Recovery Road Page 16

  Martin still refuses. He won’t discuss it. No picture. And that’s that. I stay out of it, but secretly I’m cheering him on.

  I can’t wait to see what happens to Martin, going off to Stanford, and then on to the rest of his life.

  He’s gonna kick ass. That’s what I predict. He’s gonna be president or cure cancer or something.

  I mean it. I’m totally serious.

  part seven

  1

  And then I drink.

  It happens this way: It’s the middle of summer and Emily’s friend Paul blows into town. He’s looking for Emily but she’s on vacation, so I meet him and we end up at a party Paul knows about, at a house of Reed College students. There’s a lot of booze and stuff around, but I’m not uncomfortable. I don’t feel particularly vulnerable or anything. It’s just another night of hanging out.

  Then, at one point, I’m standing with some people listening to a funny story and this guy comes over and he’s gripping four longneck beers in one hand and he’s about to drop them. So everyone reaches out and grabs one and I do too, being helpful, and this being a Reed College house, and it seeming like the collegiate thing to do. But the guy next to me, when he takes his, he lifts it straight up to his mouth and takes a long swig. Another guy, across from me, does the exact same thing, and so I do too, like in perfect unison, all of us do, like fish all turning at the same moment, or birds all taking off at the same time.

  At first, I’m just going to take a sip, not even a sip, a fake, tiny non-sip, for appearance’s sake. I do this because I’m having fun and I like these people and it’s summer and because I feel like it. But when I lift the bottle to my mouth, I change my mind and actually let some of the beer go into my mouth. I remember the taste so well, it’s so familiar, it seems perfectly natural to drink more, to take a real sip, since I never do anymore. It stings a little and my chest burns for a moment and when I lower the bottle, I burp, and everyone looks at me strangely, and the guy who was telling the funny story says: “Looks like we got a party girl here!” I stare at him blankly and put the bottle back in my mouth and take another solid swig. Then, just for the hell of it, I drain the rest of the bottle. I burp again.

  Everyone thinks this is funny for some reason. I’m not sure why. I also don’t care. I reach over and take the beer that the guy on my right is holding (saying “gimme that” for comic effect) and drink half of it and hand it back to him and they all laugh and think this is hilarious as well, though again, I’m not sure why. What’s so funny about drinking beer?

  I turn and walk away and then I realize that I have drunk alcohol and that I don’t do that anymore, I can’t do it, I’m forbidden from ever doing it, but I don’t care, and I see a plastic cup, half full of red wine, and I pick it up and drink some on my way toward the front porch, where I’m thinking Paul might be. I don’t know where he went. He probably found some girl. That isn’t cool, I think. Why did he leave me alone here? At a party where I don’t know anyone? I decide then and there: This is all Paul’s fault.

  I find myself sitting on the steps outside and that’s when it hits me. I drank. I feel sick to my stomach but I also feel light-headed and relaxed and it’s good, the feeling, even though there’s a falseness to it. I feel warm and good and insulated from things and happy and comfortable, and I have this feeling that I don’t want to waste this, I want to do something fun, something like drink more, because really I’m only half drunk, I’m almost drunk, that’s no fun, and if everyone’s going to be pissed at me anyway, I might as well go all the way, I might as well get my money’s worth.

  I drink my wine. I wish I had a cigarette or something to do with my hands, though I don’t smoke, never have, except a couple times when I was trashed. Maybe someone has pot, though. That would be fun. I finish the wine and go back inside.

  I look for weed; I smelled some earlier, but nobody’s smoking any now. I go into the kitchen and find another beer in the fridge. I twist open the top. I forgot what that’s like, how the little metal edges cut into your palm as you twist it. I put the bottle to my mouth and drink it, without rushing this time, tasting it, letting it pour into my mouth and over my tongue and down my throat. I love it, I love the taste of it, the smell of it. I savor every drop, then I lower it and burp and someone is there, saying something to me.

  I don’t hear them. That’s the other thing that happens: I become instantly hard. I become hard as steel; nobody’s going to tell me anything. No useless chitchat for Mad Dog Maddie. I instantly have no tolerance for any of the happy party bullshit going on around me. Stupid Reedies. And where the fuck is Paul?

  Then I think: Jack Daniel’s. That’s what I really want. I start digging through the bottles of liquor scattered around the kitchen, I paw through the cupboards, I go into the other room where the drink table is. There’s no Jack Daniel’s, only Bacardi rum, so I pour some of that into a glass with some flat Pepsi and drink it down and pour a little more rum in it and now I am getting there. Now I am where I want to be. But then, of course, a moment later, that feeling fades. I’m not quite there. I need more.

  A half hour later, I am drunk. Deeply, solidly, falling-down drunk. Somehow, I get myself out of the house. I wobble onto the front porch, down the steps, and then, without planning to, I find myself walking down the middle of the street.

  The night sky is glassy and strange above me. Nothing is real. I bend over and puke on somebody’s lawn, holding my hair back and then continuing on, like everything is perfectly normal.

  “Stew-art,” I sing out, releasing the word upward and letting it drift away from me like a cloud of breath on a winter day.

  I let my eyes rest on the night sky above me. It glows an orangish yellow from the city light, but strangely so, and I notice everything is off-kilter slightly and not quite in focus. My feet trip over the curb, and someone seems to slug me, but no, it’s the ground, I fell, I’m in the grass again, on my side. I try to get up and I’m all over the place. I stumble into a parked car. I stop then, holding the side mirror, smiling to myself at the absurdity of it all.

  “Stew-art…” I sing.

  2

  Several hours later I manage to call Stewart, not to be rescued, more because it’s funny, and I’m getting him back and also because I’m on an unfamiliar street somewhere, and some creepy guy is watching me from the entrance of a convenience store.

  I have no clue where I am. I sit on a curb in front of a pizza place. I have puked again and now sit stunned, stupid, wanting more alcohol but also knowing that it’s over, whatever it was, this storm that blew in from the east, or wherever storms blow in from, and I’m just sad now and crying and drunk and useless like I always was, like I always will be. Someone should shoot me in the head for all the good I do people.… Ashley…I let her die.… Trish, I couldn’t be bothered to help her.… Even Stewart I couldn’t stick with, even though I loved him more than anything in the world.…

  Stew-art…

  3

  Stewart appears across the street. I see him getting out of an old Ford Fiesta, which must be Kirsten’s. When I see him crossing the street, I start to cry. He sits down with me on the curb. “Well, look at you,” he says, putting his arm around me. I start to cry more and he puts his other arm around me and I bury myself in his sweaty armpit. The smell of him is home to me. The smell of him is safety and understanding and love to me.

  “It’s okay, Maddie,” Stewart whispers to me. “It happens.…”

  I cry into his chest. I cry and cry and cry. There’s a whole lot of stuff in there that needs to come out. And it does.

  4

  I wake up the next morning and I’m in a bed. I don’t know where I am and I sit up and look around and I am in Stewart and Kirsten’s dirty apartment. I’m in their bed, in my panties and T-shirt.

  Stewart is gone. Kirsten is sitting on the couch with a blanket over her; that’s where she spent the night. I see an army surplus sleeping bag on the floor, which is where Stewart mu
st have slept.

  My first thought is: Why didn’t they take me home? My parents are going to kill me.

  “Hey,” Kirsten says to me in her timid voice.

  “Where’s Stewart?” I say back. That’s when I feel the dull pain begin to invade my brain. My mouth too; it’s dry and sticky and parched.

  “He went to get coffee.”

  “Did anybody call my parents?” I ask.

  Kirsten nods. “Stewart did.”

  That’s a relief. I look around. My head is beginning to throb.

  “Don’t you have coffee here?” I say, gazing blankly in the direction of the tiny kitchen area.

  “He wanted to get something from Starbucks. He said you liked fancy coffee.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  She smiles politely at me from across the room. She is meek, odd, a mouse of a girl.

  “Well, thanks for…letting me crash…” I say, looking around at the one-room apartment that is their home.

  Kirsten remains where she is. This must not be fun for her. The old flame crashing at the house. Does she know that Stewart and I still love each other? She must.

  The door opens. Stewart comes in. He’s got three Starbucks coffees stacked one on top of the other.

  He gives one to me, one to Kirsten, takes one himself. He sits on the floor Indian style and takes a sip of it.

  “Don’t you guys have a table or anything?” I say.

  They don’t.

  “I called your parents,” says Stewart.

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing. I told them you had to sleep over.”

  “Did you tell them I was drunk?”

  “I told them you fell asleep. They seemed kind of worried, though.”

  At that moment my phone rings. Stewart has it in his pocket and he hands it to me. It’s my mom.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say.

  “Honey! Thank God. Where are you? What happened? Paul called here last night and said he lost you.”

  “Yeah. We got separated at that party.”

  “And then Stewart called and said you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I know. I got drunk.”

  “You what?”

  “I drank. I got drunk. I just…drank for some reason. Stewart came and got me.”

  “Oh, Maddie! That’s terrible. Where are you now?”

  “Stewart’s.”

  “Your father and I will come get you. Don’t go anywhere. What’s the address there?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I’m just sitting here. This is probably the best place for me right now.”

  “We’ll come get you.”

  “Stewart is sober, Mom. He’s here. I’m fine. I’ll be home in an hour.”

  “Honey, please, let us come get you.”

  “No, Mom. Stewart can give me a ride home. Don’t do anything. I’m perfectly safe.”

  “Oh, Madeline! Don’t drink any more. We can send you back to Spring Meadow. I’ll call Dr. Bernstein!”

  “Mother, stop it! I’m fine. I’ll be home in an hour.”

  “Why the hell were you by yourself, at a college party, in the first place?” Stewart says to me as we leave his building. Kirsten walks with us, though she hangs back slightly to let us talk.

  “It was just a party,” I say. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I’m going to college in six weeks. I can’t not go to parties.”

  We drive across town to my neighborhood. We don’t talk for a while. It’s a hot summer morning and Kirsten opens her window and lets the air blow through the backseat.

  Stewart is pissed. He keeps starting to talk, then doesn’t. Finally, he clears his throat. “You know what you gotta do now, right?” he says to me.

  “No, what?”

  “You gotta go to AA.”

  I say nothing. I’ve never been a big fan of AA.

  “I know you think it’s lame or whatever,” says Stewart.

  “I never said that.”

  “But you gotta go. And you gotta do all the crap they say. Make friends, get a sponsor, volunteer for stuff. Go to Sober Bowling.”

  “Sober Bowling? Are you serious?”

  “Hey, you weren’t too stuck-up for movie night.”

  “Actually, I was. I went to movie night as a protest.”

  “Then go to Sober Bowling as a protest. Do it all as a protest. It doesn’t matter. You have to go. Every day. Twice a day.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  He looks over at me. “If you don’t, you’re gonna lose everything. And you’ve got stuff to lose.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say.

  He says nothing back but he knows he’s right. I know he’s right too.

  5

  My parents, naturally, are out of their minds with worry. They come running out of the house when we pull up. My mom hugs me and my dad is right behind her, on his cell phone, trying to reach Cynthia, my old counselor. It turns out she doesn’t work at Spring Meadow anymore.

  We all go inside. Stewart and I try to explain to them that I don’t need to go back to Spring Meadow.

  “It’s just a slip,” I tell my parents.

  They don’t know what that is.

  “It means I had a momentary lapse, but I’m not gonna go crazy. I need to go to AA meetings.”

  “But you’ve already been to those.”

  “I’m gonna go like…all the time,” I say grumpily. “That’s what I was supposed to be doing from the start.”

  This is news to my parents.

  Everyone kind of calms down after that. My parents can see that I haven’t turned into a zombie. I haven’t lost my mind.

  One fun thing: watching my parents fall all over themselves thanking Stewart. Dad shaking his hand. Mom hugging him with all her heart. Mr. High School Dropout Motorcycle Boy saved their precious daughter. That makes the whole thing worth it. Sort of.

  Stewart and Kirsten have to go. I give them both hugs and promise to call. They walk back to Kirsten’s Ford Fiesta and my mom shuts the door.

  But then, as I’m going upstairs, the doorbell rings.

  I go answer it and it’s Kirsten. I left my phone in their car. “You forgot this.”

  I take it from her. “Thanks,” I say. “And thanks for letting me stay with you guys last night.”

  “Sure,” she says. She hesitates a moment. “And there’s something else,” she says.

  “Yes?”

  This is hard for her. But she gets it out: “Stewart said you…saved his life once. In Redland. And I wanted to thank you for that.”

  I stare at her. “I didn’t save his life. I dragged him home. Like he did for me last night.”

  “He said it might have cost you your chance to go to college.”

  “I’m still going to college. Don’t worry about me.”

  She gets a little embarrassed then. “I wanted to…thank you. For whatever you did to help Stewart. I love him so much. And he’s helped me in so many ways.”

  This is a little too much information for me. But I try to be nice.

  “I’m glad you guys are together,” I say. “I think you make him very happy.” I don’t even know if I mean this, but I say it anyway.

  Her whole face lights up. She takes my hand and squeezes it and then does this little-girl run back to the Ford Fiesta, which Stewart revs impatiently.

  I walk up the stairs to my room and start looking up AA meetings on my computer.

  6

  So then, after already completing The Most Boring Summer Ever at community college, I begin my Even More Boring Summer Ever of going to endless AA meetings.

  I go every day. I go to a lunchtime meeting. Then I sit around by myself at the coffee place and go again to the afternoon meeting.

  I go early. I introduce myself to people. I sweep the floors and help stack the chairs. I get to know people. I get to know Claire, who makes pottery and does yoga every morning at 5:00 a.m. I meet Missy, who is a cashier at Safeway and has female baldness issues. I meet
Brooke, who is eighteen and lives on the street because her parents burned down their trailer when their meth lab blew up.

  Oh, the fun, the fun.

  I also meet Susan. She’s a housewife. She wants to be my sponsor. So then I have to hang out with her and call her all the time.

  The whole thing is a royal pain in the ass. But whatever. I just do it. Why not? What else do I have to do?

  The one fun thing is the Young People’s meeting. This is the same one Trish went to and Stewart still goes to occasionally. Now I go every Monday night at 7:00.

  It’s hilarious. Everyone goofs around and says outrageous things. There’s a gang of cute skateboarder guys who are always getting in trouble and showing up with black eyes from street fights and stuff.

  They’re like Jake and Raj and Alex, except they’ve actually done the stuff those guys dream about. They hop trains to California, they skateboard everywhere, they live in an old squat house in the industrial district. They are some serious badass boys.

  Of course I totally want to hang out with them. I meet this girl Antoinette who is friends with them, and she and I hang out a little. She’s a chain-smoking, multi-pierced, train-wreck type. But we hit it off.

  Anyway, the skater boys barely notice me until one night we’re all standing around in the parking lot and for some reason I mention Stewart. They all know Stewart; he’s sort of their idol, so that’s big points for me. So then I jokingly say I was sort of in love with him and they all laugh and say every girl is in love with Stewart, and then I consider saying something else, like, no, I was really in love with him, we were together, but that doesn’t seem wise and I shut up, and then they invite me and Antoinette to go skating with them. We end up wandering all over the city until four in the morning, and it turns into the best night of my whole summer.

  After that, Monday night becomes what I wait for all week.