A Not-So-Simple Life (10 page)

The hard part about Shannon staying clean is that she’s grouchier than ever. I’m thankful to have a job to get me out of the house. Yet I have a hard time believing that this treatment program is really going to change things for us. It’s like I keep expecting it to go sideways again. And every time I come home from work, I hold my breath. I expect to find her gone—off bingeing again. Then I’m surprised to discover she’s still here. And sure, I’m glad she’s here, but at the same time, I’m afraid I’ll get my hopes up and then she’ll blow it and it’ll hurt more than ever.

The other hard part about Shannon staying clean and sober is that shehardly leaves the house now. And when she’s home like this, she makes messes that she doesn’t clean up. I try to ignore them, but sometimes I get fed up. Even so, it would be useless to confront her. That would probably just make her mad enough to stomp out and do something stupid. So sometimes I clean up the messes. But other times I’m just too tired, so I go to my room and pretend like I haven’t noticed.

Today when I got home from work, Shannon was gone. If it wasn’t a Saturday, I might assume she’d gone to a meeting. But so far her appointments and meetings have been during
the week. And it’s after ten now. I tried her cell phonea couple of hours ago, knowing full well that she usually turns it off if she’s doing something she shouldn’t be doing. It was off…and it’s still off now. I have a bad feeling. I knew this would happen. I knew she wasn’t really going to stay clean. And as I think this, I wonder if I’m wrong. Maybe she’s not out getting high. Finally I just can’t think about it anymore. Not without going crazy. I wish I had someone I could call.

I consider calling Dad, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a concert since it’s Saturday. Plus it’s after midnight on the East Coast, and I think that’s where he is right now. I consider e-mailing Kim, but I hate to bug her. And the last time I e-mailed her it was to say that things were going well. Now it feels like a failure to admit they are not going so well. I think I’ll put an old video in and watch it. Maybe Shannon will come home after all.

Shannon came home. But not until this morning. When I confronted her about her missing act, asking how it fit into her rehab program, she swore she had not done any drugs. But I could tell she’d been drinking and said as much.

“You’re not my mommy, Maya,” she told me angrily.

“No, but sometimes it feels like I am. Have you ever considered picking up the phone and letting someone know where you are?”

“Quit being such a worrywart.” She poured herself a mug of coffee, then dumped about half a cup of sugar into it.

“Why don’t you quit partying all night?” I tossed back as she walked away.

“Just because I’m doing rehab doesn’t mean I’m not supposed to have a social life.”

“Going out on Saturday and coming home wasted on Sunday is not a social life.”

“Coming from you, the expert?” Shannon was heading toward the stairs now. “Get a life, daughter dear.”

I couldn’t think of a retort to this because what she said was true. Mean but true. My social life is nonexistent. Still, I’d rather have no social life than live like Shannon does. And although I didn’t say it, I wanted to point out that going out drinking one night could easily lead to doing drugs the next.

Turns out I was right. Or at least I think I was right. Shannon took off again on Wednesday, and now it’s Friday, and she’s still gone. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I haven’t even tried to call her. Her phone will be off.

Once again I longed for someone to talk to about this. But who? Then as I was putting my savings passbook away, feeling that cool rush from having made another deposit today,
I noticed Myrna’s business card. So I tucked my precious passbook back into my secret stash spot, a location I will never disclose in writing (just in case someone finds where I hide my journal), and then I called Myrna. I had no idea what I was going to say, and when my call went to messaging, I simply hung up. I mean, what was I going to say? “Help me, Myrna. My mom is out getting high again”?

About fifteen minutes later my phone rang, and it was Myrna.

“I noticed you called me,” she said. “But you didn’t leave a message.”

“Sorry…I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“What’s up?”

“I just needed someone to talk to.”

“Uh-huh…” She sounded like she was doing something. Or maybe she was with someone.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” I said quickly.

“How about doing lunch again?”

“Lunch?”

“Yes. Then we can talk.”

“Okay…”

“Let me check my BlackBerry.” She paused and I waited. “Do you work on Monday?”

And so it was set. We’d meet at the same restaurant. But I have no idea what I’ll say to her. Maybe nothing. Maybe we can just chitchat.

I met Myrna for lunch today. My plan was to keep my mouth shut about Shannon, but Myrna pressed, and I finally just told her the whole thing. I explained how Shannon had completed nearly a full month of rehab and then, just like that, had returned to drugs.

“At least I’m fairly sure that’s the case, although I haven’t actually asked her. But all the signs are there. She goes missing. Comes home a couple of days later. Acts like she’s got the flu or something and then gets better, and a day or two passes, and she takes off again. She was still around this morning, but I have no idea if she’ll still be there when I get home from work.”

“That’s hard.” Myrna shook her head. “And I know exactly how you feel.”

“You do?”

Myrna told me about her son, Phil. “He’s in his thirties now, and he’s stayed clean. But back when he was using…well, he put my husband and me through the wringer. It’s one of the reasons my marriage fell apart. We just couldn’t take it.”

“How did Phil get clean?”

“It was his third stint of rehab, a three-month inpatient treatment program in Colorado. It was designed for young men and included lots of hiking and outdoor things.
Something about all that fresh air and sunshine worked. Phil’s been clean about seven years now.”

“That’s great. But I doubt my mom would want to do a program like that.”

“So how do you manage to get by, Maya?” Her eyes looked truly concerned. “I mean, with Shannon out using and your dad on the road, who takes care of you?”

I had to laugh at that. “Takes care of me?”

“Well, I know you’re not exactly a child, but you’re not an adult either.”

“The truth is, it feels more like I take care of Shannon.” And suddenly tears burned in my eyes. But no way did I want to start crying here. Instead, I began to angrily pour out more of my story, going into detail about how irresponsible Shannon is, how she doesn’t pay the bills regularly, how collectors call, how I’m responsible for myself. And finally I tell Myrna about my plan to be emancipated.

“Goodness, Maya, I had no idea things were so bad for you. Does your father know?”

Realization hit me then. What if Myrna informed my dad? What if he told Shannon? Oh, he wouldn’t do it to hurt me, but it would mess things up.

“I haven’t told him yet. And I don’t want to tell him…not until I have things in place. He needs to focus on his tour.”

“What kinds of things do you need to have in place?”

I told her what the social worker told me when I was thirteen. “So my plan is to save enough money to get my own place when I turn sixteen. And maybe I can get a car, and I’ll keep on working and—”

“How is that even possible? Do you realize how much it would cost to support yourself? And how will you continue to work full-time once school starts up again?”

“I do homeschool.”

“Who supervises your homeschooling?”

I shrugged. “Me.”

“Do you honestly think a social worker will agree to this?”

I frowned now. “I hope so.”

“Listen, Maya, you need a better plan.”

“I do?”

“Absolutely. And I think I have one.”

“What?” Did Myrna want to adopt me?

“Modeling.”

I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Hear me out, sweetie. Models make excellent money. And they don’t have to work the long hours you’re putting in now.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Tell me more.”

So Myrna explained how she could help me get signed at an agency owned by her friend and how I would likely
have no problem getting work. “You could probably make enough money modeling to really support yourself, and then no one would question your plans to be on your own…if that’s the way you finally decide to go.”

“I just know I can’t go on living with Shannon when she’s like that. It’s too hard. And it’s scary too.”

“But what about your dad?”

“He’s too busy for me right now.”

“You’re probably right. It’s not easy to revive a music career.”

“And I’m willing to work. I’ve been working forty-hour weeks since June.”

“Yes, but you won’t be able to keep up with that and your schooling. Let me give my friend a call and see if you can go in and meet her. When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow actually.” Then I glanced at my watch. “But I need to get back to work now.”

“Well, I’ll call you after I talk to my friend and let you know how it goes.”

“Thanks, Myrna.” I stood and placed my napkin on the table. “Thanks for everything.”

As I hurried back to work, I wondered if what she was suggesting was even possible. Oh sure, I’d gotten some nice attention at work. And occasionally people would ask me about my interest in modeling. But I always just brushed those comments off. Besides the fact that I don’t think I’m
very attractive and don’t have the confidence for something like that, I hate the idea of parading myself around to be goggled at…or worse, criticized. Furthermore, I am not terribly fond of the fashion industry—okay, that’s a huge understatement. I mean, seriously, why would I even consider something like that?

On the other hand, if I could earn enough money to get away from Shannon…well, that changes things. When I got home from work today, she was gone again. Big surprise there. So I’m telling myself that modeling, similar to working in retail, might simply be a temporary measure. A means to a better place. Just one more compromise on this rocky road of life.

So by the time Myrna calls, I am hoping that her friend with the agency will want to see me. And as it turns out, she does.

“The agency is called Montgomery’s. As I told you, my friend Felicity is the owner. Felicity Montgomery. She used to be with the Ford agency. But she finally got the nerve and the money to start up her own. And she’s already making a good name for herself in the industry. But she’s very selective about her clients, and she doesn’t even see people without a recommendation.”

“I really do appreciate this,” I tell her.

“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to go with you. But it’s in Beverly Hills and within walking distance. Well, for a young thing like you, that is. I myself would drive.”

“I don’t mind walking.”

So she gives me the address. “Your appointment is for ten o’clock. And do not be late. If there’s one thing Felicity will not tolerate, it’s tardiness.”

“I’ll be there before ten.”

“Good.”

“Uh…what do I wear? I mean, is it kind of like an interview?”

“Just look nice and neat. Most important is that you’re well groomed, Maya. Not that you’re not usually. But clean hair and nails. Not too much makeup, not that you have that problem. If you look like you did at lunch today, you’ll be just fine.”

“Okay…”

“And just be yourself. No need to put on any pretenses with Felicity. She’s sharp, and she can see right through people anyway.”

So I thank her again and hang up. I feel nervous, and that bugs me. Really, modeling is stupid. Just a means to an end. And if Felicity Montgomery doesn’t like me, it’s no big deal. I still have my job at Ralph’s. Even so, the idea of making more money—enough money to live on my own—well, that’s slightly intoxicating. Freedom is calling.

I
was very nervous as I waited to see Felicity Montgomery this morning. I got there five minutes before ten and then waited for nearly half an hour as Ms. I-Don’t-Tolerate-Tardiness was running late. During that time I sat stiffly on a hard plastic chair, pretending to read a fashion rag but actually watching as young people, both guys and girls, came and went through the office. They were—obviously models, and although they didn’t give me the time of day, I couldn’t help but study them.

And as I studied them, I came to the realization that (1) I did not fit in with these people, (2) I would never fit into their fashion scene, and (3) the sooner I got out of this place, the better for everyone. I was about to sneak out the door when the receptionist informed me that Ms. Montgomery would see me now.

Her office was starkly modern with pale, glossy wood floors and chairs that, like in the reception area, were molded plastic, shiny and black. Several chrome-framed shots of models adorned the white walls, and her desk was glass and
chrome with very little on top. She seemed to be coordinated with her office in a sleek black dress and a long silver pendant as the only accent, well, besides a pair of black-rimmed glasses that gave her a stern look. Her hair was glossy silver and straight, cut short in the back and long in front, which in my opinion accentuated a rather long nose. Still, she was attractive in a severe fifty-something sort of way—the kind of looks that demand respect.

Anyway, I was glad that I’d worn black today since it seemed to be her favorite color. Quick introductions were made, and I could tell that she expected me to call her Ms. Montgomery. Then she told me to sit in the hard plastic chair across from her. I sat down, keeping my back straight but unsure what to do with my legs. I wanted to cross them but wasn’t sure if that was proper.