Who You Know (27 page)

JEN

M
ike wanted to take me out to celebrate, but the prospect of spending the night with him was about as desirable as getting my clitoris pierced. (What is that
about
anyway?)

Anyway, I had a bajillion presents to wrap. I got a quart of light eggnog and a bottle of rum and spread the presents, wrapping paper, tape, scissors, and ribbons out in front of me. To save calories, I poured drinks that were more rum with a splash of eggnog than vice versa, but it was festive nonetheless. I hadn't bothered to do a whole Christmas tree deal, but I did adorn my living room with sparkling lights.

I held my glass up to toast myself. “To more money and new adventures.” I drained my glass. Actually, I didn't get a raise right away, but it would come. I did have more power at least. I could see myself as a managerial dominatrix: “Get that report on my desk by five!”
Whitcha!
My whip would crack across their desks.

The phone rang. I looked at the clock. 9:45. “Hello?”

“Hey, babe, how are you?”

For a moment, I wasn't sure who it was. I knew it wasn't Mike, and I didn't think it was Tom. Then I knew: Dave.

“I'm good. How are you?”

“I miss you.”

My heart didn't race. In fact, I felt a little annoyed. I knew exactly how this was going to go: He'd ask to come over, we'd have sex, and then he'd leave and I wouldn't hear from him again for weeks. “Guess what? I got a promotion.”

“Congratulations. That's great. Can I come over? I'll bring champagne, we can celebrate.”

“No, Dave, you can't come over.”

“Are you busy? Is someone there?”

“I am busy, but that's not why you can't come over. We've been broken up for almost five months now. You can't call me whenever you get horny and expect me to do cartwheels over the chance to see you.”

“Jesus, what's up your ass? If you don't want to see me that's cool, you don't have to be all bitchy about it. Merry fucking Christmas.” With that, he hung up. Hung up! On me. What a jackass.

But whatever, it had taken me five years, but he was out of my life now, and that was the important thing.

The phone rang again, and I figured it was Dave calling back to say something bitchy, so I let the machine pick it up.

“Hey Jen, I heard the good news! Congratulations!” It was Rette.

I picked up. “Thanks!”

“Oh, hi. So, I hear you'll be the big woman on campus while Sharon is gone. I'm so happy for you. You deserve it. You worked hard for it.”

“Thanks. I'm excited. It feels good.”

“Are you drinking?”

“I'm celebrating.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah. So?”

She didn't say anything.

“So do you have a point or what?” I said.

“I just—when's the last time you went a night without drinking?”

I thought for a second. I couldn't remember. “I don't know.”

“Jen, I'm worried you might have a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I think you may be an alcoholic.”

“What the fuck? God, can't you just be happy for me? Are you so jealous of me that you have to insult me like that? God, you are such a buzzkill.”

“Jen, I'm very happy for you. I'm just worried about you. You've been drinking so much lately. Alcoholism runs in the family, you know.”

“Nobody in our family is an alcoholic.”

“Except Mom and her father, Grandpa Bob.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I've been worried about Mom's drinking since high school, so in college I did a report on alcoholism to learn more about it. I did a lot of reading and research and interviewed a rehab counselor. I asked him whether someone who comes home every night and promptly makes a martini and then two or three more and spends every night in a hazy blur of alcohol was an alcoholic, and he said yes. He said the person is a high-functioning alcoholic, which means they can hold down a job—often a high-status one—and they can get wasted every night but still keep things together enough to keep their job and family and a house—at least for a while, unless things get worse. I also asked Mom if anyone in our extended family drank too much, and she said her dad was a raging alcoholic. He got four DUIs back in the days when you could rack up DUIs like trophies and never spend a day in jail.”

“Huh. Well whatever. I'm fine, Rette. I've just been going through some tough times. I know I've been drinking too much, but I'll stop. Why did I never notice that Mom had a problem?”

“I don't know, maybe because you're a self-absorbed bitch?”

“Oh yeah, right. So, did you ever confront Mom?”

“Yeah. She nearly tore my head off, telling me to mind my own business and that I should concentrate on my own problems and take a look in the mirror and lose thirty pounds—those were her exact words. It was a fun night altogether.”

“So you thought you'd piss me off too?”

“What am I going to do? Watch my little sister drink herself into the grave? You're a pain in the ass, but you're the only sister I've got.”

 

 

I
knew Rette was right that I'd been drinking too much, but I'd deal with it just like I dealt with my weight: I'd just be stricter with myself. I'd never have more than a drink or two at a time.

Even though Sharon hadn't left yet, work was already a lot more stressful. Sharon was giving me all her work, and I was already too busy to get my own done.

I left the office at seven, too late to catch a Tae Bo class. I got home from work full of restless energy. I paced around the room feeling wired and edgy.

I called Rette and Avery, and they agreed to meet me at the Mountain Sun for some dinner. It was kind of a granola place, but they had great—oh shit, they had great beer.

It's fine, it's okay, I could go there and not order a beer.

Forty-five minutes later, when the waiter came and asked if we wanted anything to drink I think,
I don't want any skanky tap water, I'll get a beer, but just one. I'll nurse it for the whole night.
Rette gave me a look. I ignored her.

“I am so bored,” I said to Rette and Avery after the waiter, a skinny white guy with a scruffy beard and Rastafarian dreadlocks halfway down his back, left. “I just don't know what to do with myself without Dave. When I was living with Dave, we were always going out, going to the bars to play pool or darts or hanging out with friends. We were always having people over or going to our friends' places. I've just never faced all these empty nights by myself before.”

“Can't you still hang out with those friends?” Avery asked.

“I lost them in the breakup. They were mostly Dave's friends from when he worked as a ski instructor or bartender. I never really made my own friends here.”

“Maybe you can join a book club or a pottery class,” Avery offered.

“A book club? Pottery? Yeah, that'd be a big no.” The waiter brought our food. Rette had a veggie burrito. Avery had a vegetable sandwich, and I had a salad with light Italian dressing.

“I'm having a thirty-and-a-half crises,” Avery said.

“Say what?” I said.

“When I turned thirty, everyone asked me if I was upset about it, and I wasn't. Everyone said they had their crises at thirty-one or thirty-five or forty or whatever, as if a crisis were inevitable. They weren't happy with the way their lives were going, and whatever birthday they were having during this tumultuous time in their life was just this milestone that made them stop and reflect on their lives, and that's what brought on the crisis. Well, yesterday it was my half birthday, and I realized that I failed in my dream of being a dancer, my dream marriage was a disaster, and in general my life is a huge flop.”

“Avery, I think you've been hanging out with me and Jen too much. You've become a total downer,” Rette said.

“I just don't understand these feelings I'm feeling,” Avery said.

“It's called depression. You're just not used to it, but I know all about it,” Rette said. “Still, your melancholy is like my ecstatically happy.”

I went to take a sip of my beer and realized it was empty. Shit. How'd that happen? Where was the waiter? What was I supposed to do, die of thirst?

I tried to concentrate on the conversation, but I was dying for another beer. Finally the waiter came back and asked if I wanted a refill.

“Yeah, please.”

“Avery, just a couple weeks ago you were telling me that I had my whole life ahead of me and I could do whatever I wanted with my life. Hello? Sound familiar?” Rette said.

“Yes, but the thing is, how can I do whatever I want with my life when I don't know what it is I want to do?”

As promised, I limited myself to two beers, but by the time we were done talking, the nice buzz I had worked up was wearing off. I was starting to feel edgy again. I stopped at the liquor store for a pint of Absolut Citron, but not to get drunk or anything; I just needed a little help falling asleep.

 

 

I
woke up the next morning with an excruciating hangover. How did I get from promising not to have anything to drink to waking to a blinding hangover?

When I got to work, this e-mail was the first thing I saw:

She sent me a link to a Web page. I had an idea what it was about, so I didn't click on it right away. I decided to wait until Avery went to work out. She and Les had been going to this Bikram yoga class deal three days a week. Les wasn't talking to her anymore, but she still went to the class alone. It started at 11:00 and went till 12:30, but with showering and driving back from the gym, she didn't get back until 1:00. It was really strange for her to take two-hour lunches. I think maybe she was mad at the company about something, maybe about working so hard for so long for slave wages or something like that.

When Avery left for class, I opened up Rette's e-mail and clicked through to the page, which was titled, “Am I an alcoholic?” It contained the Michigan Alcoholism Screening Test.