by Amy Reed
OLIVIA
Compared to everyone in here, I might as well be from a different planet. They don’t know what it’s like to be raised by a nanny, to only eat meals with my parents on holidays, to live in a house with a separate wing for the children. They don’t know what it’s like to have every minute of their day scheduled with some kind of mind-enriching activity. The only thing we have in common is the fact that we ended up here.
CHRISTOPHER
Every day of my life has been pretty much identical since the day I was born. I’ve always lived in the same house. I’ve always gone to the same church. The only difference is that the kids I know have gotten taller. I guess I’d call them my friends. I mean, I’ve seen them at church my entire life. But I’m not sure that’s enough to make someone your friend. The way I see it, there’s a world outside and there’s a world inside, and those worlds are different. All these people I’ve known forever, they just live in the outside world. Todd’s the only one who saw inside, just a little, but he probably didn’t even notice.
EVA
Do you remember? Do you remember being solid? Do you remember life before the hole? Before you were empty and needed to be filled? There was a time when everything was enough. There was a time you didn’t try to get out of your own skin. Remember.
KELLY
One of us could just
open the van door and jump out and start running. As soon as we stop at a stoplight, I could make my escape. I could hide in those trees over there. I could run into that housing development and they’d never find me. I could live off of garbage. I could sleep in a toolshed. I could bathe in the automatic sprinkler system that goes on every morning at six thirty on the dot, just in time to spray the paperboy, just in time to water the sidewalk that no one ever walks on.
Or I could just stay in my seat, secured in my seat belt, looking out the window, stuck between a church boy and an anorexic girl with OCD, in the middle seat of the middle row of a big old unmarked van, on the way to a meeting for recovering alcoholics.
I feel sorry for the old drunks in the church basement, the way we descend into their musty room like locusts, devouring their coffee and stale cookies when no one’s looking, the way we whisper and giggle while they pour out their souls. This one’s been sober twenty-one years. A lot of good it’s done him. He may be sober, but he’s still old and boring and smells like mothballs. He’s talking about how he prays every morning as soon as he wakes up and makes a list of everything he’s grateful for before he goes to bed. And in between? The same nothing every day. The same inconsequential existence, the same meaningless series of breaths bookended by empty ritual. Then sleep. Then the same thing the next day.
It does smell like mothballs in here. And decades of burnt coffee. The linoleum is cracked orange. Faded slogans line the walls with their dingy optimism. ONE DAY AT A TIME. EASY DOES IT. LET GO AND LET GOD. The plastic chairs squeak under familiar ancient asses.
The man is talking about how bad it got, about how he woke up every morning promising himself that day would be different. But he’d end up drunk just the same. And the shame built. The powerlessness. The ritual of insanity continued. You know you have a problem when you can’t stop on your own. You know you have a problem when you lose everything but keep doing it anyway. That’s when you require divine intervention. That’s why we are here. There is God in these rooms. There is God in these old people and their years of sobriety and their slogans and their patronizing stares, their “Keep coming back,” their “You kids are lucky to get this chance so young.”
Yes, we’re real lucky. I’m lucky to have slept with more guys than I can count; Jason’s lucky for having a dad who beats him up every chance he gets; Christopher’s lucky to have been raised in a horror movie; Olivia’s lucky to be totally alone in the world; and Eva’s lucky to have a dead mom and a clueless dad and an expensive habit that got her stuck in this basement on a Saturday night, surrounded by old men who have seen the light, hallelujah, now put a dollar in this basket, now raise your hand and say you’re an alcoholic and talk about how God is doing for you what you could not do for yourself.
Okay, God. Here’s one for you. Here’s something I could not do for myself. I could not make my sisters healthy. I could not be good enough or pray hard enough or keep everyone smiling long enough to get the sickness out. I could not love them enough to make everything normal. How’s that? What are you going to do now? Are you going to cure them? Are you going to make all my dreams come true? Are you going to make my parents love me as much as they love my sisters?
Or maybe you can do even better. Maybe you can make time go backward, to before the drugs, before the sickness, before my sisters were even born, when I didn’t have to share my parents’ love with children who are so much more worthy. There’s my mom, just like a movie, holding a warm tray of cookies just out of the oven. There I am, when I still had an appetite. There we are in a bright kitchen on a Sunday morning. The sound of birds chirping. The sun reflecting off of shiny clean pots and pans. The feeling that everything will be okay forever.
And here comes Dad in his bathrobe. He kisses us both on the cheek. Maybe we have a dog, a golden retriever who’s sniffing at the table, drunk on the smell of cookies. We all laugh. We say “Oh, Goldie” in unison, and Dad says, “That silly dog.”
And then what? After-school activities. Ballet. Soccer. Help with homework. Maybe I join the Girl Scouts. Maybe my hair is still brown instead of this blond dye job. Maybe I’m on the debate team or in drama club and I go to movies with my friends instead of snorting coke and having sex with guys so old it’s illegal. Maybe I don’t have to get drunk every day, because I tutor kids with learning disabilities and maybe I’m school treasurer and maybe my life is going somewhere and maybe everywhere I look I see rainbows.
And then what? Definitely not this. Definitely not seventeen and in rehab, definitely not angry and scared and convinced that nothing will ever change. Not with that feeling in my stomach and my chest like I can’t breathe, that feeling like a giant fist squeezing. And now they’re telling me I have to get rid of the only thing that loosens its grip. That’s the irony, isn’t it? That’s what these old men are trying to tell me with their sad stories and coffee breath. The thing that helped has become the thing that imprisons us. We keep feeding it and it keeps wanting more. This is a disease that tries to convince you that you don’t have it. This is a disease where the medicine that gives relief is the same thing that kills you.
I have been sober for almost two weeks now. This morning after Group, I went into the bathroom and pinched myself with my fingernails until I drew blood, so I guess I’m just as crazy as Olivia now. I just had to do something to make the feelings stop. I had to do something to get away from myself. I would rather have done a line, a shot, pills, anything to leave this world for somewhere upside down. I have learned to make magic with chemicals, but I have lost all my tools. All I’m left with is this tight fist that keeps squeezing, that keeps me running toward anything I can do to loosen it, even if the relief is only temporary, even if the fist’s grip just ends up tighter in the end.
Another old man raises his hand and introduces himself. “My name’s Larry, and I’m an alcoholic.” You felt this once, didn’t you, Larry? This strap across your chest, your hands behind your back, your ankles chained to the floor? Remember how it feels to have nowhere to go? When all you can do is just let the feelings consume you?
Tell me, when does this stop? When can I be like you, sitting in a church basement, content with these clichés and these rules and these steps and this sobriety? When is this liberation you keep talking about? Because I don’t feel it. I’m two weeks sober and I’m locked up and I’ve lost control of everything. If this is recovery, I don’t want it. If this is sobriety, I’d like my drugs back, thank you very much.
The meeting’s over and we stand up and hold hands. We bow our heads and have a moment of silence for the alcoholic who still suffers. We
say a prayer to a God I don’t know. The old men shake hands, ask each other about their grandkids. And the kids mill around, waiting to be led out.
GROUP
SHIRLEY: How was the meeting last night?
JASON: It kind of sucked.
SHIRLEY: Well, luckily there are a lot of different meetings, so you can always try new ones until you find some that fit. I’m curious, though—why did the meeting suck?
JASON: It was a bunch of old guys.
SHIRLEY: They were too old? That was the problem?
JASON: No. I don’t know. I just didn’t relate. I don’t have anything in common with a bunch of old drunks.
SHIRLEY: You’re all addicts and alcoholics. That’s something.
JASON: I guess. But my life’s not anywhere near as bad as theirs were. Not even close.
SHIRLEY: Anyone else care to contribute?
KELLY: I kind of agree. It’s not like I don’t realize I have a problem with drugs and alcohol, but I haven’t lost everything like they did. None of us are that bad.
SHIRLEY: Do you want to know what I think?
JASON: Do we have a choice?
SHIRLEY: Yes, you’re right, none of you are that bad. Do you know why?
JASON: Because we’re not addicts and alcoholics, and we can go home now?
SHIRLEY: Very funny. No. There are a couple reasons. Reason number one: your age. You haven’t been using that long. The disease hasn’t had as much time to destroy you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have it. The fact that you’re here proves that you’ve moved beyond drinking or using like a normal person. You’ve moved beyond recreational use. So, congratulations. You have earned a place in the club with those old drunks. Lucky for you, you don’t have to wait for all the same terrible things that happened to them to happen to you. You get to stop now. Do you realize how lucky you are?
JASON: I guess so.
SHIRLEY: Olivia, did you ever have to go to a scary part of town to buy your drugs?
OLIVIA: What? No.
SHIRLEY: Did you ever have to rob someone to finance your addiction?
OLIVIA: Of course not.
SHIRLEY: Eva, you’ve never shot heroin, have you?
EVA: No.
SHIRLEY: Do you know why?
EVA: Because I’m not a junkie.
SHIRLEY: Oh, sure, and popping handfuls of pills or crushing up and snorting prescription opiates is totally fine.
JASON: Ha.
SHIRLEY: Listen to me. All of you. Listen very carefully. Kelly, imagine you’re a poor black kid. Now imagine you’re drunk and high on cocaine and you run your mom’s car into a house. What do you think happens to you?
KELLY: I don’t know.
SHIRLEY: Do you think a judge will give you a slap on the wrist and tell your parents to send you to an expensive private rehab?
KELLY: No? I don’t know.
SHIRLEY: And, Olivia, let’s look at what happened to you. You get to tell people you fainted while you were jogging. But guess what? You OD’d. In the middle of the fucking street. Do you think if you lived in the ghetto and that happened, some nice neighbors would just help you home and your family could cover it up like nothing happened? And, Jason, can you still complain about being here when you consider the alternatives? What about juvie? Or what about becoming a ward of the state? Foster homes, group homes? What about being homeless?
JASON: Okay. We get it.
SHIRLEY: No, I don’t think you do. If you think you don’t have anything in common with those old alcoholics, then you must definitely think you have nothing in common with those people you so lovingly refer to as crackheads and junkies. But guess what? You have everything in common with them. They’re just the poorer version of you. The only difference between cocaine and crack is the color of the user’s skin and the amount of money in his wallet. None of you ended up here by accident. We don’t take in every kid who’s snuck wine at a bar mitzvah or inhaled once or twice. Listen to me: You do not drink or use like a normal person. You have moved beyond the point where you can ever drink or use like a normal person. If you don’t believe me, fine, go ahead and try to prove me wrong. We’re always open. I’m sure your parents would love to pay for another stay here. Hopefully you’ll make it back. Hopefully you don’t need to keep testing to see if you’re like the ones who don’t make it, the ones who OD and die on the streets, the ones who end up in jail, the ones who end up crazy and alone and living in a cardboard box. Or maybe you spend the rest of your life in and out of expensive rehabs, maybe you OD in a nice house or you pass out and drown in your pool. Maybe you die in a car accident while driving a really expensive car. What’s the difference? Anyone have an idea? No? I’ll tell you. The only things you have going for you are race and money and the fact that someone cares enough about you to get you help instead of just throwing you out on the street and letting you destroy yourself. If you’re anything less than grateful, you’re a fucking asshole and a waste of my time.
JASON: Wow.
CHRISTOPHER: I’m sorry, Shirley.
EVA: Christopher, you didn’t even do anything.
CHRISTOPHER: But I feel bad.
EVA: Stop crying, Christopher.
CHRISTOPHER: I’m sorry.
EVA: Stop saying you’re sorry.
OLIVIA: We’re grateful, Shirley. I’m grateful.
JASON: I’m grateful too.
KELLY: We’re all grateful.
SHIRLEY: Yeah, sure, we’ll see about that.
KELLY
I’m supposed to feel
excited now, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be giddy with girly anticipation. But I’m not. I don’t think I know what that feels like. And I guess I’ve never even thought about that, never realized something’s missing.
I’m thinking about it now because I’m about to do something really stupid. I’m waiting in the dark until the clock strikes midnight, and then I’m going to put everything on the line. I’m going to break the rules. And for what? I haven’t been able to figure that out in the almost two hours I’ve been lying here in bed, listening to Olivia’s breathing, listening to Lilana’s knitting in the hall.
Soon Lilana will check our room. She will make her way down the girls’ hall, and I will stuff my bed with clothes so it looks like I am sleeping. Then she will turn around and start her checks on the boys’ hall. That’s when I will make my run for the bathrooms. I will find the third shower room on the right. I will find him waiting for me, the boy I’m not even sure I like.
What is making me willing to do this? Sexual relationships between patients is forbidden. Getting caught means certain expulsion. What is making me willing to risk that, risk getting kicked out of this place even though I want to stay? This is the first time in I don’t know how long that I’ve come even close to caring what happens next. I guess you could call that hope. Am I willing to give that up for a night with Jason? Does he mean that much to me?
No. Of course not. But that’s not it. It’s not about want or desire or how much he means to me. It’s definitely not about love or anything resembling love. If I had to pick a word, I guess it would be habit, but that’s not quite it either. This is just what I know how to do. It’s what I’ve always done. I will sneak out tonight and meet Jason in the shower and risk getting kicked out of here because I don’t know what else to do. This is who I am on the outside, so this must be who I am in here, too.
At school I have always hated the purity-ring girls. They walk the halls so proudly because they’ve vowed not to have sex before marriage, like God loves them better than everyone else, like God loves them more because they made Him a promise that they would never be a girl like me. I hate them for that. I hate them for their voices, for their ability to say no. I hate them for believing their bodies are worth something, that sex isn’t something to be given, traded, or thrown away. How dare they protect their virginity like it’s something precious? How dare they hold their heads so high, so certain that their souls are clean, so
certain that someone will love them someday, so certain that someone will earn their love?
This is my Friday night date—in the dark, forbidden—while those girls are going to movies, holding hands, first-kissing at the front door before curfew. Maybe they’re in love, maybe they’re holding hands with the boy they will marry. It will soon be time for that ultimate moment. They will plan the night carefully—the soft music, the flowers, the candles. He will be gentle. He will look into her eyes and ask if she wants him to stop. She will say she wants it, and she will mean it. He will say “I love you,” and he will mean it. And these are real words, not just the absence of words. This is “Yes” the way “Yes” was intended.
But that is not my kind of yes. I’m the girl whose answer is her silence. I am the girl who doesn’t say no. And this sounds like consent. This looks enough like wanting it. I will show up in the shower, and Jason will be waiting for me, and my mouth will never move. He will touch me and I will let him, and that will be all that I know how to say.
