talky.

  That’s it?

  Didn’t stay long enough to find out.

  Why not?

  Did you know they don’t let you drink there?

  There’s a knock on my door. I hastily shove the iTouch under the covers.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Carol,” she says as she opens the door. “How are you feeling today?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  She looks at the tray of mostly uneaten breakfast sitting on the dresser. “How come you’re not eating?”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “It’s important that you try to eat, Katie. We can’t move you out of the recovery wing until yo
u need less medical supervision.”

  I sit up straighter. I already want out of the recovery wing very badly.

  “I’m sure I’ll be ready soon. I just needed to . . . well, sleep it off, really.”

  “Recovery’s not something you can rush through.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. I’ll be in to check on you a little later.”

  She leaves, and I pull the iTouch out. There’s another IM from Greer waiting for me.

  Where did you go?

  Had to talk to the warden.

  I knew it!!!

  After lunch, I start going stir-crazy. Sure, at home, with the comforts of wine, a couch, and my TMZ, I’m happy to spend days at a time without even thinking about the outside. But put me in a white room and I don’t care what I’m supposed to be pretending to be, I need to get out of here.

  Right now.

  Feeling desperate, I push the emergency button. When Carol arrives a few minutes later, I ask her if I can go outside. She looks at my nearly empty lunch tray and agrees. As she leads me toward the front door, she explains that there are several walking paths through the woods that surround the lodge. She suggests I take the shortest one. I nod my head, barely listening. By the time we reach the front door, I feel almost giddy. She tells me to be back in an hour, and I step outside and raise my face toward the sky. Its weak warmth feels gentle and inviting.

  I take the path Carol suggested through the flower gardens, following the meandering stones that mark it. The air is full of the perfume of the daffodils and crocuses that are pushing through the black earth. I round a bend and come across a couple of gardeners digging up one of the flower beds. One of them is about my age and looks incredibly familiar.

  I shake my head. It must be the medication, because if I were straight right now I’d swear that was . . . oh no . . . it can’t be . . .

  I crouch down behind a tied-up rosebush and peer at him through the twine. Right height, right build, right former quarterback good looks. And didn’t Mom say something about him starting a gardening service with his brother the last time I talked to her?

  He turns his head toward me, and now I’m sure. Zack Smith, my high school boyfriend, is standing a hundred feet away from me shading his eyes from the sun with a weathered hand. In fact, he’s looking right at me.

  Shit. He’s looking right at me. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. But how am I going to escape without calling attention to myself?

  “Katie, is that you?”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I so did not think coming here through.

  I stand up, brushing a stray piece of bush from my jeans. “Hi, Zack.”

  We walk toward one another and exchange an awkward hug. He smells like earth and sweat.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks when we separate.

  “Oh, you know, just a little medically supervised detox. You?”

  He grins, revealing his still-perfect white teeth. The breeze blows a lock of his chocolate brown hair onto his forehead. “Oh yeah. Same here.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Nah. You?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  His face grows serious. “Oh. Well, they help a lot of people here . . .”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

  I meet his warm brown eyes and am momentarily transported back to when we were the Perfect Couple and Mrs. Katie Smith covered every one of my notebooks.

  “So . . . what are you in here for?” he asks.

  Christ. I can’t believe the guy who taught me how to do a keg stand is looking at me like I’m dying of cancer.

  “Oh, the usual, you know. Anyway, you’re still living around here, huh?”

  “Yeah. Me and the wife and kids.”

  The wife and kids. Jesus.

  “Do I know her?”

  “It’s Meghan.”

  Of course it is. My mother mentioned that too. Meghan Stewart. My high school rival. White-blond and bouncy, she couldn’t quite manage a full beer bong. Now she’s married to my first imaginary husband, and I’m talking to him in a rehab garden. There’s a lesson in that somewhere, I know, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  “That’s great, Zack.”

  “Most days. You know, my oldest is in your sister’s class.”

  Shit, that’s just what I need, for my sister to know I’m in rehab. I can imagine her reaction—gloating, superior. And, of course, her first instinct will be to tell my parents.

  “Huh. That’s . . . funny.”

  “Chrissie didn’t tell you?”

  “I haven’t spoken to her in a while. Look, can you do me a favor and not tell anyone you saw me here? Especially my sister and my parents? They don’t know I’m here and . . .”

  “You don’t need to explain. We have to keep patient information confidential anyway.”

  “Right. And thanks. Anyway . . . I should get back to my room.”

  “And I’d better get back to work.” He pulls me toward him again, hugging me close. “It’s good to see you, Katie.”

  “Even in rehab?” I ask into the front of his shirt.

  “Even in rehab.”

  When I get back to my room, I spend a long time talking myself out of packing my bags and jumping the fence. I can’t believe I thought I could keep coming to rehab a secret, especially so close to home. How stupid can I be?

  Do you really want me to answer that?

  Shut it.

  OK, OK. Calm down. The patients are supposed to be anonymous, right? I mean, the whole world knows TGND is here, but that’s because she’s an enormous celebrity. Who am I? Nobody. And Zack said he wouldn’t tell, or couldn’t tell, which is just as good.

  Besides, is it really that big a deal if Mom and Dad find out? It’s not like they’re going to actually think I need to be in rehab. They’ll know something’s up, and I’ll let them in on the secret and it’ll be fine.

  OK. Sounds like a plan. Though, just to be on the safe side . . .

  I take out the iTouch and send my dad an email saying that I’m going on the road with some (made-up) band so my parents don’t call the apartment. Then I eat enough dinner to ensure that I don’t give anyone the impression that I still need “medical supervision” and try to ignore the strong urge to down several glasses of wine with my Salisbury steak. When I can’t, I take the two little pills that came with my dinner, and fall asleep at seven thirty.

  In the morning, I feel better than I have in a long time, and I eat every bite of the breakfast Carol brings me. When I’m done, I sit on my knees staring out the window until Carol comes to take me to see Dr. Houston.

  “Well, Katie,” he says after he’s given me another physical exam. “I can see you’re doing better. I think we can move you out of detox and into the cognitive therapy wing.”

  Oh, thank God. Learning the steps, here I come.

  “That’s great.”

  “However, before we can move you there, we need to perform some diagnostic tests.”

  I knew it was too good to be true.

  “Why? I thought I was OK.”

  “You are physically, but a lot of addicts have other psychiatric issues.”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  I only do crazy things sometimes.

  He lifts a pen out of the pocket of his white lab coat and writes something on his clipboard. “It’s not a question of being crazy, Katie. We simply need to make sure there aren’t any underlying disorders that will impede your recovery.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  He takes some forms from a drawer and hands them to me. “You can begin by completing this diagnostic test. It will give us your basic psychological profile.” He unclips a couple of pieces of paper from his clipboard. “You’ll also need to fill this out.”

  I take it. It’s the “Are You an Alcoholic?” form from two days ago. Joy.

  “As you’re filling this out, I’d like you to think about what your answers mean. About the impa
ct alcohol has had in your life.”

  You mean all the good times? I’m guessing no.

  Back in my room, I sit on my bed and work through the tests. The psychological assessment is a series of multiple-choice questions I vaguely remember from an Intro to Psychology class I took years ago. I toy with the idea of answering “C” to every question but discard it as the bad idea it is.

  When I’m done, all I have left to do is discover whether I’m an alcoholic. As if they can tell that by answering a few silly questions. Well, here goes nothing.

  Do you enjoy social events more when there is alcohol present? Well, obviously. Who doesn’t? Yes.

  Have you ever been unable to remember events from the night before after drinking? Yes, thank God. Who wants to remember everything they’ve done after a night of drinking? Take that “birthday girl” comment from Steve. I’m pretty sure I have no interest in remembering all the gritty little details of that night.

  Has drinking ever caused a problem between you and a friend or relative? Does Joanne count? No. Only . . . shit. What about that fight with Rory? She definitely counts. Fine, fine. No. Yes.

  Do you stop drinking after one or two drinks, or keep drinking until you get drunk? Duh. You’ve got to keep the drinks rolling once you’ve started a buzz. Everybody knows that. Coming down from a buzz is, well . . . a buzzkill. And nobody likes a buzzkill. Yes.

  Have you ever attended an AA meeting or other twelve-step program? No way. Not unless you pay me. Which I guess explains what I’m doing here. No.

  Have you had unprotected sex because you were drunk? Sigh. Yes. Only . . . hold on a sec. It wasn’t because I was drunk. I was just young and stupid and really, really into Jack from my creative writing class. When we ended up half-naked at his place after many rounds of cheap beer and he said he didn’t have a condom, I told myself that he didn’t seem gay or have track marks and threw caution to the wind. But I did think about it. I might have made the same decision if I was sober. It’s possible. Yes. No.

  Have you missed work or school because of drinking? Well, obviously, who hasn’t? If that’s a measure of someone having a drinking problem, then every one of my friends, and most of the population, has one too. OK, maybe the kids who go to Mormon college wouldn’t qualify, but that’s about it. Yes.