My Life, Deleted

by Scott Bolzan

  “No, I’m going to take off,” I said.

  Grant walked with me to the end of the driveway, started to cry, and gave me a big hug. “I’m sorry for putting you guys through this,” he said.

  “Don’t apologize,” I said, hoping he could see how pissed I still was. “This is your chance to get better and to make everything right. Do your job here, and make sure you get everything out of it that they teach you.”

  I hugged him and kissed him on the check. “Good-bye. I love you and stay strong,” I said.

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  As I walked to the car, I fought back the tears, making it around the corner and down the next block before I could pull over and let the tears come gushing out. I felt horrible, dropping Grant at a depressing place like that, where we didn’t know any of the people. I felt like a terrible father who had abandoned his son and left him to fend for himself.

  I called Joan at work and shared my sadness with her. “I tried so hard to make it through saying good-bye without breaking down,” I said.

  She tried to calm me down but mostly just let me vent. I told her how disgusted I was with myself, being such a hard-ass with him on the drive to the boat from Gilbert. By the time we’d gotten to the rehab place that morning, I said, “Grant looked like a beaten man. It was so hard because my heart went out to him, but I was still just so angry with him.”

  “Look, I know this is tough,” she said, “but we’re doing the right thing for him and he really needs this right now. He needs us to be tough on him.”

  Joan always knew what to say to make me feel better, but I still felt like crap. Deep down I knew I could handle losing my memory and everything that came with it, but I wasn’t sure if Grant could handle getting clean. That’s what really scared me.

  Can my son get through life without using drugs again?

  After talking to Joan for an hour, I drove back to the boat, where I sat on the top deck for the rest of the day thinking and taking in the view of the boats, the people eating and drinking on the outdoor decks of the restaurants nearby, and the folks milling around on the boat ramps.

  I pondered what the future held for me and my family and what I was going to do if my memory didn’t return. As I tried to relax and get my mind off the headache that was pounding like a drum, I mentally prepared to spend the next couple of days alone until Taylor and Anthony arrived for spring break on Saturday. They were planning to stay until Wednesday, when we would caravan back together.

  Later that evening I was watching a hockey game at Rockin’ Baja Lobster, a sports bar, when Shaggy called to tell me that Grant was going through withdrawal, experiencing painful stomach cramps, alternating bouts of hot and cold, and an inability to sit still. “He needs to go to a medical detox facility,” he said.

  Apart from being furious, I couldn’t even comprehend this. “How is he going through withdrawal when he hasn’t used in five days now?”

  Shaggy said that Grant had lied to us—he’d sneaked out of our house in Gilbert the night before we left for California and bought some heroin.

  I was numb. I simply could not believe what I was hearing.

  “He’s going to be detoxing, and we’re not set up for that,” Shaggy said, explaining that there were medical risks, and they wanted to take him to a place that charged $550 a day, where he needed to stay for at least three days.

  “I’ll have to talk to Joan,” I said. “I’ll call you back shortly.”

  I was so disgusted with my son. If he’d just been honest, we could have taken him back to the free place in downtown Phoenix before having to throw even more money at the problem in California. When I told Joan that I’d asked him repeatedly on the drive out if there was anything else he hadn’t told me, she was as pissed as I was.

  “That f---ing liar!” she said. “Not only do we have to spend all of this money on rehab, now we have to spend $1,500 more on detox.”

  The more we talked, the higher the anger bubbled up inside me. “Why does he lie so much?” I asked.

  “He’s an addict,” she said. “He’s not capable of telling us the truth.”

  After discussing our options, we decided we had no choice but to send him to the detox facility Shaggy had recommended. I called him back, asking him to tell Grant that we didn’t want to hear from him while he was in detox; we would call Shaggy to check on him. “I want him to go through as much pain as is tolerable,” I said. “I don’t want this to be easy for him.”

  “Okay,” Shaggy said, as if he completely understood.

  Because I couldn’t do anything more at this point, I stayed at the sports bar, although I really wanted to drive up to Dana Point and beat Grant’s ass. His drug addiction was costing us a small fortune, and yet he seemed completely oblivious to that.

  I was so upset, my anger kept me up for two nights straight, and the pain pills did nothing to numb my headache. All I could do was watch television, cry, miss my wife, and try to process what was happening.

  The nights were chilly, so I drank coffee to stay warm and dozed off during the day for fifteen-minute catnaps. I read more about addiction on the Internet and rehashed Grant’s lies in my mind, which only served to prolong my fury. I needed Joan to help calm me down, and I wanted to help her do the same, but I’d promised Taylor that we could hang out on the boat during her vacation.

  While I waited for her and Anthony, I passed the time talking to our boat neighbors, Barb, Ray, and Davey. I updated them about everything but Grant because I was embarrassed and didn’t want to look like I’d been a bad parent.

  When the kids showed up, they were more interested in Jet Skiing or Boogieboarding than spending time with me. I spent most of my days wiping down the dust and excess oil from the boat engine, preparing for the sale we hoped would be forthcoming.

  After having dinner with them, I talked to Joan about Grant and us for hours at a time. Sometimes we realized we were both watching the same show, such as Two and a Half Men, and we shared a few laughs and talked during commercials.

  I felt lost without my wife, almost as if I couldn’t function properly without her. I’d heard the expression “he’s my right-hand man,” and this was truly appropriate to describe what she meant to me. But she wasn’t just my right hand; she was my everything. When we were apart, nothing made sense. Given the circumstances, spending this time away from her was even more difficult because I wasn’t able to hold her or feel her next to me. I missed her comfort.

  Although I enjoyed spending time with Taylor and Anthony, Wednesday could not come soon enough for me. I was eager to get home to Joan and familiar territory because the boat only reminded me of Grant’s drug habit and my anger. My sanctuary had become more like a prison, and the joy of being there was gone.

  Chapter 16

  AFTER MY SUCCESS with selling our small fleet of cars, I moved on to my watch collection. Unlike the old Scott, who Joan said changed his watch almost every day, I’d become a creature of habit and had been perfectly happy wearing the same one for the past several months, which was normal for someone with a brain injury. My lightweight Citizen Eco-Drive Skyhawk had a comfortable black rubber strap, and, being solar-powered, it was also convenient because I never had to change the battery.

  Reading online about the features and widely variable market values of my thirteen timepieces, I learned that the Skyhawk was a favorite among pilots because it told the time in forty-three cities worldwide and also calculated fuel time and flying speed.

  Joan couldn’t remember when or where I’d gotten the watches other than she’d given me the Chase Durer Trackmaster for my birthday. She did say, however, that every time I’d bought or sold an aircraft for a client, we’d go shopping—Joan for clothes or shoes and me for a new watch. But because none of them held special meaning for me now, I saw no reason not to liquidate them to generate some household income. Joan was doing her part; I wanted to do mine.

  Building on my car sales experience, I researched th
e watches’ wholesale, retail, and private sale prices, averaged them, then listed them on a legal pad along with what I originally paid. After deciding to keep three of them for a little variety—the Skyhawk; the Trackmaster, which had a stainless-steel strap, lit up at night, and contained a stopwatch; and the IWC, a dress watch with a leather strap—I crossed them off the list and asked Joan what she thought of it.

  “Oh, you made up a spreadsheet,” she said.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “This form you made, comparing the cost of each watch, is called a spreadsheet.”

  But she still hadn’t answered my question. “Okay,” I said, “but what do you think of the list?”

  “This looks good, but what are you going to do with it?”

  Presenting my action plan, I said I would put ads on Craigslist and sell the remaining pieces to a retail store that sold used jewelry, aiming to get as close as possible to the current selling price.

  Joan cautioned me to take safety measures so I didn’t get robbed or scammed. Apparently we’d almost got caught up in a Craigslist caper in 2007 when we’d posted an ad to sell one of Grant’s motorcycles. The buyer insisted on paying us with a $5,000 cashier’s check for a $3,000 motorcycle, asking for the $2,000 balance in cash. Luckily, the bank determined the check was fraudulent before we completed the transaction.

  Joan and I agreed I should meet potential Craigslist buyers at my office building to keep our home address secret.

  I was amazed how many watches were for sale on Craigslist, and although I wondered if I had too much competition, I forged ahead. I listed three watches, including a new Rolex Explorer II and a barely worn Omega Seamaster Planet Ocean, both of which I priced at $4,000. My research showed that Rolexes held their value better than any of my other watches, so I was confident I could get my asking prices. The Omega, which I’d purchased for $5,550, had no scratches but felt like I had a boat anchor around my wrist.

  I waited for the buyers to show up, but no one called for several days, and, even after the calls began to trickle in, I quickly grew frustrated with people lowballing my asking prices and failing to show up for appointments. I wondered if I was wasting my time. A week later I got a call from an ASU college student who was interested in the Rolex.

  “The pictures look really good,” he said. “I’d like to see it in person.”

  We arranged to meet within the hour in my office building lobby, where I knew they had security cameras in case he tried to rob me or accuse me of robbing him. When he arrived, he was in his early twenties, blond, tall, and well groomed in a polo shirt and khakis. In other words, he looked as if he could afford my watch.

  As we sat on the black leather couches, he put on the watch and stared at it longingly as if he were trying to find a reason not to buy it. I wondered if that’s how I’d felt when I’d bought it or if I’d been too spoiled to appreciate its handsomeness.

  Finally he sprang to his feet, saying, “I want it, but will you take $3,500 for it?”

  “No,” I said, “I appreciate it, but I’m confident that this watch will sell due to the condition it’s in.” I started putting it back in the box, which seemed to prompt the young man to go for it.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll pay the $4,000, but it’s more than I wanted to spend.”

  After I told him I only took cash, he left to go to the bank, promising to return in half an hour. Meanwhile, I went up to my office to make copies of the sales receipt and registration for my records, and sure enough, he came back as promised. After he counted forty one-hundred-dollar bills into my hand, we shook on the deal, and he left with a big smile.

  It was nice to see that this watch had brought him happiness when it wasn’t doing anything for me but serving as a reminder of my previous excess.

  Thank God I didn’t owe any money on these watches. What kind of greedy man was I, needing to surround myself with all these cars and watches when I’ve seen so many people on the news going hungry, living with no phone or running water, not just in other parts of the world, but here in the United States too?

  I was proud that I’d been successful enough to buy these luxuries, but when I considered how much I’d indulged myself, I felt nauseated.

  How can there be so much difference between what some people have and others don’t have? And how many poor people could I have helped rather than spending money on these items that I didn’t need?

  I wondered how I’d gotten so off track, trying to build wealth instead of focusing on what was truly important—my family. Was that partly why I’d missed noticing that my son had started down the wrong path in life? Maybe I’d been too preoccupied to see what was right in front of me.

  Several weeks later I sold the Omega Seamaster to a man from Tennessee. After we talked on the phone, he agreed to wire the money into my account and trusted that I would send him the watch. He paid my asking price and an additional fifty dollars for shipping. When he received the watch, he called to tell me that it was in better shape than the photos had indicated, which seemed to be an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. “There’s only one small scratch on the clasp,” he said, astounded.

  “I know, I didn’t wear the watch,” I replied.

  “It’s just very refreshing that somebody put a good product on Craigslist,” he said.

  As happy as I was to hear this, it made me realize that I needed to be more careful in the future. Before the accident, Joan said, I’d become bitter and untrusting due to some bad experiences in the business world. Right after the accident, I had felt frightened of people unless I knew everything about them, but now I’d become almost too trusting.

  I was unable to sell the third watch on Craigslist, so I decided to take it and the other eight watches to two retail stores in Scottsdale and take the highest offer. By my calculations, the timepieces were worth around $22,000. I knew I wouldn’t get that much; I was willing to take less if I could complete the sale quickly for close to that price.

  A buyer at the Estate Watch & Jewelry Company offered me $19,500 for the bunch. I told him I needed to think about it and would call him later that day, then got in my car and drove to the other store, Scottsdale Fine Jewelers, which was about five miles away.

  After chatting with the owner and his wife about the sad shape of the aviation business and my desire to convert the watches into cash, he offered me $20,800.

  I stepped outside to consult with Joan by phone. “That seems pretty close to what we talked about,” she said. “See if you can get a few hundred dollars more.”

  I went back inside and asked for $21,100, and we finally settled on $21,000.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ve got a deal.”

  I had to say I felt relieved to get rid of these unnecessary items. I also felt a keen sense of satisfaction about pulling my own weight around the house and improving our financial security.

  With our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary approaching, I decided it would be nice to renew our vows like I’d seen people do on TV. Joan had confided that she was worried I would wake up one day and want to run off with someone else because I couldn’t remember all our years together. Knowing that my love for her had been growing stronger every day, I thought this gesture would help her see how committed I was to spending the rest of my life with her.

  “Our twenty-fifth anniversary is coming up, and we’re going to Hawaii. Do you still want to renew our vows like we planned before the accident?” I asked, expecting her to jump at the chance to do this during our upcoming vacation.

  Joan got quiet and paused before she answered. She looked as if she felt backed into a corner and had to decide whether to hurt my feelings or be bluntly honest with me. “I don’t feel that you know what love is yet,” she said. “It might be a good idea to wait until you know what it means.”

  “But I do love you. I don’t know how I felt before the accident, but I know how I feel now, and I know how I feel when I’m not with you, and this has to be love,” I said,
still reeling from the shock of what she’d said. “Why don’t you want to remarry me?”

  Reading my feelings of rejection, she grabbed me and tried to soften the blow. “It’s not that I don’t want to remarry you. I love you, and I have known you for most of my life, but you’ve only known me for a few months. I think it would be better if we waited until you know for sure that you still want to be married to me.”

  I told her that I may not know everything about her, but I must have loved her for the past twenty-eight years or we wouldn’t still be married. I slowly realized, however, that she might be right. Maybe I did need to get to know her better, and we could renew our vows at a more appropriate time. She seemed to have guided me in the right direction up to this point. Who was I to start doubting her now?

  We did end up going to Hawaii, but we didn’t renew our vows. Instead, she spent our anniversary telling me, minute by minute, what we’d been doing on our wedding day twenty-five years earlier, until we fell asleep in each other’s arms that night. I could feel my love for her growing stronger every day.

  Now that I’d sold off what I could, I wondered what else I could do to help out financially. We were still hoping that my memory would return, but even if it did, I wasn’t sure I would be able to pick up the jet business again. After all my work to make it successful, the company still had value, even without me at its helm, so in the worst case, we figured we could sell off its assets and client base.

  In March we managed to get out of the last five months of our office lease, which saved us $5,000 a month, but we thought it best to keep the business alive in some form. So we switched over to a virtual office service for only $200 a month, which gave us a business address, phone and fax services, and a place to meet with clients if necessary. Calls to our business number were still answered by the same reception desk, but they were now relayed to voicemail; faxes went to my eFax, which I could access from home or anywhere else I could get on a computer. At first Joan handled all the callbacks because I didn’t know enough to talk to anyone. When I felt better, we decided, I would start calling some people myself.