Getting Married (19 page)

I
spend the month of January going to meeting after meeting with Kyle Woodruff and the other execs from WP. I secure a caterer and a DJ, but every time I look at my spreadsheet of “to-do” items for the wedding, it seems to get bigger rather than smaller. I rarely get much sleep, and the exhaustion is getting to me.

The worst thing about taking drugs is having to buy them. It’s something of an ordeal to figure out a way I can sneak out of the house to meet Sandy without making Will suspicious. Then when I meet her, we have to do this ridiculous small-talk thing where we pretend like we’re old friends when, in fact, I barely know her.

In mid-January, I call her again to get more, just to help me get through my meetings with WP. We meet in front of Rachel’s store at night. It’s dark out and the entire experience is terrifyingly awful. I keep imagining police lights and sirens pulling up.

“How are you doing?” Sandy asks.

“Fine.” I look around for the twentieth time in sixty seconds. I’m as subtle as a bull in a china store. Hurry up! I want to get out of here!

She hands me a brown paper bag; I hand her cash. “Thanks,” I say.

“Thank you.”

This is absolutely going to be the last time. I don’t like lying to Will. I don’t like the sneaking around. And there is no way I want to get dependent on drugs. I’m way too smart for that.

T
oday is a typical workday for me. I slurp down so much coffee my arm muscles actually get sore from raising the mug to my lips so often—I wish I were kidding about this. I prepare feverishly for my next meeting for WP.

Kyle Woodruff calls me dozens of times. I avoid as many of his calls as I can because otherwise I’d just be talking to him all day and I’ll never be ready for the meeting, but even so, I spend the bulk of my day on the phone with him.

I’m sure you’ve worked for someone who tells you that he wants one thing and then, when you do it, he claims no knowledge of ever having asked for what he asked for, and instead pretends he’d wanted something else all along. Well, Kyle Woodruff isn’t the first boss to do this to me, but just because I have experience with people like this doesn’t ever make it easier or less frustrating to deal with. Every time I email him over a copy of the reports or Excel documents or PowerPoint presentations I’ve prepared to his specifications, he calls me with accusations about how I didn’t do what he asked and tells me to start everything over from scratch, despite the fact that I’ve been working on this stuff for weeks and the meeting is tomorrow.

Then at about three o’clock that day, less then twenty-fours before the meeting, he tells me he’d like me to play around with the current logo for Exploran and the logo for WP to show how the looks could be integrated. That type of thing is so out of my realm of expertise and I’m so shocked that he’d even think it was appropriate for him to ask me to do such a thing, I’m literally speechless for several long seconds.

“Ah, Kyle, I think that’s something better handled by a graphic designer when we’re at the branding stage of this process. That’s not my area at all,” I finally manage to say.

“I know, I know, I just want to give the board of directors an idea of how we can integrate the marketing of Exploran and WP.”

“I appreciate that, Kyle, but I can’t start fooling around with logo treatment for a meeting that’s scheduled in about eighteen hours. I don’t have any graphics software, for one thing, and I have no experience or skill with graphic design.”

“I know, I’m not saying you need to design a new logo, just give an example of how the logos could work together.”

I finally give up the fight. How this man could think someone who does the financial and marketing strategy for new products could just whip a brand new logo design out of her ass in a few hours’ time is beyond my realm of understanding. To placate him, I add a slide to my PowerPoint presentation in which I import the Exploran logo with the WP logo as a brief talking point about how part of the branding process will be integrating the two looks. I don’t know what else I can do.

The meeting the next day goes well. Or at least I think it does, until the meeting adjourns and Kyle pulls me aside to scold me on my “superficial” coverage of the logo issue. I try to defend myself, but Kyle is not a man of reason. I’m not sure of the exact definition of the word “psychopath,” but I’m pretty sure it means someone who is completely out of touch with reality, and thus, distressingly, I think the word describes Kyle Woodruff nicely.

When I leave WP headquarters, my heart is pounding ferociously. I try to think about how many cups of coffee I’ve had today. My pulse rate is going crazy.

I pull over to the side of the road. For a moment, I wonder if it’s possible that I’m having a heart attack, but then I realize that’s ridiculous, it’s just stress.

My cell phone rings. I check the caller ID. It’s my mother. This is the fifth time she’s called me in the past two days. She keeps hounding me for details, like whether I’ve finished planning the menu or picked out the invitations Why can’t she leave me alone?

I start tearing up. I’m so tired. I’m so stressed. I can’t do this anymore.

Moments after I let my voicemail take my mother’s call, my phone rings again. The caller ID lets me know it’s Will.

“Hello?” I say, blinking back tears.

“Hey, you. I was just on my way home from work and I wondered if you needed me to pick up anything at the store for dinner.”

“No.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine. How about you? How was your day?”

“Nothing interesting. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. I’ll see you in half an hour or so, okay?”

“Bye. Will. I love you.”

I
get home and make a vegetable lasagna for dinner. It turns out pretty well, if I do say so myself. Will and I talk about our days and then he goes upstairs to his study to play computer games, and I go up to my office and pound away at work for WP for several hours.

I come downstairs around midnight. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. Will, of course, is sound asleep. Unlike me, Will never has trouble sleeping.

I get started on doing the dishes, and as I’m doing them, I actually feel like I might faint from exhaustion. I’m in this trance as I work. I may well be partially asleep. I feel a flash of vertigo, and I’m brought back to that time in high school when I was so ill from killing myself by studying so much that I fainted. Back then, I worried that if I wasn’t perfect, my father wouldn’t love me.

Thirteen years have passed since that night I fainted, and as I wash dishes, woozy with exhaustion, I think about how I’m killing myself working twelve-hour days and yet cooking dinner every night and washing the dishes and keeping the house clean and trying to plan a wedding and having sex with Will nearly every day and I realize I’m doing it again. I’m trying to be perfect, but this time, it’s not my father I’m trying to impress, it’s Will. I’m trying to be perfect because I’m worried that if I’m not, he won’t love me.

It’s the last thing I think before I collapse, the water still running, the plate I’m washing splintering into a million pieces when it crashes to the floor beside me.

W
hen I come to, it takes me a minute to figure out where I am. I’m lying down on a gurney being wheeled down a hospital corridor. Above me are doctors and nurses and bright lights on the ceiling overhead. If I look straight ahead, ceiling and lights would be all I could see. I look around, and I see Will walking along side the gurney as the doctors push me along the hallway. There are tears in his eyes.

“She’s allergic to peanuts,” he’s saying. “We had lasagna for dinner, but maybe there were nuts, I don’t know, in the noodles or the sauce or something.”

“Not nuts,” I manage to say. My chest is exploding. I feel like my heart is going to burst. “Purse,” I say, gesturing to my purse, which Will is holding, probably for my health insurance card that’s in my wallet. “Purse,” I say again.

The doctor, a young, good-looking man, takes the purse from Will and looks through it. He finds the drugs.

“We’ve got an overdose. Methamphetamines,” the doctor says.

“What?” Will says

“Your fiancé is using speed.”

Will stops dead in his tracks. I will never forget the look on his face as I’m wheeled down the hallway. Shock. Betrayal. Disbelief.

The look on his face confirms all of my worst fears.

I have lost Will forever.

I
don’t know how much time has passed when I awake, look around, and realize that I’m in a hospital bed. Will is beside me. He looks like shit. His eyes are swollen from crying, and he looks exhausted. He’s staring at his hands, which lie limply in his lap.

“Hi,” I say in a voice that’s quiet and unsure. Guilt threatens to swallow me. Fear of how Will will react terrifies me.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

He says nothing for several seconds. “Do you know what the doctors told me, Eva?”

“No.”

“You could have had a heart attack. A heart attack. You’re thirty-one years old.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck, Eva. Why? Why did you do this?”

The truth is, I’m not even sure. I don’t have the words to express how jumbled I feel about my life. So instead I just repeat sentiment again. “I’m sorry.”

“Those words are meaningless. Why? How long have you been—”

“About a month.”

“How did you get the drugs?”

“Sandy. Rachel’s sister-in-law Sandy.”

“Why? Why would you poison yourself with something like that?”

“There weren’t enough hours in the day. I had so much to do. Work…the wedding…I wanted to be perfect…I wanted to cook nice meals…I just wanted you to love me.”

“I do love you, Eva. You don’t have to be perfect. I…” he tosses his hands into the air and shakes his head. Clearly, he can’t begin to fathom my actions.

“I’m so sorry, Will. I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t understand how you could do that to yourself. I don’t understand…were you unhappy? Are you unhappy with me?”

“No. No, that’s not it at all. It was a stupid mistake.”

“You could have been arrested, Eva. The doctors could have gone to the police.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“I told them you’d never done anything like this before. I told them I’d make sure you went to Narcotics Anonymous.”

I sigh. I do not want to live a life filled with twelve-step plans and NA meetings. Will is completely overreacting. He’s just had a shock, that’s all. I only used it a few times. It was a stupid mistake, but it’s not like I’ve got a problem.

“Will, it’s not like I’m some junkie. I made a mistake. It’s not a big deal. I mean, it is a big deal, but I can stop. I promise. There isn’t going to be any problem.”

B
efore releasing me, the doctor gives me a big speech about how using a drug cooked up in some drug dealer’s kitchen means I don’t know exactly what dose I’m taking of the drug—which could lead to an overdose—and it means I don’t really know what chemicals I’m willingly ingesting into my body. I know he’s right. I sit there feeling idiotic and ashamed as the gorgeous young doctor points out what a moron I’ve been. He also goes on to tell me about how addictive meth is, and how low the success rates are for people who want to quit for good—a staggering number go back to using.

“Chronic use can cause permanent damage to the nerve endings of your serotonin and dopamine neurons. Those are basically your pleasure receptors,” he says. “Imagine a nest full of baby birds squawking for food. Those are your dopamine receptors that will loudly clamor for more of the drug. But the more you take, the more you wear down the neurons, and thus the more drugs it takes to get that same high.

“I know you think you had the power to decide whether or not to use, but with drugs like this, very, very quickly, it’s the
drug
that tells
you
to use. When the little voice inside your head says, ‘Hey, wouldn’t it be nice to use some meth right now? Go ahead, do it. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like you have a problem,’ you think it’s you talking, but in fact, it’s your addiction. Your addiction will use any excuse to get you to use. It’s very manipulative and opportunistic.”

I think he’s being melodramatic. Addiction! How ridiculous. I just used it a few times over the course of a month. Hardly anything serious.

“With meth, Eva,” he continues, “people rarely overdose after just a few uses. But what happens with repeated use is that your blood levels can gradually accumulate to toxic levels. You can develop an increased heart rate and heart palpitations and eventually you could develop paranoia or have a stroke or heart attack or seizure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, Eva. Do you want to go back to using?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“What did you like about using?”

“What do you mean?”

“You used speed more than once, right?”

I nod.

“So there must have been something you liked about it. What did you like about it?”

“Well, I guess…I felt energized. I felt euphoric.”

“So when you go home, today or tomorrow or the next day, when you’re feeling a little run down and wish you had extra energy, are you going to use? There are a lot of pleasurable things about speed, you said so yourself.”

“No, I’m not going to use again.”

“Why not?”

He’s confusing me. “Because like you said, I don’t want to ingest mysterious substances cooked up in somebody’s kitchen. I don’t want to get arrested. I don’t want to have a heart attack. I don’t want to become an addict.”

He nods. I think he’s finally satisfied with my answer. “Next time you need help, Eva, ask for it. Okay? When life starts getting crazy again, and it will, ask for help.”

“I will. Thank you.”

I
’m released later that day. At home, Will and I are all awkward with each other. He keeps watching me. He doesn’t trust me. He has reason to doubt, but I still don’t like it.

“Are you ever going to take any kind of illegal substance again?” he asks me.

“No.” He eyes me, unsure whether to believe me. “No, Will. I promise.”

“I just don’t understand how you could put those poisons into your body.”

“Will, I’ve had an incredible amount of things to get done lately. I haven’t been able to sleep, so I was always tired. I just needed a little help staying alert.”

“You’ve got to figure out a way to reduce your stress. Taking drugs is not a logical solution. Maybe you should see a therapist. Someone you could talk to about your anxiety and inability to sleep.”

I laugh. “Yeah, right, like I have time for that.”

“Eva, you have to do something. I think we should talk to your mother.”

“No! Are you crazy? She’d freak.”

“And with good reason. I just don’t know how to deal with this. I think you’ve got some emotional issues that a therapist might be able to help you with. You said yourself you have a lot of anxiety. Maybe somebody could help you with that.”

“You’re overreacting. I made a mistake. A serious one. But everything is going to be fine.”

“I’m just scared.”

“What are you scared about?”

“I’m worried about you. I want you to be healthy. And…”

“And what?”

“And I’m worried about us. Do you think I want to marry someone who abuses drugs? No thanks.”

This hits me with a stinging slap. “I mess up once and you’re just going to leave me? Just like that?”

“I didn’t say that. I just…I don’t know how to be sure this isn’t going to happen again.”

“It’s not going to happen again. I’ll look into going to therapy, okay? I’ll take a little time off work. I’ll figure things out.”

We order Chinese for dinner, absently sit in front of the television for a few hours without paying any attention to it, and then we go to bed in silence. We sleep on the opposite sides of the bed, as far from each other as we can.

In the morning, I wake before Will. I watch him sleeping and begin to cry. I love him so much it hurts. I move to him and lay my head on his chest and wrap my arms around him. He wakes and returns my embrace.

“I’m sorry, Will. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too. You really scared me.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. Please say everything is okay between us.”

“Everything is okay.”

“Do you still want to marry me?”

“Of course I do.”

Relief floods me. I begin kissing his chest, his nipples, his neck, his lips. We make love together as if discovering each other’s bodies again for the first time, appreciating just how good we have it that we have each other.

We shower together, and as we’re toweling off, Will says, “I don’t have to go to work today. I can call in sick.”

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “I’m sure.”

After I kiss Will good-bye and he leaves for work, I call Kyle Woodruff and tell him I had a bad reaction to some medication—which is sort of the truth—and I need a few days off. He makes it sound like he’s just disgusted that I could make anything a bigger priority than WP.

“I actually had to be hospitalized,” I say, feeling a deep-seated hatred for this man.

“Oh,” he sighs, “well, I hope you feel better,” but he sounds like he couldn’t care less, and I’m sure he couldn’t.

Next I call Gabrielle and tell her about what I did.

“Oh, Eva. I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Is there anything I can do?”

“Will wanted me to talk to someone, a therapist or someone, about my stress, things like that. I don’t know, he might be right. You liked that therapist you went to after your divorce, right?”

“Yeah. She was great. I’d definitely recommend her. Do you want me to get her number?”

“Yeah.”

The therapist is a woman named Anne Braithwaite. After I get off the phone with Gabrielle, I call Anne. Anne says she had a cancellation and I can come that afternoon, so I agree, but in the back of my mind I’m thinking that after this week off from work, I won’t have time to do things like go to therapy.

I spend the hours before my appointment researching meth online, and I have to say, what I read humbles me.

I learn that meth is one of the few drugs used by both men and women about equally. (Most drug addicts are male.) Men take it for the high, while women take it so they can lose weight (it’s a derivative of amphetamine, which was once prescribed for depression and obesity) and so that they have the energy to work long hours and still have enough to be a good mother to their kids. The problem is that it’s a drug that’s harder to quit than crack cocaine and it can set people off in violent rages. Because meth can be made with chemicals found at any drugstore or from materials handy on farms, it’s becoming extremely prevalent in rural areas. But it has found its way to the more affluent as well.

I read several women’s stories of addiction. I read about professional women who got so caught up in addiction that they lost their jobs. Several women said it was so hard to stop using that they thought seriously of suicide because it seemed like an easier solution than quitting. I read about successful women who ended up in jail because the drug made them lash out in violence, not to mention the fact that being caught with drugs is illegal. Meth contributes to memory loss, aggression, psychotic behavior, and potential heart and brain damage. Unlike cocaine, which quickly metabolizes and thus is removed from the body, meth lingers for a much longer period of time, making the dangerous effects even more destructive.

How could I have risked imprisonment so I would have extra energy to plan the perfect wedding? How could I have been so stupid?

A
nne Braithwaite is an attractive woman in her early fifties. She’s a blonde with a prodigious bosom and a warm, comforting smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, Eva.”

I clear my throat. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

She gestures for me to take a seat. Her office is small and very plain. The carpet is worn and the furniture is old—thousands of troubled people have parked their butts on the very cushions of the loveseat I sit in now.

Anne has a large desk with a thick mahogany clock facing my direction. That’s really the only decoration in the room except for books. Books are everywhere. Thick, serious-looking books that jam shelves that reach the ceiling on two of Anne’s walls. Books are stacked on her desk and on the two end tables on either side of the loveseat where I sit and there are piles of them on the floor, too.

“What brings you here today?” Anne asks.

“A friend of mine, she was a former patient of yours, and she recommended you.”

We stare at each other for a moment. We both know that’s not what she meant.

“I’m not really sure where to begin,” I say. I start where I think it starts, one year ago when I fell in love with the man I want to spend my life with. I tell her about the project with Woodruff Pharmaceuticals and about planning the wedding and trying to be the perfect domestic and sex goddess to Will, and how there wasn’t enough time in the day for it all. “And when Sandy gave me the drugs and said it would give me energy, I—unbelievably, stupidly, idiotically—I just took it. And what happened was that after I used it, I loved it, and I wanted more, and I didn’t particularly care about what it was exactly that I was putting into my body. I’m feeling very stupid right now. And ashamed. I’m a smart woman, and yet somehow I managed to convince myself that it was better to poison myself with an illegal drug than to waste time being tired.

“I think,” I continue, “that at the base of all this, I struggle with self-esteem. In my teens, I really had serious problems with it. I wrote over and over again in my diaries that I was fat and ugly and boring and not worth loving. Then I got to college and I discovered feminism. I was surrounded by other feminists and reading these authors who told me about how the diet and fashion and makeup industries fueled our insecurities to sell products and that it was a bunch of bullshit and we were wonderful just the way we were, and I believed that. I stopped hating myself. I stopped counting calories. I stopped putting myself down all the time, and I came to believe that I was okay just as I was. I don’t mean to say that I never suffered from self-doubt, because I did, but I stopped thinking things like I didn’t deserve to be loved just because I was a little overweight. And then I started succeeding at my career, and I really began believing in myself, believing that I had talent and worth. Then, when I met Will, I fell for him so hard. I was out of my mind in love with him. I’d never loved anyone like that, and it kind of scared me. I started worrying that I would lose him. I worried that he would think I wasn’t as sexually adventurous or fun as his first wife, and that he would constantly be comparing us in his mind. I worried that even if we did get married, I’d mess it up because I have a hard time communicating my emotions. I worried that he’d leave me for a woman who could cook. It was just this downward spiral of self-doubt.”

I pause to take a breath. I look at the clock. I’ve been talking nonstop for forty-nine minutes of our fifty-minute session.

Anne smiles at me. “You certainly make my job easy, Eva. You’re very self-aware.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It’s a good thing, but I think that because you’re so self-aware, you beat yourself up too much. I’m going to give you a homework assignment.”

My homework is to pat myself on the back three times every day for something I’ve done well, even if it’s as insignificant as making a good cup of coffee. Any time I start to beat myself up over something or put myself down, I’m supposed to banish the negative thoughts from my mind immediately.

It’s much harder than it sounds. I have no trouble picking on myself for things I don’t do well, but I have a much harder time thinking of things I do right.