Party Girl

by Anna David

  And then, just as suddenly as I’d felt alert, I become incredibly exhausted. I feel the way I would if I were watching a movie late at night and really wanted to see what was going to happen next but had to surrender to fatigue, all the while knowing that I was never going to find out how the movie ended.

  Later that day, Mom and Dad show up with a man who seems to be about Mom’s height (five feet) and introduces himself as Dr. Ronald Rand. By this time, not only am I fully conscious and moving around the room, but I’ve also been briefed on the recent turn of events, and they’re neither pretty nor surprising. Essentially, after I passed out for the final time by the Dumpsters, one of the valet parkers called the paramedics and they came and brought me here to Cedars, where I had a file, thanks to my Cedars gyno. When Mom got the your-daughter-O.D.’d call, she got in touch with Dad and this height-challenged shrink, and brought the two of them down from San Francisco to help save me.

  “Mom, can I talk to you alone, please?” I ask as soon as the three of them turn up in my room. I feel overwhelmed by the triumvirate and a little like I’m being ganged up on as I fall back into bed and pull the covers around me. Mom looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen her and she seems to be looking at me quizzically, like she’s trying to reconcile the concept she has of “daughter” with the one she has for “girl who overdosed on drugs.” She glances at Dad and Dr. Rand, and says, “I think I’d like Ronald to stay.”

  So Dad leaves the room and I sit up in bed. Dr. Rand clears his throat.

  “Why don’t I explain why I’m here,” he says and I nod. “Well, my work typically involves helping parents whose kids have joined certain religious groups, or cults.”

  “You’re a deprogrammer?” I ask. This guy I met at a party once told me that his parents sent him to one after he decided he didn’t want to be a Scientologist anymore.

  “Technically, I’m a behavioral psychologist,” says Dr. Ronald Rand, “but I have been quite successful at reuniting children who have been lost with their parents.”

  “But I didn’t join a cult,” I say. “I’d never join a cult. I just had a bad night because I took too many drugs.”

  I can’t look at Mom when I say the word “drugs,” even though I know that she knows I do them. A few years ago, I met my mom and stepdad in Paris when they were doing a house trade with a Parisian family at Christmas for a month, and I managed to infiltrate the sleazy underbelly of Parisian party life rather easily. The coke in Paris was so pure that I regularly returned home from a night out just as my mom and stepdad were going out sightseeing for the day. But we sort of operated under the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.

  Dr. Rand looks thrilled that he’s been able to extract the word “drugs” from me. “Drugs!” he shrieks excitedly. “Yes, drugs!” He glances at my mom like he thinks she should be handing him a medal and then gazes at me. “I understand you like to do a toot now and then.”

  “A toot?” I ask. Who the hell was this Dr. Ronald Rand, and why on earth had Mom thought he might be the right person to talk to me about drugs? “Is that, like, a line?”

  “A toot, a line, powder,” he says, trying to appear casually hip.

  “Look,” I say, glancing down. “I like doing coke; I like it a lot.” I hear Mom gasp, even though she’d told me years ago that our former handyman had given her coke once and she’d spent the entire night vacuuming every rug in the house. As soon as the confession is out of my mouth, though, I feel oddly relieved. “But still, what happened last night was a mistake. I thought I was doing coke, but it turned out to be something else.”

  Dr. Rand nods compassionately and for the first time since I set eyes on him, I sort of like him. He sits down on my hospital bed and gazes at me kindly. “Do you want to stop doing coke?” he asks.

  I know what he’s really asking me is if I want to get sober but he’s just too much of a wuss to phrase it like that. A couple of the guys at my high school got sober when they were busted smoking pot at one of their soccer games, and I’ve known a few sober people over the years, but the truth is, I haven’t ever understood how those folks worked. They probably go to, like, the theater all the time or sew group quilts or do something to replace going to parties and socializing, but I just can’t see myself as Suzy Sober Girl.

  “I can’t imagine what I’d do for fun if I was sober,” I say.

  “My guess is that you’d find all kinds of new ways to have fun,” Dr. Rand says. I look at Mom, who nods.

  “But I don’t want new ways. I like the old ways just fine,” I say as I fall back into my pillows.

  “Amelia,” Dr. Rand says, finally sounding firm, “with all due respect, I don’t think those ‘old ways’ are working for you anymore.”

  At first, I want to lash out and attack him, but instead I just lie there and think about what he’s saying. I consider how horribly jittery I’ve been feeling since I started doing coke all the time, those suicidal feelings that plague me the day after I do it and the day after that—feelings that can only be dulled with more coke—and all the paranoia. I realize that I can’t imagine my life with coke and I can’t imagine it without. And I’m not going to kill myself, so what are my options? Being sober would surely suck, I decide, but it might be better than dying. Armed with that conclusion, I nod. Dr. Rand pats my mom, who now looks a little teary, on the back.

  “We’ve picked out a local rehab for you,” he says. “Why don’t I bring your dad back in?”

  “Whoa,” I say, more alarmed by the mention of Dad than I am by the thought of rehab. “My dad just doesn’t understand me,” I say. “He scares me and he makes me feel uncomfortable and guilty and he’s always criticizing and he makes me feel bad about money, and—”

  “He also loves you very much,” says Dr. Rand. “Did you ever think that he only says what he says and does what he does out of love and wanting you to have and be the best you can?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Do this,” Dr. Rand says. “Picture a movie theater—one of those multiplexes with ten different movies playing at the same time. Now picture you and your dad, walking in the front door together. But you go into one theater and your dad goes into another. You leave at the same time and maybe your movie was terrible but your dad just loved the one he saw and you can’t seem to understand how he felt that way because you thought he was in the same theater you were, watching the piece of doodoo you’d seen. Why don’t you look at what you and your dad have experienced that way—like you were two people going through the same thing but watching completely different movies?”

  Maybe my drug-addled brain is exhausted or I’m just feeling too weak to fight much longer, but something about Dr. Rand’s ridiculous movie theater analogy works for me. It occurs to me that my dad isn’t always trying to be awful but just doesn’t know exactly how to handle me. I give Dr. Rand a half-smile.

  “Your dad would like to pay for rehab,” continues Dr. Rand. “And, after considering several options, he thinks the best place for you would be Pledges.”

  And that’s where he gets me. Everyone knows that Pledges is the Four Seasons of rehabs and anyone who’s even casually perused Absolutely Fabulous or any of the other weekly magazines is familiar with the fact that every celebrity with a well-publicized drug problem has gone there. I’ve seen pictures of its multiple pools, exercise rooms, and even horse stables. It would probably be, I think, the ideal place to get a little pampering while they teach me how to stop wanting to do coke.

  Dad steps in the room, smiling, and I suddenly feel incredibly grateful for both him and Mom—the fact that they flew down here and still love me, despite what a fuck-up I am.

  Mom, who’s been silent for probably longer than she has in her entire life, asks, “Now, do you have anything you need taken care of? The cats—why don’t I take them until you’re back on your feet again?”

  I think of my apartment and its piles of clothing and gray paint everywhere. I nod. “My place is a disas
ter.”

  Mom nods and says, “After this is all over, maybe you’ll want to move back home?” This is always Mom’s angle. I think she’d be thrilled if I still lived in my old bedroom. But for once, this doesn’t bug me; I feel oddly grateful for the fact that she still wants me near her, even though I have no intention of moving back north.

  Dad says, “I don’t want you worrying about money for the time being—just concentrate on getting well.”

  And then Mom and Dad lean in to hug me. And, I kid you not, Dr. Ronald Rand throws one arm around Mom, one arm around Dad, and presses his face into our hug like we’re all one big, happy family.

  13

  When we pull up at Pledges, I marvel over what a fantastic job the rehab has done of making it look casual and rustic. This place, with its threadbare living room, smoking patio littered with overflowing ashtrays, sad-looking “therapy” room, and broken basketball net, looks more like the camp I went to in Yosemite—plus about twenty years of wear and tear—than a rehab to the stars. And I decide I like the fact that they make an effort to downplay all the luxury—I’d hate if it was ostentatious, like a cruise ship, and I might feel intimidated if there were a bunch of movie stars with perfect bodies lounging by a pool.

  A smiling forty-something guy bounces into the entry room and introduces himself as Tommy, adding that he’s going to be my counselor. I wonder how such assignments are made. Does an efficient receptionist examine my facts and go, “Hmmm…magazine journalist, coke problem, serious smoker—this one’s for Tommy”? But something about Tommy makes me feel immediately safe, so I decide to like him even though I already resent his cheerfulness.

  “Have you been in before?” he asks me as I pick at a cuticle that is already bloodied from the abuse I’ve been giving it since checking out of the hospital.

  “In?” I ask. Looking around, I ask, “In this room, you mean?”

  Tommy bursts into a huge laugh. “Ah, I love newcomers,” he says.

  A few derelict types wander into the room: a Mexican guy wearing a T-shirt that reads, “Need your plumbing fixed?” and a nervous-seeming balding man who would look right at home sitting at a bus stop clutching a drink inside a brown paper bag.

  “Joel, Stan, come meet Amelia,” Tommy bellows. He pronounces the name “Joel” with an “H” so it sounds like Hoel.

  Stan shuffles over while staring at the ground and Joel fixes me with a lascivious leer. Even though I’m fairly horrified by my soon-to-be rehab-mates, I know I’m going to have to make friends around here, so I smile and reach my hand out to Joel to shake. Stan is staring at the ground with his arms by his side, so I leave him alone.

  “Welcome,” Joel says, ignoring my hand and throwing his fleshy, sweaty arms around me, pulling me into him so that his B.O. is basically permanently embedded in my nostrils. I’m positive that Tommy is going to yank me away from this disgusting man and tell him to stop sexually harassing the women around here, but when I gaze out at Tommy’s face from under Joel’s armpit, he’s smiling as if Joel and I are the cutest couple he’s ever seen.

  As I extricate myself from Joel’s grasp, Tommy smiles at me. “Oh, Amelia,” he says. “Soon enough, you’re going to learn how to accept love.”

  I give Tommy the evil eye but he’s obviously going blind or something because he continues to look at me with this huge grin. Mom is glancing around the place like she thinks someone might run up and snatch her purse—something that at this point actually seems like a somewhat reasonable fear.

  “So, Tommy,” she says in a super uncomfortable-sounding voice. “We have to be getting to the airport soon so we don’t miss our flight.”

  “Yes, yes,” Tommy says, looking from me to my mom. “She’s in safe hands, don’t you worry.” He glances at his watch. “Group starts in about five minutes, so if you all want to say good-bye, I can take Amelia over there and she can unpack later.”

  Mom hugs me and Dad gets tears in his eyes, but I can’t deal with their emotions right now because I have too many questions. Group what? Group isn’t a noun, it describes a noun, and I want to lecture Tommy about how he left off the second part of what I’m about to have to go do and how he should be more accurate when he’s describing something that sounds absolutely terrifying, but Dad envelopes me in a hug before I have a chance to say a word.

  “Bye Amelia,” Mom says. “Please be good.” I hug her and realize she’s shaking. It dawns on me how disappointing it must be to have carried someone in your womb for nine months and put up with a whole slew of fights and hassles, only to drop her off at a torn-down-looking rehab with guys like Joel and Stan as playmates, and for a split second I think I’m going to collapse in shame-filled sobs. But I step away from her and stand up straight.

  “I will be good, Mom,” I say. “I promise.”

  Dad puts his arm around Mom and starts to lead her toward the front door. Then they turn back to wave, and I feel myself tearing up. Apparently, on my first day of kindergarten, when my mom tried to drop me off, I simply wouldn’t let go of her hand. The teacher, Sue, eventually had to literally pry my hand away from Mom’s and I cried inconsolably. Supposedly I was fine by later that day, but transitional moments have never been easy for me.

  I wave at their retreating backs, and just as Mom turns around to blow me a kiss, Joel throws one of his bulking hands on my right shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. and Mrs. Amelia!” he calls. “I’ll keep her good!”

  “Group” is apparently short for “group therapy,” and this kind of group therapy involves each of us stating our first name followed by the word “alcoholic,” just like in that ridiculously dull Faye Dunaway movie that always seems to be on the Independent Film Channel. Then Tommy calls on people to “share”—and sharing seems to mean talking about how much we miss “using.” Using seems to refer to anything—drinking, shooting heroin, taking pain pills, whatever. I’m figuring all this stuff out, and feeling like I really may need to talk to the head of Pledges about this bizarre habit they seem to have of leaving off the second part of words—“It should be using alcohol or using drugs, not just the word ‘using’ without having it refer to anything,” I can picture myself explaining—but the problem is that I’m feeling somewhat frozen into muteness. When I was younger, I was considered shy. I don’t remember feeling shy as much as I remember being described as shy, and how much I hated it. I wanted to be gregarious and confident and outgoing even before I knew what those words meant. And when our family went on a cruise to Alaska when I was ten and I befriended a Southern girl named Amy, who everyone called “effervescent,” I decided that was the personality I wanted to adopt. According to Mom, I changed literally overnight, and she suddenly had a loud extrovert for a daughter instead of the diffident girl who clutched her mother’s hand in quaking fear. Occasionally, shy Amelia creeps back up—especially when I’m around new people—and I have to say, that’s one of the reasons I liked drinking and drugs so much: they made me able to access my effervescent side at all times. Just as I’m thinking about this, and about how horribly traumatized I’m going to be if they make me “share” in this “group,” Tommy turns to me.

  “Guys, this is Amelia,” he says, and suddenly, horrifyingly, they’re all looking at me like I’m cocaine and they’ve been waiting for the dealer for hours. In addition to Stan and Joel, there are a couple of older men in brown sweaters, an overly tan blonde girl, an extremely gay black guy, and exactly one superhot specimen—brown hair, blue eyes, Abercrombie-type clothes—sitting in the corner. For his sake, I flash what I hope is a winning smile.

  “Want to introduce yourself to the group, Amelia?” Tommy asks, even though that’s what he just did.

  “Oh, sure,” I say, pretending that my heart isn’t racing. “I’m thirty years old, and work, or at least until recently worked, at Absolutely Fabulous magazine.” The gay-looking guy titters, but I ignore him as I gaze straight at Tommy. “Um, what else should I say?”

  “Am
elia, this is probably the one place in L.A. where we don’t care about how old you are and what you do,” Tommy says. The gay guy and Blondie laugh. “Just tell us about your disease.”

  I’m humiliated for having answered incorrectly and immediately indignant. Clearly, these people—Joel and gay titterer and Blondie and even hot guy in the corner—weren’t holding down jobs, or if they were, they obviously weren’t very demanding or fabulous. And while it’s true that I’m not currently reporting to work anywhere either, these people look like they hadn’t been employed, like, ever. Where the hell are the celebrities and high-level producers? That was the group I needed to be in.

  “Amelia,” Tommy says, and I realize everyone’s still looking at me. “Your disease?”

  Oh, yeah. My disease. When I read through the Pledges literature Dr. Ronald Rand gave me at the hospital, I noticed that they made a big thing about how I had a disease as real as cancer or Parkinson’s but my disease—alcoholism—was centered in the mind.

  “See, that’s the thing,” I say, glancing around to catch different people’s eyes as a painfully obvious sympathy ploy. “I really have—had—a problem with cocaine. I mean, I really love coke. When I have it, I can’t seem to stop using until it’s all gone.” I pause, waiting for someone to congratulate me on my quick ability to use one of their ridiculous vocab words in a sentence, not to mention my obvious awareness of and honesty about my drug problem, but nobody says a word.

  “When it comes to alcohol, though, I can take it or leave it,” I continue. “It usually just gives me a headache or makes me feel achy. I definitely don’t have a problem with it.” I give Tommy a decidedly un-alcoholic smile.

  “So, you don’t drink at all?” Tommy asks with what I can swear is a look of bemusement.