“I keep thinking of the happiness book,” I wrote in my notebook that miserable January. “How we can’t predict what will make us happy because we can’t account for a future we can’t predict. I suppose at the end of 2005 I wouldn’t have glimpsed even a tiny bit of what happened last year.”
With my lucky number 7 tattooed on Graham’s arm and Gilbert’s advice buzzing in my ear, I tried to convince myself that 2007 might turn out to be better than I expected—and in many ways, it actually did. “Negative events do affect us, but they generally don’t affect us as much or for as long as we expect them to,” Gilbert wrote. I just had to get through a rough patch first.
Other than David, there wasn’t a consistent person I turned to as my relationship with Graham went through another ending; I relied on different people for different reasons at different times. Friends tried to be supportive, but I felt like I was living the parable of the blind men holding different parts of an elephant, each person’s perspective influenced by whether they were touching the trunk, tusk, or tail. I think we all tend to view addiction through the lens of our own experience with this affliction. In some sense, we’re all a bit blind.
Still, I was surprised by how judgmental some people were about Graham. Sure, he made bad choices and had to deal with the consequences, but wasn’t it a bit hypocritical not to look in the mirror and acknowledge one’s own struggle with vice? Listening to drinkers who doled out advice well into their third cocktail, smokers who bristled at any comparison between drugs and nicotine, pill poppers who relied on a doctor friend’s prescription pad, and drunk drivers who didn’t consider their own behavior criminal, I was struck by the empathy gap.
Graham was right about one thing: In the cultural perception of addiction, heroin addicts were definitely at the bottom of the barrel. And he sank even lower after he was arrested and went to jail.
But for every harsh judgment someone let slip, another friend propped me up with sensitive, caring advice. Ethan always seemed to have my best interest at heart—even if it stung when he finally said, “I’d cut bait.” Although, years later he’d tell me that his views on addiction had gotten more “nuanced” after his own relapse, which made me wonder if his opinion about Graham’s situation had also changed.
The best advice I got came from a colleague I didn’t know very well—or at least, not well enough to know that she once had a boyfriend who had a drug problem. When she told me about her ex, I instantly recognized the relationship she described, the intensity of his affection eventually trumped by the upheaval of his constant drama.
The way she put it seemed so simple: “I realized I had to choose his life or mine.”
I understood that decision—it was exactly how I felt after I bailed Graham out of Rikers. But there was one question that still troubled me, more as a moral dilemma most of us don’t want to face: What happens to these addicts after the sober, sane people in their lives leave them?
We all know the answer: Many of them don’t get better. We lock them up, or they overdose and die.
—
ON FEBRUARY 13, a year after Graham and I were strolling on the beach in Hawaii, I sent him a message saying I’d see him at his hearing the next day.
He wrote back: “Your better off not coming tomorrow ’coz my lawyer said it’s just getting postponed again probably. last time i was there all of 6 mins. i’d rather see you under better circumstances - especially seeing as we don’t see each other anymore and haven’t even spoke in ages - you understand?”
I reminded him that it was actually my responsibility to make sure he showed up for these hearings, since I was the one who had paid his bail. The receipt I’d signed at Rikers made that quite clear: “I undertake that the defendant will appear in this action whenever required and will at all times render himself/herself amenable to the orders and processes of the court.” It also warned: “The bail will be forfeited if the defendant does not comply.”
Even though it wasn’t my money at stake—Graham had already paid me back—I wanted to follow through on that commitment. More importantly, I felt a responsibility for him beyond the love some people feel for an ex. I was the last functioning adult Graham had been close to when he got arrested; there was no one else who could make sure he didn’t go completely off the rails. Graham was already teetering on the edge.
After the explosion, a local paper had described him as a “suspected drug dealer” living in an “alleged crackhouse” in brownstone Brooklyn—based on speculation and anonymous leaks by the police. I knew Graham was devastated by that article, so I went to his hearing partly to let him know I didn’t believe it. But if there was any evidence to back up either of those claims, I certainly wanted to hear it.
He was supposed to be at the courthouse by 9:30 A.M., shuffling through security with the mass of people filing through the metal detectors—mostly African American and Hispanic men. But Graham wasn’t there when I got to the courtroom upstairs, and he didn’t pick up when I called him. I debated walking over to his house, which was only six blocks away.
I knew Graham had hired a lawyer, so I tried to guess who that might be among the attorneys sitting on the front bench—the only suits in a crowd of winter coats, heavy work boots, and jeans. “Take your hat off in the back!” one of the uniformed court officers yelled. “Sir! No talking in the courtroom!” (Also not allowed: sagging pants, tank tops, or do-rags.)
After 10 A.M., probably the fifteenth time I turned to look as the door opened, Graham finally walked in, wearing a down jacket and pants I’d never seen. The new clothes were jarring, marking the three months since our paths had crossed: long enough that his wardrobe—and the season—had changed.
“I told you not to come,” he said, sliding into the aisle seat on the bench beside me.
“And I told you I was going to come anyway,” I whispered, hoping Graham would mimic my lowered voice.
“Where’s my lawyer?” he asked, still at full volume.
“Quiet down!” the court officer shouted.
Graham looked around. “He isn’t here. I’m gonna go call him.” Grabbing his messenger bag, he went out to the hall.
From that brief interaction, I couldn’t tell if Graham was using; even I was on edge with the court officer constantly shouting. That tension was magnified by seeing Graham for the first time in months. But I didn’t get a chance to talk to him—when he came back in, a tall man I assumed was his lawyer was by his side.
One of the benefits of being able to afford a private lawyer is that your case is usually called earlier in the session, so you don’t waste as much time waiting around. That was the main activity in the room full of what seemed like an excess of court personnel: everyone waiting for someone to find a piece of paper, or the right folder, or the answer to a question the judge had asked. It was nothing like the fast-paced courtroom dramas I’d seen on TV.
Once Graham’s case was called, he stood next to his lawyer with his hands clasped behind his back, facing the judge’s bench—IN GOD WE TRUST on the wall in front of him, flanked by two flags. It was all over in minutes, and I couldn’t hear most of what anyone said.
“The DA’s office hasn’t filed any evidence,” Graham’s lawyer explained, once the three of us reconvened in the hall. “They’ve got another month to do that—ninety days after the arraignment. If they don’t do anything by then, the case will get dismissed.”
“Does that mean they don’t have any evidence?” I asked.
“Hard to say,” he answered. “Sometimes these things take a while.”
I wanted something more: answers about the legality of the search, proof that the police had or hadn’t found drugs, some facts that would clarify what had actually happened. But the lawyer rushed off so I asked Graham if he wanted to go get a cup of coffee. I knew it was my only chance to pin him down.
He hesitated, probably weighing up whether I was going to grill him—or calculating how soon he was going to need a hit. The more time
I spent with him, the more I was sure crack was still part of the equation he was trying to manage, and now maybe heroin again. I could finally see how exhausting that must be.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” I promised. “I came all the way down here to make sure you’re getting good legal advice, so at least you can talk to me for a few minutes.”
Graham looked at me like he doubted my motive, but I knew he couldn’t say no when I was standing right there in front of him. “Alright,” he said. “But I can’t stay too long. I’ve got a lot I need to do today.”
After we sat down at an old diner near the courthouse—a relic on a street sprouting expensive boutiques—I steered the conversation toward safer topics at first: how the window repair was going (the neighbors were complaining about his new “nonhistoric” windows), whether he’d finished his website redesign (almost done), how Liam was doing (fine, although Graham hadn’t seen him as much lately, with exams coming up). We both avoided the real reason Graham was seeing less of his son.
Graham asked me about the scar on my forehead, which had faded to a jagged red mark by then. “I’ve decided it makes me look like Harry Potter,” I said, showing off one of the benefits of nine months of therapy (optimism!). “My doctor said it’ll barely be noticeable once it heals.”
“I think you should find a new doctor,” Graham told me. “Why did he make such a long cut for something the size of a pencil eraser—was he charging by the inch?”
That was one of the things I missed about Graham: He wasn’t afraid to tell me things he thought I needed to hear. Uncharacteristically, I hadn’t really researched the doctor who did the surgery—a mistake I wouldn’t make when I needed it again.
The diner was starting to fill up with the lunchtime rush of office workers, and I could tell Graham was getting antsy to get on with his own pressing errand. But there was one more topic I wanted to bring up before he slipped away.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m not here to judge you or lecture you about drugs, but I’m worried that you might not be in a frame of mind to deal with this case. You don’t make the best decisions when you’re using, and I don’t want to see you end up in a situation that spins out of control.”
“You heard what my lawyer said,” Graham snapped. “The case is just gonna get dismissed.”
“If the DA doesn’t file any evidence. But you know how the legal system works: It’s not whether you’re guilty or innocent, it’s whether you have money for a really good lawyer.”
“I have a good lawyer. I’m paying him a fucking fortune to show up in court for ten minutes every six weeks.”
“I know. That’s why I want to make sure he’s doing his job, and I don’t know if he understands how this case could affect your immigration status. When I get home, I’m going to email you an article I read that said any conviction involving drugs could get you deported.”
“I’m a legal permanent resident. They’re not gonna kick me out of the country because of a misdemeanor.”
“Just promise me you’ll read it, and talk it over with your lawyer?”
“Alright, but I think you’re being a bit paranoid about this.”
That was the reaction I expected, but at least I’d delivered the message I thought Graham needed to hear. After he paid the bill, he walked me to the subway and gave me a hug before I descended underground—to the same platform where he kissed me the day he took my picture. Neither of us mentioned that it was Valentine’s Day.
“I’ll call you,” Graham said, which was what he always said whenever we parted. And I always believed him, like Charlie Brown running to kick the football Lucy always yanked away.
Later that afternoon, I sent him the article, highlighting this sentence: “A non-citizen who has entered the country legally but who has a conviction under ‘any law relating to a controlled substance’ is subject to deportation.”
In case he didn’t read the whole article, I explained, “Even seemingly minor charges that wouldn’t be a big deal for a U.S. citizen are treated very differently if you’re not a citizen, even if you have a green card—and most people don’t know that. This country isn’t particularly friendly toward immigrants these days.”
At that point, I didn’t think it was something Graham needed to be too concerned about, since it did seem like his case would get dismissed. I shared it more as a warning—another motivation for quitting. I’m not sure I would’ve admitted my own reason for worrying: that he might get sent far away from me. Seeing him had churned up emotions I hadn’t expected to feel, like a fever returning with a new round of chills.
“I’m glad I went today,” I wrote. “It was good to see you.”
“Likewise,” Graham answered. “Reminded me that i like you…………a lot!”
He didn’t acknowledge the article I’d sent, which I was pretty sure he didn’t bother to read.
The next day, Graham rode his bike uptown and left a bouquet of flowers outside my building, propped in a corner next to an envelope with my name. Inside was a card he’d made, using a photograph he’d taken of a door painted with a red heart. “Happy V Day on the 15th,” Graham wrote in the card. “A picture says a thousand words! And my lips are sealed right now.”
Over the next few days, I probably spent a thousand minutes trying to figure out what he meant. That he wasn’t telling me everything? That he couldn’t, because of his court case?
“Right now” suggested that at some point, he would.
—
THREE WEEKS AFTER Graham’s hearing, I met with a real estate agent to discuss listing my apartment.
By early April, it was officially for sale.
Within days after the first open house, we had a deal.
Even in the frenzy of New York’s heated-up real estate market, it was a fast pace for a transaction involving a mortgage—not to mention the approval of a co-op board. It was a record pace for a major decision for me.
I’d been thinking about selling my apartment on and off for years, as prices doubled, then tripled, and the residents in my building went from artists and writers—often, living alone—to married bankers and lawyers who needed two salaries just to make ends meet. Since my income wasn’t rising along with all of my bills, I finally decided it was time to cash in.
Having money may not have bought me happiness—as Daniel Gilbert warned it wouldn’t—but it certainly eliminated a lot of my stress.
My main source of anxiety was finding another place to live. Since I had to sign a lease before I got the check from my sale, I didn’t have many options; my income was too low to get approved for a rental involving a broker. So when a friend passed along a tip about a sublet in Brooklyn, I was intrigued: It had a roof deck, a fireplace, lots of light, and a washer and dryer (a rarity in New York City), but it was ten blocks from Graham’s house. I wanted to move to Brooklyn, but not necessarily so close to him that we’d bump into each other on the street.
By spring, we had settled into a new phase of our relationship: not trying to be friends, but not entirely cutting the cord. There’s no doubt Graham still had a mysterious pull over me, a mix of what-might-have-been regret and a lingering worry about his case. I saw my role as sort of a guardian angel—I even sent him a photo of another snow angel I made, with a caption to that effect. But most of our communications were digital: I’d email and ask how he was doing; he’d text me a photo once in a while. The only times we saw each other were at the courthouse in Brooklyn. I knew when Graham had a hearing because I’d signed up for email alerts from New York’s “WebCrims” database, which made it easy to track his case online.
I went to look at the sublet the same day as Graham’s fourth—but by no means final—hearing. The police had filed a ballistics report about the BB gun a couple of days before the deadline was up, which meant the case hadn’t gotten dismissed. But Graham’s lawyer said that there had been some “procedural errors”—by the police or the DA’s office, it wasn’t clear—so he was still o
ptimistic about a dismissal. (In fact, the case would drag on for another year and a half.)
Since I wasn’t sure I could make it to the hearing, I didn’t tell Graham I might stop by. The courthouse wasn’t far from the sublet I looked at—and really liked—so I detoured there afterward, catching Graham just as he was hopping on his bike. He said nothing new had happened, just another adjournment. When I told him I was considering an apartment in the neighborhood, he didn’t seem to mind.
“It was nice to see you today—a surprise too,” he wrote me later. “Took me about half an hour to get rid of the lump in my throat after we parted! i won’t go on…..love g.”
A few days later, I sent him an email saying I’d signed the lease. He wrote back: “I can see your smile from here, which in turn has made me happy ’coz of your happiness. As i said if you need any help just ask - i’m right here.”
I’m not sure I would’ve described myself as happy, but I was definitely excited about moving on. For months David and I had been discussing my anxiety about change—where it came from, and what I could do to get “unstuck.” Selling my apartment was a big step out of that semiparalyzed state.
“It’s like you’re not safe enough in the world to let go of anything you have,” David once commented. It was a fair assessment of how I felt at that point, but it didn’t track with how I’d lived much of my life: leaving Michigan to go to Stanford, spending my junior year in Italy, moving to Argentina without speaking any Spanish. Up until my thirties, I took a lot of leaps off into the unknown.
By mid-2007, I think my insecurity was partly influenced by how much everything was changing, and how precarious everyone I knew was feeling, in their homes, their relationships, or their jobs. It was like we were all playing a game of musical chairs, scrambling to find a seat every time the music stopped—and within a few months, it would screech to a grinding halt. Selling my apartment gave me a financial cushion to ride out the recession, but it also left me feeling somewhat adrift.
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