Spin

by Catherine McKenzie

  Can you drink more than most of your friends? Let’s see. Greer and Scott can definitely drink more than me. Rob and Toni are kind of lightweights, and so is Rory. Joanne doesn’t drink. Where does that leave me? I read the question again. Mmm . . . “most of your friends.” What if it’s a tie? Ah, fuck it. Yes.

  Does it take more alcohol to get drunk now than when you started drinking? Yes. Of course it does. It’s called “tolerance,” and it takes a while to build one up. And once you have, you have to maintain it. It’s a survival tool, really. How else do you make it past midnight at a university party?

  Do you get drunk on a regular basis? Well . . . it’s not like I drink every day or anything. At least, it’s not like I get drunk every day. Not every day. But didn’t I tell Dr. Houston that I did? What did I tell him, anyway? The details are a little fuzzy, but I seem to recall something about two bottles of wine a day. Did I really say that? I guess that means . . . Yes.

  Have you ever tried to cut down on your drinking? Yes. Wait a minute. Maybe that’s the wrong answer. Didn’t I talk about this with Dr. Houston too? Why the hell is he making me answer all these questions again? How am I supposed to keep all these details straight? I hate this fucking questionnaire. Yes. No.

  Do all of your friends drink alcohol on a regular basis? Finally, an easy question. Yes. I bloody well hope so.

  Have you ever been arrested for drunk driving? Another easy one. No. Hah! See? I obviously don’t have a problem. I’m a safe drunk. I take cabs, I walk, sometimes I let other people drive drunk, but I never do. Never. Well, except for that one time when I drove Zack’s truck in high school, but that was just in a field, and I’d only had like three wine coolers, maybe four.

  Do you have a family history of alcoholism? Mmm . . . didn’t Uncle Brad have to go away for a while? Wait. Was that rehab or just a mental institution? How did he end up there again? Oh, right. He found his girlfriend kissing some other guy at a bar and went crazy, smashing up the bar and the guy and maybe even his girlfriend. Then he went on a three-day bender that ended when he wrapped his car around a tree. Or something like that. It was hard to catch all the details my mother was whispering over the phone to her sister. I never saw Uncle Brad drinking any alcohol after that, though. He always asked for seltzer. So, I guess . . . Yes.

  Last question. Do you use drugs on a regular basis? No, I write. Only since I came to rehab.

  I must’ve passed the test, because Carol’s leading me to my new digs in the women’s wing, where I’ll spend the rest of my stay. As we walk through the building, she explains that the Oasis presently has twelve patients and that they never have more than twenty at any time.

  I guess at $1,000 a day they can afford to keep it exclusive.

  “You’re going to be rooming with Amy,” Carol says as we walk through the large common room that occupies the back of the main building. “We like to pair newcomers with patients who’ve been working the program well.”

  “Does that mean she’ll be my sponsor?”

  “No, you’ll get a sponsor when you join an AA or NA group once you go home. Our focus is on cognitive therapy. You’ll learn how to develop skills that will help you cope with life without using drugs or alcohol.”

  Right, I remember. Coping skills, Days Five through forever.

  “Is that what we do in group?”

  “That’s right, but also in your individual therapy sessions, which will be more focused on your particular issues. Your first session is tomorrow morning with Dr. Bennett, who also leads group therapy.”

  “So, that’s all we do? Individual therapy in the morning and group in the afternoon?”

  “We have guest speakers sometimes as well.”

  Now that sounds more interesting.

  “Like celebrities?”

  She frowns. “The speakers are generally former patients who’ve stayed sober. But since you brought it up . . . As you already know, we sometimes do have celebrity patients, but it’s important not to treat them any differently. They’re just like you: addicts trying to get help.”

  “So who’s here? Would I know them?”

  “Katie . . .”

  “OK, OK, I got it. No asking for autographs. Don’t worry. I can behave.”

  She stops in front of a nondescript door. “Good. Well, here we are.”

  She knocks and opens the door. The room is much like the one I just left (barred window, simple furnishings, blue bedspreads, faint whiff of institution) but big enough for two twin beds with a nightstand in between. There’s evidence of my new roommate on the bed nearest the door, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Group starts in twenty minutes in the common room. I’ve left a list of the house rules on your bed. Do you need anything else?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She pulls me into another one of her tight hugs. I give her back a few halfhearted pats, hoping she won’t notice my lack of response.

  “This is where it really starts, Katie. And you only get out what you put in.”

  Funny, that’s the same thing my trainer said when I decided to try getting into shape a few years ago. The gym membership was Rory’s Christmas present to me, and I’d been really determined. That was, until I was put through a rigorous series of crunches and lunges by a man who’d just gotten out of the Corps.

  “You only get out what you put in, Katie,” he said as I was trying to do my first pull-up since the fifth grade. “Are you ready to give it your all?”

  “Yes,” I managed to squeak.

  “What? I can’t hear you!”

  “Yes,” I yelled as I hung inches off the ground, unable to lift myself any further. My body hurt for three days, and I never went back.

  “Right, I understand,” I say to Carol.

  She leaves, and I sit down on my new bed. Lying on the pillow is a single sheet of paper containing a list of rules about mandatory therapy sessions and meals, no fraternizing between patients, and lights out at 10 p.m.

  It’s funny because, with a few small alterations, this list is identical to the one that adorned the wall at my summer camp. Come to think of it, we weren’t allowed to leave there for thirty days, either. Of course, camp was, you know, fun. I’m guessing we aren’t going to be singing songs around a campfire here.

  I fold the list into my journal—more atmosphere for my article—and unpack a few of my things. Then I take out the iTouch and log on. There’s no email from Rory, but there is one from Bob.

  Kate, please provide a status report on the target. Bob.

  What a sinister word, “target.” Like I’m an assassin, or at the helm of an X-wing fighter. I’m not here to kill anyone, buddy, just get them to spill their deepest, darkest secrets, or discover them by trickery if that doesn’t work.

  Bob, they’ve had me in isolation until now. Expect to see TGND at group in a few minutes. Will send status report when can. Kate .

  Is the emoticon too much? Oh, who cares? He can deal with it if it is. I send the email and slip the iTouch back into my bag, hiding it in my dirty underwear.

  It’s time for group.

  Group therapy takes place in the common room, which is in keeping with the hotel-like feel of the lobby. Its main feature is a picture window that frames an amazing view of the lake. Watching the sun play on the water, I feel a momentary urge to get a running start and dive through the window into the black lake. The leap would likely kill me, of course, but if I managed to get away, would they save me or let me take my chances with whatever monsters lurk below?

  There are a dozen metal folding chairs arranged in a circle and a pot of strong-smelling coffee brewing on an oak side table that sits next to the window. The chairs hold an assortment of men and women who look in surprisingly good shape for a bunch of drug addicts and alcoholics. Of course, this is a class of addicts who can afford to go to the same place as TGND, so maybe they’ve never looked as depraved as the addicts in the this-is-what-you-look-like-if-you-do-crystal-meth ads. But
does crystal meth care whose body it’s being snorted or injected into? Or do you smoke crystal meth? I can never remember.

  And speaking of TGND, where the hell is she?

  A dumpy woman in her mid-fifties with chin-length salt-and-pepper hair comes to greet me. She’s a few inches shorter than me and has a round face.

  “You must be Katie. Welcome. I’m Dr. Bennett, but please call me Saundra.” I shake her soft, small hand. “Please take a seat—we’ll be starting in a minute.”

  I sit down in one of the remaining empty chairs, suddenly nervous about what’s to come. Am I expected to talk on the first day? And what the hell am I going to say, anyway? Won’t this group of hardened users be able to see right through me?

  Saundra calls the meeting to order. “All right, everyone. Settle down. We’re going to be talking about coping mechanisms for stressful situations today. But first, we have a new arrival, Katie.”

  My nerves increase as ten pairs of eyes travel toward me. Shit! I’m definitely going to have to talk today. Couldn’t I learn some of those coping mechanisms first?

  I raise my hand and give a little wave.

  “I’d like to go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves. Katie, you can go last. Ted, would you like to start us off?”

  They go one by one. Ted is a banker addicted to cocaine and alcohol. Mary is a novelist addicted to heroin. There’s also a pretty famous movie producer, a former child star if you use the term “star” very loosely, a Fortune 500 executive, an up-and-coming director, an investment banker, two lawyers, and a judge. Their addictions range from simple alcoholism to drugs I’ve never even heard of. Did you know, for example, that if you take fifty cold pills at once you start to hallucinate? Well, that’s what the investment banker was doing every day until two weeks ago. Who knew?

  As it nears my turn someone climbs into the chair next to me. It’s TGND, Amber Sheppard in the flesh.

  She’s wearing a bright green velour tracksuit that matches her large eyes, and her black hair is in a tight knot on top of her head. She’s much smaller than she looks on television (not more than five foot one) and very thin. She’s not wearing any makeup, but her skin still glows with youth and pampering. She looks odd, but beautiful.

  And, oh yeah, she’s behaving rather strangely.

  “Amber, what are you doing?” Saundra asks as TGND plants her bare feet in the middle of her chair and crouches on her heels, her arms up in front of her.

  “Nothing.”

  “We’ve talked about this, Amber.”

  “My name is Polly the Frog.”

  So that explains the crouching position. And the flitting tongue.

  I look around. A few of the patients are laughing, but most of them simply look annoyed.

  “This isn’t acting class, Amber. Please sit in your chair properly and introduce yourself.”

  Amber’s cheeks flush with anger. “Fine.” She untucks her legs and sits in the chair. “My name is Polly, and I’m a frog.”

  “Amber, please.”

  “OK, OK. My name is Amber.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “Because I was kidnapped by my parents and brought here against my will.”

  “Amber . . .”

  “All right, all right. I’m addicted to alcohol and cocaine.”

  “Thank you. Katie?”

  My heart starts to pound. I’ve always hated public speaking.

  “Hi. My name is Katie. I’m a writer, and um . . . I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Katie!” says the group.

  “Wrebbit!” says TGND.

  Chapter 5

  No Rest for the Wicked

  After group I speed back to my room so I can get down as much of what I’ve witnessed as possible. What I wouldn’t give for a microcassette recorder, or one of those tiny hidden cameras that fit into your eyeglasses. But Bob thought it would be too risky, so I’m left relying on my memory, never perfect in the best of circumstances.

  My roommate nearly gives me a heart attack when she enters the room without knocking. I close the journal quickly, trying to appear nonchalant. It feels like my heart is beating visibly out of my chest like in an old Disney cartoon, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

  Amy’s model-tall and beautiful. Her toffee-colored skin matches her eyes, and her dark hair is tightly curled and chin length. After I introduce myself, she starts to download the details of her life with the ease of someone who’s been here for a while. She’s a lawyer who works at one of the largest firms in the city. One too many cocaine-fueled deal memos landed her an all-expenses-paid trip to the Cloudspin Oasis. She’s been here for twenty-four days, and if all goes well, expects to leave six days from now.

  We chat for a while, and then we have dinner together in the cafeteria. It has a bistro-y feel to it, and another bank of windows framing the green lawn that rolls out like a blanket toward the woods. The view is breathtaking, but no one’s looking. Instead, everyone’s talking, talking, talking about themselves. I look for TGND, but despite the “all patients must attend all meals” rule, she’s nowhere to be seen.

  The food is good, simple fare (spicy penne arrabbiata, a tart Caesar salad), and after dinner we follow the crowd to the common room to watch a cookie-cutter romantic comedy on the widescreen TV. When the couple that’s meant-to-be finally gets together, there doesn’t seem to be anything left to do but go to sleep, and so I do.

  I’m dreaming a wonderful dream. I’m writing a cover profile about Feist, and I’m meeting her backstage at the Grammys before she performs. A rainbow of musical celebrities surrounds us. Paul McCartney is playing “Blackbird” for Adam Duritz. Madonna is warming up for her duet with Fergie. Kurt Cobain’s daughter is about to make her musical debut, singing backup for Lisa Marie Presley. None of it makes any sense, of course, but I feel extremely happy nonetheless.

  That is, until I’m awoken by the most ungodly scream.

  “AAAHHHHH!”

  My eyes fly open, my heart pounding. By the moonlight seeping through the window, I can see Amy tossing back and forth on her bed, her mouth open.

  I jump to the cold floor and put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Amy.”

  “AAHH, AAHH!”

  “Amy!”

  “Get off me!”

  I pull my hand away. “You were screaming.”

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s me, Katie. Your roommate.”

  I turn on the light that sits on the night table between our beds.

  She blinks slowly. “Sorry. I was disoriented.”

  “It’s OK. I think you were having a nightmare.”

  “I wish. I was in a K-hole.”

  “A what?”

  “I was dreaming I was using.”

  Oh. So “K” must be a drug. But what drug? Vitamin K? Special K cereal with cocaine sprinkled on it?

  I’m going to be unmasked soon, soon, soon.

  “Right, of course . . . I hate those kinds of dreams.”

  I totally paused for too long between those two phrases.

  Amy sits up and runs her hands through her tightly curled hair. Her eyes look unfocused. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  Phew. She doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Do you want some water? I could get it for you.”

  “No, thanks. I’m all right.” She pounds her fist into the mattress. “Fuck! I’m so goddamn tired of this. Why doesn’t it get any easier?”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  She looks at me bleakly.

  “Sorry, what do I know? I just got here.”

  “Right. I’m the one who’s supposed to be teaching you how to cope.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. But I should know something by now, especially since I’ve been here before.”

  “This isn’t your first time in rehab?”

  “This is take three. Three strikes and you’re out,” she mutters.

  “H
ow come it didn’t work before?”

  She shrugs. “Choices I made. People I should’ve stayed away from. Take your pick.”

  “Why not try something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just talking smack.”

  She almost smiles. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for waking me up.”

  She reaches out her hand and after a moment’s hesitation, I take it. She quietly begins to cry, and the tears well up in my own eyes.

  Jesus. Four days in rehab, and I’m already crying with strangers.

  The next morning at breakfast I don’t have much of an appetite, so I sip my coffee while Amy digs into an omelet.

  “Don’t worry, your appetite will come back in a couple of days,” she says.

  “Oh, I never eat much breakfast.”

  “Have you had any tremors yet? Those are the worst.”

  I’m not quite sure how to play this. Should I admit to tremors, or counter with something worse, like seeing imaginary bugs?

  She’s not testing you, idiot, she’s just making rehab conversation.

  Right. Less paranoia would be good.

  “Not yet. Anyway, I should get to my therapy appointment.”

  “Sure enough. See you later.”

  I get a to-go cup for my coffee and ask for directions to Saundra’s office.

  Her office is oddly decorated with all things dog. I mean, all things dog. There’s a dog calendar, a dog clock, a couple of framed photographs of dogs, and a dog leash sitting on the corner of her desk. The only thing missing is the actual dog itself. Or maybe the leash is for me?

  Saundra sits behind her large oak desk. I get comfortable in her matching visitor’s chair as she explains that the Oasis’s approach is to identify the root, internal causes of my alcoholism and to teach me techniques that will allow me to solve problems without alcohol. If I trust Saundra and work with her, I should acquire the skills I need to stay sober by the end of my thirty-day stay.

  I’m guessing the skills I really need to learn by the end of my thirty-day stay aren’t what she’s talking about.