Me: I’m just telling you what I think it is. I was trying to figure out the last time I’ve gone twenty-four hours without a drink . . . it’s been a long time.
Adam: Good thing you quit.
Me: I didn’t quit. I’m just taking a break. Seven days. I’m stopping for seven days. I’m not stopping for good. Let’s not get crazy.
Adam: Maybe you should stop.
Me: I’m fine. I’m sure by tomorrow I’ll be fine. And when I start drinking again, I’m gonna really make an effort to cut back. I am. I promise.
On the Rocks
It’s like I’m on a hamster wheel, running ’round and ’round till my little rodent paws are bruised and raw, and even though I’m working up quite a sweat, I seem to be passing the very same plastic water bottle over and over again. My parents are in town again. They stopped for In-N-Out Burger again. Their whirlwind entrance consisted of me looking too skinny, the house looking too clean, and my life looking just too damn perfect . . . again.
I’m going to start tape-recording their entrances so I can save them the breath. It’ll be armed and ready to push play the moment they touch down. We can all mouth along with the recording like we’re listening to an episode of Barney. We’ll dance around my living room, clapping and chanting, “I love you, you love me, we’re a fucked up fam-i-ly.” I hate that goddamned purple dinosaur and the horse it rode in on. And that show . . . all those kids laughing and dancing around that fuchsia monstrosity. Word to the wise: He’s not fucking purple! He’s fucking fuchsia!
I’m a little tense. My parents are making me a little tense, and they have been here for less than four hours. I may not make it to the end of my week of sobriety . . . sober. Seven days might have been a tad ambitious, considering the amount of alcohol that flows through this house when my parents are in town.
I’m currently standing on the threshold of my kitchen, watching my mother try to reach the Tanqueray 10, which I have purposely stashed on the top shelf of the liquor cabinet. Standing a mere five foot two, she looks as if she’s about to dislocate her arm in the attempt. Even when she’s on her tippy-toes, her middle fingertip merely brushes the edge of the bottle.
Me: You look like you might need some help with that.
Mom: Oh! You scared me to death! I was just about to make your father a drink and . . .
Me: Here.
Mom: You like that top shelf so high? You know, your father could adjust it for you.
Me: No, I like it where it is. I thought Dad said he didn’t want a drink yet.
Mom: Oh . . . well, I guess I’ ll just have to drink this one, then. You have any lime, sweet pea?
Me: I can taste the sweet sting of the lime. Bottom shelf. I’m gonna go to the market and get something to make for dinner.
Mom: You don’t need to do that. Why don’t we just order in?
Me: No, it’s fine. I was going to make that chicken dish with the olives.
Mom: Let’s just order in. I don’t want you to have to make anything.
Me: It’s fine. I need to go out anyway. I need to pick up laundry.
Mom: You want me to make you a drink before you go?
Me: I’m okay for now. You put a lot of gin in that.
Mom: Saves me from having to make another one right away.
Me: I can feel the sizzle of the tonic bubbling up and tickling my nose. I’m gonna go ahead and run out. You and Dad need anything?
Mom: Nope. Why don’t you let me do your running around? You never sit down for a second.
Me: Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk. I’ll be back soon.
Mom: Drive safe.
Me: I will.
I’m starting to feel like the roles are reversing: With an ever-quickening pace, my parents are becoming my responsibility. And I don’t want to be the parent. Not to my parents. Not yet. I’m too young. I’m not ready for the responsibility, and I wouldn’t want it even if I were. I don’t want to have to remind my father to wear sunscreen and then have to worry that he won’t. I don’t want to have to tell my mom to slow down on her gin and tonics as I hover in the doorway, keeping track of how much tonic is actually involved in the making of her favorite drink.
I’m not ready to be the parent, but I feel like I’m being forced into office prematurely. This is all supposed to happen much, much later. After they’ve become grandparents several times over, after hip surgeries and dentures, arthritis and osteoporosis—that’s when I’m supposed to step in. That’s the time for me to take over and help these ancient people find a peaceful way to spend their few remaining years. But not now. Not when I’m twenty-six years old and haven’t even really begun my own life yet. I don’t want to have two kids—whom I also happen to call Mom and Dad—before I have two kids. It’s not right. It’s not natural. It’s all out of order. It’s not the way things are supposed to happen. But it’s happening. I know it. They know it. We all know it. And . . . I’m scared.
The Big Day and Car Trouble
I’m exhausted. I spent the first half of the night wondering if I could sneak a quick drink after midnight without technically falling off the wagon. I concocted some bizarrely complicated rationale involving the Chinese New Year, but, alas, I decided if a tree makes a drink in the forest and there’s no one around to hear it, the tree’s still an alcoholic. The second half of the night was spent figuring out how to broach this whole gin-and-tonic conversation without my mom freezing up, shutting up, or breaking down. I want to let her know I’m fighting the good fight. She won’t want to hear it. She won’t really listen. She will deny, question, and then fix. She’s got a weak constitution when it comes to these kinds of problems. She’s not up for discussing any “-ism,” particularly this one. In her my mind, they all come down to one common denominator—her. She blames herself for all of the pain her children suffer/have suffered/ may suffer some time in a land far, far away. She can’t help herself. She sucks up pain. She feeds off it. She’s like a pool sweep, always sifting through the dirt and grime, fighting an endless battle to try and keep things neat and clean.
So, what to do, what to say? Unfortunately, I failed to wake up with any usable material for the “g and t” chat. Instead, my head is inexplicably filled with blueprints for a sweatshirt-lined jean jacket. So, as I sit buckled securely into the passenger seat of my PT Cruiser, armed only with a design for a jean jacket for the new millennium, I feel anything but prepared for the looming discussion. Palms moist and mouth bone dry, I notice that I’m silently moving my lips—rehearsing—hoping something worthwhile will accidentally spill out.
Mom: I don’t know how you put up with all this traffic. I can’t believe how much worse it’s gotten in the past five years. I think I’d go batshit if I had to drive in this every day.
Me: . . . huh?
Mom: I said the traffic would drive me batshit.
Me: Oh. Yeah. It’s bad. I told you I’d drive.
Mom: I wanted to give you a break. You never get a chance to relax. Is my driving making you nervous?
Me: No, I’m okay . . . Tanqueray 10 is really good, huh?
Honk-honk-honnnnnk.
Mom: Jesus! Do you see this?! Move! Move out of my way, asshole!
Honk-honk.
Me: He’s about to parallel park.
Mom: Well, he should have his blinker on, then. And—oh, loooook at this! Can you believe this guy? Use your blinker, asshole! What do ya think it’s there for?!
Honk-honk.
Me: Mom, roll up your window. Roll up your window! You’re gonna get us shot. Jesus!
Mom: You have to be an aggressive driver. I hate people who can’t make up their mind. I think they’re the most dangerous . . . and some people drive like they’ve got all the time in the world. Your father—I don’t know the last time you’ve ridden with him—he’s become an awfully slow driver in his old age.
Me: I hadn’t noticed.
Mom: Oh, it’s terrible. He makes me so nervous. You know, the Land Rover people got on him
about it. They said he wasn’t driving his car hard enough.
Me: What do you mean?
Mom: They said he needed to drive it faster, or else he was going to blow out the engine.
Me: Are you serious?
Mom: Oh, yeah. I have to constantly get on him to pick up the pace.
Me: I didn’t know you could blow out an engine from driving too slow.
Mom: I told him he should let me borrow his car for a while.
Me: Yeah, that would probably do the trick.
Mom:
Me:
Mom:
Me: . . . so, do you and Dad usually drink the Tanqueray 10 or the regular Tanqueray?
Mom: Mostly the 10. Why?
Me: Yeah, Adam and I like the 10, too.
Mom: We first got hooked on the 10 because your father liked how the bottle looked. But I really do like the taste of it. I think it’s mellower than the regular Tanqueray.
Me: Yeah, the 10’s good. I love gin. Do you love gin? Yummy . . . gin. I think gin and tonic is the perfect drink.
Mom: Your father and I can’t live without it.
Me: . . . yeah. Tanqueray good. Me Tarzan. You Jane.
Mom: So, where should we eat lunch? I bet your father’s starving. He didn’t have any breakfast this morning.
Me: I bought that granola he likes. The one with, like, a million grams of fat.
Mom: I showed him where it was. He said he wasn’t hungry. He just had coffee. He must be absolutely famished by now.
Me: Didn’t they tell him to stay away from coffee before his appointment?
Mom: I don’t think so.
Me: A lot of caffeine can make your veins collapse.
Mom: Is there an In-N-Out Burger around here?
Me: You’ve got to be kidding.
Mom: And you don’t have Wendy’s out here, do you?
Me: Not close by, no. Let’s just wait and ask Dad what he wants. I’m open. I don’t really care where we eat.
Mom:
Me:
Mom: I don’t know how you stand this traffic . . .
Me: Do you ever feel like you drink too much?
Mom: What?
Me: Lately . . . lately, I’ve been feeling like maybe I drink too much, and I was just wondering—
Mom: What? Why? How much do you drink?
Me: I usually have a couple drinks a night.
Mom: Not every night.
Me: Not every night, but almost. You and Dad drink every night.
Mom: Not every single night—no, we certainly do not.
Me: When you’re here you drink every night.
Mom: Oh, well, that’s different. We’re on vacation. We don’t drink every night when we’re at home.
Me: When I come to visit you drink every night.
Mom: Well, you’re talking about Christmas or Thanksgiving . . .
Me: Okay, whatever . . . my point is, I was just wondering how one knows one is an alcoholic.
Mom: Why? Do you think you’re an alcoholic? How long have you felt this way? I didn’t know you’ve been feeling like this.
Me: No, I don’t know, I just—
Mom: Do you think you need to talk to someone? Maybe you should talk to someone about this. I don’t think you drink too much, but you would know. I bet there are a lot of doctors you could talk to about this. What about your therapist? You’re still seeing him. If he can’t help you, I bet he can recommend someone—
Me: No, Mom. I was just . . . I was just wondering how one would know, because usually alcoholics don’t ever think they have a problem . . . have you ever thought you were?
Mom: What?
Me: You know . . . that maybe . . . you might have a drinking problem?
Mom: Well, there have been times when I thought I needed to cut back, but—
Me: How do you know you’re not an alcoholic? How does one know?
Mom: I don’t need it.
Me: But how do you know you don’t need it if you drink every night?
Mom: Do you think you’re an alcoholic?
Me: No . . . I don’t know. That’s my point. How does one know? I decided to quit drinking for a week—
Mom: That’s why you didn’t have any last night.
Me: I decided to quit and see how I feel. I’m on day four.
Mom: How do you feel?
Me: Okay. The first few days I felt like total shit. I was nauseous and shaky. I felt like crap.
Mom: Shaky?
Me: Yeah, you know, my hands and stuff.
Mom: I don’t think that’s a good sign.
Me: Yeah, well . . .
Mom: And what about now?
Me: I feel better . . . I’d like a drink, but I feel better.
Mom: It sounds like a good thing you stopped.
Me: I haven’t stopped. I’m not, like, stopping drinking forever or anything. I just wanted to prove to myself that I could stop for a week . . . you think you could stop for a week?
Mom: If I wanted to. I’m very careful about how much I drink. Trust me. There have been times in my life when I’ve thought maybe I was drinking a little too much, and I . . . if I start to feel that way again, I promise I’ll cut back.
Me:
Mom: You think you should join AA?
Me: No. Jesus. No, I’m fine. I was just, you know . . . I don’t know . . . talking out my ass. I’m fine. I’ve been able to not drink for four days, so . . . so . . . so that proves something. I’m fine. Last thing you need is something else to worry about . . . if anyone should be cutting back, it’s Dad. Alcohol is really hard on the immune system. It’s an immune suppressant. Dad should, at the very least, watch the hard liquor and drink more red wine.
Mom: I think your father’s doing just fine. He really doesn’t drink that much, and you can’t expect him to give up all his vices.
Me: He smokes cigars.
Mom: Once a month.
Me: I know he smokes more than once a month.
Mom: The man has to have one guilty pleasure.
Me: He eats red meat, always has dessert, drinks alcohol, smokes cigars, and doesn’t exercise. I don’t think he’s exactly lacking vices.
Mom:
Me: I just want him to be healthy.
Mom: I know. You just have to understand that this is all very hard for your father.
Me: I understand, but if he wants to live a long life, he’s gonna have to change his lifestyle.
Mom: He’s doing the vaccine.
Me: Yes.
Mom: That’s a big step.
Me: I agree, but in my opinion he didn’t really have a choice.
Mom: Of course he did. He didn’t have to do it.
Me: I know. I know. But he would have been an idiot not to. I still can’t believe he’s doing it. Did he ever say anything to you about what Gregory said to him?
Mom: . . . no.
Me: You’re the worst liar. Your nostrils are flaring. What did Dad say? What did Gregory say to him?
Mom: He didn’t tell me anything Gregory said. All he said was, he did it for you.
Me: What do ya mean, he did it for me?
Mom: He did it so that maybe the vaccine would get approved earlier and you could get it.
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: I’m just telling you what he said.
Me:
Mom: Your father never would have done the vaccine if it wasn’t for you.
Me: What about all the stuff Gregory said to him? Gregory must have told him it was something he needed to do.
Mom: Your father decided he would do it for you. He thought if he could contribute—even in some small way—to the vaccine getting approved, well, then it would all be worth it.
Me: You’re telling me he did this trial, he signed on to do this whole thing—the traveling and all this shit—because of me.
Mom: That’s what he said.
Me: That’s bullshit. He did it for himself. He’s using me as the excuse.
Mom: Maybe.
Me:
Mom:
Me: Maybe he needs an excuse.
As my mom and I pull into the hospital motor court, I am reminded of rotisserie chicken and sticky fingers covered in mayo and ketchup . . . eating sandwiches. I remember we were all eating in silence, and I was looking at my dad, and he was looking at his sandwich, and my mother was looking for her napkin (which was tucked in her shirt collar), and I was curious as hell about what had inspired him to do the trial. I wanted to ask him a million questions. I wanted to know everything he was thinking about. I wanted to know what Gregory had said to him. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be on the inside. In “The Know.”
Turns out, I was “The Know.” I was on the inside. I was the answer to all million questions, the inspiration, and the explanation. It was all me. The excuse. The instigator.
Me: Hey, Tom. Is my dad still back with Dr. Gregory?
Tom: I think he’s in the lab. You, um, may want to go back there.
Me: Oh. Is he okay?
Mom: What happened?
Tom: He just started to get a little light-headed when they started the injections. I think the nurse is trying to get him to eat some crackers. He’s in the lab. You two can go on back.
Me: Hey, Dad. How’s it going in here?
Mom: Honey, you look so pale.
Howard: We’re doing okay. His veins aren’t cooperating this morning, and with all the poking around I had to do, he got a little light-headed.
Mom: What can I get you?
Dad: Nothing.
Me: Can I get you some more crackers or something?
Dad: No.
Nurse: I haven’t been able to get him to eat much. I get the feeling he didn’t have any breakfast this morning.
Mom: How ’bout I run over to Koo Koo Roo and pick you up a sandwich?
Dad: I’m not hungry.
Me: Dad, you’ve gotta eat something.
Howard: His veins collapsed. I told him he needs to stay away from caffeine before his appointments.
Me: I’ll run down to the café outside the front entrance and bring up some—
Dad: No. Jesuschrist! I told you. I don’t feel like eating anything!
Pale Girl Speaks Page 20
