by David Wind
“And now?” Lowenstein asked.
“And now I’m here. I’ve been in four different rehabs, been in juvi twice and jail three times. After the last one, I came out clean. That was three months ago. I went from jail to my parents’, and the second night I was there, I stole a hundred dollars from my father’s wallet and went out in search of heroin. I found it, bought it, and came home. I sat in my bathroom for two hours, staring at the packet of white powder, and my tools. I wanted to do it. I wanted the release, the escape from what my life had become, I needed to run away and hide. I needed to feel good again. I hated my life, hated everyone around me and more than anything else, I wanted to forget how I screwed up my life.”
Samuel wiped a hand across his eyes. “I sat on the toilet seat, staring at the heroin, with every nerve in my body screaming for it, begging me to take it, I stood up, lifted the toilet seat, and threw the white shit into the toilet. Then I went into my parents’ room, woke them, and told them what had happened.”
“That was very brave,” the man next to John admired, his voice low and thick with emotion.
“I don’t know if it was brave, all I knew was that I had ruined my life, and needed to find some way back. When I woke my parents, and told them what I’d done, my father asked one question: ‘What are you willing to do to stop?’
“I told him I would do anything. The next morning, he drove me here, but he didn’t get out of the car. He looked at me, and there were tears on his cheeks. Before I could speak, he reached across, grabbed my shoulder, squeezed, and said, ‘Only you can do what is necessary, and you need to do this by yourself. Call us whenever you want, and when you are ready, I will be back for you. Now, go!’”
“That was five weeks ago. It’s been eleven months now, since I’ve gotten high. Yet, there isn’t a morning that I wake up and don’t find myself wanting it. Right this minute, I still feel it, the need, and the want...the knowledge of the places it will take me.”
John stared at him. He understood what Samuel felt every morning, understood it so completely it scared him. “What...” he started to say, then stopped.
Lowenstein turned to John. “Go on, John.”
John looked from her to Samuel. “What do you do? How do you get through the day always wanting it?”
Samuel met John’s gaze openly. “I know from going through rehab so much, that the want will probably never leave me. It will get less, but I know it will always be there. That’s why I’m an addict. But, a week ago, I realized that as much as I wanted to get high—I didn’t need to get high, I only wanted to. It may seem like I’m playing with words, but I’m not. Reaching this point, this comprehension of my desire for escape, was a strange experience, but it made me understand myself better. You see, the difference...at least for me...came when I finally recognized the difference between need and want. The drugs made me want them, and once I used them, the drugs made me want them again. If I didn’t take them, the ‘want’ became an unbearable and desperate need to have them.”
He paused for a breath. “But, and this was the lesson, If I don’t give in to the want. If I don’t use the drugs, then I won’t need them.”
“It’s that easy?” John asked.
Samuel stared at him, his eyes, greenish brown, widened and John could almost see himself in them. “Easy? My man, if you think that, youse is setting yourself up to fail. I’m twenty-three. I look like I’m forty. Drugs and life on the street did that to me. Every day is a fight to not go back. Easy?” He shook his head slowly, his eyes turning from challenge to pity. “The only easy thing is to go back to not existing.”
“Thank you, Samuel,” the psychiatrist said suddenly. “John, would you like to tell us a little about yourself? Please share whatever you are comfortable with.”
It took a few seconds for her words to push Samuel’s words aside. When he realized everyone in the circle was staring at him, he took a deep breath. His heart began to race; he closed his eyes and took several long and deep breaths, and willed himself not to panic.
Exhaling, he opened his eyes and stared directly at Lowenstein. “My wife died of cancer two years ago. I spent the year before trying to save her life. We had done everything, gone everywhere, spent every penny we had saved and borrowed on new treatments and experimental treatments. But she died anyway. I was without a wife, a job, and so deep in debt that there was no way I could possibly get out. I’m an accountant, and having been...let go...from my job meant starting again at the bottom.”
He shook his head slowly while he tried to gather his thoughts into something cohesive. “I owed American Express over half a million dollars. I had mortgaged my house for every penny of equity, and I couldn’t pay the four thousand dollars a month mortgage payment. Three months after she died...Claire died, I was homeless.”
“I walked out of my house and never looked back. I had enough money to keep myself in booze for several weeks. After that, panhandling got me the gin, and when I had an extra five, a bed in a flophouse.”
“What was your drug of choice?” asked the man next to him.
John gave him a lopsided grin. “Gin. Lots of gin.”
The patient returned the grin. “Cheaper than the White Lady.”
John shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
“What else would you like to share?” Lowenstein asked.
John shrugged. “Nothing. Right now, I just want a drink.”
Lowenstein scanned every face in the room. “How many of you want a drink, or a fix?”
Every hand in the room went up, including Dr. Tarele.
“If I offered whatever drug or drink you wanted, who would take it? Be truthful.”
John’s hand went up. So did four others.
“Thank you for your honesty. We have time for one more. Who will it be?”
The man to Lowenstein’s left cleared his throat. “My name is Damien Williams, I’m an alcoholic...”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
December, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
John watched the snow fall. It was a pretty sight, the clean white snow covering the brownish winter grass.
“You always loved the snow.”
“You did too.”
Claire nodded.
“I miss you terribly,” he whispered.
“I know, but if you love me, you have to do what Doctor Lowenstein tells you.”
“I don’t want to lose you again.”
“You can’t, John, you can’t lose me because I’m part of you. I exist in your mind, in your memories, and especially in your heart.”
“But to not see you—not talk to you anymore. I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Do you want a drink right now?” When John shook his head, Claire said, “That’s good. You’re becoming stronger.”
“Because of you.”
“No, John; it’s because of you, and you know the truth of it. Talk to her, tell her your doubts. Listen to what she says. I will back you all the way.”
“But you’re me, aren’t you? My fantasy of you, my need of you not to be dead.”
“I can’t answer that. Only you can.”
“I know, but I can’t let you go either. I won’t!”
<><><>
Mid-January, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
“We’ve talked about this for several weeks, and each time you say you’ll do what is necessary; yet, you don’t. It is time for you to tell me if you are going to do what you say.”
John’s throat tightened. He swallowed several times, concentrating on keeping himself calm. “I’m trying.”
“There is much I can say about that. I could draw parallels, point out great quotes, but all the psychological tricks I can pull out of my hat are pointless at this stage of our relationship. It has to come from you, John. You’re the only one who can do this.”
“You’re asking me to say goodbye to her forever.”
“We’ve talked about this before, as well. It’s time to move forward.
No, John. I’m not asking you to say goodbye forever—I’m asking you to accept what has happened because there will be no choice if you are going to live outside these walls. I’m asking you to do the one thing you haven’t done—grieve, and then accept what has happened. Everything you’ve done from the moment Claire died has been a denial of her death and the avoidance of grieving. Talking to Claire every day is your way of refuting her death. Your conversations with Claire is your subconscious need to keep her alive.”
“Even though she argues for me to stop, and tells me that I should listen to you?”
“What did she tell you about letting her go?”
John stared at the doctor, his knuckles turning white across now fisted hands. His chest constricted—pain wrapped itself around him in ever tightening bands, doing their best to squeeze his breath from his chest and make speech impossible.
He shook his head hard, and spoke. His words were barely audible. “She told me that it’s up to me to let her go. She said she can’t do it herself.”
Lowenstein nodded, her voice softer when she spoke. “Exactly, because it’s you, John. You are the one who is answering yourself. You subconsciously created the manifestation of Claire, so only you can free her...and free yourself.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Are you willing to try? Really willing to try this time?”
John’s mouth went dry. His fists opened and he grasped the arms of the chair. He closed his eyes. He saw Claire staring at him, her eyes wide and hopeful. When she nodded, his eyes snapped open. “How do I live without her?”
“By taking one step at a time.”
Drawing in a deep breath, he sat straighter. Claire floated just over Lowenstein’s right shoulder. Her short hair framed by the sunlight streaking through the blinds. Forgive me, Claire... He exhaled slowly. “What do I do first?”
“You just did it, John. That was the first step.”
<><><>
The snow had melted under an unusually strong late January sun. In the courtyard, John was perched on the low stone wall, looking at the fountain. Over the last few weeks, unless it was raining, John had taken to coming outside before going to the group session. He liked the peace and quiet the courtyard afforded. No one else came out at this time, and breathing the fresh air, not hearing the bells and P.A. speakers going off every few minutes was a vacation.
His morning session with Lowenstein had been rough. He’d admitted that he’d spoken to Claire last night before going to sleep. The shrink hadn’t said anything; rather, she’d changed the subject and they’d talked about why he had taken Claire to the clinic in Switzerland.
He’d explained about the treatments, and the clinic’s success rates. When he finished, she’d pushed several sheets of paper to him and asked him to read them. When he’d finished, he’d shaken his head slowly, a single tear escaping from the corner of his right eye.
“I had no idea.”
Lowenstein nodded. “Most people don’t. Their need to save the...patient, turns them into a victim. The people at the clinic take advantage of those suffering. That’s what they did to you. You, just as much as Claire, were a victim.”
“But she was getting better. She had more energy, her labs showed improvement.”
“Of course they did. By replacing her blood with clean blood and testing it very soon after to show improving results, combined with mood-elevating drugs, they gave the impression of the cancer diminishing. But what happened a few weeks after you returned home? Everything went back to the way it was before, didn’t it?”
John looked at the palms of his hands. He couldn’t look at Lowenstein. “I was a dupe, a fool.”
Lowenstein shook her head again. “No, John, you were the perfect victim for their crime.”
His head came up; he stared at her. “Perfect? In what way?”
“You were willing to do anything to save Claire, and they knew you would. They knew you would be able to raise the money, and you did.” She paused for a heartbeat, then continued, “Now we have to start letting go of the past and talk about the future.”
John looked away from the fountain, shook away the memory of the morning session, and looked up at the almost cloudless azure sky. One elongated drift of white candy-cotton floated over him. He said aloud, “At least I don’t have a dark cloud over me.”
“Then why are you here?”
John turned to see Dr. Tarele standing a few feet behind him. Shrugging, John said, “I never thought about it.”
Tarele’s eyebrows formed a perfect imitation of the McDonald golden arches. “You’ve been here going on three months and never thought about why you’re here? How is that possible?”
John favored him with a rare smile. “Because I’ve always known the why. It’s the how to change it that I never knew.”
The psych resident’s eyebrows settled back into place. “And now you know the way?”
John shook his head. “No, but I’m learning.”
“Me too,” the doctor admitted. “And it’s an ongoing experience. One that never stops because the dark cloud is always waiting, always ready to hover over you, to take you away to the bliss of the land of forgetfulness.”
John peered deeply into Tarele’s brown eyes, and the depths within them that bespoke the pain the man had suffered more than words could ever do—a pain John knew all too well. “I understand.”
“I believe you do. See you upstairs,” the doctor said and moved off.
John followed his back until he disappeared behind the door. Five minutes later, with the cold of the stones creeping through his pants bottom, he slipped off the wall and went inside and up to the room where the group would be.
Tarele was there, as were most of the group, standing in little bunches of twos or threes, their heads close together. Instead of joining one of them, he went to his chair and sat. A few minutes later, the last of the men entered and the psych resident called the group together.
“Yesterday, we left off before Carl had his spot. Carl?”
The patient, a tall, lanky black man with a shaved head and full beard turned to Tarele. “Got nothing today.”
Good, John thought. Carl’s voice, strangely high-pitched for a man his size, sent the sensation of chalk on blackboard racing along John’s skin.
“All right,” the resident said. “Who wants to get us going? John?”
At the mention of his name, his head snapped around to Tarele. He gazed at the man for a few seconds. “Sure, why not. During my session with Lowenstein, today, she said that I was nearing the time when she had to make the decision as to keeping me here or to have me move on. She wanted to know what I thought about it.”
“And how did you feel?” asked Samuel.
John turned to the old looking but young recovering heroin addict. He exhaled loudly, using the low snort to chase away his panic demon, and said, “At first I wasn’t sure. It’s safe here, and there’s no booze to tempt me. But, lately, I’m starting to want more freedom.”
“Whatcha gonna do with that...freedom?” came another voice.
John turned to the speaker, a pock marked fifty-something man with a huge stomach and small green eyes. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Find a job to begin with. But I haven’t reached that point. Just thinking about what comes next.”
“Which is a positive way of looking at it,” Tarele said.
“Yeah, but he has to do it, not talk about it,” countered one of the men. There were several ‘amens’ in the background.
John looked at the men, listened to their comments, and when they finished, said, “I’m working on it.”
<><><>
“What do you mean, no more?”
“It has to stop,” John stated bluntly.
“And you think you’re ready to give me up?”
John gazed at Claire, looked into her beautiful blue eyes, her small cupid’s bow of a mouth, and closed his eyes for a double heartbeat. “I’ll never be rea
dy, but I have to.”
Claire smiled at him, nodded her head slightly. “What happened?”
“You know what happened. You know everything I know. You are me. I am you.”
“Are you certain about that, or are those just Lowenstein’s words?”
John exhaled slowly. It felt like he was giving out with his last breath. He knew his life would be changing soon, and he was afraid of both the change, and of losing Claire forever.
“Forever? How can you lose me forever? I have always been part of you. I will always be a part of you.”
“To not see you, to be unable to talk to you. How will I survive?”
Claire smiled her gentle, all-knowing smile. The one that had made him fall in love with her in school. “You will go on the way so many others have done, you will have me in your memory, and you will move on, find a life, and find another—”
“—No. I will not find another. I do not want anyone else!”
“John...Do what you must do, for me if not for yourself.”
He stared at the vision. She was a vision, he now understood, of his own making. He closed his eyes, then snapped them open, refusing to not see her for the last time.
“I love you, Claire. I will miss you for as long as I can breathe. I will never forget you.”
“Goodbye, my love,” Claire whispered, and a second later, vanished from his sight.
John stared at the spot she had occupied within his mind’s eye, and as his tears fell, and the sadness of his loss overwhelmed him, he lay on the bed, curled in a fetal position, and cried his goodbyes to the only woman he had ever loved.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The first week of February, Brookville Psychiatric Hospital
John paced the room, ignoring the few beams of moonlight staggering through the partially open blinds. The moon was low in the night sky, telling John it was closer to sunrise than sunset. For him, the hours of the night had dragged on, and sleep was all but unreachable!