Libby.
I open my mouth to say something, but then the girl in the seat in front of us swivels around, hangs her arm over the seat back. “What’d you think about Howard’s share?” she asks Libby, and the two are soon lost in conversation.
Howard cranks up the van, and cold air from the overhead vents blasts the top of my head. All around me, kids settle into hushed exchanges as they process the meeting, but I hike up my hoodie and lean against the window. The van is packed, and Libby’s arm is still touching mine. But for some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel completely alone.
Day 11
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor outside of Richard Fisher’s office when he finally shows up for work. He’s so engrossed in reading something on his phone that he almost trips over me.
“What the . . . Eli?”
“You shouldn’t walk and text at the same time,” I tell him. “It’s a matter of public safety.”
Richard Fisher mumbles something under his breath as he unlocks his office door. I’m pretty sure I catch the words “smart ass.” I follow him into his office.
“Come on in,” Richard Fisher says, a little unenthusiastically. He drops his helmet on his desk and starts unloading his worn leather brief case.
I drop straight down onto the couch and prop up my feet, eyeing the decals (one peeling) on the shiny side of his black helmet. “Is it true you were in a motorcycle drug ring?”
Richard Fisher rubs his eyes wearily. “Aren’t you supposed to be listening to the morning speaker right now?”
“You said you have an open-door policy,” I counter. “You said I could come whenever I needed to talk. And I do. Need to talk, I mean.”
“I knew I should’ve stopped for coffee on the way in,” Richard Fisher sighs. He drops heavily into his swivel chair. “So talk.”
“I went to a meeting last night.”
Richard’s eyes light up a bit. “Your first NA meeting,” he says. “What’d you think?”
“It was fine.” I shove a couch pillow under the crook of my neck and lean back against it. “It was good, actually. But now I pretty much feel like crap.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, because it’s hard to explain. Ever since the ride home, I’ve felt raw, like I’m wearing my skin inside out or something. I snapped at Mo last night when he tried to ask me about the meeting, and I didn’t sleep well, so now I’m cranky and achy and tired. And underneath all of that is a steady hunger for something, anything, that will make these feelings go away. I haven’t felt like this since Dad died, and the one thing I know for sure will make me feel better, is the last thing I’m going to get my hands on here.
I glare at Richard. “You know, like crap.”
He smiles at me. “You’re going to have to elaborate.”
“I’m pissed, okay?” I can’t get comfortable on the couch, and I burrow backward, finally reaching back to yank out the flimsy throw pillow and toss it across the room.
“You’re angry,” Richard echoes.
“That’s what I said,” I snap at him, folding my arms across my chest and clenching my fists.
Richard nods. “It’s not uncommon for me to hear something in a meeting that reminds me of my own story. Sometimes it can trigger some very difficult emotions.”
I sit up on the couch and stare at him. “But you can make it stop, right? I mean, that’s your job. That’s what shrinks do.”
“For the last time, Eli, I’m not a . . .” Richard Fisher rubs his hand down his face, squeezes the bony part at the top of his nose. “They’re called feelings, Eli. They’re a part of life, and once we stop using drugs to numb them, we have to learn how to deal with them all over again.”
“So you’re saying I’m going to feel this way forever?”
Richard Fisher shakes his head. “No, not forever. You remember my zit analogy?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately.”
“What happens to a zit after you pop it? It scabs over and then what?”
I roll my eyes, thinking Mo’s got the story wrong, that Richard Fisher would make a better dermatologist than a shrink. “They heal, I guess.”
“They heal,” Richard echoes. “Feelings demand to be felt. The important thing is how we cope with our feelings while we’re having them. As addicts, we have to learn new ways to deal with our feelings—ways that don’t involve needles or rolled dollar bills. That’s where Step Two comes in: We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Because we can’t do it ourselves. Think about it: in the past when you’ve had feelings like this, how have you managed them?”
I don’t manage them. I shut them off. I look Richard Fisher straight in the eye. “I get high.”
“And how’s that worked out for you?”
I think of Savannah, the cloudy February morning when I showed up with flowers. The way she forgave me, the promises I broke. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Exactly,” Richard says. “Shutting down, using drugs, it doesn’t work. We have to believe that there’s something else out there that can help us choose another way. How are you coming on your step work?”
“See, that’s just it,” I tell him. “It seems like everybody else around here has something or someone they can depend on to help them out. Red has Lisa, or her mom, or whatever, and Mo has his family and his home group. But when I go home, I’m not going to have anybody. Not Savannah, not my friends.”
“What about your family?” Fisher asks.
Anger sears my gut like acid. “What about them?”
“They brought you here. They obviously support your recovery. Can’t you depend on them?”
I snort. “Steven only dumped me here so he could avoid the Grandhaven rumor mill. Nobody wants to talk about heroin while they’re teeing off. And Mom will do anything he wants, so long as she can keep her sparkly McMansion and the perfect family façade she’s got going on.”
“It sounds like you’re pretty angry at your mom.”
“Yes, I’m fucking angry!” I pitch forward on the couch, vomiting the words I’ve never said out loud. My fury seeps into the carpet, the couch cushions. It drips down the walls. “Dad died, and I was lost. You wouldn’t think a ten-year-old could feel so dark inside, but I did. And instead of being there for me, instead of helping me through it, she just picked up and moved on. She married Steven and had Benny. Like Dad never existed. Like our real family was a memory she’d rather forget.”
Fisher doesn’t seem phased by my outburst. “You feel like she abandoned you,” he says.
“It’s worse than that,” I tell him, my nails sinking into the flesh of my palms. “If it wasn’t for her, my dad would still be alive.”
He cocks a brow. “How so?”
“My dad died on his way to our house. He was coming to sign divorce papers. He didn’t want to. He put it off for as long as he could. If Mom hadn’t pushed so hard . . .” My words catch in my throat as I revisit my familiar childhood fantasy, how much better my life would be if Dad was still alive. I swallow hard. “Dad was barely in the ground when Steven proposed.”
Fisher leans back in his chair. “Have you ever tried talking to your mom about this?”
I choke out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, right. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Mom, thanks for being a selfish bitch.’ That’ll go over real well.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d use those exact words, but the alternative is to not talk about it at all. And then how will it be when you go back home? If you take all this anger with you, how will you keep from falling back into old patterns?”
I consider the possibilities. I might be able to hold out for a little while, but one good fight with mom would have me locked in my room, texting Chase for a hit. But what can I do about it now? How am I supposed to start a conversation eight years in the making?
“I know I should talk to her,” I say, h
unching my shoulders and hiking my hood up around my ears. “But I don’t know how.”
“Sometimes it can be helpful to have a family counseling session,” Fisher suggests.
“What, like, bring my mom in here?”
Fisher nods.
I sink lower into my hoodie, pulling the cuffs down around my hands. “I don’t even know what I would say.”
“You’d say all the things you told me. Only you wouldn’t have to do it alone. I’d be right here in your corner, backing you up.”
I mull it over a minute, my fingers tracing the muted pattern on the sofa cushion. Bringing Mom in to talk sounds terrifying, like heading into surgery knowing full well you’re coming out with a vital organ missing. But with Fisher here, she’d actually have to listen for once. There’d be no distractions—no Benny and no Steven. Just Mom and me.
I give a short nod. “No Steven, okay? Just my mom.”
Fisher smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”
Day 13
This morning’s speaker is a 95-pound yogi with more body piercings than orifices. After a brief share on finding her sobriety through yoga and meditation, Ivy has us all put away our chairs and sit cross-legged on the bare floor while she perches on a purple meditation pillow and “oms” like an electric fly zapper.
Red bailed as soon as he heard the word “yoga,” sneaking off to wherever it is that he goes. Will sits a few feet away from me. He keeps snickering under his breath, and I’m pretty sure the only thing he’s visualizing is the backside of Ivy’s yoga pants.
And somehow this is supposed to help me get in touch with my higher power.
Libby sits right next to me. I can’t tell if she’s into this or if she’s fallen asleep, because even though my eyes are supposed to be closed, I keep opening them to make sure that everyone in the room isn’t secretly staring at me.
Libby’s lashes flutter softly like she’s dreaming. Her hands rest palms up on her knees, and the puckered pink skin of fading scars peeks out from under the sleeves of her white t-shirt. I wonder what finds her when she closes her eyes. And then I realize that if she opens them and sees me staring at her, she’s going to think I’m a creepy stalker and probably never talk to me again.
I quickly shut my eyes and try not to think about the things that find me in the dark: Mom’s coming today. And even though Fisher has reassured me a thousand times, I’m still a nervous wreck. What if I chicken out? What if, even with Fisher in my corner, I can’t tell her how I’ve really felt all these years? Deep down, I know that what I want to come from this session is proof—proof that Dad’s leaving was Mom’s fault so that I can finally let myself off the hook. But what if that proof doesn’t come?
“And when you’re ready,” Ivy finally drones, in this voice that’s a weird combo of sexy and nerd, like a guest speaker on NPR or a hot librarian, “open your eyes and come back to the room.”
I stretch out my legs, which have fallen so deeply asleep that tiny pins and needles are climbing up my skin like a thousand caterpillars.
“It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Libby teases.
“Longest twenty minutes of my entire lifetime.” I pound my feet with my knuckles to wake them up. “You?”
“I kinda liked it.” She stretches her arms above her head, like she just woke up from a blissful power nap. The smooth white skin of her lower back shows, and I can barely make out the upper edge of lower hip ink. Libby lowers her arms. “I did feel like someone was staring at me, though.” She twists around and squints at me, her nose scrunched up like she’s sniffing out a lie. “You weren’t staring at me, were you?”
For a second I’m not sure if she’s talking about when I was watching her meditate or just now, when I was checking out her, um . . . tattoo. Either way, I’m guilty as charged, but I point at my chest like maybe she’s talking to someone else and blatantly avoid the question. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you.” Libby twists full around on her mat so her knees touch my leg. “Because you know that would be total creepsville, right? To stare at someone while they’re meditating?”
I make my face slack-jawed serious. “If you want to get technical about it, staring at someone while they’re sleeping would be total creepsville. Staring at someone while they’re meditating is probably only partially creepsville and, depending on the circumstances, could also be construed as . . . sweet.”
Libby blinks.
“Not that I was staring at you or anything.”
She shoves my shoulder and laughs, then climbs to her feet, reaching out her hands to help pull me up. “C’mon, perv. Let’s get the blood flowing again.” I take her hands, pull myself up onto still-wobbly legs, and make some lame joke about how she might have to carry me to group. But as soon as we part ways, the nerves set in again.
I’m a basket case during group, my legs jostling up and down almost as much as Will’s, who looks like his very veins are caffeinated. I can’t concentrate on anything anybody says. My stomach churns around my breakfast, and my palms are sweating so much they leave wet prints on my jeans. I must look like I’m going to puke or something, because at one point, Howard looks at me all worried and asks if I need to see the nurse. By the time I get to Richard Fisher’s office, where my mom and Fish are waiting for me, I can barely see straight. This was a bad idea—a very, very bad idea.
Richard Fisher sits in a chair opposite Mom on the couch, and he’s brought in another chair for me. “Come on in and have a seat, Eli. Your mom just got here.”
Mom gives me this tiny, tentative smile, and I wonder if she’s as nervous as I am. She pats a spot on the couch beside her, but I choose the chair, a safe distance away.
Richard Fisher gives me this expectant look, and I know he’s waiting for me to start, but the words that came so freely when it was only me and Fish now seem stuck somewhere between my head and my heart.
“Eli,” Fisher begins, laying down a trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow. “Why don’t you tell your mother why you’ve asked her to join us today?”
Mom’s face is open and warm, like when she’s listening to Benny talk about his favorite kind of dinosaur or the latest episode of Blue’s Clues. For the first time in a long time, I’ve got her full attention, and it’s absolutely terrifying.
I look at my hands instead of at Mom and force out the words. “I want to talk about Dad.”
Mom blinks. “What?” She casts a sideways glance at Richard Fisher. “Why?”
“Because you never talk about him,” I push. “Because he’s my dad, and you act like he never existed.”
Mom’s jaw flexes; she picks at an invisible piece of lint on her sweater. I give Richard Fisher a pleading look.
He picks up the trail. “Eli thought that maybe a family session—”
Mom cuts in. “We really should’ve included Steven.”
Anger rises in my throat, freeing my tongue. “That’s just it!” I say. The words wedge through gritted teeth. “Steven’s not my family.”
“Honey,” Mom tries. She reaches to touch my knee, but I push my chair back out of reach. She sighs. “Steven cares about you a great deal, Eli. And like it or not, he’s a part of our family.”
Richard Fisher clears his throat. “That may be, but right now it’s important that we validate every feeling Eli’s having.”
“Steven raised him like his own son.” Mom talks to Richard Fisher like I’m not even here. “He paid Eli’s way into one of the most prestigious college prep schools around. He—”
“He’s not my dad!” I explode.
Mom’s head swivels to face me, like she’d forgotten I was in the room.
“My dad died, remember? Or did you forget about him when you and Steven were drawing up plans for your new life?”
Mom slides her hands down her face. “That’s not fair, Eli. I don’t expect you to understand, but I had to do what I knew was best.”
“You didn’t even ask me! You nev
er once tried to talk to me about my dad. You stuck me in therapy, hoping they could figure out what was wrong with me. Well, guess what, Mom? I could’ve saved you a boat-load of money—the only thing wrong with me is you!”
Mom turns to Richard Fisher. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Now, hang on a second,” Fisher tries, his voice coaxing. “Eli, remember how we talked about trying to use I-statements—”
I ignore him.
I want to hurt her. I want her to feel like I’ve felt all these years. My words freefall like cannonballs. “All I ever wanted was more time with Dad. I wanted to live with him. Did you know that? Did you ever think for a second that maybe I actually needed him around? No, you were too selfish, too self-absorbed . . .”
Mom’s face turns to chiseled stone, her voice taut and low. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why can’t you just admit it? If you hadn’t been so determined to get a divorce, Dad would still be alive.”
Mom’s shaking her head, deflecting my words. Fury and desperation push me to my feet, and I hover over her, landing a final blow: “It’s your fault he’s dead!”
Mom’s face crumples; she drops her head into her hands. Words, faint and feeble, find their way through her fingers. “It was an overdose, Eli.”
An overdose. The word sears my brain, fiery and hot.
“You’re lying.” My voice cracks, and I hate how pathetic I sound.
Mom peers up at me, her eyes pooling with tears. “I wish I was,” she says. “You were so little, and you loved him so much. How could I tell you he was an addict? I had to protect you from the truth.”
An addict.
My mind swirls as memories rush in like flood water. “That night,” I begin, “the night he left . . .”
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