by Nic Sheff
You know, that really is one of the oddest things about L.A. You go to twelve-step meetings and it’s like a who’s-who list of the Hollywood entertainment elite. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I do get sucked into that whole thing. I mean, it’s intriguing and I find myself becoming more and more wrapped up in the gossiping. Plus so many of the people I’ve started hanging out with are in the entertainment industry. Even Spencer is involved with that stuff, producing movies and all.
And then, of course, there’re my parents. As journalists, both my mom’s and dad’s lives have been consumed with celebrity. As much as we all want to play it off as being no big deal, at times we have all been very obsessed with fame.
Josh’s lived in L.A. his whole life. His parents live in West Hollywood. He went to the USC film school and just knows a ton about movies and stars and directors. Both he and my mom are having fun talking about all these different rumors and things. My mom asks if he would want to go out to lunch with her—maybe to Mr. Chow’s. He’s excited and I smile, proud of my mom—though feeling awkward and left out at the same time. I tune out their conversation and stare around the dining room. I think maybe Parker Posey is in one of the booths across from us. My mom doesn’t think it’s her, but Josh agrees with me that it is. We watch her eating a large salad. She has horn-rimmed glasses and her hair is pulled back.
After dinner I drop my mom off at her office and Josh goes back to his place on Fairfax. I thank my mom for the whole evening—buying us dinner and all. She gives me a big hug.
“I’m proud of you,” she tells me.
We hug each other again.
Back at my apartment, I can’t really sleep so I go online and look at some different websites and things that I like. There’s this one called Nerve.com—an online magazine where, about a year ago, they published a short story of mine. They have short movie reviews each week, and reading over them, I’m struck by how clever and creative they are.
Almodóvar’s movie was so inspiring to me, I decide to write my own review and I send it off to the editor. I’m not sure what I expect, but it is fun to write and I guess that’s the most important thing, right? Writing is compulsive for me. I have to write—no matter what it is. Even now, every day, I work on different short stories. I’ve still been trying to put together that children’s book and I’ve been trying to write about my whole experience with Zelda and what that meant to me. Josh and I have also been working on putting together a screenplay for our zombie rehab movie. Every free moment I have at the hair salon, I’m scribbling in a notebook. Even more than exercise, writing is my outlet. It helps keep me sane.
So I work late into the night, falling asleep only after I am so tired that I’m literally nodding out at the keyboard.
DAY 254
It’s too goddamn early and my stomach is all cramped up as I board the 747 for Honolulu. This trip was so sudden, but I feel grateful that my dad asked me to come along—though at the same time, I’m pretty nervous. I haven’t seen him or Karen or the kids since before my last relapse. Actually, I did see Karen once, but that was during the whole car chase thing.
Honestly, I don’t know why they decided to extend this invitation to me. I guess I’ve just been doing better and they’re willing to give me a chance again. My dad called me to see if I wanted to come with them to Molokai, the least developed of the Hawaiian Islands. He’s doing a story for the travel section of some magazine on this inexpensive beach camping resort that recently opened there. Michelle agreed to give me time off so I could visit with all of them.
Spencer was very supportive. He’s home from the hospital, although he can still barely get out of bed. They have him taking Vicodin, so he has Michelle dispensing the pills to him. That way, he says, he won’t be tempted to abuse them. I admire his commitment, though it’s kind of scary that after fifteen years sober, Spencer still has to be so cautious. They tell you in the twelve-step program that once you are an addict, you will remain one the rest of your life. I guess there’s still a part of me that wishes that wasn’t true. But I look to Spencer as an example of the kind of man I want to be. As far as I can see, he is right now demonstrating his commitment and showing me what it will take for me to remain clean. It is a daunting task, but I suppose that’s one of the reasons for the whole “one day at a time” philosophy.
Anyway, when I told Spencer that my dad had invited me to Hawaii, he seemed really excited for me. Of course, he cautioned me against having unrealistic expectations for what this trip might bring.
“As long as you look for someone else to validate who you are by seeking their approval, you are setting yourself up for disaster. You have to be whole and complete in yourself. No one can give you that. You have to know who you are—what others say is irrelevant.”
I know he’s right, but all that is easier said than done. I respect my father and Karen. I respect Jasper and Daisy. I want them to respect me. I don’t think that has ever gone away. Sure, when I’m loaded I’m able to disconnect from caring about them all, but sober, well, I want so badly to be accepted by them. I guess things might be easier if I really didn’t give a fuck, but that’s not the way it is.
So I walk down the dim, carpeted corridor connecting the plane to the terminal. I go past the two smiling flight attendants and walk back toward my seat, trying not to bash anyone in the head with my bags. Seems like half the goddamn plane is wearing Hawaiian shirts. They’re like Mickey Mouse ear hats at Disneyland. I don’t really understand why people wanna dress up like that. Somehow it must make the whole experience more satisfying, but I just don’t get it.
My seat is toward the back of the plane against the window. There’s no one next to me yet, so I spread out some. Sitting back, I realize just how scared I am. Mostly it’s thinking about seeing Karen that freaks me out. My dad is my dad. Jasper and Daisy are my brother and sister. But Karen doesn’t owe me anything, you know? I mean, she doesn’t have the same connection to me that the rest of them do, and I feel like she’s much less forgiving. And, honestly, I’ve always been sort of terrified by my stepmom. I still haven’t spoken with her since before the car chase. Not that it’s her fault—not at all. When she met me she’d never been around kids ever in her life and I’d never been around a stepmom. Neither of us knew what to do. I was seven and it was always me and my dad—hanging out in the city, going out to dinner or to the movies. Karen changed all that. I mean, my dad changed around her. He began pulling away from the life he’d had with me. We no longer went to all these parties. He disconnected from a lot of his old friends, so I stopped seeing them too. Suddenly we were all sitting down for dinner together and Karen was reminding me to chew with my mouth shut, or keep my elbows off the table. I guess I resented her for how she changed things. My dad was trying so hard to leave his old life behind, and I can see now that I felt like it was a rejection of me. I felt like I was a mistake and that my dad wanted to correct me along with everything else.
But I also really loved Karen. I mean that profoundly. In many ways I idolized her. She used to take me to art galleries, to museums—quiz me on the different artists. We went to movies together. She studied French with me for hours. So much of what I learned about in terms of art and film and literature was directly given to me by Karen. I loved the way she dressed. I loved listening to her stories about being young in New York, or living in San Francisco and going to the Art Institute. I also wanted so badly to be loved by her.
But she has become very concerned about protecting her children from me now. Sometimes I think she would just prefer it if I was gone completely, so she wouldn’t have to deal with me and so her children would be safe. It hurts my feelings, but I don’t blame her. I know what I’ve done.
The plane ride takes about six hours to Oahu, then another forty-five minutes to Molokai. The landscape is thick and green along the coast of the small island—whereas inland it is all red dirt, almost desert. I read almost all of Donald Goines’s Whoreson on the way over. His
story of a ghetto pimp keeps me from thinking about anything else. My legs are cramped and I squint against the sun as I step out onto the stairway leading down from the plane. I see my dad and Karen and the kids right away. They all look so dark—tanned from a summer spent going to the beach and doing swim team and whatever.
When I go up to Karen, I can’t even meet her eyes. I just hug her and I have tears coming down now and she does too.
Jasper and Daisy are all over me a moment later.
“Nicky, Nicky, Nicky.”
They repeat my name and hug me and we all say how much we missed one another. My dad stands at the back of the waiting area. He looks the same, with maybe a little more gray in his hair. He’s wearing shorts and a ripped, dirty T-shirt. He wraps me up in a big hug and I feel like crying again.
After we get my bags we walk out to their rental car. We talk about my flight and all sorts of trivial whatevers. It’s hot and the air is dense with humidity. There are scraggly trees with vines hanging down rising from the rich red soil. I get in the back between Jasper and Daisy. They are arguing and talking all at once.
“Nic,” says Jasper in his high, chirpy voice. “You wanna go surfing?”
“We rented bikes,” says Daisy.
“We wanna go fishing,” says Jasper.
I look out on the dusty two blocks of town they have on Molokai. My dad points out a fruit stand with a bucket set up to collect the money for the otherwise unattended fruit. Jasper runs out to buy two papayas, dropping the money into the tin container. I’m playing with the kids and making jokes. It feels just like everything is back to normal. It’s like we’re a family again. Though, of course, things have changed. I notice myself trying harder than ever to make sure everyone knows I’m doing all right. I’m aware of a certain amount of scrutiny from everyone that I never felt before all this happened. They seem cautious—feeling me out. And then behind everything is my knowledge of the truth: I can’t have their lives. I have to build my own—something I have no idea how to do.
The cabins we’re staying in are right off this private beach that’s down about three miles of rocky dirt road. They have outdoor showers and electricity which all run on solar power. There’s an outhouse toilet and mosquito netting over each bunk. Jasper is superexcited about going surfing with me, so we drive to this nearby beach where there are supposed to be good waves. Jasper has gotten a ton bigger. So has Daisy. They look like little teenagers now—though they still maintain a child’s roundness. Plus, you know, the way they act makes them seem much younger. Jasper is ten. When I was twelve I had my first sexual relationship. Jasper seems so far away from any of that. I’m not sure how much of it has to do with me, but my dad and Karen have done everything they can to keep their children protected from all the sexuality and drugs I was exposed to. Jasper and Daisy have grown up in this little sanctuary. They’re both still playing with trolls and action figures. They are really their age. I was never my age. I always wanted to be older. I felt so inadequate being trapped in my small, prepubescent body. Jasper and Daisy seem very naive, but also comfortable with themselves. I’m still not comfortable with my goddamn self. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.
Anyway, we pull up to the beach—jagged coral rising high out of the water in places. The waves are big, crashing in hard against the reef. The shape of them is just beautiful as they break slowly down the line. It’s exciting to look out there. The beach is empty, just a few locals out bobbing in the surf on their boards. There’s one guy, a large Polynesian, who seems to be getting all the waves. He’s on a nine-or ten-foot longboard. Everyone else is trying to get out of his way.
Me, I haven’t surfed in maybe six or seven years. It used to be my obsession, but drugs took me away from it. I wonder to myself whether I even remember how to stand up.
Right away Karen and Jasper are fighting about whether he can go out or not.
“Come on, Mom, please,” he begs.
“Jasper, you’re not going out there and that’s final. Nic can go if he wants, but we’re gonna wait here on the beach. It’s too big. It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s all right,” I say. “We can go back to the cabins. I’m not gonna make you all sit on the beach.”
“No, Nic,” says Karen. “You should try it out. I mean, if you want to.”
“Yeah,” says my dad. “We rented these boards, you might as well use ’em. Just go out for a minute. We’d love to watch.”
“Are you all sure?”
“Yeah,” they all say at once.
I put on a pair of board shorts. They’re much more comfortable than the wet suit I always had to wear in California. I grab the shorter of the two longboards, rub some wax on it, then walk cautiously out into the shore break. I get hit a couple times as I’m trying to get out and I cut my foot on a piece of coral. My heart is pounding hard as I struggle against the walls of churning white water I have to dive under. The ocean is cool, but not cold even though it’s the middle of November. It’s so clear you can see the patterned bottom, some ten or twenty feet below. I paddle hard, looking back to see them all playing and watching. I’m scared.
The first set that comes seems so much bigger than it looked from the beach. I watch the wave crest and set up a tube as it smashes down. All the other surfers out with me pull back, intimidated by the wall of water coming toward us. The sky is full of thick, billowy clouds that are being carried fast by the offshore wind. The next swell comes and I start paddling along with it. I feel the momentum of the wave carrying me, and before I can think, I’m on my feet. The sound of the wave breaking is deafening and I fall down, down, down the steep mountain of water. At the bottom, the edge of my board catches and I’m sent upward, carving into the face of the wave. All my movements are so automatic. I crouch down, letting my body get covered by the frothing curl. Then I emerge from the tube, breathing hard. I’m in the hot, tropical air once more. The wave is dying and I’m so close to the black rock formations on the shore. I hit the top lip and dive off into the thick salt and clear blue water. As I raise my head, my first thought is to look toward the shore. My family’s all on their feet, cheering.
I wave.
I feel the adrenaline rushing in my bloodstream. My veins pulse with it. But at the same time, there is a feeling of sadness in my stomach. I paddle out, my arms strong and my lungs powerful. I duck-dive under another breaking wave. My mind is going nonstop. Why did I look at them? Why was my first response to seek their approval?
I paddle over the top of a swell and crash down on the other side, getting knocked off my board a little. Scrambling back on, I wonder to myself, what has changed? I’ve worked so hard on this twelve-step thing I’m in, but still, I am the same. I am still just trying to fit in. I feel like a visitor—a guest. It hurts me. I want to be a part of their lives. I want to be accepted as one of them.
Karen and my dad are almost always absorbed with the kids’ needs—with their protection and care, but also with opportunities for learning and knowledge. They are both constantly teaching the kids things connected with whatever it is we’re doing, whether it is educating them about sea turtles, or the leper colony on the far side of the island.
Plus, both Karen and my dad are so consistent with them. Sure they argue—all of them—but the life they’ve provided the kids has always been so stable. Jasper and Daisy have lived in the same house their whole lives. I envy them. I mean, of course I do. I never want to have to return to my own life, which will always be separate from theirs. I never want to go back to living by myself, struggling to make a living and forever fighting the endless brigades of depression and melancholy that attack me from my own insides. I don’t want to have to face reality. I don’t want to have to be a grown-up.
I take a few more waves, then paddle in—worried that they might be bored and impatient waiting for me on the beach.
We drive back to the cabins and have dinner on the sand, eating food from the resort’s nightly buffet.
B
efore we go to sleep, I read to Jasper and Daisy from Treasure Island. I do all the voices of the pirates and everything. Daisy falls asleep before I finish. I stay up talking with Jasper.
“Is it weird to see me after such a long time?” I ask.
He looks down at me from his bunk. “I guess it was at first,” he says. “I thought maybe, you know, you might be different or something. But you’re the same old Nic.”
I let that sink in.
Maybe, I think to myself, underneath it all, I am not this awful person, but a caring, loving little boy. Maybe that has never left me, even after everything. So why do I want to blot that out? Why do I want to kill off the person that I am? Why do I always want to become this unfeeling monster, fueled by whatever chemicals I can find to put in my body?
I guess I’m just selfish. My needs always come first—that need I have to escape or something.
But lying here with Jasper, all I feel is regret for having taken myself away from these people who love me. Because I do care. I do love them.
“I love you, Jasper,” I say.
“I love you, too, Nicky.”
I turn over on my cot and pull the covers up. I close my eyes. I go to sleep.
DAY 257
Tomorrow I have to leave to go back to L.A. I can already feel the reality of my departure setting in. There’s an overwhelming sense of sadness and depression taking hold of me. I guess mostly it has to do with that same old desire I have to be a part of this wonderful family my dad has created with Karen.
Since being here we’ve explored the whole island, going on walks through the jungle, swimming off different isolated beaches. We’ve ridden bikes on backcountry trails. We’ve played soccer and hide-and-seek. Daisy has taken me on tours of the little forts she’s made for her trolls. She is always gathering shells and pieces of wood, creating these elaborate fantasy worlds. Jasper is all about games. He’s content as long as we’re constantly playing something. Jasper and Daisy have such a loving relationship together. It’s like they’re always looking out for each other. If we’re reading something and Jasper can sense that it might be making Daisy scared, he’ll tell her to cover her ears. If Jasper gets hurt, Daisy is the first to run up and make sure he’s all right.
