Been There, Married That (ARC)

by Gigi Levangie

  “Sounds like urban first names—” I stopped myself. “How long have they been here?”

  “Eating disorders stay ninety days.”

  Three months. That’s more than enough time to gain thirty, forty pounds.

  “My God. They’re going from skinny to rehab to gastric bypass.”

  “Try not to cause problems,” Barnaby said.

  “I don’t cause problems; I write problems,” I said, turning to face him. Well, his chest. “What’s your hurry, Barnaby? Let me guess—another rich white woman with a anoerexipercoxanax addiction at noon?”

  He smirked and pushed me through another set of doors. I smelled hospital. I hated the smell of hospitals. Then, cigarettes. Antiseptic mixed with nicotine. I gagged.

  “She’s not white,” he said, “but she is rich. Your white privilege is showing.”

  “Where?” I said, checking my waistband. “I’d better tuck that shit in.”

  Barnaby greeted everyone, even the security guards, then hugged me goodbye, and I’m not proud to say I had to be peeled off him.

  “Hi, I’m Craig, I’m DSM-5 eating disordered with obsessive-compulsive and related disorders,” said the giant, intense potato. “That’s me. Craig.”

  I had checked in and was sitting on a couch in the great room in front of the nurses’ station, which was only great, I guess, in size. The décor was doctor’s office with a weird plaid obsession and a couch big enough to seat ten people (or four eating disordered). I was busy filling out forms, which I loved because I loved having all the answers.

  Where I lived, my occupation . . .

  Next of kin.

  Say what now?

  Craig pulled up a chair, then turned it around and faced me, his arms crossed across the top. He repeated himself in a cheerful tone. Like one of Santa’s lost giant elves. “Craig, eating disordered, obsessive-compulsive, and related.”

  “That’s a mouthful, Craig,” I said and shook his outstretched hand. He waited with eager eyes.

  “Oh! Oh, me!” I said, my hand to my chest. “Hi, I’m, ah, Agnes. And, ah . . . almonds?”

  “Almonds?”

  “I’m addicted to almonds. I mean, that’s what my husband thinks.”

  Craig looked bewildered, and did I detect a note of disappointment?

  “I guess it could be considered an eating disorder?” I said to give him some DSM to cling to.

  “Good!” Craig said, clapping his hands together, his pallid face brightening. “So nice meeting you, Agnes.” He rose from his chair and flipped it back around, and I’d wondered how many times it took him to master that dance move. “Time for my weigh-in. Dr. Marigold hates when I’m late; I’m just super-friendly.”

  He walked off, and I got the feeling that all of Craig’s friends were locked inside this facility. It was like having a great social life inside a stuck elevator.

  No one was prouder of their “accomplishments” than the good folks at Madre de Tucson. Craig was the first of the rehabee onslaught, hijacking my form time with their precious diagnoses. Rehabees were similar to Harvard grads—anyone who went to Harvard made sure you knew within three minutes. Time it.

  “Hi, I’m Layla, DSM-5 substance use disorder.”

  “‘Use disorder’?” I asked. “So you weren’t abusing correctly? Is that double speak? An alternative fact?”

  “Opioids. Oxy, mostly,” she said, missing my point. “I sold my mom’s car and stole my grandmother’s jewelry. Her parents died in the Holocaust. Hi.”

  “Hi, I’m Feldman. My drug of choice is co-ca-een-a. What can I say, I love the co-co. I’m in law school,” he said, snorting as he talked. “My bros saved me; Doc said I had, like, I don’t know, twenty seconds to live. Crazy times.”

  “Hey, Norrs.” A man with a red tattoo on his cheek that said To Die Is To Live sank into the chair.

  “Norris?”

  “No,” Norrs whose mother missed a vowel said. “Why does everyone do that?”

  I waited. I knew it was com—

  “Alcohol use disorder.”

  “Why don’t they call it alcohol abuse?”

  “I’m jus’ sayin’, I don’t think so.” He paused. “I like the big cans, you seen ’em? Had a bad day. Cops said I held up a liquor store with my finger. I got three kids.”

  The staccato of this rehab mating ritual without the mating part was familiar, like a Hollywood pitch meeting where no one talked about the pitch . . . My wife left me for her life coach. I’m training for my eight hundredth triathlon. My kid is interning for Iger.

  It’s amazing that anything got done in Hollywood.

  “Suzanne,” the next girl said, plopping down on the couch next to me. She smelled like baby powder. I hadn’t finished filling out my forms. My timing had been completely thrown off. I swallowed my resentment.

  Yes, that makes me as crazy as the rest of them.

  “Hi, Suzanne,” I said. She was a dewy brunette, her thick shiny hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was also gorgeous and didn’t seem to know it. Annoying.

  “What are you in for? Perfect features?” I assessed her. “Are they locking up supermodels now? Is pretty outlawed?”

  “Crack.” She looked down at her feet, encased in ballerina slippers.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “That can’t be right.”

  “I got married eight months ago,” she said. “I live outside Chicago, the suburbs. My husband is a saint. It’s me. I’m an addict. Do you know how hard it is to live with an addict?”

  “No,” I said. “Wait. Yes. More or less.” I thought about Fin.

  She took a deep breath, her eyes so sad I thought I might burst into tears.

  Instead, I set my forms aside and leaned forward.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Six weeks,” she said.

  “Suzanne,” I said. “Do you like being married?”

  “What?”

  “Are you happy?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Mitch is the nicest.”

  “I know. Mitch is the best,” I said. “When did you meet?”

  “College, my sophomore year,” she said. “He was finishing up business school.”

  “And you? What were you studying?”

  “Me?” She asked. “I, ah, wanted to go to med school.”

  I leaned back. “What happened?”

  “We fell in love. Mitch had to move for work,” she said. “I never finished my undergraduate work. I have eight more credits.”

  “A whole eight,” I said. “That’s like two classes. So you moved, then you got married.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many people at your wedding?”

  “Two hundred and fifty,” she said. “Mitch has a big family. His mother was very involved.” I detected bristling. “I don’t know why I’m sabotaging such a fantastic life.”

  “Because maybe it’s not so fantastic?” I offered.

  “But it is. Everyone tells me how great my life is,” she said. “My mom, my sister, even Dr. Marigold here. You know, Mitch drove me out, all the way from Illinois. He prayed for me.”

  “He’s perfect,” I said. “Mine didn’t even get on the plane.”

  “I’ve disappointed everybody.”

  “Hold on, sister. You’ve disappointed yourself,” I said. “Can I give you some advice? As someone much—ah, a tiny bit—older than you. Although still in fantastic shape, right?”

  “Yes?” She seemed unclear; who could blame her?

  “Have you talked to the doctor about your day-to-day life?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’ve been here six weeks. What do you talk about?”

  “Drugs,” she said.

  “So it’s like breaking up and talking about your ex 24-7,” I said. “How do you do it?”

  “I don’t know!” She laughed. “That’s all anyone talks about. Drugs. Drugs and alcohol and . . . sex.” She whispered sex.

  “How is your sex lif
e?”

  “It’s good,” she said flatly.

  “Sounds amazing,” I said.

  “Well . . . he likes me to take a hot shower for a half hour beforehand. And I can’t make noise.”

  My nostrils flared.

  “Yeah, okay, listen to me,” I said. “You’re getting a divorce.”

  Her hand covered her mouth as she gasped.

  “You are getting a divorce or you’re getting ugly, then dying. Are you prepared to get snaggle-toothed, scabby, crack-whore ugly?”

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh my God, no.”

  “So bite the bullet and tell Perfect Mitch who has an aversion to female odor you want a divorce,” I said. “You’re not doing him any favors staying married to him. Next, ask your parents if they’d rather have an ugly, dead daughter or an unmarried, live, beautiful one. Three. Is that three? You finish up college and apply to med school. I’m assuming you were a good student.”

  She nodded, her eyes lit up. “Three point nine in honors classes.”

  “Jesus Christ, beautiful and smart. And they say God doesn’t give with two hands. You’re not a crack addict, Suzanne,” I said. “You’re a coward. Because it’s hard. You can’t tell your husband and his family and your family that you don’t want to be married anymore. You can’t tell them what you want. You’ve never been able to tell them what you want.”

  She started to cry. I took her hand.

  “Why not become a doctor? Or a nurse? Think of all the lives you can save,” I said. “But start with your own.”

  Suzanne sat back and wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “How can I repay you?”

  “My fee is waived, child,” I said. “Go forth and set yourself free.”

  Suzanne smiled and hopped up from the couch, glancing back at me to wave as she walked away.

  Two minutes later, a woman in a white coat with a tight smile and slashes for eyebrows, chic prescription glasses, and YSL ankle boots appeared, standing over me.

  “Hi?” I was way behind on my forms.

  “I’m Dr. Marigold, the head of patient administration here at Madre de Tucson.”

  “Oh, I thought you were a super-officious patient,” I said.

  “Funny,” she said as flat as the last executive I pitched to. “I wanted to welcome you here. Everything okay so far?”

  “I haven’t craved an almond in over an hour,” I said, rubbing the inside of my arms like a heroin addict in a movie.

  “Well, you and I will be meeting later,” she said, clipped. “Before we do, I need you to fill out these tests.” She opened a folder, pulling out a sheaf of paper. I looked over the form. Bubbles! I loved filling out bubbles; it was one of my key talents.

  “Is this like addict SAT?” I asked.

  “These are . . . psychological tests,” she said, “to aid us in our diagnoses.”

  “I’m fucking great at these,” I said, grabbing them from her.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  “You’re already diagnosing me,” I said. “How’m I doing? I mean, I don’t have an addiction. I don’t belong here, of course.”

  “On the contrary,” she said. “You fit right in.”

  She turned on her heel and walked back to the administration offices.

  “Beeyotch,” I said under my breath.

  After lunch in the cafeteria that smelled medicinal, where everyone sat with designated DSM-5s, Feldman was waiting for me outside.

  “Wassup,” I said. “Cocaine use–disordered gentleman.”

  “Yeah, hey. Suzanne checked out,” Feldman said.

  “That soon?”

  “I hear you’re like a psychic,” he said. “You read her future.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Not remotely. I just have strong opinions.”

  “Tell me my future,” he said, grabbing my hand.

  “I can tell you what it is if you don’t let go of my hand,” I said.

  He released my hand. “She kissed me.”

  “Who did?”

  “Suzanne. She kissed me before she left. She said somewhere deep down she’d wanted to make out with me ever since she got here. What do you think it means?”

  “It means she’s in better shape than I am,” I said as we walked to the courtyard outside, where patients gathered to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and gripe. I wanted to catch some fresh-ish air. Two people with blue hair and piercings were puffing on Salems.

  “So, c’mon. Tell me what I’m meant to do in my life,” Feldman said. “I’m desperate.”

  “What do you love doing, Feldman?”

  “Besides coke?”

  “Skip the drug part.”

  “Tennis,” he said. “I’m a really good tennis player. Wicked backhand. I was top five in my state.”

  “Do you still play?”

  “Not much anymore,” he said. “I don’t get a lot of chances. I’m either studying or partying.”

  “Oh, this is too easy,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Quit law school. Tell your parents you’re taking a year off. After a year, they’ll understand, because you’re going to teach tennis to inner-city kids. You’ll love it.”

  His eyes smiled. “How?”

  “Head to local middle schools and Boys & Girls Clubs. Find city courts, raise money among your frat bros to fix them up.”

  “You think I can do that?”

  “Easy. But first, do the hard thing. Jump off the bullet train of the future your parents envisioned.”

  Feldman nodded, nodded, thinking.

  “What if I still want to do blow?”

  “Stop living off your parents,” I said. “Make yourself hungry. Be too poor to do blow. Once you start teaching kids, and you look into their eyes, and they’re trusting you and depending on you to show up and change their lives, you won’t want to party until sunrise with a bunch of bozos. Trust me.”

  “Do you think she likes me?”

  “Who?”

  “Suzanne,” he said. “She gave me her number.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. “But she’s learning to like herself. You do the same.”

  He gave me a sweet puppy-dog hug, and I patted his back and sent him on his way. I needed some alone time.

  My alone time in my room reading an old thriller left behind in the “library” lasted twenty minutes. I heard my name called over the loudspeaker.

  “We have to talk,” Dr. Marigold said as I walked into her office. An icy smile was stretched across her face. “Since you’ve arrived, two of our patients have left, citing their little chats with you as a reason.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Hey, did you get a chance to go over my tests? How’d I do?”

  “Do you not want them to heal?” she asked. “What could be your motivation for encouraging these young, vulnerable people to leave?”

  I sat up straight.

  “I gave them real life advice,” I said. “I suggested they change their lives and maybe their habits would follow.”

  “Stop the talking for now. Maybe start listening.”

  “Rightio,” I said and saluted her. “Am I ready for my diagnosis?”

  “Eating disorder,” she said. “Were you weighed already? What was it?”

  She looked down at her papers.

  “One hundred and twenty-seven,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s not really skinny,” she said.

  I coughed out a fuck you.

  She looked up.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Usually, our eating disorders are obviously anorexic or bulimic,” she said. “But you don’t throw up after eating.”

  “Not even during a stomach flu,” I said. “My people don’t do that. Once it’s in, it’s in.”

  “I see a touch of narcissism,” she said, glancing up from the test scores. “It says here that when you walk into a room, you feel special.”

  “I live in LA,” I said
. “I caught a little narcissism.”

  “My recommendation, which I’ll let the other doctors know,” she said, shuffling the test scores back inside a folder, “is that you stay for the full ninety-day treatment period. You could really use our help.”

  “At what cost?” I asked.

  She smiled. “I’ll see you at the same time next week. And refrain from diagnosing any other patients. It’s dangerous; we’re not playing a game here. We take our work very seriously.”

  “I understand,” I said, then shifted out of my chair and got up.

  Ah, but you know. I couldn’t help myself.

  “So . . . what’s your success rate?” I asked before I opened the door to let myself out.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You must know your recidivism rate,” I said. “How many times patients relapse before they finally get clean.”

  “It’s about . . . 27 percent.”

  “And that’s . . . good? Is this like baseball? Like, no one bats .500, right? So that would make 27 percent incredible.”

  She sniffed. “It’s a very good rate.”

  “Huh,” I said. “I bet I can do better.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits.

  “I’m sure that’s just the narcissism talking,” I said.

  I shut the door behind me and said a silent prayer for Suzanne and Feldman.

  * * *

  After a fitful night’s sleep, I knew I wouldn’t last ninety more minutes, much less ninety days. The walls were paper thin and addicts NEVER. STOP. TALKING.

  2:00 a.m. 3:00 a.m. 4:00 a.m. . . . no recrimination in their self-examination, no comma in their trauma drama.

  My roommate was a Spanish girl with big-screen eyes and a drinking problem. She had limited English to go with my limited Spanglish (no mistake on the administration’s part). The only words I understood coming out of her mouth were hola and Listerine. When I told her I didn’t have any Listerine, she lost interest in me.

  She was still asleep, curled up and softly breathing, when I headed to the cafeteria for breakfast. Tables were divided based on DSM. Eating disorders were digging into groaning stacks of pancakes and plates piled high with bacon and french toast. I grabbed a plate of scrambled eggs and walked quickly past the alcoholics and tweakers to a far, empty table to plot my escape.

  A guy with cropped black hair and beefy, tatted forearms sat down across from me, his tray clattering.