Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife (39 page)

“Here’s my cell number,” I said, writing it down for her. “If you want to, call me.”

The spooky skinny chick was still pacing the halls as we walked out of the meeting. The fat chick was still yelling, “I ain’t gone let you run!” Vivian directed Nancy, Darcy, and me to a small lounge. Nancy started to cry.

“That girl runs things here,” she sobbed. “All that shit she’s talking, it’s an act. She’s going to make me run tonight to create a diversion so she can do something. It’s all gangbangers in here with the GDs (Gangster Disciples) on one side and all the other gangs on the other. And the girls are all ho-ing each other.”

“This place is dangerous,” I told Vivian. “These girls have seen people killed, beaten the shit out of people. I wouldn’t have my kid here.”

“You’d take Nancy out tonight, wouldn’t you?” Vivian asked.

“I know she was on the run doing messed-up things,” I said. “But this place?”

“You’d take her out tonight, wouldn’t you?” she repeated.

“Do you think any good is going to come of her being here?” I asked.

“You’d take her home tonight, you would.”

“Yeah, I would.”

The four of us went to Nancy’s little cell of a room, packed her up, and left. Vivian dropped off Darcy and stopped for gas. As Vivian was fueling up, Nancy started bragging about the week she was MIA.

“We were doing piles of coke and taking whole boxes of Coricidin,” Nancy said.

“You were taking boxes of cold medicine?” I asked.

“The kind in the purple box gives you a trippy effect,” she said. “You have to get the ones in the purple box. They make you hallucinate.”

“Really.”

“We were crashing at people’s houses, hotels, and one night I think I was raped,” she said matter-of-factly. “My three friends didn’t know where I was, but they ended up at the same house I was at. Some guy told them he fucked some bitch in the bathroom. They found me in there on the floor. My lips and my nails were blue and I was barely breathing. I remember slipping in and out and thinking I was dying. I remember my girlfriend saying, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I have to do this.” There was a warrant out for one of the guys, so they couldn’t take me to the hospital. My girlfriend kicked me in the stomach until I threw up. When my mom found me, I was dirty and my side was all swollen.”

“You know how fucked-up that was, don’t you?” I asked, incredulous of her braggy tone. “You were raped. You almost died on a filthy bathroom floor. Instead of taking you to a hospital, your friend kicked you in the stomach. No one gave a shit that you were dying.”

Nancy didn’t say anything. After a while I said, “How can you take a box of Coricidin? I can’t take that stuff. I feel like I might die if I have one or two.”

“What color was the box?” Nancy asked.

Vivian got back into the car.

“Red,” I answered.

“Oh God, those will kill you,” she said. “No, you have to take the ones in the purple box. Those are the good ones.”

“Brenda doesn’t want to take Coricidin to get high!” Vivian screamed at Nancy. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“No, no, I just meant,” Nancy stammered.

I was beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing in encouraging Vivian to take Nancy out of treatment. I’d been calling Sara, who runs an outpatient treatment center for adolescents, and she finally called me back. I told her we’d just taken Nancy out of that facility and Sara said, “Good. That’s a really bad place. You wouldn’t put your kid in there unless you were court-ordered to.”

I told Sara, “I gave Vivian your cell phone number. She needs to get Nancy in your program.”

“That’s fine.”

“She’ll call you when she gets home.”

“Good,” Sara said.

I just wanted to hug my kids and put this shit behind me.

[Wednesday, January 14]

I drove to Henry’s house to take him to lunch and discuss how he’s going to cater my yoga birthday party. I’m having doubts about Henry catering it, however. Henry has back problems, recently began walking with a cane, and can barely turn his head, but he insists he wants to do it. I rang Henry’s doorbell and his father answered. Henry quickly materialized and introduced us. I helped Henry to the car and while we were driving, he said he lives with his parents, Leslie, a very nice obese woman whom I’ve seen chauffeuring Henry to meetings and waiting for him in the car (Henry’s driver’s license was revoked), and his mentally disabled brother, Davin.

“It’s a madhouse,” Henry lamented. “My mother is on medication and whacked out. The other day she tried to cook breakfast and lit her robe sleeves on fire. And my mentally disabled, 300-pound, thirty-seven-year-old brother is getting scary. He’s hearing voices and talking to them. That’s why I moved back in with my parents. I was afraid Davin was going to kill them. Now I’m afraid he’s going to kill me. He sneaks up on me and I never hear him even though he’s enormous. He says—and he talks like Billy Bob Thornton in
Slingblade—
‘Hey man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did. I told them I’d never hurt you because you’re my brother.’

“I told Davin’s doctor about this and about how I’ve been waking up to find Davin hovering over my bed,” Henry continued. “His doctor told me to put a bolt on my bedroom door, so I did. But no one in my family is taking this seriously. They all think Davin is completely harmless.”

“Wow,” I said. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“No shit,” Henry said.

Henry and I arrived at the yoga studio where I’m having my party. I showed Henry around, and he eyeballed the layout and told me where the tables should go and regaled me with a list of yummy appetizers.

“I’ll print up a price list for you, then you can choose,” he said as we drove back to have lunch. “I catered the governor’s ball in Kentucky, you know.”

“Really?” I said, doubting this was true.

“That’s where I’m from,” Henry said. “My family has been in the restaurant business for years. We have investments in several restaurants. We have exclusive rights for catering events here,” he added as we pulled into the parking lot of Hackney’s.

We walked into the restaurant, and the waitstaff all knew Henry, which made me feel better, but guilty for doubting him.

“Have you ever eaten at Bacchus Nibbles?” Henry asked while we were eating.

“I had dinner there with my aunt when I was still drinking,” I said. “They have a great wine list.”

Henry gave an eye roll of ecstasy. “Did you have their house wine?”

“No, we ordered a bottle.”

“There’s no need to pay for an expensive bottle there,” Henry said. “Have you ever had their house wine?”

“No.”

“You should.”

Henry’s comment made me queasy, and the look on my face must have portrayed it.

“I mean, you know, you should have,” Henry stuttered. “Not that you should have some now.”

I’m really not feeling good about Henry catering my party.

[Saturday, January 17]

I went to one of those come-to-my-house-and-buy-something parties at my sister’s home. I’d been invited to three of these things this week: a basket party, a candle party, and my sister’s home décor party. I figured I should at least attend Paula’s. I walked into Paula’s house, loaded up a plate with appetizers, sat down, and listened to the sales pitch. When the spiel was over, I paged through my décor catalog three times looking for something I liked and wouldn’t feel fleeced purchasing. I came across a set of mixing bowls for forty dollars and asked the rep if I could see them. She walked away and came back with bowls that looked like you’d find in a dollar store. It was the first time I went to one of these shindigs and didn’t buy anything. I would have forced myself to purchase the bowls if no one else was buying, but the woman was writing up sale after sale.

[Thursday, January 22]

Karen was supposed to host book club tonight, but she called this morning and cancelled.

“My dad’s dying,” she said. “The prostate cancer’s killing him. He’s in assisted living now and he can’t swallow, he can’t wet his own lips, he’s in intense pain. I just can’t do book club.”

I remembered Charlie’s mother, Martha, lying in her hospital bed, skin and bones, dying of lung cancer. I felt hollow inside. “If there’s anything I can do, if you need help with the kids or anything, let me know,” I said.

“Thanks,” Karen said, sounding like she was about to cry.

I began leafing through one of my cookbooks to find my favorite cassoulet recipe to make and take to Karen’s. I thought about my dad and what’s in store for him. I’m so scared.

[Saturday, January 24]

I talked to Martina this afternoon. She called me last Tuesday and left a message saying she’d read the addict literature I encouraged her to read and was ready to talk about it. I tried calling her back several days in a row, but the phone just rang and rang. When I saw Vivian at yoga, she told me, “They mostly have the pay phone turned off. It’s only turned on certain hours of the day.” So today I called during good phoning hours and got Martina.

“Did you get anything out of the book?” I asked.

“Three things,” Martina said. “Number one, you don’t have to be a skid row drunk to be an alcoholic. Number two, you don’t have to drink every day to be an alcoholic, you can go for long stretches not drinking. Number three, alcoholics usually get messed up every time they drink. I get messed up every time I drink.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Do you think you have a problem?”

“Yeah, probably, but I don’t see how I can stop doing drugs and drinking. They’re part of my lifestyle.”

“What lifestyle?”

“I’m in a gang, the Maniacs,” she said. “The gang’s by my aunt’s house, which isn’t close to where I live with my mother, but I run away a lot. I go missing for days. I go by my aunt’s and hang with my gang. That’s why my mother sent me here. My mom’s forty. When she was younger, she was in a gang. She isn’t anymore. Hasn’t been for the last twenty years. Gangs were everywhere back then, too. Everyone my mom knew was in one.”

“Does she know you’re in a gang?” I asked.

“No, but my aunt does. I don’t think she told my mom.”

“So you’re going back to your gang,” I said. “Why don’t you stay away from your aunt’s, get out?”

“I told them I wanted to get out, but the way I got in, I’d have to do a violation to get out,” Martina said. “I’m not ready to go to jail for the rest of my life. They said they would cover for me, but I’m not going to trust that.”

“What did they say you had to do?”

“I can’t really say.”

“Kill someone?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get in?”

“I got really drunk one night. I don’t remember nothing until the next morning. But when I woke up, this guy wanted me to have sex with him. I said no and he said I had to. He said I became part of the gang last night and I’d slept with all these guys. Now it was his turn.”

“Can you talk to your mother?”

“Yeah, we talk,” she said. A lot of noise erupted and it sounded like a fight at the treatment center. “Yeah, yeah,” Martina said to someone. “I gotta go,” she told me.

I felt depressed and went to a meeting. The guy who spoke said he drank because he didn’t want to grow up. I can completely relate. Drinking allowed me to cut loose, feel free, forget my responsibilities. I still fondly remember feeling that way. I have to make myself remember the hangovers, the memory loss, the dangerous driving, the responsibilities staring me in the face when I sobered up. It’s funny how easily I remember the good times and have to work at conjuring up the bad. I can love sobriety one day, then think about drinking the next.

[Tuesday, January 27]

I sent Henry a down payment for the food. I still feel uneasy about him catering. He’s not great at returning phone calls, I think he’s exaggerated his credentials, and he’s probably drinking. I’m crossing my fingers.

[Saturday, January 31]

I went out to dinner with Vivian. She told me Nancy ran away again.

“I wasn’t home when she took off, but Kayla was,” Vivian said, referring to her ten-year-old daughter. “Nancy and her friend, Michelle, the girl she ran with last time, and two guys, I don’t know if they’re the same guys, looted my house. They took Nancy’s electric guitar, the new camera we bought her for her photography class, my vacuum cleaner, the new PlayStation we got Kayla for Christmas. Kayla was so scared, poor thing. Nancy also took the curtains out of her room and moved into some flophouse where a bunch of druggie kids live. I tracked down Michelle’s mother, she’s an alcoholic drug addict, and she reluctantly told me where the girls were living, sort of. She didn’t know the name of the street or the house number, but she told me the house was beige and gave me rough directions. I called the cops and told them I wanted to press charges against Nancy for theft. A cop and I drove to the neighborhood and knocked on the wrong door, but the people who lived there told us about a house where a bunch of kids were living. Nancy spent the next two nights in a psych ward and went back to the treatment facility we yanked her out of. I gave her a choice of facilities and she chose that one. That episode we saw when we were there? That was staged for our benefit.”

“They staged that?” I asked incredulously.

Vivian shrugged. “She as much as admitted it, and she wanted to go back there. I told her, ‘You’re good. I hope Hollywood is ready for you.’”

A week and a half ago, Hope and I had gone to yoga class and picked up Nancy after her group therapy session with Sara. As Vivian was driving me home, Nancy asked if she could smoke in the car. Vivian said no and started lecturing her on how bad smoking is. Nancy told her, “I’m young. I can get away with it. I’ll worry about it when I get older.”

I flashed back to when I was in high school sitting in someone’s basement smoking pot, drinking beer, and chain smoking. Without thinking, I mentioned it and said, “I remember thinking,
I’m going to have to quit this when I get older, but I’m going with it now.”

“Well, I’m still seventeen,” Nancy said.

I immediately regretted opening my mouth.

“I knew Nancy wasn’t done,” Vivian said, sipping her water. “Remember that last drink you had to have? We all had to have that last one.”