Who You Know (28 page)

I added up my points—12—and clicked the NEXT button on the screen to get to the part where they told me what it all meant. I guessed it would probably tell me that I'd been drinking a wee bit much lately, but I was totally fine, and one day soon I'd get a husband and have kids and stop my—totally normal for my age and marital status—partying ways.

“Scoring: Add up the points from your answers. A total score of 0-3 points indicates no alcoholism; 4 points is suggestive of alcoholism; and 5 points or more indicates alcoholism.”

What the hell! That's the harshest grading ever! This is worse than high school. Where's the curve? Where's the extra credit opportunities?

I went back through my answers, and marked off all the ones that I so generously awarded 1 out of 2 points to. I was still at 9, which, according to this totally biased and bullshit test, still put me well into the category of flaming alcoholic, but it was all total crap. I didn't buy it for a second.

 

 

O
n the way home from work that night, I stopped off at the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine to prove that I could easily have just one glass of wine with dinner like anybody. A glass or two of red wine was supposed to be good for you; it cleared your heart out or something like that.

At home, I poured myself a glass of wine and tried to figure out what I wanted to eat. I had no food in the house except some frozen broccoli and a can of tomato soup. That did not sound like a yummy dinner. I decided I'd fill up on one more glass of wine—one or two glasses were totally fine.

I sat on the couch, flicked the TV on, and changed the channels until I got to some show that didn't look totally horrible. I felt restless, anxious. Why was I not experiencing that relaxed feeling I normally felt after a couple of glasses of wine?

I probably hadn't poured enough in the glasses, I probably hadn't really had two full servings yet. I'd pour just a little bit more, just to get me to the standard two-glass size.

I filled up my glass halfway and returned to the couch. It was Friday night, and I was home alone watching TV. How could I possibly be home all alone on a Friday night? I wished I were still in Minnesota, where all my girlfriends from high school and college still were. I could be out with them right now if I hadn't followed stupid Dave out here to Colorado.

Although maybe that wasn't exactly true. Would things really be different if I were still in Minnesota? Jill and Wendy were married. Traci was engaged. Laurie and Deb lived with guys, and even Liz was dating someone seriously. None of them would be free to go out; they'd all be with their men. At best all I could do would be to elbow my way into their plans for the evening as some pathetic third wheel. I was the only twenty-five-year-old on the entire planet who didn't have a significant other.

Why didn't I feel relaxed? If anything, I felt more wound up. My heart was racing. It was probably because I'd only had two glasses of wine. Wasn't that why it's called a “pick me up”? The first couple glasses actually make you feel more awake. I just needed one more glass, and then I'd feel relaxed. I poured myself one more glass, and suddenly somehow the bottle was empty. That was weird, weren't there normally like five glasses per bottle? It must have been smaller than usual. I stole a glance at the clock. I'd been home for an hour.

 

 

I slept fitfully, on and off through the night. In those horrible moments when I was sort of awake, I wanted to die. My head felt like someone has drilled thick steel bolts through either temple.

I got out of bed and staggered to the kitchen, clutching my head with both hands. I poured myself an enormous glass of water and noticed the empty bottle of wine.
Wait, I thought I was just going to have a glass or two, how did it get empty? Whatever, I'll worry about it later; right now, I need more sleep.

I stayed in bed, sleeping on and off, until three o'clock in the afternoon. Yeah, this was exactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday. I'd wanted to get groceries and do laundry and clean the house. I wanted to spend hours working out at the gym and looking adorable until some great guy asked me out.

Was it possible that maybe I did have a teensy problem? There was probably some medication that a doctor could prescribe, some herbal treatment or something to help. Take three vitamin C, do an Indian rain dance, and call me in the morning—you'll never drink too much again.

I called Rette. “Hey, if I did have a problem with alcohol, which I don't, how is it treated? Is there medication for it?”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean there's Antabuse, which makes you throw up if you drink alcohol, but doesn't change the fundamental problem. The only treatment is to stop drinking.”

“What do you mean to ‘stop drinking'? You mean like totally stop?”

“Totally stop. Forever.”

“Fuck that.”

“AA can help.”

“Triple fuck that. I'm not going to any AA meeting.”

“It's not like you have anything to be ashamed of. Robert Downing Jr., Ben Affleck, Grace Slick—and I mean like a million of some of the greatest writers of our time have struggled with alcohol.”

“I'm not struggling. I mean I'm struggling but not with drinking. My life just hasn't been going the way it's supposed to lately.”

“Can I come over?”

“No.”

“I'm going to come over anyway okay?”

“Whatever.”

I hung up the phone. No more drinking
ever?
Was she kidding me? No more margaritas at Rios? No more beers after work at the Oasis? No more wine with dinner? I loved wine with dinner! No more cosmopolitans or martinis or sex on the beach? No more White Russians or Bloody Marys or Mimosas? What kind of life would that even be?

What would this do to my social life? What guy would ever date me if he knew I had a drinking problem? What guy would marry me?

I had been drinking too much, but I could stop. Right? Then again, when was the last day I'd gone without drinking? I drank to celebrate when I had a good day; I drank to console myself when I had a bad day; I drank when I had a day, any day. I drank to relax after work with friends or by myself; I drank when I went out with my friends; I drank when I wanted a romantic evening; I drank when I was home alone and bored and had nothing else to do.

But that was normal. Everyone drank, why did Rette think there was something wrong with me?
Never drink again
. Rette was full of shit.

The buzzer went off. I managed to make it to the intercom and buzz her in. I opened the front door for her and stumbled back to bed.

“Jen?” I heard her close the door behind her. I couldn't call out to her or my head would explode. It was a small place; she'd find me.

“Jen? Are you okay?”

“No, I don't know. Physically I'll be fine.” Out of nowhere, tears filled my eyes. I blinked and they rolled down my cheeks. “I don't want to not drink for the rest of my life. I really like drinking. No, I didn't mean it like that . . .”

“I know.”

“I don't think that this never drinking again business sounds very fair at all.”

“Alcoholism is like diabetes—it has to be treated carefully for the rest of your life.”

“At least diabetics get to eat
something
. I'll just have to be stricter with myself. I'll manage it better.”

“I have no doubt that you can go for years drinking as you are Jen, but . . .”

“Well, good, then I will.”

“But if you keep drinking like this, do you ever think you're going to fall in love, have a good, healthy relationship with a healthy guy? Or is it just going to be years and years of more Daves and Toms?”

“I loved Dave.”

“Did you really? You and Dave . . . you guys were drinking so much when you were together and the alcohol created all this drama. I mean, do you think it's possible that you mistook that drama for passion? Alcoholics tend to choose to be with other alcoholics. You and Dave never thought your drinking was excessive because both of you and all your friends drank like crazy.”

That last thing she said sort of struck a chord. It was true that Avery, Rette, the people from work, Mike, none of them drank nearly as much as Dave and I did or the couples Dave and I hung out with when we were still together. Even Tom—he drank a lot, but compared to Dave he was a lightweight.

“How do you know all this?”

“I wrote a paper on this, I told you. It was a sixty-page paper. I got an
A
on it.”

“Of course you did.” I rolled my eyes.

“Here's the thing. You can spend the next thirty years of your life half awake in a fog of alcohol and hangovers like Mom does . . . although actually, Jen, I think your problem has already gone way past Mom's. She spends every night tipsy, but I don't know that I've ever seen her drunk. The way you drink Jen, I wouldn't be surprised if you died in a few years from a drunk-driving accident or I don't know, Senator George McGovern's daughter, she battled with alcohol all her life and when she was forty-five or so, she wandered out into the winter cold drunk and died of exposure.”

“I don't want to die when I'm forty-five,” I said. “But I don't want to not be able to drink either. Rette, I'm the fun one. I'm the party animal. Who am I going to be if I'm not Jen the Party Girl? Who am I going to be? I'm always the first person invited to every party. They can always count on me to make things fun.”

“Jen, you're totally insane when you're sober. You have nothing to worry about there. You've been the life of the party since you were three. I remember at some Christmas party Mom and Dad had, you were two or three at the time, and you were in the center of the room screaming, ‘jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock' into your thumb, like your thumb was a microphone. You looked so adorable and everyone was smiling and oh-how-cute-ing, and I just hid in the corner feeling like a lump.”

“You were always getting the good grades and being little Ms. Perfect.”

“Yeah, but Mom didn't care, she always liked you more.”

“She always liked
you
more.” At this, we both cracked up. Then I started crying again and Rette started crying, too, and in about eleven seconds it was a great big snot and tears festival.

“How come you're not an alcoholic?” I sniffed.

“I don't know; it's possible that I may be. It hits people at different times. Some people don't show any signs until they turn sixty, and then they drink themselves into the grave within a couple of years. Alcoholism is genetic, but it doesn't mean everyone in a family will be an alcoholic. I have eczema and irritable bowels and tension headaches, and you don't have any of that.”

“Thank
god.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute. I still felt like shit, even after about a zillion gallons of water and Advil and two multivitamins.

“Rette, I'm really tired, would you mind leaving me alone so I can take a nap?”

“Sure. But Jen I . . . I went online and printed off some meeting times to AA meetings nearby. You . . .”

“I'm not going to any goddamn AA meeting!”

“Okay, that's fine. Just hang on to these, please? Just in case.”

RETTE

M
om and Dad arrived the day before Christmas. Jen used a personal day to get off work, but I didn't get fancy benefits like that for another month. It was hard to believe I had only worked there for two months. I'd enjoyed the job for about two weeks before becoming bitter and disenchanted. It seemed as if I'd been there an eternity. But I didn't mind having to work that day. For one thing, I got out of making the long drive to the airport to pick up Mom and Dad, and for another thing, Eleanore had taken the day off, so work was like a vacation.

I'd finally finished Christmas shopping the night before; then I'd wrapped gifts and cleaned the house until one in the morning, so I was exhausted by the time I got home from work, and I had dark circles under my eyes that would not go unnoticed by Mom, no matter how much makeup I used to conceal them. I was strung out on caffeine, and the looming parental visit did nothing to calm my jittery nerves.

When I got home from work, Greg was making dinner. Mom stood beside Greg with a nearly empty martini in hand. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. Jen was across from him, staring into her martini glass, looking bored.

Mom looked beautiful. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her manicured hands touching Greg lightly on the shoulder. Every time I saw my mother, I was struck anew by her beauty. Why couldn't she get bags under her eyes like a normal forty-six-year-old?

“A man who cooks. He's such a catch!” Mom said, finally noticing me.

Greg was making baked chicken, baked potatoes, store-bought rolls, and frozen mixed vegetables. In this family, that was the equivalent of a gourmet meal.

I hugged Mom, then Dad. After that we looked at each other, unsure what to do or say next. Mom made herself and Jen another round of martinis.

When dinner was ready, we sat down at the table and served ourselves in silence. I wanted to think of a funny story or interesting conversation topic to ensure everyone had a great time, but I couldn't think of a thing to say. Dad was the first to speak.

“It was a nice flight in,” Dad said. “Right on time. No turbulence. A good sandwich for lunch, too.”

“Don't bore them,” Mom said. “Who wants to hear about our flight? Honestly. Any progress on the wedding plans?”

“Not really. I've been so busy with my job, and Greg's had finals to study for. Things will calm down soon, I hope,” I said. “We can focus on it then.” I watched Mom as she “ate.” She had a way of making it look like she was a hearty eater without actually eating anything. She would put a heaping amount of food on her plate, make a big deal of how magnificent everything was and how stuffed she was from eating so much. Tonight she'd eaten most of the vegetables, a couple bites of potato and a few bites of chicken without the skin. She'd taken a roll and torn it in half, but she'd never actually taken a single bite.

Alcohol, however, she consumed incessantly. She never got drunk, but she carefully nursed a steady buzz throughout the night. By eating so little, Mom saved her calories for her alcohol. By eating less she could also drink less since there weren't any nutrients in the way of her getting buzzed.

 

 

A
fter dinner, we sat in the living room, talking about nothing in particular. The TV was on to fill in the awkward silences and to spur conversation topics. An ad for an upcoming episode of
Ally McBeal
got Mom, me, and Jen talking about our favorite TV shows. Over the course of the evening, Mom drank prodigious amounts of brandy. Jen finished off the wine. I nibbled at the remnants of German chocolate cake we'd had for dessert, and Dad retreated to the balcony where he smoked cigarette after cigarette. Greg, the only viceless one among us, sat across from me on the other side of the room. He caught my eye and gave me an “it-will-all-be-oversoon” smile.

Finally, Jen said she was beat and she should be getting home now. Mom and Dad slept in our room, so Greg and I set up an air mattress in the study for ourselves. Earlier I'd bragged about how much personality our apartment had, but now I saw the place through Mom's eyes, and I was embarrassed by the flaking paint and strange layout. (There were no hallways, just one room opening up into another room. To get to the bathroom you had to go through our bedroom.) The place seemed small and old and poorly decorated.

Christmas morning I woke up early. I lay on the air mattress, staring at the ceiling for a long time, willing myself to go back to sleep, thinking about how dealing with my family would be slightly less horrendous if I weren't sleep deprived. But finally I gave up, put on my robe, and padded through the house, turning on the Christmas tree lights. I made coffee, settled into the battered reclining chair and stared, mesmerized, at the lights on the tree that blurred into a comforting haze.

 

 

B
y the time Jen got to our place Christmas morning, I'd eaten two sticky rolls to quiet my rumbling stomach. When Mom noticed the missing sticky rolls she said, “Jesus, Rette, just one of those things has your fat calories for an entire day. Do you want to look like a whale in your wedding dress?”

There's nothing like being equated with the world's largest mammal by your mother to start the day off right.

 

 

I
t took about a thousand years, but eventually Christmas did end. I was counting down the hours until Mom, Dad, and Jen left to go skiing. But like a biblical superhero or prisoner of war, I had many hurdles yet to face before freedom was mine. Like trying on wedding dresses with my mother.

My stomach was knotted with anxiety. I hated my body enough without looking at it through my mother's eyes.

We spent an exhausting couple of hours trying on dresses before breaking for lunch. Being seen in my underwear by my mother had miraculously diminished my appetite. We both ordered wine and house salads.

“Did I tell you what Jack did?” Mom said between sips of wine, sharing yet another story about the long-time villain in Mom's office drama.

“No, what?” I said.

“I was in a meeting with my entire staff
and
two of the senior managers—I mean we were in the middle of a discussion—and he just comes barging in with the letter I'd finished earlier in the day, and he says, in front of everyone,
everyone,
‘So I see here the deadline was yesterday. Yesterday. I think you mean the twenty-second, not the second. Why don't you pay a little more attention to detail? I shouldn't be your copyeditor.' On and on he goes. I was
humiliated
. It was just a little typo. I was rushing to get it done because
he
was three days late getting the specs together, and instead of thanking me for my prompt work, he announces my error in front of everyone. Why couldn't he just fix it? Why didn't he have his secretary type it up in the first place? It's her job, not mine.” Mom speared a tomato from her salad. “I hope a car bomb kills him.”

“A car bomb? Wouldn't a nice little heart attack or a job transfer do?”

“No, I want him to die a painful, gory death. Every day I imagine his head being blown to smithereens. I want his limbs torn off slowly one by one. I want him to die a slow, agonizing death after lingering for several weeks, months maybe, with eighty percent of his body charred with third degree burns, his face a mangled heap of puss-filled horror, all red and gooey.”

I laughed and Mom winked at me.

I was in a better mood after lunch. It helped somehow to know that it wasn't just me who had trouble dealing with authority. It wasn't that I was so difficult to get along with or so touchy; it was that, by and large, managers were idiots.

Without hope, I tried on the next dress. It didn't seem particularly striking on the hanger, but when I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I felt transformed. If Jen were here, she could explain what magical equations of fabric and fashion architecture made me look so good, but whatever it was, all I knew was the tight bodice and the way the fabric flowed around my legs flattered my body beautifully. The bodice sucked my breasts in and made them look higher and firmer than they actually were. The dress left part of my shoulders bare, but had short sleeves connected to the bodice that had the delightful effect of covering the matronly heft of my upper arms and revealing only my small, delicate wrists.

“You look gorgeous,” Mom said. We both stared at my image as I turned to inspect the front, the back, and the sides.

“I'm so proud of you, Rette,” Mom said. “I wish your sister would find a decent guy. I don't understand why she's always falling for these losers. I'm a little worried about her. It's not really fair. You got her same beauty, but you also got all the brains and the talent.”

“Talent?” I asked.

“Yes talent. You sound shocked. You've always been the brain of the family, you know that.” Mom fussed around with the dress some more and caught my gaze in the mirror. “Well, what do you think? I think we've found our dress. It's perfect for you.”

It was perfect. I felt gorgeous in it. Maybe the wedding wouldn't be a complete disaster after all. Then I looked at the price tag. “Eighteen hundred dollars. Oh my god. That's a thousand more than I was planning to spend.”

“This is your dress. There's no question.”

“Mom, don't be ridiculous. Eighteen hundred dollars is just the beginning. It'll be another two hundred for alterations, two hundred for the shoes, the veil, the gloves. It's too much, we have to be reasonable.”

“I'm going to buy this dress. This dress is made for you. I never had a wedding. I want you to have the fairy tale wedding I never had.”

Fairy tale wedding. As if princesses in fairy tales suffered from stress-induced gastrointestinal woes and chronic insomnia.

“Mom, that's really generous, but—”

“I'm sorry Rette, but I'm buying this dress.”

“I'll feel so guilty. It's so extravagant.”

“Well, you'll just have to get over yourself because my mind is made up.”

“Thank you, Mom,” I said, hugging her.

“You're welcome.”

It was all so silly, all this money we were spending for just one day. On the other hand, the wedding pictures would last forever.