by John Brooks
“Mr. DiStefano said he’d give me a good recommendation.”
I smiled. “See? C’mon, honey, try not to worry. You’ve got plenty of time. You’re gonna be fine.” I hoped I sounded convincing. I dreaded the thought of a meltdown—or worse—if she didn’t get into one of her dream schools.
“Yeah, right.” She sighed and flipped another glossy page of the brochure.
Later that night, I was alone in the living room on the sofa watching 60 Minutes. One of Apple’s cool commercials came on for the iPhone that was due to come out in late June. Casey shuffled through the room on her way to the kitchen from her bedroom. She was wearing her black hoodie, skintight jeans, and fuzzy lamb’s wool slippers. Stopping at the TV, her head dropped, mouth wide open. She pointed at the screen and croaked. “I want one!” Unfortunately, her birthday had passed and she already had a cell phone.
“Everybody wants one,” I said.
“Ohhhh . . .” She looked at me with pleading eyes.
“Besides, you just got that Razr phone.”
She put on her best pouty five-year-old act. “I know-ow . . .”
“Maybe someone will be nice and get you one for Christmas.”
“Da-ad,” she whined. “That’s like six months away-ay.” She was playing with me again, and probably didn’t expect me to drop four hundred dollars on a new phone. We tried to teach her the virtue of delayed gratification, waiting for special occasions to dole out those kinds of gifts.
Feigning disappointment, she dragged herself to the kitchen, grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper from the fridge, and headed back to her room, glancing at me as she walked by, her lower lip stuck out in a pout. At seventeen, she still knew how to tug on my heart. I turned back to the TV. Mike Wallace was interviewing Jack Kevorkian—Dr. Death.
Minutes later, Erika walked in from the bedroom and planted herself between the TV and me, a grave look on her face. Had I done something wrong, like throwing out the newspaper or pouring out her cold coffee before she was done with it? I sat up. “What’s the matter?” The look on her face worried me.
“I want to show you something.” She stood rigid as if trying to contain an explosion. I followed her to our bedroom. She closed the door and pointed to my dresser. “Look at what I found in our daughter’s room.”
My dresser looked like the scene of a drug bust—a formidable collection of pharmaceuticals and paraphernalia that Erika had arranged in a neat display. In stark juxtaposition to this pharmacy sat two framed photographs—one of the three of us at Casey’s baptism in Simsbury and one of her smiling from her new bike when she was six.
I gazed at the evidence. There was a glass pipe that I picked up and sniffed—grass. A small, clear, self-sealing bag contained what appeared to be a few grams of pot. But what caught my eye were things I didn’t recognize. I picked up a gray plastic film container—the same kind I used as a teen to store my grass—popped the lid off, and poured the contents into my hand. It was something organic, brownish with no smell. Mushrooms? An orange plastic pill bottle that had once contained my Paxil prescription was now half full of round white pills with smiley faces printed on them. What the hell were they? Acid? Ecstasy? Another clear plastic bag contained yet more pills that had a strange organic look to them. Erika stood next to me, arms crossed, close to tears.
I was so stunned I couldn’t respond. I’d been duped by my teenage daughter and now felt like a world-class chump. Like a gullible idiot, I’d prayed this whole problem would blow over or fix itself. Maybe we did need to carry through on our threat to send her away.
Screw college.
“Goddamn her,” I muttered, disgusted with myself and my daughter.
Erika picked up the bottle with the white pills. “We’ve lost control over our daughter.” Looking at the pipe, pills, and weed on my dresser, it seemed as though there were more drugs than a single person would need for casual use.
Maybe she had a serious addiction, but how was that possible when we saw her every day? If she was doing drugs under our noses, she must have had a talent for never looking high. She always looked perfectly straight. Could she have been dealing? I wanted to put her in front of a firing squad. “Let me get her in here,” I grumbled.
Erika stayed in the bedroom while I went to Casey’s room. The door was open, so I walked in. She was in her usual place, hunched over her desk with her iPod plugged into her ears. She looked up at me innocently and pulled out an earbud.
“Casey, could you come with me, please?” She followed me to our bedroom, where Erika waited by my dresser. Casey looked at the arrangement of substances and paraphernalia as if they were totally alien to her. Erika stood silently while I asked, “What is this?”
Casey shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Erika couldn’t contain herself. “Casey, I found all this in your room!”
Casey’s face flashed red. “WHAT?! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEARCH MY ROOM! THAT’S A VIOLATION OF MY PRIVACY! HOW DARE YOU!”
She looked at both of us, indignant. She was angry at us? Man, this kid had chutzpah. I picked up the pill bottle and shook it in front of her face. “What the hell is this, Casey? Ecstasy? Acid? Where did you get this stuff?”
She shook her head at me, her eyes filling with fear. “This isn’t mine, Dad! Someone wanted me to hold it for them!”
Erika jumped in. “Oh, really? Who?” That was exactly what I wanted to know.
Casey’s fear turned to rage. “I would never rat out my friends to YOU!”
Erika fired back, “Casey, are you dealing this stuff?”
She shot Erika a piercing look. Pushing past me, she marched back to her room. I called after her, “Casey, get back here!” Her door slammed and she proceeded to pummel it, her screams echoing through the house.
Erika and I planted ourselves on either side of her door like two hostage negotiators. Trying in vain to control my temper, I told Erika under my breath, “I want to strangle this kid.”
“I HEARD THAT!” Casey screamed from the other side of the door as she gave it another hard kick.
I wanted to take a sledgehammer to that door.
“SOON I’M GOING TO BE EIGHTEEN AND I’M GOING TO GO AWAY!” she howled. “YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO BOSS ME AROUND. I’LL NEVER CALL YOU AND YOU’LL JUST GET OLD AND DIE!”
Now I hated my own daughter. Her behavior wasn’t normal—the vicious tirades, primal screaming, smashing her door. It was like a force had taken over that she couldn’t control.
I tried pushing on the door with my shoulder. Though virtually inoperative from our many attempts to pop it open, we had decided to take the lock off in a futile attempt to treat her privacy as a privilege, but Casey had a grip like a vice on the other side. Jesus Christ, she’s strong. Meanwhile, she wouldn’t stop screaming, crying, and kicking. Goddamn it, the neighbors will surely call Child Protective Services this time.
Erika and I took turns trying to twist the doorknob. We were scared to death of what might happen on the other side of that door. I was tempted to kick it in, what was left of it.
After a half hour of trying unsuccessfully to pry open the door and get her to calm down, I’d had enough. I talked to her through the door as if negotiating with a terrorist. “Casey, if you don’t stop, I’m calling the cops!”
Another kick. We left for the kitchen, where I dialed the Tiburon Police.
I walked back to Casey’s door. It was open, but now the bathroom door next to it was locked. We hadn’t noticed that she’d slipped out of her room and into the bathroom while we were in the kitchen.
Erika hurried to the bathroom door. “CASEY, WHAT’RE YOU DOING IN THERE? OPEN THIS DOOR!” She pounded on it, but there was no sound from the other side. She screamed, “CaSEY!”
An image flashed through my head of my worst nightmare—breaking down the door to find Casey on the floor inside, unconscious, covered in blood, a razor blade in her cold, limp hand. Even though we hadn’t seen any evidence of cutting in a long time, we stil
l tried to hide the blades in the house.
The doorbell rang. Erika joined me as I opened the door to a Tiburon police officer. His cruiser was parked on the street. He was young with a strong build, military-style haircut, and wraparound sunglasses. His name tag read GILBREATH. He could’ve been Casey’s older brother.
We explained the events of the past hour, leaving out the part about the drugs, though I was tempted to teach her a lesson by handing her and the drugs over to law enforcement. Officer Gilbreath was calm and professional as he listened to us.
He asked us to wait in the kitchen while he went to talk to Casey. There was a “click” from the bathroom and I caught a glimpse of a shadow dashing to Casey’s bedroom. Thank God she was alive.
After about ten minutes, Officer Gilbreath rejoined us in the kitchen. He didn’t say what they’d talked about, but assured us that Casey had calmed down and that she’d be okay.
I apologized profusely as I escorted him to the front door, but he laughed it off good-naturedly. This was probably not the first time he’d had to deal with domestic disturbances in tony Tiburon.
I watched as Officer Gilbreath pulled away from our house, checking up and down the street for nosy neighbors. Looking at my watch, it was 9:40; it felt like much later. We needed to cool down.
Erika and I left Casey alone that night on the condition that she wasn’t to leave the house. There was no sense in trying to tackle the drug issue that night. We were exhausted and would deal with it later.
SIXTEEN
The next morning, as I was getting ready for work, I decided to check in on Casey. Often, the morning after a major blowup, she’d appear refreshed and chipper, acting as if nothing had ever happened. On my way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, I glanced toward her room. The door was cracked open, so I ventured over and peeked in.
She was gone.
Her bed was made, the mountain of pillows was neatly arranged, and her room was spotless. In fact, it looked as though it had been decluttered down to the bare essentials.
On the hutch above her desk where she kept schoolbooks and tchotchkes she’d collected over the years there were personal things missing: the wax dragon statuette we got her one Christmas, the Buddha she bought in the Haight, the ceramic rhino she asked for on a visit to the San Diego Wild Animal Park, and a small framed photograph of Igor as a puppy.
Her bookcase had also been swept clean. Photo albums I’d made for her, soccer trophies, the Robin Hood American Girl doll, school yearbooks—were all gone. Initially, it didn’t strike me as a bad thing for her to organize her room, especially since it was usually a mess. We’d given up hassling her about it; let her live with it.
I turned to her closet, assuming she’d stowed everything away and out of sight. But when I peered in, it looked like it always did—a chaotic mishmash of clothes, some dangling off hangers, others fallen to the floor.
Where had she put all her stuff and, more important, where the hell was she? We had told her not to leave the house. I looked out her window and saw the Saab parked outside. She couldn’t have run away, but then, I was never sure what she was truly capable of.
I went to the kitchen and found the Chronicle folded on the counter as if it had been waiting for me. An empty coffee cup had been set on top of it. My heartbeat quickened and I thought about calling the police again, but a slip of paper with Casey’s handwriting under the coffee cup caught my eye.
Sorry. I went to Bell Market to get a bagel. Be right back.
I exhaled slowly. Thank God she was okay. But what was she doing up so early? It was summer vacation and there was no school. There was no time to investigate. The coffeemaker had been set the night before, so I poured myself a cup, taking a few sips, hoping to clear my head as I reached for the Chronicle. A sheet of typing paper lay underneath, folded in half. I opened it—a formal-looking typewritten letter from Casey. I was running late but took a minute to scan it.
Mom & Dad:
I knew this was the only non-confrontational way to get my point across because I doubt in any other situation I would be adequately heard. We would engage in some immature and unnecessary arguments, which would solve nothing.
That sounded mature and reasonable. At least we were having a conversation, albeit by letter; better than no conversation at all. Maybe that was how we should communicate—in writing.
I’m not saying that experimenting with drugs is part of growing up, but it can be a learning experience. I’m not saying it’s right. What I’m trying to say is that experimentation (not addiction) as a teenager can have a relatively positive outcome.
Great. Spoken like a true devotée of the sixties psychedelic icon, Dr. Timothy Leary, who told us to Turn on, tune in, and drop out.
I am not (this has to be clear) in any way a constant and recreational “drug user.” This letter is not a valiant attempt to have you agree to let me take drugs, but I do believe that a mutual agreement (or tolerance) should be obtained between child and parent.
Boy, this kid had balls. She was asking us to adopt a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. I would never have dreamed of writing anything like this to my parents. I imagined her as a future William Kunstler, the controversial civil rights lawyer who defended the Weathermen and then went on to defend clients such as terrorists, drug dealers, and arms merchants.
I know that you both are highly against any sort of drug use. But a one-time discovery of Ecstasy possession is not an indicator that the child (me) is “on the road to addiction.” I do not smoke cigarettes, and have smoked marijuana rarely. I am in no way a “druggie.” I’m sorry it had to happen this way.
I disagreed with the entire premise of her letter—that her drug use was negotiable—but was impressed by the way she built her case.
I left the letter on the counter for Erika to read, and went to knock out the coffee grounds in the trash under the sink. The trash was full, so I took it out the kitchen door to deposit in the garbage can outside. When I lifted the lid I was shocked at what I saw: the wax dragon, the Buddha, the ceramic rhino, the photo of Igor, the photo albums, trophies, American Girl dolls, school yearbooks, video games, jewelry Erika had made for her. It looked like Casey had taken her entire life and thrown it in the garbage.
I’d read stories on the Internet that people bent on killing themselves sometimes gave away their possessions. Was she trying to rattle us, or did she just not think this through? Sometimes, in a fit of rage, she could be destructively impulsive.
Once, after a fight, Casey got into Erika’s computer and deleted all of her e-mail addresses, just to spite her. Another time, she went to Erika’s closet and pulled all of her clothes down from their hangers, leaving them in a heap on the floor. We could never get her to explain her extreme behavior. For all of Casey’s bluster, I could never imagine her going to the extreme of taking her life. I could see her running away from home, even taking my car as the getaway vehicle. She was probably trying to piss off her parents, and she did.
Maybe Casey was right. We had no idea who she was.
That night, Erika and I sat locked in our bedroom; she sat on the bed while I perched across from her on a love seat.
We struggled to understand the room-purging incident. Erika’s eyes were moist from anger. She told me that she’d spent the morning picking through the trash can to recover Casey’s possessions, careful to clean off the coffee grounds, banana peels, and chicken bones. She was almost tempted to leave everything where it was and let Casey suffer the consequences of her impulsiveness. But she couldn’t let go of keepsakes that meant a lot to her, even if they meant nothing to Casey.
“Did she explain why she threw her stuff out?” I asked.
Erika dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex and shook her head. “She refused to talk to me. She’s just been holed up in her room.”
I chewed on my lip in frustration as she continued. “She really worries me, John. The tantrums, the resistance to therapy or discipline, the erratic grades, th
e drinking and drugs, that call to the police, and now this. I don’t know whether she’s self-destructive, suicidal, or crazy.”
I avoided Erika’s gaze, staring at the floor, struggling to respond, but my mind was a blank.
“You know what we should do?”
I looked up.
“We should send her away to one of the schools for kids with behavioral problems.”
I grimaced. “Do you have any idea how much those places cost?” She never thought about money.
“Is that all you think about? Money? Why don’t you think about your daughter?”
I resented the accusation. Someone had to be responsible for our finances. “If we send her away—if we can get her to go—then there goes her college fund.”
Erika jabbed at me with her finger. “If we can get her to go? We can’t let her push us around like this! You’re always giving into her and undermining me, so now she doesn’t respect me! Meanwhile, she has you wrapped around her little finger. When are you going to act like a father and be tough with her?”
I knotted my fingers as I looked down at the floor.
How many years had we spent trying to “control” Casey’s behavior? Why couldn’t Erika see that just “being tougher” never worked? Casey was impervious to discipline. I was afraid that outsourcing our parenting to a reform school would further push her away and poison an already toxic environment at home. There seemed to be no alternative that didn’t smack of a cop-out, such as grounding. It rarely worked, and besides, she couldn’t spend her whole teenage life grounded, could she?
The room-cleansing incident remained a mystery. Despite the harshness of Casey’s actions, I thought that Erika still read too much into it. Casey was just being her usual impulsive self. Act first, think later. We hadn’t even dealt with the issue of the discovery of the drug cache and the call to the police the night before. That was a whole other issue that had become overshadowed by this most recent crisis. Was she a drug dealer on top of everything else?
