by Nic Sheff
Sue Ellen needs a love like this.
She needs a love like I could’ve given to Zelda.
I fold the note in on itself several times and then hurry off to the main lodge to find her before group.
“Sue Ellen, hey,” I whisper, standing right up close next to her. “Hey, we’ve been put on contract saying we can’t communicate with each other anymore.”
She squints up at me. “What?”
I kinda shrug my shoulders.
“I know, right? But it’ll be okay. Here, read this when you’re alone and then, uh, write me back, okay?”
Still staring up at me, she takes the crumpled piece of paper from my hand. Her face somehow looks even younger than I remembered it.
In my note, I tell her to meet me in the woods below the cabins after curfew if she feels the same way about me as I feel about her.
Time moves slower than it should, but finally ten thirty comes around, and I feel my way through the tangled bramble in the half moonlight. The night is cold, and I’ve got about five layers of sweaters and shit on. But, I mean, still… it’s fucking cold. Brush tears at my legs, and branches sting my face and shoulders. My tennis shoes lose their grip in the fine powdered sediment on the rocky ground. I stumble. Honestly, I’m not even sure why the hell I’m doing this. I’m tired and trembling. The moon disappears behind drifting clouds, and the darkness closes in absolutely. I stumble and slide. Already I know this was a stupid idea. Anyway, she probably won’t even come.
But somehow I know that’s not true.
I mean, of course she’ll come.
There’s movement in the bushes directly behind me.
“Hey,” I whisper kinda loudly. “Hey, it’s me.”
The moon breaks through the clouds again. The light is dull and full of shadows. Sue Ellen is there in front of me. She has on a knit hat and a long, thick scarf. Our hands tremble as I hold hers gently in my own.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, like an idiot.
She shivers and then presses herself up against me. The warmth and smell of her makes me instantly aroused again.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispers back to me.
I put my arms around her and bring her in even closer, saying, “Yeah… I know.”
Her neck stretches up so her mouth is very close to mine.
“I’m scared,” she tells me.
And then we kiss until she pulls away.
I read through the script.
“It’s okay. I could never hurt you.”
And that’s the truth.
Or, at least, I’m gonna make it that way.
Ch.8
A couple of my friends here have already moved on to Day Program, which means they’re staying at a kinda corporate-suites hotel in town—only coming to group during the day—sort of an intermediate step between inpatient and the real world.
Almost everyone here transfers to Day Program for at least a week or two before being discharged and, surprisingly, Melonie seems to think I’m almost ready.
I guess the plan she’s worked out with my dad is that I’ll do the Day Program for about a month and then maybe try ’n’ get an apartment with my friends here—eventually finding work, most likely at a coffee shop or something terrible.
Of course, I’ll keep going to twelve-step meetings every night, and I’ll attend the alumni group here on Wednesdays.
Honestly, I normally wouldn’t’ve agreed to any of this.
I’ve always said I would never live anywhere in this country besides San Francisco, LA, or New York.
I guess I just need the feeling of being where things are happening.
But for now, well, I’ve agreed to try Arizona—though only because Sue Ellen is gonna be sticking around for a while, too. Not that we’re gonna stay here for more’n a couple weeks. Sue Ellen’s agreed to come to San Francisco with me just as soon as she can figure it out. Her mom’ll help her get an apartment there, and as soon as I finish the second half of my book, I’ll use the advance money to pay her back—because, of course, I’ll be living with her.
Considering how things would be without Sue Ellen, I really am super fucking grateful for her. She’s given me the hope and promise of a good life. And I’d like to think I’ve done the same for her.
We pass notes back and forth throughout the day, we meet in the woods every night, and I sing songs to her by the fire—even though we both pretend that we have no contact at all.
There’s something really great about all this. I mean, if we weren’t on this contract and we didn’t have to sneak around, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as much fun. We both get to have this exciting little secret—something to hold on to when shit gets too hard. As for the whole duplicitous, lying thing, I really don’t feel all that bad about it.
When I first got here and was receiving all this criticism from every damn counselor in the whole place, I used to fight back as hard as I could. Anything I disagreed with I had to argue about—you know, prove my point. But the more I fought, the more they accused me of reacting against my own denial.
“Just take in all the feedback we give you,” they’d say. “Sit with it, then ask yourself if it fits. If it doesn’t fit, don’t worry about it—let it go. But if it makes you feel the need to defend yourself—if it triggers a response of anger or resentment—that probably means it’s hit a nerve and needs to be explored further.”
Well, their rule here prohibiting us from forming romantic relationships with one another doesn’t hit any sort of nerve in me at all. I’ve sat with the idea and I’ve decided it doesn’t fit. Besides, it’s not like this thing with Sue Ellen negates the rest of the work I’ve been doing here—or the progress I’ve made. If anything, it’s because of the progress I’ve made here that I’m able to sustain a relationship with someone so, you know, normal.
Anyway, I’m not sure whose idea it was to go horseback riding today, but I’m actually pretty excited. The ranch is in a tiny town about forty miles away. There are mountain trails on all sides leading to condemned silver mines and abandoned Native American cave dwellings.
The only disappointing thing is that Sue Ellen can’t come with us—I mean, because of our whole no-communication/contact thing. But she still lent me the money to go riding, so that was really cool of her.
Besides me and Kevin, there’re, I think, seven or eight people going. Both Cat and Tim have rental cars, so we’re just gonna be, like, caravanning over there. All of us waiting are excited and loud and talking all at once. Well, all of us except me. I’m smoking one cigarette after another.
It’s fucked up. I mean, as much as I wanna get outta this place, in some ways I can’t imagine ever leaving. The harshness of winter has melted away with the snow and the icy wind. The sun finally has some warmth, and the sky is clear above us, with thick clouds like caterpillars bordering the mountains and the desert horizon. I used to think of this place as a prison. The sagebrush and reddish dirt were like steel bars closing in, the isolated compound like an island asylum offering no chance of escape. But now, I mean, fuck, it’s beginning to seem like being at this place is the only real freedom I’ve ever known. It’s the outside world that’s the prison. The outside world of jobs and cars and cell phones and apartments and grocery stores. Appropriate clothing, plans for a Saturday night, loneliness. This here, the Safe Passage Center, this is an oasis—a Shangrila—a sacred temple.
I stamp out another cigarette.
Man, I don’t ever want to leave.
I stare off—my eyes burning slightly.
I stare off until something suddenly whacks me upside my head.
“Hey, Nic, come on.”
It’s Megan’s voice.
I mean, it’s Megan.
She laughs. “Get it together, space boy. Shit. Are you ready, or what?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
She grabs my arm, pulling me toward the driveway. “Well, they’re here.”
&n
bsp; I look over.
Of course, she’s right.
We divide up, get into the two rent-a-cars, and take off fast.
Since Tim insisted on me taking shotgun, I’m sitting up front with him, resting my feet on the black imitation-leather dashboard of the Chrysler Sebring—lighting another cigarette, even though there’s a big NO SMOKING sticker on the passenger-side window.
I gotta say, man, driving in an actual car is surreal as hell.
And maybe even a little scary.
It just feels like, I don’t know, like the outside world—like freedom. It’s a reminder of what waits for me. A reminder of decisions, responsibilities, negotiating the fucking craziness.
“A plague seems quite feasible now.”
David Bowie was right.
So I stare out the car window.
I tell Tim, “This is so weird.”
I can’t see his reaction.
“No shit,” he says. “When I first got the car, it was like I’d totally forgotten how to drive. And sleeping by myself in the hotel room? Shit, man, I never thought I’d say this, but I missed being up at SPC. It just wasn’t the same as listening to Brian snore at three o’clock in the morning, then going to the lodge to make hot chocolate and reading till Marion caught me.”
That gets a smile outta me. “Come on, you can’t miss Marion. She’s a troll—biding her time till she can eat us up—grind our bones to make her bread—that sorta thing.”
Tim laughs. “Yeah, whoa, I never thought of that. A troll… totally. Or maybe a witch—with that wart on her face, and the way she walks all hunched over.”
Marion’s one of the counselor’s assistants. She’s known for being a real hard-ass, though she’s always been pretty nice to me, despite her resemblance to a troll—or, uh, a witch, right?
Mostly I’d say the reason she likes me is ’cause I keep trying to speak to her in German, her native language.
The only two phrases I know are “Do you like my ass?” and “You are a monkey face.”
For some reason she thinks that’s just the funniest thing ever.
Plus, we play gin rummy together.
“I don’t know,” says Kevin, startling me from the backseat. “It’s the accent that really gets me. She’s like straight outta some German fairy tale.”
She’s Austrian, actually, but whatever.
“Tim, go to yar room. Da funniness is ovah. I’m da party poohpa.” Kevin’s imitation is more Arnold Schwarzenegger than Marion, but it gets the car laughing.
“Yeah, well,” says Tim. “Maybe I don’t miss Marion, but I do miss being up there. All you guys gotta really make the most of it, ’cause when it’s over, it’s over. You know?”
“Sure,” I say, studying him. “But, uh, you’ll be bahk.”
Tim laughs at my bad imitation, though his eyes don’t change much—remaining dull, almost vacant-looking.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know. But it’s just not the same.”
I watch him watching the road in front of him.
I think for about the thousandth time just what a handsome kid he is.
I mean, handsome.
“Hey,” he calls out kinda suddenly—to me more than anyone else. “I forgot to tell you, I went and bought all these CDs. This Al Green one was only five bucks. Can you believe that?”
I smile. “Well, I’m not sure how popular Al Green is nowadays, but, yeah, that’s a good deal. What album is it?”
He hands me the all-white cover of I’m Still in Love with You, with Al Green’s dark skin as the only contrast. It’s actually one of my favorite records ever.
“Right on,” I say.
Tim pushes the CD into the player, clicking the button to advance two or three tracks. Al Green’s voice sounds clean and beautiful coming through the car speakers.
A love song.
Of course.
I wanna say that these kinda songs make me think about Sue Ellen—make me long for her. But honestly, I don’t think about Sue Ellen at all. I mean, I can’t even make myself do it. Listening to music like this, I see Zelda in front of me. She’s there at the back of my eyelids. She’s standing against the sky, the glaring sunlight, the flat, bare desert. She’s standing against mountains jagged on the horizon, jagged like her shoulder blades, her spine, the bones jutting from her hips.
Tears come hot in my eyes—blurring everything—the sweet, salty liquid running down my jawline.
Megan notices from the back.
She puts a hand on my shoulder.
She leans forward, her mouth parted slightly, not even an inch from my ear.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s gonna be okay. You’ll move on. I promise. It’s a big world out there. And there’s a whole lot more to life than you even know.”
Somehow Kevin must’ve heard, ’cause he yells out, “And we’re going horseback riding. Who woulda thought?”
Tim shakes his head. “I know, right? I mean, hell, I haven’t seen a horse in, man, I don’t even know. This is a far cry from shooting heroin in a hundred-dollar-a-week hotel room.”
I breathe in, then exhale long and slow. “Thanks, you guys. You’re right. I mean, we really have come a long way, haven’t we?”
Megan’s hand on my shoulder squeezes tight. “Fuck, yeah, we have.”
Kevin stutters his words out, all excited. “And now we have each other, right? We’re friends. I’ve never even really had friends before.”
“Me either,” I say. “This is all pretty new to me.”
The CD switches over to the next track.
I go on and look out the window again.
We’ve gotten off the highway and are driving through a sorta creepy little town that looks almost abandoned. There’s a bar with boarded-up windows—a closed-down five-and-dime—trailer-style houses with dirt yards and corrugated siding and dogs chained out front. Chickens wander the empty dirt roads. We drive over a small wooden bridge, and I can’t help but hold my breath. The road leads up toward the dusty mountains—barren, dotted with low-lying bramble and tumbleweeds. Tim pulls over into a makeshift parking lot, and I realize we’re here. In fact, Cat and her group are already out of the car, standing around waiting for us. She yells out at Tim, “What took you so long?”
He flips her off, the two of them laughing real hard.
And then we all laugh along with them—you know, just laughing together.
“Man, we sure are a motley crew, aren’t we?” says this middle-aged guy Johnny, who’s in my home group, and we all laugh even more at that.
I mean, it’s the truth.
There’s no way under normal circumstances we would ever be hanging out together.
But, well, here we are.
We get on our horses and follow along the narrow trail.
Our guide tells us to kick into a gallop.
We do.
And we take off.
Ch.9
Melonie really is just fucking glowing.
I mean, glowing the way pregnant women must look when people say they’re glowing.
She really is glowing like that.
And she’s glowing like that ’cause of me.
Or at least I hope that’s it.
The last thing we need is a little Melonie offspring added to our already grossly overpopulated world.
So, for the sake of the nation, I’m assuming her glow is all about me.
“How does it feel?” she asks me. “You’re finally ready to take the next step in getting your life together. I can’t tell you how proud I am.”
She doesn’t need to tell me. I’d say I’ve pretty well got it.
And in terms of her question, well, my answer is that it’s strange to have even the smallest bit of hope again. I was close to giving up. I was closer than I’ve ever been.
“I look at you, Nic,” she continues, “as one of my greatest successes. I will always hold your transformation as perhaps the best work I’ve ever done.”
She beams, all cherubic
-looking. Glowing. Obviously having no problem letting herself take all the goddamn credit.
“I brought your case up at the staff meeting, and we voted unanimously that you are ready to go into Day Program at the end of the week. We also voted for you to be taken off all your contracts. So you don’t have to worry about not communicating with Sue Ellen anymore. Though, of course, I trust you will continue to uphold healthy boundaries with her… and everyone else, for that matter.”
I nod.
The sunlight is streaming through the slats in the plastic blinds drawn over the window. There’s no air-conditioning and the door is closed and I think I drank too much coffee, ’cause I’m starting to sweat all over the place. Whatever the hell’s left in my stomach is stuck fast to the quickly turning walls—the bottom dropping out like those centrifugal-force rides they have at state fairs. My tongue is swelled up so I’m choking.
It’s what I get for tryin’ to live on cigarettes and coffee.
But, of course, I can’t excuse myself, not even for a glass of water.
The moment’s way too goddamn touching.
“You know,” says Melonie, her eyes clearly tearing up, “I want to tell you that, after you leave here, you are welcome to call me anytime you need to talk. In fact, I want you to call me—even if just to check in now and then. I sincerely hope we can continue to build our relationship. As I said before, I really do think of you as a son. And you’ve inspired me to rededicate myself to this field.”
I look down in a display of humility.
“Thank you,” I say, even though the twisted-up feeling in me is just getting worse.
I wonder if maybe it isn’t the coffee.
I mean, I’ve been in and outta therapy since I was seven years old. And after all that time, I’d say I’m pretty hip to the, uh, protocol, or whatever. At least, I know a couple of things. The doctors are supposed to stay neutral—professional—detached. They’re not supposed to get personally involved. Not ever.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, her expression going all concerned again.
I smile it away. “No,” I say. “No, not at all.”
She smiles along with me. “Well, good.”