Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Monty took her hand and gently squeezed it. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his eyes turning away. That was a lie. It wasn’t nice to meet her. Everything about this woman was infuriating—her perfume, her clothes, that phony fucking smile. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew where this was going. He’d been through this exercise at least once before. The woman was an interventionist, a so-called facilitator, a bearer of false hope and counterfeit hugs. Her job was to get Monty out of the room and into rehab, and if successful, she’d take home for herself a nice little fare; something on the order of five thousand dollars, which, including the first class flight and free hotel room, made this a nice little trip. The only problem was, she didn’t know Monty. She didn’t know he’d already made up his mind. The only way he was going back was if he was in a straight jacket. There was no chance in hell he’d go back on his own accord.

  Deborah put her hand on Monty’s shoulder and slowly guided him to the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll go ahead and get started?”

  Monty conceded and walked towards the sofa then sat down on the cushion between his dad and his mom. At this point, he figured it was better to cooperate than to try to put up a fight. In less than an hour, this charade would be over and he could get back to his apartment and back to his scotch.

  “You going to be alright?” Deborah said, still smiling, positioning an armchair right in front of the couch.

  Monty nodded and bent forward at the torso, cradling his head with both hands. He couldn’t understand why his parents were doing this. Didn’t they know any better by now? Did they really think he was going back to rehab after everything that’s happened? They were smarter than that, weren’t they? Why would they go through all this trouble just so he could turn them down?

  He looked across the room and saw Robby staring at him, a wad of dip tucked under his lower lip. It had to be him. It had to be Robby. He must’ve put them up to this ridiculous charade. He probably gave his parents some line from the Big Book, some stupid cliché about hope and faith. Bastard. Who did he think he was, some kind of martyr? Why’d he always have to get in the fucking way?

  As Deborah eased her fat ass into the armchair, it made an obnoxious stretching sound against the leather. “I suppose you know why we’re all here today, Monty. I’m what you’d call a professional interventionist. My job is to help people in situations such as yourself find and accept the treatment that they so desperately deserve. Your family is very concerned about your well being and they want to do everything in their power to get you feeling healthy again.” She paused and folded her hands neatly in front of her, making a disgusting gurgling sound with her throat. “You are a very, very sick young man, Monty. Do you realize that? Do you realize how close you are to dying?”

  “Well, that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?” Monty said flatly.

  “What? What’s the point?”

  “Dying—that’s the whole point. What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

  The tension in the room immediately tightened. Monty could feel the glare of his dad’s eyes. “Don’t say that,” his dad said, stiffening his posture. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Of course I mean it.”

  Deborah crossed her legs at the ankles and leaned forward in her chair. “Monty, drinking yourself to death is no way to die. It is a slow and painful death, and could take years, even decades to do.”

  “I disagree,” Monty said academically, like a professor lecturing on alcoholic affairs. “I think all I need is another month or two.”

  Monty could feel his mom’s body trembling next to him, her faint sobbing escalating into a shrill, heart-twisting cry. “Why are you saying this?” she said, looking up at him, dabbing the tissue underneath her eyes. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why, Monty? Why?”

  “Because I have to, mom. I just have to.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I deserve it! Can’t you understand that? I deserve to die!”

  The room grew still and uncomfortably quiet. The glare of ten, angry eyes were upon him now.

  “You know, Monty,” Deborah said, leaning forward, folding her hands just beneath her chin, “by killing yourself, you’re not just ending your own life, but you’re ending the lives of everyone around you. Everyone who loves you, who cares for you, who wants nothing but to see you get better, will be devastated, just devastated by your selfish actions. Do you understand that? Do you realize what you are putting your parents through?”

  Monty said nothing. He just focused on a horseshoe coffee stain on the table in front of him.

  “Monty, look at me,” Deborah said. “Please look at me.”

  Monty lifted his head to meet his inquisitor’s eyes. “What?”

  “You don’t have to live like this. You don’t have to do this anymore. You still have a chance—a way out from under the maliciousness of this disease. There are people out there who can teach you. They can show you the steps to heal your mind, body, and soul. They can show you how to abandon your fears and insecurities and turn your will and life over to the care of God.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. Not this higher power crap again. Didn’t she realize this wasn’t his first time at the rodeo? Didn’t she realize how long he’d been in the program? He probably knew more about this bullshit than she did.

  “Now, I want you to trust me, Monty. Can you do that for me? Please open your heart, your mind, and your spirit and listen carefully to what I have to say. There is a place high in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a place for people caught in the vicious spiral of addiction and despair. And at this place, people such as yourself, who have lost their way and are drowning in the insidiousness of their own addictions, are able to restore their lives and bring back some semblance of sanity. It is a place of hope and redemption, a safe haven for those tormented by the brutality of their afflictions. It is a place called Sanctuary.”

  “You mean rehab?” Monty said, unimpressed.

  “Yes, but it is not just any rehab. It is what we in the mental health care business call a dual diagnosis facility—a place that treats not only the addiction, but the source of the addiction. They can help you, Monty. They can help you find peace and understanding. They can help you regain your life again. Hundreds and hundreds of people have gone through the doors of Sanctuary and come out on the other end revitalized, renewed, rejuvenated. You can be one of those people, Monty. I just know you can.”

  Monty snickered at the notion. A dual diagnosis facility? Was that her offer? She was going to have to do a lot better than that.

  “Now before you say anything, Monty, I want you to hear from your mother and father. And I want you to listen very carefully to the message they are trying to convey. Once they are finished, I want you to think long and hard about the choices you are making and the impact they have on the people in your life.”

  Deborah’s eyes disengaged from Monty’s. She sat back in her chair and looked around the room. “Okay, so who wants to go first? Mr. Miller, are you ready to go?”

  His dad looked up from the paper he was holding. He took his glasses out from his front shirt pocket then pushed them up to the bridge of his nose.

  “Alright Mr. Miller,” Deborah said. “Just take your time and whenever you’re ready, you can begin.”

  His dad cleared his throat and wiped his forehead, peering down at the paper trembling in his hand. “Monty,” he began somewhat flatly, like a politician reading from a script. “It has been nearly four years since the first time you called in the middle of the night threatening suicide. Since then, I have been through the deepest, darkest corners of hell with you and this disease. Every night your mother and I wait for the call from the coroner’s office to tell us that our son’s body was found dead on the side of the road. Do you know what that is like? To get up every day wondering if today is the day that your child is going to die? You have to know what th
at does to us. You are killing us, Monty—both your mother and I. We just can’t take it anymore. Our bodies can no longer handle the stress. We’re too old and too damn tired and this is the last time we’re going to offer you any help. After this, there will be no more second chances. If you do not take this offer we are giving you today, you will be cut off completely from the family and you will no longer be welcome in my home. That means no more Christmas vacations, Thanksgiving dinners, credit card payments, or student loans. No more money period. It will all disappear. There will be nothing left but you and your liquor. You will become nothing more than a bum on the street.”

  His dad looked up from his paper, and for the first time in the entire monologue, it actually sounded like he was talking to him. “Is that what you want, Monty? To become one of those people living in the underpass, scrounging for food, begging for change? Because that’s where you’re headed if you keep going like this. That’s where you’ll end up if you don’t stop now.”

  He relaxed his face and sank back against the cushions, his eyes returning to the script in his lap. “I’m sorry to be doing this, but you’ve forced me into it. I can’t allow you to pull this family down. If we continue to let you and this disease ruin our lives, we will have no chance of survival. Please take this offer, Monty. Go to rehab. Go to Sanctuary. Find the reason behind your addiction. Find out the reason why you can’t quit.”

  “You know the reason. Don’t try and pretend like you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t, Monty. Please, tell me. I want to understand.”

  “You, of all people, should know better. You should know how impossible it is to quit. Like father like son, right?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “How many drinks did you have before you came here? How many cocktails did you have on the plane?”

  His dad scoffed. “Oh please Monty, don’t try and change this thing around. You’re the one who needs help, not me.”

  “Oh really? What about that time you got pulled over, had to spend the night in the drunk tank?” His dad’s posture immediately stiffened and his face flushed as red as a garden beet. “Yeah, I bet you thought I didn’t know about that. I bet you thought that was just between you and mom. What do you guys think, I’m stupid or something?”

  “You’re right, Monty. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have been out driving around. But that was ten years ago. I learned my lesson and I haven’t since drank and gotten behind the wheel of a car.”

  “Yeah right. You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t drive around the block a few times after work sucking down one of those two liter bottles of wine?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Hey!” His dad shot up from the sofa, jamming an accusatory finger in Monty’s face. “I’m not the one who just got out of the hospital. I’m not the one trying to kill myself. Look at you. Look at what you’re wearing. You’re in a god damn hospital gown.”

  “Alright,” Deborah said, standing up from the armchair and waving her hand in a calming motion. “I need everyone to take a few deep breaths and just try and calm down.” She walked over to where his dad was standing and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Dad, that means you too. Can you sit down for me?”

  His dad shot her a look of exasperation that seemed to say, why are you telling me to calm down?

  “It’s okay,” she said reassuringly, as if she could read his mind. “Everything’s going to be okay. Just have a seat.”

  His dad threw his hands up in frustration then returned to his seat on the couch. Monty scooted as far as he could away from him. He could feel his anger permeating the room.

  “That’s right,” Deborah said, returning to her armchair, breathing deeply in and out through her nose. “Everyone just relax. Breathe in and out, in and out. There. Does everyone feel better? Are we all ready to continue?”

  “Are we done yet?” Monty blurted.

  “No, Monty, we are not done. I still need you to hear from your mother. Can you do that for me? Can you listen to what your mother has to say?”

  Monty let out a groan of irritation. How much more of this shit did he have to take?

  “Alright, Cindy,” Deborah said. “Are you ready?”

  “I don’t think I can,” his mom said quivering, her frail, veiny hands trembling in her lap.

  “Just take your time, Cindy. Focus on the words in front of you.”

  “I can’t, I just can’t.”

  Monty’s dad leaned forward, reached across the couch, and grabbed her hand. “Come on honey,” he said, “you can do it. Just read the words, please.”

  Monty could feel his mother’s entire body trembling. Her sobbing was so unbearable it made him want to open the window and jump.

  “Monty,” she began, her voice shaky, barely audible. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me and your father. Your actions the past five years have been incomprehensible. The horrible things you’ve said to me on the phone are unforgivable. You have completely torn this family apart. If you do not accept this wonderful offer we are giving you, I will have no other choice but to turn my back on you. I will no longer accept you as my son. I know deep down inside your corroded soul, there is still a little piece of that sweet boy that I nurtured and cared for as a child. I know a little part of him is still in there just screaming to get out. Please for the sake of your soul and for the sake of our sanity, go to this facility in the mountains. Get better. Get help. Please.” Her soft sobbing turned into a shrill weeping and she dropped her paper into her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, dabbing the tears away with her crumpled up tissue, “I can’t read anymore. I just can’t.”

  “Are you sure, Cindy?” Deborah said.

  “Yes. I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “Okay, thank you, Cindy. I know how difficult that was. Monty? Did you hear what your mother just said?”

  Monty nodded without looking up from his spot on the floor.

  “So you know what’s at stake here if you don’t accept treatment?”

  “Yeah, I get it. I’ll be cut off. Fine. Now, are we done?”

  “No, we are not done.” Deborah glared at him for a few moments, clenching her jaw, and clasping her fists. Monty could tell he was starting to get to her. That phony smile had completely evaporated from her face. She took a deep breath then turned towards Robby and Susan sitting together on the edge of the bed. “Robby, Susan, would either of you like to say a few words?”

  Robby popped up from the mattress, a Styrofoam spit cup in his left hand. “Yeah, I’d like to say a few words if you don’t mind.”

  Oh great, thought Monty. Here we go again.

  “Hey Monty. Hey.” Robby started snapping his fingers. “Look at me man. Look at me god damnit.”

  “What?”

  “You listen to me. You got one chance at this man. If you fuck this up, I ain’t gonna be around to pick your ass up off the ground. You got me? I can’t take this shit no more. It’s too much and I just can’t do it. I gotta worry about my recovery too, and I will be damned if I’m gonna let anything get in the way of that.”

  “That’s right,” Monty said. “It’s all about you, isn’t it Robby?”

  “You’re god damn right it is. I can’t let nothing get in the way of my recovery, and right now, you’re about as close to fucking that up as I’ve ever let anybody get in my entire life, and I just can’t let that happen, not now, not after all I’ve been through with this shit. You’re my best friend and I love you, but if you don’t go to this place and get some treatment, you’re on your own. And let me tell you, that’s a scary fucking place to be; all alone with no one to turn to, nothing but that shame and guilt bouncing around in your head. Believe me man, I know. The time I was most scared in my life—it wasn’t prison, fuck prison. Hell, prison saved my ass. You know when it was? It was when I was all alone with that fucking needle
in my arm and that cold, steel barrel lodged down my throat.”

  “Yeah I know, Robby. I’ve heard your story before. Why don’t you save it for someone who gives a shit? Save it for your fucking home group.”

  Robby threw down his spit cup and ripped across the carpet, getting right up in Monty’s face. “You’re my fucking home group! You are! This ain’t a game, Monty. This is life and death. Don’t you get that?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “So what? You just gonna kill yourself? Is that it?”

  “Hey, you’re finally catching on. Congratulations man. Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”

  “You think by killing yourself you’re gonna bring back Victoria? Is that what you think?”

  Monty’s posture stiffened. The sound of her name was like a needle scraping the inside of his ear canal. “Leave her out of this. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “That’s bullshit. She’s got everything to fucking do with this. What do you think she’d say about you trying to drink yourself to death? Huh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah you do. You know exactly what she’d say. She’d tell you to quit being such a fucking pussy and get off your ass and do something with your life. That’s what she’d fucking tell you, man.”

  “Fuck you, Robby.”

  “Fuck me? Fuck me? No. Fuck you. Fuck you Monty. You think she’d want you to just give up and throw your life away? Huh? And what about Tommy? You just gonna give up on him too?”

  “Shut up Robby, I’m warning you.”

  “That kid loves you, man. You’re the closest thing he’s ever had to a real fucking father. Have you ever stopped to think how this would make him feel? No, you didn’t think about that did you?” Robby paused then took a few steps backward and turned his attention towards the hotel door. “Well, why don’t we ask him? Why don’t we ask Tommy how it would make him feel?”