Spin

by Catherine McKenzie

  “I thought I’d take a shower and then go hand this in to charming Bob. What about you?”

  “Ditto on the shower, plus a nap. Then I thought I’d go to a meeting.”

  “An AA meeting?”

  “Of course. ‘Thirty meetings in thirty days will keep relapses at bay.’ ”

  This was Saundra’s constant refrain during group. Thirty meetings in thirty days to reinforce the lessons learned in rehab and to avoid a relapse. Thirty in thirty. It has a nice, slogan-y ring to it.

  I, of course, haven’t been to a meeting since I left rehab, but I have been from zero to blackout in my first week home. I should learn something from that, right?

  “That’s what they say,” I reply.

  “You want to come with? From what Henry told me, it sounds like you could use one.”

  What I could really use is a few days without any more thoughts of Henry.

  “Maybe. Where is it?”

  “At the Y on Pearson.”

  “Fancy.”

  “It’s not about where you are . . .”

  “But who you’re with,” I finish. “What time’s the meeting?”

  “At three.”

  “OK, I’ll try to make it.”

  “You really should come, Katie.”

  I give her a puzzled look. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, grasshopper.”

  “Did you learn that in a movie?”

  “An episode of Roseanne, actually.”

  I start to laugh, and it feels so good I give in to it. Amber joins in, and we laugh and laugh until we have tears running down our faces.

  Joanne pokes her head in the door. “What’s so funny? Come on, guys. Let me in on the joke. Guys . . .”

  Chapter 26

  Apologies

  I’m sitting in Bob’s office, watching him read through the article, a red pencil in his hand. As he reads, he makes small tick marks and occasionally draws a line through a few words. Mostly, he taps the pencil against the side of his desk while muttering to himself.

  After what feels like a long time, he reaches the end and gives me a smile tinged with his trademark evil glint.

  “Well done, Kate.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am, a little, given our previous conversation.”

  “We had a deal.”

  He laces his hands on his desk over the article. “Yes, we did. Welcome to the team.”

  My heart starts to race. “I’ve got the job?”

  “Yes, The Line will be lucky to have you. Though, are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to work at Gossip Central? You seem to be a natural.”

  Remain calm, Katie. Taking him by the throat will erase everything you’ve worked for.

  “No, thanks.”

  He smirks. “That’s not I’m-too-good-to-work-here that I hear in your tone, is it?”

  I try my hardest to copy an expression I’ve seen on Amber’s face when she’s trying to be charming. “Of course not, Bob.” My eyes meet his. I focus on all I’ve been through to get to this moment.

  “All right, then,” he says slowly. “Report to Elizabeth on Monday.”

  I stand to leave before he changes his mind. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”

  I wait until I’ve left the building to let myself celebrate. Surrounded by strangers on the busy sidewalk, I let out a whoop of joy and pump my fist in the air.

  This is happening, it’s really happening.

  So why doesn’t it feel better than this?

  I should be calling everyone I know, happier than I’ve ever been, but instead, all I feel is that there’s something else I’m supposed to be doing, some place I ought to be.

  Thirty in thirty. Can that really be the answer?

  Will it kill me to find out?

  I make it to the Y right before the meeting is supposed to start, and follow the signs and the smell of cheap coffee to a meeting room in the basement. Behind a door with a paper sign that reads ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS MEETING, I find twenty men and women of all ages sitting on folding chairs facing a lectern. A man in his mid-forties is leading the meeting. He has a rumpled, absent-minded-professor look about him, complete with a corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a scraggly beard.

  I search the room for Amber. She’s wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt, with the hood up over her head. I take a seat next to her.

  “How did it go?” she whispers.

  “It’ll be out on Monday,” I whisper back.

  A girl in her late teens in the row in front of us is staring at Amber over her shoulder, trying to place her. She has jet-black hair and three rings through her left eyebrow.

  Amber fiddles with the rim of her coffee cup. “Oh good.”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “Every other minute, but it’s out of my hands now.”

  The Professor finishes the preliminaries and calls on the first speaker. A beautiful woman in a tailored business suit takes the podium and introduces herself. I’m surprised to see it’s Amy, looking healthy and anxious.

  She coughs nervously. “Hi, everyone, my name is Amy, and I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”

  “Hi, Amy!”

  I give her a little wave, which she returns with a smile. Her eyes slip toward Amber and her smile falters.

  Amy raises her hand. A round disk on a chain hangs from her finger. “Um, I’m here because I’m sixty days sober today.”

  Several people clap enthusiastically.

  “Thanks, but until I reach ninety, I’m still just counting days, like all of you. I was talking to Jim before the meeting started . . . Jim, I hope you don’t mind . . .” She nods toward an older man who looks like he might live on the street. He nods his bald head in encouragement. “Thanks, Jim. Anyway, he doesn’t have much, a lot less than most of us, but he found the courage to show up today instead of taking a drink. And if he can do that, than I can too, and so can you. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  She walks off the podium and we all clap. Amy flushes with pleasure as she sits in her chair in the front row.

  The Professor thanks her and calls on the next speaker, a good-looking guy in his mid-thirties who’s had a relapse and has been sober for five hours. He wants to make it till tomorrow. The next speaker is there for her fifth anniversary. She holds her five-year chip tightly in her manicured hand, like it might get stolen if she’s careless with it.

  As I listen, I wonder what it is about talking to strangers that makes it easier to go through a day without drinking. Because sitting here, knowing I might be expected to share something personal, makes me long for a drink, just like it did in rehab. So, if coming here day after day, doing my thirty in thirty, is going to make me want to drink, what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to move past any of this?

  At the end of the hour, we stand, clasp hands, and say the Serenity Prayer. And for the first time, I feel some comfort in the familiar words, from the rote repetition of a hope we all share. “Living one day at a time; / Enjoying one moment at a time; / Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace.”

  When the meeting breaks up, I say goodbye to Amber and cross the room to greet Amy. We hug hello.

  “Well, I see you made it out in one piece,” she says, holding me away from her.

  “I guess.”

  “You look better, Katie. Healthier.”

  “I ran for twenty-five minutes yesterday.”

  “Hey, hey, hey. I told you you could do it.”

  We walk up the stairs and out into the late afternoon. The honking cars and exhaust fumes shatter some of the peace I found in the basement.

  “So . . . you came to the meeting with Amber?”

  “That’s at least a two-coffee story.”

  She looks curious, but undecided. “Well . . . I should get back to work . . .”

  “Some other time then. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

&nbs
p; “You know what? The bigwigs are all out at some corporate golf event, so let’s coffee up.”

  We walk to the nearest coffee shop and settle in with some expensive coffees. Two cups later, I’ve spilled my guts with the requisite number of gasps and wide eyes from Amy.

  She stirs the dregs in her cup. “Sounds like you’ve had a pretty wild couple of days.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this, anyway?”

  “I guess I’m . . . making amends.”

  She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to apologize to me, Katie.”

  “Yes, I do. You were a real friend to me in rehab, and I wasn’t honest with you.”

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  We walk toward the door of the coffee shop.

  “So, what are you going to do now?” she asks.

  “Go home and sleep for as long as I can before I start my dream job.” I put my hand on the door to open it, but something stops me. “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

  “I hope so, Katie.”

  Sunday night to Monday morning I wake on the hour, every hour. The red numbers on my clock radio angrily announce the time. 1:00! 2:00! 3:00! Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. Try to sleep if you can.

  At 6:00 (!) I give up and stumble out of bed. Mindful (for once) of Joanne, I walk quietly to the kitchen and start the coffee brewing. A double whammy day—I’m definitely going to need extra caffeine.

  After a run, two mega mugs of coffee, a healthy breakfast, a shower, and a long struggle with my closet to find the perfect first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life outfit (I am so putting way too much pressure on this day), I leave the apartment with enough time to walk to The Line’s offices, so I don’t have to suffer through the stress of being stuck in traffic or underground if the subway breaks down. Nothing, nothing, will make me late today.

  OK, nothing except . . .

  Four blocks from my destination I pass a magazine stand, and there it is, half visible through the heavy-duty plastic wrapping: a stack of this week’s edition of Gossip Central containing an article by none other than me. I shuffle the stack around so I can get a better look. There’s a party, party, party shot of Amber on the cover, and the headline reads: “INSIDE REHAB WITH CAMBER!”

  So much for five days of struggling over the perfect title.

  I look at the magazine stand. It’s tightly shuttered, and the owner’s nowhere in sight. Goddamnit! What time does it open? I peer at the sign. Nine. Of course. Nine is when I need to be five blocks down and twenty-nine floors up. Damn you, universe!

  But maybe I could just take one? I bet I could use my keys to rip that plastic . . .

  No, no, no! I will not start the first day of the rest of my life stealing. Again.

  Though . . . I could leave some money, and then it wouldn’t be stealing, right? But what if other people take copies and don’t leave any money? Then maybe I didn’t steal, but I created a situation that invites other people to steal, and that’s almost as bad, isn’t it?

  Hello, idiot! You’ve got twenty minutes to get to TFDOTROYL. Forget the magazine. You’ll have plenty of time to read it later. In fact, you’ve already lived it. Get a move on!

  I walk away from the magazine stand with a pang of regret but with purpose. I reach The Line’s modern waiting room with eight minutes to spare and stroll confidently up to the purple-haired, nose-ringed receptionist.

  “Kate Sandford, reporting for duty.”

  “Huh?”

  That line didn’t work for John Kerry either. Let’s try this again.

  “My name’s Kate. It’s my first day.”

  “It is?”

  Oh my God! Was it all a joke? Was Bob just fucking with me this whole time?

  I give it one last try before I run from the building in a total panic.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting Elizabeth at nine.”

  Her face clears. “Oh, right. She mentioned something. I’ll call her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You can take a seat over there.”

  I sit nervously on the couch, eyeing the magazines on the coffee table. There’s a copy of last week’s Gossip Central, but what good is that?

  “Kate? Good to see you again?” Elizabeth says a few minutes later. She’s wearing a skin-tight pair of dark jeans that taper to the ankle and a pink tank top.

  Classy and up-talking as always.

  I rise and shake her hand. “Thanks, Elizabeth. You too.”

  “Great? Follow me?”

  She takes me to a wing of the office where there’s a long row of cubicles that reminds me of the gossip call center below us. She stops in front of an empty cubicle across from a large, glassed-in office.

  “So, this will be your office?”

  I look at the nondescript fabric dividers. There are a few stray pushpins stuck into the fabric, a fancy phone, and a desk chair.

  “Perfect.”

  “Are you ready to get started?”

  Sure, only . . . once again I’m here for a job, and I don’t even know what it is. I guess that’s still me. Leap before I look.

  “Um, so what will I be doing, exactly?”

  “You’ll be covering small local bands for now? Reporting to me? But we’ll get into more at the story meeting? At eleven?”

  “OK, great.”

  “It’ll be in the Nashville Skyline room? You remember?”

  Will I ever be allowed to forget?

  “Yes. And I’m really sorry about that.”

  She shows me her teeth. “No problem? I believe in bygones, you know?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why don’t you settle in? Oh, and I have something for you?” She walks into her office, picks something up off her desk, and walks it back to me. “I thought you’d like to read this?”

  I take this week’s Gossip Central from her almost reverently. So much of my life seems bound up in these glossy, gossipy pages.

  She goes into her office, and I sit down at my desk to read my article. It’s a twelve-page spread, full of lurid pictures of Amber and Connor. At the front of it all is my name. Reporting and story by Kate Sandford. That’s me, that’s me.

  My phone beeps. It’s a text from Amber.

  Read it. It’s perfect.

  Thx.

  Phone is ringing off the hook.

  RU going 2 answer?

  Thinking about it.

  Good luck.

  CU @ the meeting later?

  Thinking about it.

  30 in 30.

  Yes, Saundra.

  #*#!!

  Two more texts come in, one from Greer and one from Scott, both congratulating me. I text them back a thank-you as my desk phone rings. I stare at it. Can that be for me? I haven’t given anyone this number. I don’t even know the number.

  “Hello?”

  It’s the receptionist. “I have John Macintosh for you.”

  “OK.” The phone clicks. “Hello?”

  “This is John Macintosh from FYI magazine,” says a medium deep voice with a slight Southern twang.

  “Yes?”

  “Connor Parks is saying that everything you wrote about him in your article is untrue. Do you have any comment?”

  “He’s saying what?”

  “That you’ve fabricated the entire story. At least as it relates to him. He did confirm what you wrote about Amber, and a lot more besides.”

  I’ll bet he did, the fucking asshole.

  “So, do you have any comment?”

  I look down at the picture of Amber passed out at Connor’s feet. “I stand by everything I wrote.”

  “And do you have anything to say to Connor’s accusations?”

  “No, I have nothing to say to him at all.”

  “Any regrets about going undercover to get the story in the first place?”

  Oh, I have regrets, but I’m not going to talk about them with you
.

  “No comment.”

  “Have you spoken to Amber since the article came out?”

  “No comment.”

  “Do you know anything about her going missing last week?”

  “No comment.”

  He makes a disappointed sound in his throat. “All right. Thank you, Ms. Sandford.”

  I hang up, and my phone rings again. This time it’s someone from OK. Then People, Us, and a few British tabloids I’ve never even heard of. I say the same thing over and over. No, I don’t have any comment. No, I won’t be giving any interviews. No, I can’t reveal my sources.

  In between the tabloid calls, I get a call from my mother. She read the article online, and she has a few questions. Yesterday, I plucked up my courage and called my parents to tell them the whole story. They took it pretty well, considering.

  “Does that mean you didn’t need to be in rehab?” my dad asked, talking to me on the staticky cordless phone I’ve been trying to get them to replace for years.

  “I’m not sure, Dad. I think maybe I did, but I’m still trying to work that out.”

  “I think it was a good thing, dear,” my mom said from the phone that hangs on the wall in the kitchen where I used to talk to Rory for hours.

  “I thought I’d come home next weekend, if you’d like,” I say to my mom after I explain what “K” is, and how you use meth. The Rehab Education of Kate Sandford.

  “We’d like that very much.”

  I twine the cord around my fingers. “You could invite Chrissie for dinner too, maybe?”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll make your favorite lasagna.”

  “That’s Chrissie’s favorite dish, Mom, not mine.”

  “Is it, now?”

  When the phone finally stops ringing, I have half an hour until my first story meeting. At The Line! Oh. My. God. And all I had to do was sell half my soul to get it.

  No sweat.

  I start making a list of ideas that will hopefully impress my new colleagues but end up with a list of the people I need to apologize to: Mom, Dad, Chrissie, Rory, Greer, Scott, Amber, Amy, Zack, Joanne, Saundra, Henry, myself.

  Myself.

  Myself.

  Myself.

  “Are you ready for the meeting?” Elizabeth asks, coming out of her office a few minutes before eleven.