by Holly Brown
All that wasted time, with me trying to do what I obviously couldn’t, substituting one denial for another, while Thad’s progressive disease progressed.
Was it then?
I finally told Larry that the plan wasn’t working, that Thad was getting worse. Larry went into research mode, finding the best adolescent treatment facility he could.
Thad began attending intensive outpatient treatment five days a week, where he surprised us all with his seeming compliance and two months of clean urine tests. Then came the overdose, and that awful ambulance ride where I revisited every mistake I’d ever made and prayed for another chance. Thad spent a few hours in the ER, followed by a week in the psychiatric hospital. We were told he might be bipolar, it was hard to make a definitive diagnosis until Thad had been clean for a while.
We said he had been clean for a while, we’d seen the test results; the psychiatrist said that Thad had confessed to his continued use throughout the program. “He was tricking the test,” he said, “maybe using someone else’s urine.”
Someone else’s urine. The words every parent dreams of hearing.
Thad’s confession may or may not have been true, but it got him kicked out of the intensive outpatient treatment program. They told us that his needs exceeded their capacity. Join the club.
We tried three different inpatient rehabs. He never lasted more than six weeks. At the first, he physically attacked another boy while on a meth bender (the rehab didn’t know how he’d gotten the meth). He was ejected from his next rehab after he started a fire while trying to turn cleaning supplies into meth. Then there was the locked facility in Utah where we paid out of pocket and were told he had “incited the other boys to riot.” When Larry hung up, he went silent with rage. Then he finally said, in a voice so caustic I felt burned by it, “So Thad’s got leadership skills that we never suspected.”
Home again.
Was it then?
Thad begged us to let him stay for good. He said that sending him away was only making him worse, and indeed, it did seem so. He now had acne, and open sores, and his teeth were worse from the clenching of his jaw. The dental work cost thousands.
I can’t know if it really was the meth fueling him, if he was that out of control or if those were calculated risks, exit strategies. Larry felt sure that it was the latter. He’d lost his patience with making calls to colleagues, and with Thad’s willful decision to remain an addict. That’s how Larry saw it, no matter how many books I left lying around that said Thad was in the grip of an insidious disease. Larry felt that Thad was choosing to destroy his own life, and ours.
Thad did stay home, because Larry had given up on finding a new placement, and he went back into an outpatient program, one with such low standards that no one could be denied treatment. There were dirty drug tests, and sneaking out, and stealing from us.
Someday, we privately reassured ourselves, he would be eighteen. Then the world would give him his consequences, and he would have to learn, finally. We would no longer be responsible.
He was, after all, still attending his “treatment” program. At least those were three hours each weekday when I knew he wasn’t using.
We told ourselves we’d tried everything. But was it true?
Was it then?
Strangely, Thad was showing up for school and getting good grades. He claimed the meth helped because he was able to stay up all night and study; I didn’t even bother contradicting him anymore. He said that he was going to go to college, and when he did, he’d leave all this behind him, like meth was child’s play. It was a facsimile of opening up to me, and even if he was spewing nonsense, I was happy just to have that much connection with him.
Then I learned that he was dealing drugs. I was crushed. I’d thought he’d confined his problems to our home, but to think that he was leading other kids, other families, down this same path was devastating.
I did something I’m not proud of, something I would certainly never admit to Larry, something that may have planted the seeds for what was to come: I started to give Thad money again. Yes, I knew it would support his habit, but I couldn’t stomach the alternative.
Was it then?
I told myself it could have been much worse. He really was going to school, and he would be accepted to college. His skin had cleared up, and while he was still thin, he wasn’t malnourished. The surliness and the rages had abated. He was a functional addict, and there are plenty who aren’t. He seemed to be keeping it under control. Was it what I wanted for him? Of course not. But it was the best I could do.
Larry had stopped attending family sessions, and he didn’t ask about the results of the drug tests. Once again, Thad was my domain.
I hadn’t given up. I was just trying a different approach. It was one that I wouldn’t talk about at Nar-Anon meetings, and eventually, I stopped attending those altogether. I did reading into the harm reduction approach, and that seemed more attainable than total abstinence. But I knew that Twelve Step was all or nothing, black and white. They’d never approve of what I was embracing, which was the lesser evil. Fighting to put Thad into one more rehab wasn’t going to get him to college. Thousands of people go to rehab and they overdose anyway. Some of them die.
When he was accepted into UC Santa Barbara, perhaps on the strength of a personal essay on overcoming drug addiction, he was obviously excited. He was seeking pleasure in something outside of meth. There was good reason for optimism.
Only he went away and started to binge and tweak and there was the hospitalization for the seizure and another overdose . . . was it then?
Or is it now?
I just told him I’m cutting him off. I didn’t use those words, but that’s what he heard. If I stick with that, it could be what he needs to really get himself together, once and for all. Or this could be the thing that causes him to feel hopeless and use, perhaps in large amounts. He could overdose again, and this time, he might not wake up.
I don’t know which way to go now, same as I didn’t know all those other times. There’s no road map to follow. I try to tell myself that he’s responsible for his own actions, but I also know that meth has stunted his development; it’s short-circuited his brain. He’s stalled at the age he first started using seriously. That means he’s got the judgment and impulse control of a twelve-year-old, if that. And I’ve abandoned him.
Nar-Anon would say that every day is an opportunity. Thad’s still alive, so I did something right. Where there’s life, there’s hope.
I have to believe that.
27
Dawn
I’m so alone, I can’t stand it.
I think about him all the time.
All I do is cry.
I can’t stay here.
Dawn, is your phone working?
Call me soon.
Text me, all right?
Can I see his body again?
You’re not supposed to leave your widowed mother hanging, I know that. But her woe-is-me shit is draining. Yes, she just lost her husband, but I lost my father, too. She hasn’t once asked how I’m doing, or what it means to me.
Not that I want to discuss it with her, or with anyone, but that’s not the point. The point is, my own mother hasn’t asked. Instead, she’s decided to make up for all the years of minimal (and then no) contact with a daily barrage of texts and phone calls, bemoaning her wretched state. Every hour, I text back: I know, Mom. I’m sorry. Despite Rob’s hopeful take, there’s no opportunity for rebuilding a relationship with her, since she still doesn’t seem to realize I exist as a separate person; she only wants someone to look after her, same as always.
Rob thinks I should be doing more. He’s stopped saying it, but I can see it in his eyes. He’s right, I should want to do more. But I want to do less. I want to text back once a day, max, and tell her to pull herself up by her bootstraps and get the job she should have gotten years ago. It was pretty crappy of her not to have worked when she had a husband who couldn’t keep
the family above the poverty line, and a young daughter who couldn’t always be sure there would be food on her plate and a roof over her head. Her failure to step up was a big part of the nightmare that was to follow when I was sixteen. But, as Miranda would say, that’s neither here nor there.
Mom knows she can’t see the body. We’ve been over this. Does Hallmark make a “He wasn’t embalmed” card?
“Dawn, are you here?” Professor Myerson gives me a sympathetic smile. There’s a bit of crust protruding from his nose. We’re sitting closer than I’d like in his office, but that’s because it’s a tiny box. Probably not much bigger than Dad’s casket.
“Sorry. I’m listening. It’s just—my mom is kind of needy these days.”
“That’s understandable. How long were your parents together?”
“A long time.” It’s the last thing I want to talk about. Rob’s been trying to get me to talk about my feelings, and when that doesn’t work, he wants me to empathize with my mom. The harder he tries, the more I want to point out how self-absorbed she is. The buildup of these texts just proves it. If she thinks I’m going to invite her to live with me, after all she’s done—no, all she hasn’t done—over the years, then she hasn’t just lost him, she’s lost it.
You can tell Professor Myerson’s age by how much paper is in this office. There are stacks piled high, nearly tipping, like Leaning Towers of Pisa. I don’t know how he can stand the claustrophobia of the place.
Another ping. “Go ahead,” he says. “Answer her.”
There’s no getting around it. I don’t want Professor Myerson thinking I’m heartless.
I’m in a meeting. Call Aunt Tanya. Go to the grief group.
I found her a grief group that meets through the local hospice. It’s pay-what-you-can-afford, which, in her case, means free.
“What was I saying?” he asks.
You were giving me a canned speech about how many different professions I could pursue with a communications degree. “I think you were talking about how I could go into teaching.”
“Right, right. That’s just one of many avenues. Really, it’s limitless. What do you like doing?”
“I like writing. I’d like to be intellectually stimulated while doing some good in the world. I don’t want to do direct sales or customer service, and nothing where they use the word ‘branding.’ I want to make decent money.”
He screws up his face in concentration, and I realize that the combination might be as elusive as I’d feared. “So nonprofits are out. Sales and marketing jobs are out. No advertising.” He taps his pencil. “This is a tough one, Dawn.”
“I thought you said it was limitless.”
“You’ve narrowed the parameters significantly, that’s all. It can be done. All problems can be solved.”
He gets an incoming call that he seems relieved to take. He steps into the hall, leaving me alone with my qualms and, a second later, with my mother.
I just don’t think I can stay here much longer.
If she’d tried to reenter my life under other circumstances (or best of all, with no particular circumstances, just because she missed me), it would be different. But I can’t hold my arms open to her, not like this.
I wish Rob was her son. He’s just a way better person than I am. Since my dad died, I’m reminded of that all the time. Rob’s responses are the right ones to have; mine are wrong, wrong, wrong. That makes sense, since his life experiences have been pure, and I was corrupted. But I just have to fake my way through and hope he doesn’t find out.
After a while, it dawns on me that Professor Myerson isn’t coming back. I feel a bit spurned, that he didn’t even think to say good-bye, but maybe he had to go to class. He could have finished his call and realized he was late. Or maybe I’m just asking too much of the world, and of him.
I haven’t heard anything from the Oakland or the L.A. Police Departments, so I guess I’m in the clear. A small part of me hopes they show up at my door. Then I can make sure they know just what kind of woman Miranda is. After all, she’s the one who committed a crime.
I debate whether to call the city attorney’s office to follow up on my complaint, but if Miranda found out, could that be construed as harassment?
I won’t contact the city attorney or Miranda again. I don’t need to. There are other ways to get to someone. For one thing, I have her address. And then there’s Thad.
He texted me hours ago, though I have no idea how he got my cell number. All he said was Hey, beautiful.
I start with Twitter; he goes to Facebook. I friend him; now he’s texting on my cell. This is a guy who ups the ante, a real boundary breacher.
I should tell him to lose my number. No, I shouldn’t respond at all.
But no one’s pursued me in so long. It’s been ages since anyone plucked this particular string inside of me. I can feel its twang, all through my body.
What IS a Thad, anyway?
28
Miranda
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“Can I get you anything? Some more tea?” The waitress is young and blond, exuding immense good health if not actual beauty.
She’s caught me rubbing my eyes as I take a break from the reading on my phone. I find a smile for her. “Thank you. More tea would be lovely.”
I’m not a tourist, but I’ve always liked this hotel bar with its deep beige-and-brown-upholstered chairs and the view overlooking the pier. Today, though, I’m preoccupied. Thad hasn’t texted me but he has been tweeting incessantly, nonsensically. He’s using again, I know it.
But I need to ignore my heavy heart and decide what to do with the Santa Monica house. Maybe it’s time to make a radical case to Larry. That house was so good for my parents’ marriage; it might be able to work its magic on ours, too. We’re not broken, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t use a renovation. Larry just turned sixty-one. He could start reducing his hours in anticipation of retirement. We could even split our time between the two houses.
I haven’t heard from Dawn since I sent her that warning from the police. She finally heard me. It’s over. So what happened with her was a blessing in disguise, a wake-up call, an opportunity.
Hi, Mom.
See? Everything’s looking up. My natural optimism has been tested through all the years of Thad’s addiction, but it’s never been extinguished. God doesn’t give you more than you can handle; it’s always darkest just before the—
I’ll have to scratch that expression from my lexicon.
I’m so glad to hear from you, Thad!
The exclamation point was genuine that time.
I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.
He’s using my words against me. My newly buoyant heart plummets again.
I don’t think it’s fair that you just cut me off.
We’ve been over this.
You said your circumstances changed, and the funds dried up. Is that still true?
Now my heart is racing. I could tell him I don’t know; I could say that there might be some money, somewhere. But he’s been using, and I need to stop enabling. I need to hold the line.
Yes, it’s still true.
Does Dad know?
Know what?
That you’re cutting me off.
Larry thinks I cut him off years ago. Thad knows that. This is going nowhere good.
Yes, he knows.
I’m going to text him to confirm.
I
thought the worst he would do was ignore me.
I’m going to tell him what you’re doing to me. That you’ve been paying my rent, and now, when I’m on the verge of something big, you’re screwing me.
He’s using, that’s the only explanation. Otherwise, there’s no way he would make this kind of a threat.
Are you sure your circumstances have changed?
This is Thad, lucid. This is extortion.
My son’s a terrorist. There’s no other word for it, really. I never admitted it before, but he’s been my terrorist for years. Terrorists control through fear; they narrow your life choices; they are merciless.
In this case, he wins. My shoulders sag as I text back:
They might not have changed. What do you want?
Two months of rent and a workspace. Art supplies, too, that’d be good.
Two months, and that’s it. No more.
Two months is all I need. I’ll get that show, and then I’ll be set. Thanks, Mom. You won’t be sorry. You’ll see.
I can’t even manage a response.
I want you to come to the show. It’ll sell out, I know it will, and I’ll fly you out to see it.
Is he lying? Is he deluded? Does he really want me there, or is he trying to put a balm over blackmail? I don’t know what’s just happened. My mind is reeling. He’s a monster, and he might not even know it.
I love you, Mom. We’ll talk soon.
For the first time, I hope not.
29
Dawn
If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?
A fascinating hypothetical, Thaddeus, but the answer will have to wait.
I know where I wouldn’t be, though: dinner with the in-laws.
Even though I call Rob’s parents Mom and Dad, at their insistence, none of us are fooled. Someday I might really feel like a Thiebold, but I’m reminded, every time I see them, that it’s not today.