Crystal Clean

by Kimberly Wollenburg

  One by one, the mothers, fathers, children and significant others of the patients tell personal stories of how addiction has affected their lives. Anger, sorrow and grief hang over our small circle like slow moving storm clouds on a cold winter day. Children ask their parents why they were so mean sometimes and why didn’t they play with them anymore. Parents wonder out loud what they’ve done to cause their children’s addiction. Spouses ask their partners about suspected infidelities, and speak of loneliness and abandonment.

  My parents and son are the last to speak. Dorothy tells Andy what a good boy he’s been throughout the long day. “Is there something you would like to say to your mom, Andy?”

  “Oh, ess okay.”

  “Are you sad that Mom used drugs and didn’t spend time with you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He’s smiling at everyone and flirting a little with the women. My son’s always been a ladies’ man and he loves being on stage. “Essa circle.”

  Dorothy presses on, unaware that Andy isn’t comprehending what she’s saying. I can’t tell if she doesn’t understand his disability, or if she’s just trying to make him feel like part of the group or what, but I can’t say anything. Those are the rules. “Can you tell your mom how her drug use has affected you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What would you like to tell her?”

  “Uhhmm,” he says, pushing up his glasses and straightening in his chair. “Essa hospital, enna Mom. Allan, uh, Star Wars, movies, pizza.” He’s smiling so big and his grin pulls my heartstrings. He’s proud of himself right now and I want to tell him how proud I am of him of him, too but I’m not allowed to talk, so I just smile at him and hope he knows how I feel.

  “Okay,” says Dorothy. “Let’s move on. Ed? How are you feeling right now?” My dad’s head is bowed because he’s crying a little and is embarrassed by his emotions.

  “I just...I just feel so sad for everyone here,” he sniffs, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. My mother reaches for the box of tissues.

  “Chris,” Dorothy says gently, “let him get his own.”

  My dad continues. “It makes me feel just awful for everything these families have gone through. Especially the kids.” He smiles at Betsy’s son and daughter across the circle from him.

  “Ed, can you tell Kim how her addiction has affected you?

  He’s looking at me with such love in his eyes and such sadness. “We’ve missed you, Kimbo.”

  “Speak about how you feel,” says Dorothy.

  “I’ve missed you. You’ve been away from us for so long and we don’t spend time together the way we used to. Your mom and I...I mean we...I mean I had no idea what was going on with you. I knew something was wrong, but w...I thought it was that you weren’t taking your medication. I had no idea you were using drugs. I never thought you would use drugs. I love you so much, Kimbo and I want you back. I want us to be a real family again. You’ve really hurt your mother. She cries almost every night and blames herself for how you and your brother turned out.”

  I’ve heard my mother say this for years: “I must have been a terrible mother because look at how my children turned out.” And that was before she knew I was using drugs. Chuck sort of floated through life in his bohemian way, and I never finished college, had emotional problems and trouble holding a job. I never knew what to say. I mean, how do you respond to something like that?

  He pauses and clears his throat. “I would like to know how much you’ve been using...and for how long.” He stares at me. I look back at him, hoping he can feel that I know how hard this is for him. He keeps staring expectantly. I look at Dorothy as she waits for him to continue, but he just keeps looking at me. Finally, he leans a little closer and says, “It’s now or never.”

  I look at Dorothy again. I don’t think she’ll mind if I break the rules just a little bit because I know my dad has forgotten them. “I’m not supposed to talk today,” I whisper. The group chuckles some, relieved, I suppose, for a bit of levity.

  “Oh,” he says. “Right. Sorry. I guess I’m supposed to tell her what I’m most proud of about her. I’m proud of you for being a foster mother and taking such good care of those kids. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m real proud of you for that. I was also proud of you when you lost all that weight a few years ago and were working out all the time.” He smiles at me and mouths I love you, as he wipes the last tear from the corner of his eye.

  I move my chair over to sit in front of my mother. If this is difficult for my dad, she’s dying inside. Of the two, my mother has always been the more stoic one. She’s always been the main breadwinner and handled all the family’s finances. My dad has a playful side to him, but my mother is all business all the time. Sharing feelings and actually communicating have never been encouraged in my family and now here she is in front of total strangers, expected to be open and honest. I know my mother and I know she would give almost anything not to be here with these people. This is at least as bad as how she felt at her surprise anniversary party. Probably worse.

  I also know that she’s putting herself through this agony for me, and I love her for that. I look at her, smiling. She looks at me the way she did when she used to ground me when I was a teenager. She’s all business. Instinctively, I lose the smile and lower my head. This is no time for being happy. I’ve been a bad girl and now I am going to hear about it.

  “Kimberly,” she starts and I immediately know what’s coming. Shit. “I don’t know what to say. I’m disappointed and I’m hurt. I never in a million years thought you would use drugs. Like your dad said, we knew something was wrong but we didn’t know what. I knew you weren’t taking your medication but I didn’t know why. All I knew is that there was something very, very wrong and you wouldn’t talk to us. I miss you and want to see you. I want you to come to the house like you used to and not just send Andy to spend the night when you want to go out doing whatever you feel like doing.” Her voice is starting to break, adding to her suppressed anger. “I don’t think you know how much you’ve hurt me. I guess I was a bad mother. Look at how both my kids turned out.” I close my eyes. My mother, the martyr.

  My parents leave and I go outside to smoke. I’m angry. I’m livid. “What a bunch of bullshit!” I say to Betsy as she joins me.

  “What?”

  “All that Goddamn shit my dad was saying about how he felt so sorry for all the families and especially the kids and yadda, yadda, yadda. What’d he do? Have his fucking memory erased?” I’m walking in fast, tight circles around the smoking area. “Jesus, they act like nothing ever happened. Like they’re just shocked that other people’s lives are so sad. What the hell? Did they forget what they were like when we were growing up? They used to take a cooler full of beer anytime we went somewhere out of the city and drink the whole way to wherever the hell we were going.” I turn to Betsy. “The son of a bitch used to disappear for days at a time.” I know I’m yelling but I’m so furious I can’t help it.

  “They seemed real nice. I know they love you a lot. You can tell how much they care about you.”

  “Bullshit! I don’t give a shit what you think you saw! What the hell’s wrong with them?” I leave Betsy, who looks confused and a little scared, and go to my room. I want to break something. I want to hit something. I want to scream. I do not want to feel this way any longer. I pull out my journal and write in fast, hard strokes that bear little resemblance to my handwriting:

  “I’m mad today. I’m not exactly sure why. I know my Effexor is working because, while I felt very agitated, I didn’t feel out of control during the session. I’m mad at my parents, I think, for their naiveté and for what I know they want. They want to not have to acknowledge that there’s anything wrong, because it’s all about appearances and we never talk about the ugly things and certainly not if those things are their things either partially or completely.

  I don’t want to hurt them. I know this isn’t about blame or attacking. I will not, however, continue to pretend
that the pile of elephant shit in the middle of the room isn’t there.

  Andy will be easy: I’ll tell him what I tell him every day. I’ll tell him he’s my hero, because he is. I’ll tell him he’s the best human I’ve ever known, because he is. I’ll tell him how proud of him I am and that the best thing I ever did was bring him into this world, and that the best thing I ever did for the world was bring him into it. I’ll tell my parents that I love them very much and I’m sorry for everything, but I’m going to address how things really were. I’m going to tell them that if we can’t start being honest and open with each other, they can’t be part of my recovery.”

  I drop the journal off at Dorothy’s office and go back to my room. I feel better having written down my feelings, but I’m exhausted and my head is throbbing and all I want to do is sleep.

  We’re back in the circle and it’s our turn, today. I take Andy on my lap and put my arms around him. “Hey, bug,” I say.

  “Oh, hey.” He kisses me on my nose.

  “I love you so much.”

  “Ayu you.”

  “Okay. I want to tell you something. When you were first born, I woke up without you. I didn’t know where you were and I was all alone in a room. Grandma brought me a picture of you and told me you had Down syndrome and I said, ‘I’ll have him with me forever.’ I loved you even while you were still in my tummy and I wanted you so much. The first time I got to hold you was just before your first surgery when you were three days old. You were so yummy! I wanted to slip you under my skin so I could get you close enough to me.

  “You were very brave and very strong. They said you would be in N.I.C.U. for maybe a year, but you came home just a little over a month later. I had to feed you through a tube in your tummy. That’s why you have your tummy scar.”

  “Essa wight here?” He points to his stomach.

  “Yep. You had fourteen more surgeries after that. One time you got really sick and were in the hospital for a long, long time. You don’t remember because you were still a baby, but you had to have an operation even though you were sick.” I take a deep breath. My words are coming out shaky. “The doctor told me I was going to lose you, bug. So that night, I went to the hospital and talked to you. I told you how much I wanted you, but that if it was too much for you, if you couldn’t fight anymore, it was okay for you to go if that’s what you needed to do. I told you I would be okay and that I hoped you would stick around, but I knew how weak you were after everything you’d been through. I was so sad that night.”

  “No, essa mom’s happy.”

  I wiped a tear away from my eye. “Yeah, honey. Mom’s happy now, because you decided to stay and fight. And you got better. And you’ve never been sick since then. When they called me the next day and told me you were awake, I was so happy. I came to the hospital and there you were, sitting up in your bed. You were so skinny and you smelled so bad.”

  “Ohhh...go on!” he says laughing.

  “You did! You smelled blechy. But I crawled up into your bed and held you. You were just like a baby monkey. You wrapped your arms and legs around me and just clung to me.” He wipes a tear from my cheek and kisses me. “I want you to know, Andy, that you’re my hero. You’re so strong and brave and I’m so happy to be your mommy. Thank you for being who you are. I love you so much, bug, and I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you like I should have been. I’m sorry for all the times I left you and for all the times I did drugs instead of playing with you.” I’m really crying now. Everyone in the room is crying now. “I want you to know that I’ll be a better mommy, okay? You deserve better than...you deserve everything, Andy. I love you.”

  “Ohhh, go on.” He always makes me smile, this son of mine. I hug him and kiss him on the forehead. I feel such shame for not being all he deserves and such sadness for the time I’ve lost with him. I promise myself I’ll be the best mother I can be from now on.

  I move my chair to sit in front of my father. He looks at me with sorrow and pity. Like he’s so happy to be here for me yet so sad for all the heartache in this room. My dad has always reminded me a little of Fred Flintstone, although at sixty, his hair is more salt than pepper. He’s so sweet and I know he cares about me, but I’m conflicted. I love him so much and am grateful to him for paying for rehab, but I feel rage at his hypocrisy and denial, which have followed me my whole life. I don’t want to hurt him, so I’m scared to say what I want to because I don’t want either of my parents to be mad at me. I’m thirty-eight years old and I still can’t stand for people to be mad at me, especially my parents. I’ll do anything to avoid conflict, but I feel like if I don’t take this opportunity to say what I’m feeling, it will be a waste of my time here. I’m scared, but I also feel safe knowing that, because of the rules, he can’t say anything and I’m safe from immediate aftermath here in my thirty day womb.

  “I love you,” I begin. “I’m so sorry for hurting you. I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, especially helping me get to rehab.” I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m going to say the things I have planned. I can’t believe I’m going to be so honest with him, with them, about my life. “You said yesterday that you want to know about my drug use. Okay. I’ve smoked pot, done speed, dropped acid, eaten mushrooms and taken downers, although not much because I didn’t like them. I’ve used cocaine and crank and I’ve been smoking meth for about five years. Every single day.” His eyes get big. “I started using drugs when I was twelve, if you count alcohol, and I’ve pretty much used drugs since then. I was sober for almost four years when my coke dealer left town. That’s when I had the foster kids. I’ve never used needles and I’ve never used heroin.” I know that heroin is the big one to him. He thinks it’s the drug of all drugs. At least he used to. He may have changed his mind recently.

  He’s shaking his head like this is all so unbelievable and I want to scream at him for his stupidity. “I was high a lot at home, especially in high school. The first time I dropped acid was in the middle of the day at school and I was still blazing at home that night.” He looks utterly defeated. “I want you to understand, Dad, that this isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you guys for my addiction, okay?” I reach over and hold his hand for a second.

  “I’m sorry, Dad, but I have to call bullshit on you about yesterday.” My voice is starting to shake. “You were so sad about what these poor families and kids have gone through and you sat there acting like this is all new to you, but it’s not.” I start jiggling my knee up and down and put my hands on it to make it stop.

  “You seem to forget what it was like when we were little and you would get drunk. I remember, Dad. I remember you disappearing for whole weekends sometimes and how pissed Mom was. I remember you getting so drunk that time at Thanksgiving that you threw up and passed out in Uncle Tim’s bathroom. Don’t you remember that? I was mortified but we went ahead and ate anyway. Do you remember being in the backseat of the car while Mom drove down Fairview, and she was pissed as hell because you were back there with the door open, puking all the way home? I remember every road trip or vacation we ever went on, you guys had a cooler of beer in the front seat and drank the whole time. So when you sit here and act shocked at everything these families have been through, it makes me mad. Nothing you’ve heard here should shock you. Either you’re in denial or you have a very bad memory.”

  He’s crying a little and looking down at his hands. I feel like shit for saying these things to him and for embarrassing him in front of these people, but I also feel better - lighter somehow. I feel empowered and this makes me feel guilty. Seeing his shame makes me want to take it all back. “Daddy, I love you so much and I’m not trying to embarrass you, okay?” He looks at me and nods.

  “Ed,” Dorothy says gently. “I think you might be one of us.” He nods a little at that.

  “Now,” I say, “for the good things.” I lower my head so I can catch his eye. “You want to know what I’m most proud of you for? Andy
y Barr. You taught yourself how to use a computer back when PCs first came out. You had that little Franklin 286 and back then, everything was DOS. You had no idea what you were doing, but computers interested you. Teaching yourself something that complicated requires focus. You told me that you found you couldn’t have a drink and still concentrate on what you were doing and that’s when you stopped drinking. You taught yourself everything you know about computers. You’ve told me you were a bad student in school, that you got Ds and barely graduated. I know you think you’re not smart but I think you’re amazing. You went from not knowing what a computer was to teaching yourself to design web sites. Then a few years ago you built your business enough so you could retire from your job and do Andyy Barr full time.”

  I looked at Dorothy. “Can I tell you where he got the name Andyy Barr?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  I turn around and face the room. “It’s spelled A-N-D-Y-Y B-A-R-R. He came up with it when he was teaching himself to do graphics back when Andy was a baby. He made this floating candy bar and thought it was funny to call it an Andy bar instead of candy bar. He put it on the label and would make it spin and float around on the monitor. One day I went to see what he was doing and noticed he’d added and extra Y to Andy and an extra R to bar. I asked him about it and he said he spelled Andyy that way because Andy has an extra Y.” Everyone’s smiling politely and I know they don’t get it. “Down syndrome is Trisomy 21, meaning there’s an extra chromosome on the twenty-first pair. The extra chromosome is a Y instead of an X. That how it is with everyone who has Down syndrome. So the candy bar became Andy Bar and that became Andyy Barr. When he started doing web site development he named his company Andyy Barr Productions.”

  I turn back to my father who’s seems happy and a little embarrassed. “I’m so proud of you, Daddy. I know you don’t think you’re smart, but you are. Look at what you’ve done.” Tears are sliding down his cheeks but he’s happy, and mouths the words “Thank you.”