I give him my don’t-you-want-to-please-your-little-lost-girl look, and I can see him softening. He’s never been able to discipline me.
“Chrissie, maybe it would be better if it was just me and your mother . . .”
Chrissie’s face turns red. “Unfuckingbelievable.”
My mother shakes her head firmly. “No, Topher. Don’t let her manipulate you.”
Since when did my peace-loving mom start calling me on my shit? This is a bad, bad day.
“Mom . . .”
“No, Katie,” she says, without quite looking at me. “We’re all here, and we’re all staying.”
I can tell by the tone in my mother’s voice that she’s not going to cave, and I’m sick of being this minute’s entertainment for the other patients. “Fine, whatever. We’re late.”
My sister raises her chin defiantly. Is it possible to hate someone who looks just like you?
I lead my happy family out of the fishbowl parking lot to the first session of the day: group therapy with parents and sibling in the common room. Yay.
Four of us are participating in the family program: Me, Amber, Candice, and Mr. Fortune 500. We sit around Saundra in a circle made up by the metal folding chairs we use in group.
Amber’s parents are old-money WASPs with perfectly tailored clothes and accents. Amber sits between them sullenly as they each hold one of her hands. They seem sad but stoic. Candice’s mother is a sixty-something version of Candice with a bad facelift who is clearly waiting for an opportunity to jump in and make it all about her. Mr. Fortune 500’s wife is short and pretty in a plain, faded way. She looks miserable, but given who she’s married to, I can’t blame her.
Saundra welcomes us, gets everyone to introduce themselves (“My name is Topher, and my daughter is an alcoholic,” says my dad nervously), and then launches into an explanation of addiction and the role that family can play in enabling it. Then she talks about ways our families can help us break past patterns and become a force in our battle to remain sober.
While Mrs. Fortune 500 and Amber’s parents ask questions at regular intervals, my parents don’t say anything the entire morning. They just listen to Saundra. Occasionally, my mom writes something down on the small notepad she always keeps in her purse. Enabling, she writes at one point. Support system, she writes later.
Chrissie spends much of the morning staring out the window at the lake, looking like she wants to make a break for it. I can’t help but smile to myself. I’m not Miss Talk-Things-Out, but Chrissie makes Amber’s WASPy, contained parents seem like contestants on The Bachelor. I can only wonder why she wanted to be here so much.
I don’t get a chance to find out. When the session breaks up, my sister announces that she’s leaving.
“But you made such a fuss before,” my dad says, his eyes troubled. “Why don’t you stay out the day?”
“And sit around and listen to more reasons why we’re responsible for Katie’s bullshit? No, thanks.”
Amber smiles at me sympathetically as she heads toward the door with her parents.
“So leave,” I say. “I never asked you to come here in the first place.”
Chrissie glares at me. “No, and you never would, right?”
Sigh. We used to be so close that we liked it when people mistook us for twins. And now, I wouldn’t have a clue what to say to keep her here, even if I wanted to.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
My mother sucks in her breath sharply, and my father makes a clucking, disapproving sound in the base of his throat. Chrissie just picks up her purse and stalks out the French doors. I watch her walk away, her shoulders stiff with anger. I know I should run after her, but I don’t have the energy, or know what I could do to fix what’s wrong between us.
I turn and face my parents. My father’s arm is draped across my mother’s shoulders, holding her close.
“Do you want to leave too?” I try to keep the note of hopefulness out of my voice.
“We’re staying,” my mom replies firmly, finally looking me in the eye.
OK, then.
It’s time for lunch, so I take my parents to the cafeteria, where we pick at our chicken Caesar salads and make small talk. I spy Henry sitting with YJB a few tables away. He gives me a friendly wave, and I wave back.
My mom catches me at it. “Who’s that?”
“Connor Parks,” I answer, though I know that’s not who she means.
“No, dear, not him. The one you waved at. The red-headed one.”
This is so one of the reasons I didn’t want my parents coming here.
“His name is Henry.”
“Is he a patient?”
“No.”
“Does he work on the staff?”
“No.”
My father pats her arm. “Marion, honey, I don’t think she wants to tell you who he is.”
“Well, why not? It’s a simple question.”
“Maybe it’s private.”
“I don’t think rehab is really about privacy.”
“Marion, we talked about this . . . we should be supporting Katie, not pushing her.”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think that’s right.”
Serenity now. Serenity now.
I stand up. “We need to go to Saundra’s office.”
My mother looks like she wants to say something but then gives in. “All right, dear.”
At her office, Saundra greets my parents and leads us into a small meeting room next to it that I’ve never been in before. It has a round oak table with four matching chairs and a high oblong window that lets in the light. There are (of course) framed photographs of dogs on the walls.
“What a lovely room,” my mom says stopping in front of a picture of an ordinary-looking dog. “Did you take these photographs?”
Saundra beams. “Yes, I did, thank you. Dogs are a passion of mine, particularly dachshunds.”
“Those are the little ones that look like hot dogs, right?”
Saundra flinches slightly at the word “hot dog.” “That’s right.”
“How delightful. Do you breed them?”
“Yes. And I show them in competitions.”
“Oh, like in that movie.” My mom turns toward my father. “What was it called, Topher? That one with that actress, the funny one.”
Best in Show. Catherine O’Hara.
“I don’t know, honey.”
“Sure you do. We watched it a couple of weeks ago. You know, the one about that dog show with those two funny men doing the commentary?”
“Best in Show,” I say.
My mother’s face clears. “Ah, yes. That’s it. Don’t you remember, Topher? Best in Show. It was very funny.”
“You must have seen it with your other boyfriend,” my father grins.
“That’s one of our little jokes,” my mom explains to Saundra. “Of course, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Saundra looks like she doesn’t know quite what to say. “Of course.”
“Did you see that movie? Best in Show ?”
“Yes, I did. It was very funny.”
Oh. My. God. Aren’t we supposed to be talking about me?
“I think that same cast did another one about a movie. They were trying to get an Oscar . . . Oh, now, what’s that movie called?”
For Your Consideration. Shoot me now.
Saundra clears her throat. “Perhaps we can discuss this a little later.”
“Oh yes, of course.” My mom sits next to my dad and pulls her notebook and pen out of her purse, looking at Saundra expectantly.
“As we discussed this morning, the purpose of today’s session is to discuss the extent of Katie’s alcoholism and the way it’s been affecting her life, and yours.”
“So, she is an alcoholic?” my dad says, suddenly serious.
I look down at the floor and place my hands under my thighs to keep myself from launching across the table and strangling Saundra. Even though I know it’s not her fault, I wa
nt to blame her anyway.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Is it only alcohol?” he persists.
Yes, Daddy. Pot, hash, ’shrooms—I heard you. I did what you said.
“Perhaps Katie can answer your questions.”
He turns toward me. I keep my eyes steadily on the carpet pattern. “Yes, Dad. Just alcohol.”
“A lot of alcohol?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does ‘a lot’ mean, dear?” my mom asks, her pen hovering above her notepad.
Why the hell is she taking notes, anyway? Is she really going to have trouble remembering today? Or are they going to become one of her many keepsakes, like my bronzed baby shoes and the teeth I left for the tooth fairy?
“What does it matter?”
“Katie, your family is simply trying to understand the magnitude of your problem. Be patient with them.”
Impossible request.
I stare back at the floor. “Sorry.”
“When did this happen, Katiekins?” my dad asks, using a nickname he hasn’t used since I was thirteen, when I forbade it after he called me that in front of a boy I liked.
“I don’t know. It happened gradually.”
One delicious cocktail at a time, in fact.
I can hear the scratching of my mother’s pen. “Is it because you’re unhappy in the city? Do you find it overwhelming?”
“No.”
“Is it because you don’t have a boyfriend?”
“Marion, honey, that’s enough.”
“Can’t I ask my daughter a few questions?”
“Why don’t we let her tell us what she wants to tell us?”
“But she doesn’t seem to want to tell us anything.”
That’s right. I don’t. I want to scream. I want to stomp my feet. I want this session to be over. Immediately. But I don’t want to tell my parents anything.
Maybe there’s a way to make that happen. Not a nice way, but being nice doesn’t feel like a priority right now.
“Saundra says it’s because Dad let me drink when I was a child,” I say, raising my eyes to catch Saundra’s reaction.
My dad sucks in his breath sharply, and my mom begins to cry, her notes forgotten.
I am a terrible, terrible person.
My parents look at Saundra, waiting for an explanation. And even though I’m miserable, and guilty and sad, I feel a little bit of pleasure as her feet squirm under the table.
“Marion, Topher, what Katie is alluding to is certain discussions we’ve had regarding her early experiences with alcohol, which I believe occurred in family situations. This does not mean, however, that you are to blame for Katie’s alcoholism. In fact, no one is to blame.”
Oh, someone’s to blame all right.
My dad shifts in his seat. “But it’s true, we . . . I . . . let her drink when she was young. Not frequently, but . . .”
“Topher, please believe me when I tell you that there’s no way of knowing whether that made a difference one way or another. In all likelihood, Katie would have developed a drinking problem regardless.”
You’re not getting off that easily, Saundra.
“But you said that the pervading permissiveness in my childhood was one of the reasons I failed to recognize that alcohol was detrimental to me.”
Now my dad looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
I am a terrible, horrible person.
“Topher, Marion, would you mind giving me a moment with Katie, please?”
My dad takes my mom by the elbow, and they both stand up. “Of course not.”
They leave, and Saundra closes the door behind them. I avoid Saundra’s gaze, feeling like a caged animal.
“What’s going on, Katie?”
“I told you I didn’t want them to come here.”
She sits down next to me. “Are you trying to get them to leave?”
Well, duh.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Katie, you’re going to be leaving in a couple of days, and you need a support network so you can begin to repair the holes you’ve created in your life.”
“Don’t you mean the wide, gaping chasms?”
She almost smiles. “I don’t think they’re that wide, or gaping. But I am curious about something. I remember you telling me that your parents were great parents.”
“Yes, they are.”
“So, why are you so angry with them?”
The funny thing is, I didn’t even realize I was angry with them until a few seconds ago. But I am. I’m angry with my dad for not looking surprised when he found out I was in rehab. I’m angry with my mom for trying harder to understand my “disease” than she ever did to accept my career. And I’m angry with my sister for not caring enough to stick it out to lunch. But that’s just my shit, right? I came here, and now they think they have to deal with an alcoholic in the family. I shouldn’t blame them for trying to understand her.
“Bring my parents back in and I’ll explain.”
Saundra opens the door and beckons them. I stare at the patch of gray sky I can see through the high window, not looking at them as they sit back down.
“Katie has something she’d like to say to you both.”
Here goes nothing.
I force myself to look into their sad faces. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry for what I said before.”
“That’s all right, dear, we understand.”
“No, it’s not all right. And it’s not your fault. It’s mine . . .” I search for the right words. For something that has a core of truth that will reassure them. “It’s my fault. I’m here because I made bad choices. And I said those things because I didn’t want you to come here, and I guess I was punishing you. But I wasn’t being fair, and what I said wasn’t true.”
My dad places his hand over mine. “Why didn’t you want us to come here, Katiekins?”
“Because I didn’t want to involve you in this . . .”
This lie, this sham.
“But we’re your family, dear. If you need help, we want to help you.”
“I know, Mom.”
“We love you, Katie.”
“I know, Dad. Thank you for coming. Thank you for wanting to help me. It means a lot.”
My mom wipes a tear away with the corner of her thumb. “Thank you for saying that, dear.”
Saundra is beaming at the three of us. “I think we’re making some real progress here. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” my dad says with a glint in his eye that isn’t related to tears. “But there’s still something I want to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Who was that man in the cafeteria?”
Chapter 19
The Last Thing I Have to Do
In group the next day, Candice raises a hand and announces that she wants to tell us why she tried to kill herself. No surprise that everyone is immediately on the edge of their seats, their faces shouting tell-me-tell-me-tell-me. We’ve reached rock-bottom as far as new stories are concerned. Even Connor’s stories of snorting cocaine off starlets’ asses are starting to wear thin.
The only one we haven’t heard is the one everyone has tried to get out of Candice since she came back from the medical wing with bandages around her wrists.
Saundra looks concerned. “Candice, if you’re not ready . . .”
“No, I want to.”
Oh, thank God. I thought for a moment Saundra was going to talk her out of it.
“Remember, Candice, this is a safe space.” Saundra looks around the room, giving The Director and The Banker a particularly hard stare.
Candice crosses her legs. She’s wearing white lacy socks that disappear into a pair of black ankle boots. In fact, her whole look today is kind of Molly Ringwald circa Pretty in Pink.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I know most of you don’t like me and make fun of me behind my back. The Former Child Star is what you call me, right?”
A shiver runs down my spine. Has she been rea
ding my journal?
She raises her chin. “But that’s not why I did what I did, OK? It wasn’t because of any of you. It was because of me. Do you know that this is the fifth time I’ve been to rehab? I’ve spent two hundred thousand dollars on ‘taking it one day at a time’ and ‘Kumbaya’ and It’s. Not. Working. I don’t feel any different inside. I still want to use whatever I can get my hands on, and I know, when I leave here, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
“So, that’s why I did it. To make the feeling inside go away.” She pounds her chest. Hard. “But I couldn’t even do that right. I’m still here, and nothing’s changed. And I don’t know what to do.” She hangs her head dramatically.
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. And then The Director starts to applaud in a slow, mechanized way.
“Oh, bravo,” he calls. “Well done.”
Mr. Fortune 500 starts to clap too. Pretty soon, half the room is clapping and throwing out wolf whistles. I even hear someone, I think it’s Connor, shout, “Encore!”
Saundra raps her hand on her chair. She looks upset and angry. “Everyone, please! This is completely unacceptable! How can you violate Candice’s trust after everything we’ve worked for . . .” Her voice trails off as she catches sight of Candice.
Because Candice isn’t crying, or upset, or ashamed.
She’s taking a bow.
I lean back in my chair in amazement. Despite being exposed to Amber’s antics over the last four weeks, I didn’t see it coming. I have to give her props, and so I clap along with the rest of them, despite the dirty looks Amber shoots me.
A few moments later, Evan and John appear to break up the disruption. Candice goes quietly. At the door, she blows us a kiss over her shoulder and says, “How do you like me now, bitches?”
“We’ve almost completed your program,” Saundra says near the end of our session on Day Twenty-nine: Letting Go. “Do you feel ready to go home?”
Shit. I’ve been worried someone would tell me to leave before my work here was done.
“But I’m only up to Step Seven.”
“You don’t have to finish all the steps while you’re here. You’ll continue working on them in your AA meetings once you leave.”
“Right.”
Saundra looks like she hopes I’m joking. “Katie, it’s very important that you keep up with meetings once you get home. Thirty in thirty is the minimum we recommend.”
Spin Page 21