by Karyn Bosnak
The next morning, after tearfully dropping off Eva at the vet (I felt so bad leaving her), I drive down Lily Pond’s long driveway once again. Since it’s so much nicer than any of the hotels I’ve stayed at so far (the Ritz doesn’t count because I didn’t stay the night), I’m somewhat excited to be here. After parking my car, I walk to the front door and do a quick check to see if Carl is on duty. If he is, my plan is to wait to check in when he goes to lunch. Seeing neither hide nor hair of him, I walk inside and up to the counter. Standing in his place is a large black woman. Her name tag says Lucille. Looking up, she smiles when she sees me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, Lucille. I’d like to check myself in today.”
“Did you come all by yourself?” Lucille asks, glancing behind me. She looks concerned.
I nod pathetically. “Yes.”
“You got an appointment?”
Oops. I didn’t know I needed one. I nod pathetically again. “Yes.”
After giving Lucille my name, I wait patiently as she begins flipping through pages of an appointment book. After searching and coming up empty, she looks up. “I don’t have anything here.”
Not wanting to be turned away, I lean my body against the counter for support and begin to do my best Anna Nicole Smith impression. “Thaaaaatttttzzzz tooooo baddddd,” I say, slurring my words together.
“Oh dear,” Lucille says in a concerned tone. She can tell I need help. “Why don’t you go have a seat over there,” she says, motioning to a fluffy white sofa in the corner.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
After a few minutes of waiting a woman named Jan comes to get me and takes me to her office. She has chipmunk cheeks—jowls—and crazy curly hair that somewhat resembles Michelle’s, except it’s black not red. The only piece of flair she’s wearing to jazz up her all-black suit is a hot pink leopard-print scarf. After apologizing for not having my appointment in the book, Jan asks if I remember who it was I spoke to when I called.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “But I think his name was Carl.”
I hope that asshole gets in trouble.
For the next two hours I’m assessed by Jan, a doctor, and a psychiatrist. I know what they want to hear because, in addition to watching a lot of Charlie’s Angels as a kid, I also watched a lot of after-school specials, particularly the ones on addictions (those were always the best.)
“I’m here because I want to be here, not because anyone’s making me,” I tell them. “Not only do I want to stop hurting others,” I then add, “I want to stop hurting myself as well.”
“At a girl,” Jan says. “Admitting you need help is the first step to recovery.”
Needless to say, I pass my assessment test with flying colors and am admitted to Lily Pond. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel oddly accomplished when I’m accepted—I never test well on things. Since my insurance from Elisabeth Sterling Design is still good for a couple more weeks, I pass my card over to take care of the $1,000-a-day cost of Lily Pond and quickly sign the papers they give me. I don’t have time to read them—I need to get to get inside now; I need to help Foxy!
My room is a special room, they tell me, one for detox. Located right off the nurse’s station, it’s not very private but it does have its own bathroom. Even though there are two twin beds inside, I’m the only new recruit right now so it’s all mine. While I unpack a nurse stands with me, taking my cell phone (I should be focusing on getting better and nothing else) and anything else she deems harmful to my recovery.
Around noon someone rings a loud cowbell signaling it’s time to eat, so I head toward the cafeteria. Unlike the beautiful grounds, the food at Lily Pond is exactly what I would expect to be served in rehab: overprocessed, overcooked, oversaturated. Soft vegetables, tough meat—it’s disgusting. After taking the one apple I see, I take a seat alone and begin to look around for Foxy. Not seeing him anywhere, I check out everyone else. I’m not sure what I expected, but most of the people here look normal. Some of the guys are even hot, which is somewhat exciting. I mean, it’s a whole room of emotionally unstable men, looking to for fulfillment, looking for a strong woman. I might be able to help not only Foxy but all of them.
Someone suddenly sits next to me, interrupting my people-watching. It’s a man, but not one of the cute ones. He’s shorter, fatter, and balder than most of the others. “What are you in for?” he asks. A pair of Playboy sunglasses hang from his shirt pocket.
“Three to five,” I say, pretending I’m in the slammer. He smiles.
For the next few minutes, the Playboy tells me all about his Oxycontin addiction. He tells me that rehab is working for him so far, but he’s worried about getting out. You see, he’s a thrill-seeker who is always looking for a rush. After telling the Playboy that he needs to find a hobby, something that can give him the same rush as Oxycontin, I tell him about a TV special I watched recently about roller-coaster enthusiasts, people who drove all over the country to ride on different coasters. The Playboy likes my idea and says he’ll look into it when he leaves. Gosh, I haven’t even been here for one day yet and I’m already helping people. Where is Foxy?
Therapy doesn’t start until I’m done with detox, so for the remainder of the day I take a nap and then go to dinner. It’s “build your own potato” night, complete with bacon bits and nacho cheese. Barf. After grabbing another apple, I find a seat and once again look around for Foxy. Like this morning, I don’t see him anywhere. After eating and people-watching, the Playboy stops by to talk to me once again about being a thrill-seeker.
The next day the same thing happens—sleep, eat, no Foxy, the Playboy is a thrill-seeker. The only change is that a new woman has moved into the detox room with me. Although she seems nice enough, she’s covered her bed with Beanie Babies which frightens me.
On my third day in rehab, I wake up and realize that I have to leave in the afternoon to pick up Eva. The vet said she’d be ready to go around three o’clock so my plan is to leave right after lunch. Even though I miss her, I’m not happy about leaving. In addition to being upset about not connecting with Foxy, I’m peeved that I haven’t gotten any therapy. I mean, I was looking forward to being analyzed by a real doctor, by someone other than an audiobook. (No offense, Tony Robbins, I still love you and your white teeth.) I know I’m not paying for any of this, but for what exactly have they been charging me a thousand dollars a day? It surely isn’t the gourmet food. Nor is it the activities. Last evening I took an art therapy class hoping I’d get to throw down a slab of clay and make a pot like Demi Moore did in Ghost (because there’s this one table in my apartment that just needs something), but all I got was some paper and pastels. Bottom line—rehab’s a rip-off.
When I hear the cowbell ring, I head to the cafeteria one last time, praying I’ll see Foxy; it’s my last chance. While waiting in line to see what I’m once again not going to eat, I look up and gasp when I see Foxy sitting in the corner eating alone. I can’t believe it—I can’t believe it’s really him. He looks older and puffier. His strong jaw line isn’t as chiseled as it once was. After staring at him for a minute, I snap out of it and realize this is my one and only chance to talk to him. I take a deep breath and then once again embrace my inner Spice Girl and go for it.
“Matt,” I say, when I arrive to where he’s sitting. “Hi.”
Foxy looks up. His icy blue eyes are still hazy. He doesn’t say anything. By the look in his eyes I can tell my face isn’t registering, but I’m not offended, not like I was with Rod. Instead, I’m saddened. Foxy seems cloudy. He’s either on some heavy meds or his brain is fried—maybe both.
“It’s me, Delilah,” I explain. “Delilah, from Chicago.”
After a few seconds of silence, Foxy’s mouth slowly widens revealing the beautiful smile he’s always had. I melt—it’s still blinding. “Delilah Darling,” he says slowly, “how in the hell are ya?”
“I’m good,” I say in a shaky voice as tears fill my eyes. Even though he remembers me, he see
ms so lost. “How are you?”
He shrugs. “Been better.” He pats the seat next to him. “Here, have a seat.”
For the next ten minutes or so Foxy and I talk about what we’ve been doing since the last time we saw each other without going into too much detail. Oddly, he never asks why I’m in rehab, which makes me feel uncomfortable asking him. The whole conversation is very surface-level. Hoping to get him to open up more, I ask what he thinks of Lily Pond.
“Not a fan,” Foxy says, making a face. “I hate how the sun pours into my room early in the morning. I hate how my bed is lumpy.” He looks down at his plate. “I also hate the food.”
“No kidding,” I say, reaching over to pick up a piece of orange-tinged lettuce. “I can’t remember the last time I ate iceberg lettuce.”
Matt’s face suddenly turns white. Was it something I said? He begins staring off into space. I become worried.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
Matt doesn’t answer. In fact, it’s like he can’t even hear me. I wave my hands in front of his face. “Helllllo? Anyone home?”
Suddenly Matt bolts from his seat and jumps on top of the cafeteria table. As he begins pointing at nothing in the distance, people around us begin to whisper.
“Uh . . . are you okay?” I ask again.
He still doesn’t answer.
Oh no . . . what have I done?
As Matt’s breathing becomes heavier, the whispers become louder. Just as I’m about to stand up and try to convince him to come down, he suddenly screams at the top of his lungs. “Iceberg, right ahead!”
Iceberg? What in the hell?
Before I have a chance to ask him what he means (or even get the hell out of here, for that matter), Matt turns to face me and backs up. Getting a running start, he then leaps off the table in my direction. As his body flies through the air above me in what seems like slow motion, I begin to panic. He’s going to land on me, there’s no doubt about it. I duck for cover.
Just as I anticipated, two seconds later, Matt’s body slams into mine bringing us both to the floor. As food and drinks go flying, people begin screaming and complete chaos erupts. Lying on the floor, I try to get out from underneath him but I’m unable to do so. Likewise, I try to scream for help but I can’t speak. Matt’s body is completely covering mine; it’s like he’s trying to protect me from something.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
Suddenly everything goes black.
A little while later I wake up. After focusing my eyes, I realize I’m lying on a bed in an examination room. Jan is standing over me wearing the same black suit she wore when I met her, except that her piece of flair has changed to a rhinestone bird pin. Her arms are folded; she looks angry. Quickly sitting up, I look down and realize that I’m covered in food and soda.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could ya?” Jan asks in a hard voice. “You couldn’t let your boyfriend get better by himself but had to come in here and mess with his emotions.”
Boyfriend? Mess with his emotions? Oh, no. Jan has it all wrong.
“Matt’s not my boyfriend,” I say quickly. “Really, he’s not.”
Jan rolls her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Delilah. Carl told me you came here a few days ago looking for him.”
Looking up, I see Carl’s beady little eyes peering at me through a window in the door. Tattletale. Glaring at him, I give him the finger when Jan’s not looking.
“Were you with him in Mexico when he ate the peyote?” Jan asks. I look back at her. I’m confused.
“Who? Carl?”
Jan gives me a look. “No. Matt. Were you with Matt in Mexico when he ate the bad peyote?”
“Uh . . . no.”
Jan studies me for a moment. I think she can tell that I have no idea what she’s talking about. She sits down next to me.
“Listen, Delilah, Matt’s a very special patient here,” she says. Her voice is softer.
“Special how?”
“He has peyote-induced psychosis. The symptoms are similar to schizophrenia. He suffers from paranoid delusions, personality shifts, and hallucinations, the most common being that he’s on the Titanic when it’s sinking. We think he was watching the movie when he was tripping.”
“Peyote-induced psychosis?” Oh no. “You mean like . . . he’s crazy?”
“Well, yes, kind of,” Jan says. “We’re hoping the delusions will go away though or at least wane as the drugs works their way out of his system, but it’s hard to say. Lately things haven’t been looking good. Certain trigger words—like in your case, iceberg—have been causing him to break into full-on reenactments from the movie. Today’s outburst wasn’t bad, but last week . . . sheesh! After one of the other patients called him a jackass he took off all his clothes and started running around naked screaming, “Put your hands on me Jack! Put your hands on me Jack!’ It wasn’t pretty.”
Jan’s words hit me like a ton of bricks.
Wow. I mean, wow. There’s no way I can spend the rest of my life with this guy. I need to get out of here. Realizing I’m in way over my head, I decide to come clean.
“Jan, I shouldn’t be here. I don’t really have a drug problem.”
Jan gives me a “That’s what they all say” look.
“Seriously,” I continue, “I lied to get in here.”
“Delilah, you failed a drug test.”
“Yeah, I know. I planned that. I ate a lot of poppy seed bagels before I got here.”
Jan looks confused, so I decide to tell her everything. I tell her how Matt and I dated eight years ago and how I was hoping to work things out with him. I tell her how I came to visit, but Carl was an asshole, so I went home and devised a plan. I tell her about the bagels again, about Star magazine and how I dropped my dog off at the vet to get spayed because I didn’t want her getting dog boobies.
“Dog boobies?” she asks.
“Yep. And I leave now to go pick her up because she’s supposed to come home today.”
“And by home you mean . . . ?”
“A blue Ford Focus out in the parking lot.”
Jan stands up. “You know I’ve heard every excuse in the book before, but never this one.” For some reason this makes me feel clever, so I smile. “If what you’re saying is true though, if you did all this just to reconnect with an old boyfriend, then you, my dear, are—”
“Smart? Loving? Dedicated?” I interject.
Jan shakes her head. “No. You, my dear, are crazier than Matt is.”
Crazier? Wait, huh?
After informing me that I signed a release form when I got here surrendering the right to check myself out (it was in the middle of all the insurance forms I didn’t read), Jan leaves the room and tells me to go back to mine. When she does, I immediately feel sorry for drug addicts—even when you tell the truth, no one believes you.
As I pass by a room on my way out of the examination wing, I glance inside and see Matt sitting on a bed alone. He looks confused; a pang of sadness shoots through my heart. What a waste of a life. I open the door and walk inside. When he looks up and sees that it’s me, he looks back down, embarrassed. I walk over and sit down next to him.
“I hope you still don’t mind dirty and wet,” he says, seeing my clothes covered in food. I let out a little laugh.
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I can’t believe you thought I’d forget that.”
Reaching over, I take his hand in mine. After the two of us sit in silence for a while, he turns to me. “I’m sorry, Delilah,” he says, apologizing.
Thinking he’s talking about my clothes, I tell him not to worry. “It’ll wash out.”
“No, not for that,” he says. “I’m sorry for everything, everything I ever did to you.”
Seeing the sad look on Matt’s face, tears once again fill my eyes.
“I’m sorry for treating you the way I did when we were together,” he continues. “I’m sorry for taking advan
tage of you. I’m sorry for cheating on you. I’m sorry for laughing at you. I’m sorry for . . .”
As Matt continues to say he’s sorry for everything he’s ever done to me, I’m filled with sorrow. Although I’ve waited eight years for this apology, rather than make me feel better, all it does is break my heart. It breaks my heart because it reminds me of the good person he once was, it reminds me of all that’s been lost and it makes me realize that I never would’ve been able to help him. Finally forgiving Matt, I wrap my arms around him. When I do, he wraps his around me. For the next few minutes, the two of us hold each other like we did all those nights in bed, except this time we cry.
“I’m scared,” Matt whispers in my ear, after a while. It’s not going to be easy undoing what he’s done to himself, and I think he knows it.
“I know you are,” I say. “But it’ll be okay.” I’m not sure if it will, but I don’t know what else to say and I don’t want him giving up hope.
When our eyes eventually run dry, I stand and walk to the door. Before leaving, I turn around and give Matt one last wave good-bye. When I do, for a split second, a glimmer of light replaces the haze in his icy blue eyes. I think it’s Foxy saying good-bye, so I blow him a kiss. I then turn around and walk out of the room, walk out of his life.
* * *
1 This was long before Carrie Bradshaw made the stiletto so popular; clunky shoes were in style, I swear.
2 Nowadays, I’d be Tarragon Spice. Tarragon, what I like to refer to as the Forgotten Spice, is wonderfully delicious and terribly overlooked. I highly suggest that everyone start using more of it.
3 Cosmo says it’s always best to be the one to end the first conversation with a man. You gotta leave them wanting more.