Spin

by Catherine McKenzie

  This conversation is depressing me.

  “And if it’s the cause?”

  “We’ll try to get at the root of it.”

  “And if it’s just an effect?”

  “Then if you stop drinking, the symptoms should disappear.”

  Great. Only . . . what if the thought of never having another drink makes me depressed?

  “Are you ready to do the work, Katie?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “And are you prepared to work for as long as it takes?”

  “Yes.”

  For as long as Amber takes, anyway.

  She smiles. “That’s good, Katie. That’s very good.”

  I leave Saundra’s office feeling like I’ve spent an hour talking to a confessional camera on a reality show. You know how there’s always some closet where the players confess their inner thoughts? I’ve often thought that if I went on one of those shows, I’d pretend to be this sweet, helpful thing, then let out the inner bitch when only the audience at home could see it. But the reality of actually having to be nice to a bunch of crybabies and schemers who talked, talked, talked about themselves all day long always dissuaded me from applying.

  Oh, the irony.

  When I get back to our room, Amy is lacing up her running shoes to go for a run. She looks fit and healthy in her dark blue shorts and sleeveless T-shirt. Except for the thin, pink scars on her arms and legs, of course. Scars too regular to be anything other than self-inflicted.

  “You want to join?” she asks as she springs up and starts running in place.

  “The last time I ran for anything other than a cab was in high school.”

  “It’s a really good way to clear your head.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  She pulls a mocking face. “Don’t put off to tomorrow what you can do today.”

  “Is that one of the twelve steps?”

  “Oh boy, you really are a newbie, aren’t you?”

  I point to my chest. “ ‘Day Five: The First Step to Sobriety.’ ”

  She mimics me. “ ‘Day Twenty-seven: Advanced Coping Mechanisms.’ ”

  “I’m so jealous. Enjoy your run.”

  “Thanks . . . and thanks for last night.”

  “No problem.”

  She leaves and I lie down on my bed. I place my hands behind my head and try to block out my conversation with Saundra. What I really need is an angle to get closer to TGND.

  What does Bob expect me to get out of her, anyway? Should I be rooting through her room to figure out what kind of underwear she wears? Why the hell did I agree to do this in the first place?

  At least I know the answer to that question.

  When Amy comes back from her run, I tuck Hamlet under my arm and we go to the cafeteria for some lunch. The beautiful picture window is streaked with rain, making the view of the lawn and the woods look blurry, like a Monet. Everyone from group but Amber is already here, filling the gap in their lives left by drugs and alcohol.

  Amy and I collect sandwiches from a hair-netted lunch lady and sit down at one of the round bistro tables occupied by The Former Child Star and The Novelist.

  TFCS (real name, Candice) is thirty-five but still acts like she did when she lisped cute/precocious thoughts that summed up that week’s situation comedy. Her white-blond hair is even curled the same way, and she holds her Prussian blue eyes open in an expression of youth and innocence that must take a lot of work. It must’ve killed her when Amber came through the gates pursued by enough cars to be an inauguration day cortege.

  Mary, The Novelist, is a dumpy forty, with frizzy dark hair that’s mostly gone gray. She has deep lines on her face that make her look older than she is. Her life spiraled out of control as her first novel climbed the bestseller lists, and she’s worried she’ll never write anything worth a damn while sober.

  Listening to the stories they tell about the things they’ve done, the depths they’ve sunk to, makes me amazed/pissed off that anyone could confuse me for someone who needs to be in rehab. I mean, showing up hungover to an interview might be stupid and unfortunate, but it pales in comparison to giving a guy a blow job so he’ll share his drugs, right? Even up-talking Elizabeth should be able to see the difference.

  As I eat my tuna fish sandwich, Candice begins to complain about the fact that Amber’s allowed to miss meals. Her high-pitched half-baby voice grates on my nerves.

  “Why do you care?” I ask when I can’t take it anymore.

  “It’s not fair.”

  “So? Life’s not fair. Deal with it.”

  She gives me a disgusted look, stands up, and storms off without saying another word.

  “Thank gawd,” Mary says in her coastal twang. “I thought she’d never shut her gob.”

  “How have you guys been able to stand her?”

  “Oh, she’s not that bad, really,” Amy says. “She’s gotten worse since Amber arrived. Besides, it is kind of ridiculous that she doesn’t have to follow the rules.”

  “You can get away with anything when your Q score is high enough,” Mary says.

  “True enough.” Amy stands and picks up her tray. “Katie, do you mind if I take a nap in the room? I’m kind of wiped.”

  “No problem. I’ve got my book.”

  Amy and Mary leave together, and I pick up Hamlet. I still feel fidgety from my session with Saundra, though, and I can’t concentrate on the complicated language. I put the book down on my orange food tray and watch The Producer, The Judge, and The Lawyer as they gesticulate and guffaw across the room.

  “How are you making out with Hamlet?” TGND says, plunking herself down next to me. She’s wearing a white gauzy dress that makes her look wispy and pale, and her long black hair falls loosely past her shoulders.

  Excellent. Now, just remember to ask some questions, but not too many.

  Yeah, yeah, I got it.

  “It’s slow going.”

  “But better than the alternative, right?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  She motions toward my half-finished sandwich. “That any good?”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad.”

  “Tasting food has to be the one good thing about living clean.”

  “You couldn’t taste your food?”

  What the hell was she on?

  “Nope, everything tasted pretty much the same. Like cheap wine and cigarettes,” she sings a snippet of The Wallflowers’ “One Headlight” in a good, pure voice.

  “I love that song.”

  “Me too. You know, I met him once.”

  “Jakob Dylan?”

  “No, the dad.”

  “You met Bob Dylan?” My voice comes out all high and squeaky.

  “I think so. He wrote that ‘Everybody Must Get Stoned’ song, right?”

  How can you be unsure if you’ve met Bob Dylan?

  “You mean ‘Rainy Day Women Nos. 12 & 35’?”

  “I don’t think that’s what it’s called . . .”

  “No,” I say before I can help myself. “That’s what it’s called. Lots of people don’t know that, but . . .”

  “If you say so . . .” Her eyes begin to wander around the room.

  Change topics, dum-dum, before she leaves.

  “You have a good voice. You should make a record.”

  Oh, brilliant comment.

  She makes a face. “Nah.”

  “I bet it’d probably be pretty easy for you to get a record deal.”

  And now you kind of insulted her. Bravo.

  Will you stop? This is really not helpful.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’ve been offered one, but I turned it down.”

  “You turned down a record deal? Why?”

  She eyes my sandwich like someone who hasn’t eaten in a while. Like maybe a week.

  “It’s a little embarrassing . . .”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  Please, please, please tell me.

  “Well . . . I have stage fright.
”

  Yes, yes, yes. Bob, you are an evil genius.

  “But, you’re an actress . . .”

  “Oh, I’m fine in front of the camera . . . but the one time I tried to do a play, I froze in front of the audience, and the thought of singing to thousands of people . . .” She shudders.

  Geez, that’s kind of arrogant, thinking you’ll be singing in front of thousands of people. Then again, there probably would be thousands of people at a TGND concert.

  “Isn’t imagining the audience naked supposed to help?”

  “Nah, the only thing that helps is large amounts of drugs and alcohol.”

  I smile. “So, no record deals?”

  “No record deals. Besides, I’ve got enough projects to work on.” She picks up my copy of Hamlet in a distracted way.

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” she lowers her voice and leans toward me. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but . . . the reason I knew that quote is because my production company’s working on a script of it right now.”

  “A script based on ‘One Headlight’?”

  “No, silly. Hamlet.” She waves the book at me.

  “You’re producing a movie of Hamlet ?”

  “Uh-huh. Plus I’m going to star in it.”

  “You’re going to play Ophelia?”

  “No, that’s a stupid part. I’m going to play Hamlet.”

  Say what?

  “But he’s a man.”

  “So? They’re changing that.”

  “Isn’t that kind of a major change?”

  She opens the book and starts flipping through the pages. “Not really.”

  Changing the sex of Hamlet isn’t a major change? That Oscar nomination has really gone to her head.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Why not? Men played all the parts back in the day.”

  “Yeah, but they were pretending to be women.”

  “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, but my appetite is gone. I don’t know why I feel the need to defend Shakespeare against the likes of TGND, but I’m ready to raise my dukes.

  Amber starts to laugh. “You should see your face right now!” She laughs harder. “I got you so good!”

  “You’re not starring in a remake of Hamlet ?”

  “Nah, I don’t even have a production company.”

  And I should totally know that, given what I’m here to do.

  I try to smile. “You really had me going.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” She starts flipping through the book again, looking for something. Maybe that passage about smiling, smiling, and being a villain.

  Well, at least she owes me one now, right? I can probably use this. I’m not sure how exactly, but . . .

  My heart skips a beat. Shit, shit, shit, my notes are in that book. My notes about our conversation in the library are about thirty pages away from her tapered fingers. I am so busted.

  Do something, Katie. Quickly.

  I pluck the book out of her hand and hold it over my skipping heart. She gives me a quizzical look. I guess my Most Normal Person She’s Met in Rehab title is in jeopardy.

  “I don’t like it when the pages get creased.” I try to keep the high note of psychosis out of my voice. I’m not quite sure I manage it.

  “That’s cool,” she replies, looking bored again. She glances at her watch and stands. “I’ve got a couple of things I’ve got to take care of before group.”

  That’s right, run away from the psycho. I don’t blame you.

  “OK. See you then.”

  She gets a wicked grin on her face. “Yeah, I definitely wouldn’t miss group today.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I show up to group wondering what Amber’s got up her sleeve. And the answer is . . . nothing. She waits until we’re all sitting in a circle and walks into the room naked as a jaybird.

  Well, not totally naked. When she gets closer, it’s clear that she’s wearing some kind of body stocking made out of several pair of nylons. She’s glued on flowers and leaves to hide certain strategic areas, but still, the overall effect is totally nekkid.

  Saundra’s not impressed. “Amber, this is completely unacceptable.”

  “What?” she says, all innocent eyes as she sits in the chair next to me and crosses her legs slowly. Every pair of male eyes watches this movement, including The Director, who I thought was gay. Hell, maybe he is gay. She’s just that magnetic.

  “You know what, Amber. Please go change.”

  She ignores Saundra. “So, what are we talking about today? Cocaine? I fucking love cocaine.”

  “Amber.”

  “Hey, Rodney,” she says, addressing The Director. “Tell that story again about the party in the Hills with the bowls of cocaine. You tell it so well, I almost feel like I’m using.”

  “Which party?” Rodney asks, interest lighting his angular face.

  “You know, the one where De Niro was there. Or was it Pacino? Some big fucking guy. You remember.”

  “Amber!”

  “What!?”

  “Do you want me to send you to Dr. Houston?”

  She spins toward Saundra and puts her hands on her bony hips. “What’s he going to do, sedate me? ‘No drugs allowed on the premises’? Hah! Not unless they’re administered by Nurse Ratched here, that’s the real truth!”

  “Amber, please calm down.”

  “Why? Why should I calm down?”

  “Because you’re disturbing the other patients.”

  No, I don’t think so. By the look on everyone’s faces, she’s the best entertainment they’ve seen in a long time. And this is a group that’s seen a lot of entertaining things.

  “What about me? Doesn’t it matter that I’m upset?”

  “Of course it does. That’s why I want you to see Dr. Houston.”

  Saundra nods toward the doorway. Two burly male orderlies are standing there dressed in identical white Polo shirts and pressed khakis.

  Where did they come from? Saundra must have one of those “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” panic buttons from the late-night infomercials in her pocket.

  “Evan, John. Please escort Amber to Dr. Houston’s office.”

  Amber narrows her eyes. “Saundra, why are you such a complete fucking bitch?”

  Saundra doesn’t flinch. “Amber, you know that kind of hostility is not acceptable. I’m revoking your outside privileges.”

  “But you can’t do that!”

  “Yes, I can,” Saundra says softly but firmly.

  “Motherfucking-slut-of-a-bitch!”

  “That’s enough. Evan, John.”

  “You’re so going to pay for this, Saundra!” she screams as Evan and John drag her out of the room. “I know people! I fucking know people!”

  We all listen as her cries become more and more distant and then look at Saundra expectantly.

  “All right, everyone. Let’s get back to work.”

  Chapter 7

  God Knows

  Some crazy shit, I write in an email to Bob two days later. TGND’s very thin (but we knew that, right?), and she never eats in front of anyone. She’s allowed to violate certain rules (attending all meals) but not others (no acting up in group—she’s been in “solitary” for two days for same). She doesn’t seem to be taking rehab very seriously (example: “I fucking love cocaine!”). She shows up to group therapy as a different character every day. She has a sense of humor (sometimes mean). She’s smart. She likes tuna fish.

  Amber was a no-show in group again today, and I start to worry that she’s left. After group I hurry back to my room to check the Internet. TGND leaving rehab again is sure to be headline news, but CNN and Fox are focused on some congressman’s sex scandal. However, I do find a website called “Amber Alert” with streaming live video from the front gates, which assures me that she’s still somewhere in the building.

  You know, w
hoever decided to call his stalkerazzi website “Amber Alert” is one sick motherfucker.

  Of course, people in glass rehab houses really shouldn’t throw stones.

  I send off my email to Bob and answer a short one from Greer. We’ve been emailing regularly over the last couple of days. She’s been sending me links to hilarious clips on YouTube like the one about a spider on drugs (if you haven’t seen it, watch it immediately). She seems to know just when I need a distraction or a laugh.

  I haven’t heard anything more from Rory. Not even after I wrote a page-long email that simply said I’m sorry over and over and over. I’ve never gone this long without talking to her. I feel like part of me is missing.

  I put down the iTouch and turn back to Hamlet. “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer / The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, / Or to take arms against a sea of troubles . . .”

  What would Shakespeare make of rehab, I wonder.

  “What’s up?” Amy asks as she enters the room in her running clothes, her face glowing.

  I shove the iTouch under my leg.

  Way to call attention to it, dumb-ass.

  “Not much.”

  Amy doesn’t seem to have noticed. Phew.

  “Are you getting edified, reading that?” she asks, nodding toward my book.

  “I do feel kind of smarter.”

  “I guess that counts for something.”

  She drops to the floor and starts stretching.

  “How do you manage to look so put together after working out?”

  “It’s not supposed to be about how you look.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  She makes a face. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls.”

  “What girls?”

  “The ones who don’t know how pretty they are.”

  I laugh. “I’m so one of those girls.”

  I sit down on the floor next to her, putting one leg in front of me and one folded behind. It hurts, but in a good way. I think.

  “You should go outside once in a while,” Amy says.

  “You’re right.”

  “Is that Katie-code for fuck off, I’ll do what I like?”

  “Sometimes. But not today.”

  “The grounds really are beautiful.”

  “I know. I grew up around here.”