Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  -All the deep thinking and looking inward is getting tedious

  -I have yet to see the inside of the spa

  -I can’t find my canary-feather earrings

  -I’ve decided I don’t like exercise—too much work

  -And my supposedly mute roommate hates me more than ever

  Meanwhile, I swear Adam is tailoring the affirmations specifically for me.

  In group we start an “amends quilt,” which requires first making a list of people with whom we need to make amends, then illustrating/sewing/decorating a square of fabric symbolizing each one. When we’re done, we’ll be stitching them together, and Mary says we can even sign up for a quilting elective on the weekend if we want to do the actual quilting and make it into something we could use.

  “Now there’s a recipe for sweet dreams,” I say. “Who wouldn’t want to sleep under the weight of all that guilt?”

  “Many people hang quilts on their walls as art,” Mary points out.

  I look doubtfully at my first two squares, upon which I have used a profusion of glitter glues, sequins, and pom-poms. “I guarantee this will not pass the style police at my house. Unless I can prove Angelina Jolie once slept on it or something.”

  “Regardless,” Mary says, her voice weary, and gestures me to get on with it.

  “Just being honest.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about your amends list, Lola?”

  Faking my way into rehab is actually the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I can’t exactly talk about it.

  “If anything, there’s a list of people who should be making amends with me, not the other way around,” I say.

  Mary’s eyebrows arch up. “Why don’t you tell us about that.”

  One of these days I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut. “Kidding.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I mean, of course I stole booze from my moms and I sneaked out of the house and I lied about drinking. Obviously I need to make amends for that. Although I wouldn’t say anyone’s really upset with me about it. Not too much, anyway.”

  “What about your dad? You said you were drunk in the bathroom at an event with him. How do you think he’s been affected by your drinking?”

  “He hasn’t.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, really. Look, I think I caught it early, okay? I was on the brink of some really bad stuff, and sure, his assistant had to cover for me, but he never knew about it. It’s not like I went up in flames, you know?”

  “Hmm,” Mary says. “Let’s just everyone pause and close your eyes. I want to do an exercise.”

  We do it.

  “Now,” Mary continues, “I want you all to think of the word ‘truth.’ Just the word.”

  There’s silence as everyone thinks.

  Except me. I try not to think, because truth and I have a conflict of interest right now.

  “Now ask yourself, what is my truth?” She waits a few moments. “Observe. What images come forward? How do you feel?”

  La la la la laaaaaa…

  “How do you feel, Lola, when you think of the word ‘truth’ and of your father at the same time?”

  “What, just me?” I open my eyes.

  “For now. Because I’m sensing something from you about your family, something you may not even be aware of yourself.”

  LA LA LAAAAAAAAA…

  “Close your eyes and tell me what you feel.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “What you feel, not how. And fine doesn’t cut it. Go deeper. Go to your truth and tell us, truly, how you feel your family has been affected by your drinking. Tell us about their pain.”

  My insides roll over. I open my eyes again. “This is brainwashing. This is ridiculous.”

  “Are you sure there are no amends you need to make? Nothing you want to say to anyone in your family?”

  I see the steely determination in Mary’s eyes and feel the rest of the group, all still sitting dutifully with their eyes closed, waiting.

  I’m not going to win this.

  And anyway, I kind of feel like crying from all the built-up stress, so I may as well use it.

  “All right,” I say, and blink to let a couple of tears roll down my face, “even by checking in here I’ve obviously caused them to worry. And probably it’s not my dad’s proudest moment, having to tell people I’m in rehab. I am sorry about that.”

  I snuffle, wipe at my tears, and go on a bit more about embarrassing my parents and causing them to worry. I go so deep into it that I actually convince myself, and I can tell I’ve done enough when Mary finally gives me a warm, nurturing smile and then moves on.

  Meanwhile, my playacting has left me utterly wrung out, with a sharp headache starting behind my eyes.

  Thankfully, after group, Talia and I both have free time and, not knowing I have my own Level Three card, she offers to take me to the beach. I say yes, and it turns out to be the best choice ever because…

  Wade is there.

  Out in the water trying, not very successfully, to surf.

  We walk along the shore until we come to a rock and Talia climbs up onto it with her journal.

  “My favorite spot,” she says, then pats the surface beside her.

  I push myself up and perch at the edge of the rock, eager to escape in order to increase my chances of an encounter with Wade, but trying not to show it.

  “You know, I can’t stop thinking about my little sister,” Talia says.

  Crap. “Oh?”

  “She’s, like, ten. She’s little. And she’s supposed to look up to me. I mean, she does look up to me and I really— This last time I fell off the wagon, I really messed her up.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine. Kids are resilient.”

  “No. I lied to her a whole bunch. And I let her smoke with me. I…I stole her allowance money, spent it on drugs.”

  I can’t tell how Talia wants me to react to this, so I give a kind of awkward laugh, then realize she’s crying and stop abruptly.

  “How shitty is that?”

  “Sorry, I…” I reach out and give her shoulders a rub. God, I’m an idiot. I have no idea how to deal with these kinds of conversations. “It’s all right,” I murmur, though obviously it’s the opposite of all right for her at the moment. And then suddenly I’ve got her head in my lap and she’s sobbing and clinging to me. I look around. Obviously I’m not going to leave the poor girl here, but I wish someone more qualified to deal with this would come to the rescue.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” I say in a soothing voice. “I’m sure she’s proud of you for being here now. And you can pay her back, right?”

  “I have to tell her, though…tell her I don’t want her to turn out like me.”

  “Okay, so…this is what those amends letters are for, yeah?”

  “You’re right.” Talia slowly pushes herself back up and wipes her eyes. “That and a long list of things not to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, the obvious—don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, hook up with strange men…”

  I nod.

  “And don’t lie, steal, manipulate people you love.”

  “She knows that stuff already, I’ll bet,” I say softly. “If you want to tell her…well, the interesting thing for all of you—us, I mean—is how it starts. Like, generally as a kid you know what you’re supposed to do and not do, and you still know it as you’re growing up, so…like for most people, how does it start?”

  “We just don’t think we’ll turn into addicts, I guess,” Talia says. “That’s part of it. I mean—woo—one minute you’re just messing around, having fun, blowing off some steam, no big deal. And then…” She makes an exploding sound.

  “Right. So it starts as fun. Or it could start from…boredom, sadness…”

  “Loneliness, depression,” Talia continues, “escape, thrill-seeking—that’s kind of like boredom but not quite the same. Like some people get off on skydiving or race-car driving. Th
ose people need—”

  “A lot of stimulation?” I say, cocking one eyebrow and smiling a little.

  She smiles back—a big smile. “Uh-huh.”

  “Your sister fit that profile?” I ask.

  “No. I do, though, a little. But I feel like I fit all of them. And wow, that pretty much means I’m doomed.”

  “No, no. You’re a lot of things. I mean, you have a lot of qualities but they’re…they’re not bad qualities, Talia. I’m saying this wrong, but…you have a lot going for you. You’re fun, you’re not shy, you’re caring. You’re a nice person to be around—”

  “Stop, you’re going to make me cry again.”

  “No, I mean it,” I say, and I realize as awkward as I feel in this conversation, I do mean it. Talia’s a little crazy, but she’s a genuinely nice, good person. “I’m just saying, don’t be down on yourself. I mean, maybe even the things that seem bad to you about yourself, maybe they’re actually good things. Like, if you can just get it all working in the right direction.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “I know. One thing at a time, I guess. The amends letter, and the what-not-to-do…maybe you could think about…about how you got on the path. Signs to look for, traps you fell into. Maybe you won’t even give it to her. Maybe it would be good for you.”

  “Roomie, I’m impressed.”

  I laugh, then feel self-conscious. “Hey, I’m just making shit up. Trying to help.”

  She opens her journal. “I’m going to start it right now.”

  “Good,” I say. “Want me to sit with you?”

  I look around, realizing, wow—I forgot all about Wade.

  “No, I’m good. Much better now. I have, like, five meltdowns a day. You go for a walk or whatever—it’s your first time on the beach.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. And thank you.”

  “Oh.” I start sliding off the rock. “It’s all good. Any time. I mean, you’re welcome.”

  “Just remember, you have to stay in sight—don’t go past the jetty in the one direction, or those huge rocks in the other. Otherwise the lifeguards freak out.”

  “Gotcha,” I say, then slip off my sandals, tie my ankle-length red cotton sundress up in a knot at the side, and head toward the jetty.

  Five minutes later, I hear, “Hey,” and look up to see Wade, who had been getting his ass repeatedly kicked by the waves, paddling in my direction.

  I turn, smile, and walk a little ways into the water.

  “Hi there,” Wade says, then floats his board in the shallow water and straddles it.

  “Hi,” I say, trying not to drool at the sight of him, ridiculously buff and practically godlike with droplets of salt water glistening on his chest and shoulders. He doesn’t need to be a good surfer, he could just stand here on the beach looking hot with the board and provide a great service to humanity. “What’s up, W.A.D.E.?”

  “What’s up is I remember you, Carlyle.”

  My breath hitches. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He nods and then captures me with a long, intense look that tells me he does remember, that he remembers everything. “Yeah, I remember. You look different, but the other day I knew there was something about you…”

  “Ah,” I say, hoping he means a good something and praying the new-and-improved Lola made enough of an impression to override the image of me roaring and lurching around like a zombie, which was about all I had in my flirting arsenal at age thirteen. “Took you long enough.”

  “Only a couple of days. And it’s not like I expected to run into you in rehab.”

  “You either. You especially.”

  “Why me especially?”

  “I dunno. Just because you started out so…grounded and kinda…sweet.”

  “They eat sweet for breakfast out here in California,” he says. “I had to toughen up.”

  “So, drugs, huh?”

  He laughs. Then abruptly stops and looks down at his board, kicks his leg back and forth in the water. “Yeah, well…”

  “Oh, hey, it happens,” I say, pained at his suddenly dejected demeanor.

  “Actually, I never got too crazy about the recreational stuff, though I haven’t been a saint either. I’ve done all the usuals. You gotta fit in, go with the flow sometimes. But I got hooked by accident after I injured my knee on set.”

  “Let me guess, doing your own stunt?”

  Thrill-seeker…

  “Yep. So they prescribed some pills and they worked. Worked so well I said I didn’t need to stop shooting. You were the one who taught me never to hold things up, remember?”

  “I meant not holding things up because you can’t hit your mark, or forgot your lines, or because you knocked over the third camera.”

  “Oh man, I still cringe. And the producers were standing there looking like they’d eaten lemons, and your dad was so disappointed. I’ll never forget you sneaking us on set the next day and hopping around, running from camera to camera calling all the cues and hollering like a little tyrant until I got used to it. You saved my ass.”

  “Hey, whatever. It was fun. You just got a little freaked out by the cameras.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying I was a wreck. And your dad’s not the most, uh…”

  “Patient?”

  “Yeah, that’s the word. He’s not the most patient guy.” Wade looks out at the waves—big ones that would have knocked him flat, to be honest—and clears his throat. “He was going to fire me after that first day, wasn’t he? I’ve always wanted to ask you that.”

  “He didn’t want to, actually. But the producers kept talking to him about Ace Donnely.”

  “Oh, burn.”

  “Yeah, I figured it’d be crippling to a person’s ego to get replaced by The Donn, especially after only one day on the job. Thing is, he’d have been way too busy looking at himself in the mirror and making stupid requests about people not making eye contact with him to hang out with me.”

  “You don’t think he’d have had time to mess with the walkies or prank his fellow actors between takes?”

  “Definitely not. That’s the only reason I decided to help you out. Well, and I knew my dad believed in you. We talked about it.”

  “Wow, that’s nice. I owe you. I got a second chance. And now here I am, because of a bunch of stupid painkillers, on the verge of screwing it all up again.”

  “But you’re not going to. You’re going to turn it around. Right?”

  “I did some bad stuff. And the network basically told me if I don’t shape up and finish this program with flying colors, they’ll kill off my character. And now that I’m here, I don’t know. I’ve got issues with this whole twelve-step, never-drink-again philosophy. I guess maybe I’ve got issues, you know, in general.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I don’t like people telling me what to do.”

  I laugh. “Me neither!”

  “And I don’t like…I mean, I have to do this, I get it. But I’m off the painkillers already, and besides that, I don’t think I have such a problem. The painkillers were the problem because they’re addictive. I’m off them. I’m over it. So why am spending my summer here when I could be…hell, I could be anywhere I want?”

  “Hmm…”

  “And yeah, maybe I seem a little pissy sometimes here, but people—you know how it is—even though I’m doing well in my career, people have fucked with me. There are people who have it in for me. And I have a right to be pissed about that, too.”

  “I guess…”

  “But maybe that’s a bad attitude and that’s an issue. I’ve got issues, and issues with them being considered issues. Which is an issue. Maybe.”

  I stare at him, sitting in knee-deep water on his surfboard and looking like the most perfect, dazzling boy on the planet, and I’m suddenly aware that the Wade Miller I’ve held in my mind all this time…is not this Wade Miller. My Wade Miller does not have issues—not big ones, anyway. And he doesn’t hav
e this angry edge. I mean, even when I heard he was here and in a bad way, I figured all he needed was a few pep talks and love.

  He might need more than that. And if he does? Well, look at how awkward I am, just trying to talk with Talia about a simple family problem. I’m going to try, of course, but my normal powers of persuasion might not be up to this task.

  “Wade, you just have to remember…who you are. You know?”

  “I’m Wade Miller,” he says, but I can tell he means, I’m Wade Miller, famous person, star of Drift.

  “No, you’re… You have to live here and survive all the Hollywood BS, but you have to remember that you’re you—the you I met all those years ago, Wade from Ohio—not famous, just a good guy with a lot of talent, willing to work hard… You can’t start believing what other people say about you, good or bad. You gotta do the work, and then try to be normal. You know? I would hate to see you turn into one of those typical assholes.”

  “Hey, those are good thoughts.” He smiles at me and moves his board closer, then says, “But I didn’t mean to get all heavy on you. And you know—I’ll toe the line in the end. I’ll be a good boy and do my rehab and behave myself. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “Okay, totally. Don’t wanna disappoint Ben Carlyle’s daughter,” he says, and winks.

  “When did you figure it out? That I was me, I mean.”

  “Oh,” he says with a grin. “It was when I saw you doing that bird thing in your drama class—your bird acting reminded me of your zombie acting.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “You were the fiercest zombie in the movie.”

  “Not to mention the shortest.”

  We both laugh, and water swirls around my ankles.

  “But Carlyle, what happened?” he says, his expression getting serious again. “Last I knew, you were a kid and now you’re here. What’s the deal?”

  “Oh,” I say with a dismissive wave, “just a bit of a drinking thing. You know how it goes.”

  “Right…”

  “Yeah…”

  “I wondered about something,” he says, coming closer.

  “What?”

  “You, ah, you kissed me, Carlyle.”

  “Oh, you noticed,” I say, trying to be nonchalant even as my heart rate increases.

  “Yeah, I noticed. Hard to miss.”