The Gilded Razor

by Sam Lansky

  “It’s the low-budget Betty Ford of Appalachia,” she said enthusiastically. I looked at pictures online: the bridge, it seemed, wasn’t just a metaphor but also an actual bridge that was visible in their promotional photos, wooden slats leading over a creek that cut through the campus.

  “It looks nice,” I said flatly.

  “They specialize in treating cross-addiction,” my mother said. “Sort of a holistic approach.” She looked at me. Her voice carried the measured clinical detachment that she had spent years practicing, but her eyes looked so helpless. “That’s what you need, right? Something that treats not only the chemical dependency issues but also the sexual dysfunction, PTSD, inappropriate attachments . . .” She trailed off.

  “I don’t think I have any chance of staying sober unless I deal with the root issues,” I said. This was true.

  “They can take you on Thursday,” she said, clicking open the calendar on her computer. “If you’ll go.”

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  The program was outside of Chattanooga, on several acres of sprawling grassland, rolling hills, and forested land that didn’t look unlike Oregon. After two months in the wilderness, even the thin institutional sheets on my twin bed felt luxurious, and I was just happy to be eating the morning’s rations of biscuits and gravy with a side of cheese grits with a utensil that wasn’t a stick.

  We held morning meetings in a lodge built out of thick wooden logs. The clinical director of the program was a self-help guru named Debbie Dixon; she had a cartoonishly sculpted bouffant and the steely but kind bearing of someone who had spent her entire career talking crazy people off a ledge. She’d written a book called Pain No More about how the roots of addiction were in codependence, its title scrawled in cursive on the sickly pea-green cover. We each received a copy, as reliable as a Gideon Bible. I unpacked my clothes in a shabby white dresser in the bedroom, but everything I owned felt baggy on my frame, which had grown lean and muscular in Utah, those months I’d spent hiking all day.

  Too bad, I thought, that there was no one in Tennessee to appreciate it.

  My roommate was a career alcoholic from Knoxville named Frank Bacardi who had careened into a family of four on the freeway, driving drunk. He’d been spared jail time if he agreed to inpatient rehab. From a distance he was an Adonis, but at night, after he had stripped away the foundation he wore, I saw that his handsome face was mottled with acne scars. He was effeminate in a way I found threatening, and though he treated me with a cool dispassion, I could sense his curiosity about me.

  Our days were spent in sessions that felt more like a corporate seminar than actual group therapy, slideshows and lectures that included liberal excerpts from Pain No More.

  “Any substance or process which distracts you from your highest self,” Debbie explained, presiding over the assembled group with a sage, grandmotherly authority, “—that’s alcohol, drugs, spending, sex, compulsive overeating, obsessing over romantic relations—is unsober.”

  I resented this, even as I helped myself to a third serving of chicken-fried steak in the cafeteria, trying to fill up an emptiness that continued to gnaw at me while I idly worried that I’d lose the muscle tone I’d developed in Utah. I wondered whether the type of sobriety that Debbie described was even attainable. It didn’t feel very realistic.

  The campus was nicotine-free, but I smelled cigarettes on Frank’s breath one afternoon; it made me clench my fists.

  “Have you been smoking?” I asked him. He pulled me in for a conspiratorial whisper.

  “I’ll give you one if you don’t tell,” he said. On our next break, I followed him down a dirt path to a covered spot underneath the bridge, obscured from view. I lit one of his Marlboro Lights and inhaled rapturously. There was something symbolic about us breaking the rules to smoke cigarettes under the literal bridge to progress.

  Each afternoon, we loaded up into a white van—the druggy buggy, Frank called it, with a roll of his eyes—and were driven to twelve-step meetings in the town of Chattanooga. The other attendees were grizzled, older—straight white dudes crowded into church basements that smelled like stale cigarettes. Frank pointed to the only other young person in the room, a lean blond boy.

  “See that little twink?” he whispered. “I blew him in the bathroom last week.” He looked at me, expecting a reaction. I shrugged.

  “Not my type,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Find me an old drunk with family money,” I whispered. “Then let’s talk.”

  He laughed loudly. Heads turned in our direction.

  Lying in bed that night, I saw a blue light glowing from the other side of the room, where Frank slept. I stood and crept around the corner to look closer. He had a laptop computer open. I cleared my throat and he looked up.

  “We aren’t allowed to have those,” I said.

  “You gonna narc on me?” he said playfully. He tilted the screen so I could see; he was watching porn. His hand worked under the sheets.

  “No,” I said.

  “Come here,” he said. I stood paralyzed for a moment, feeling a heat inside me rise. “Come here.” He lifted the sheet, exposing himself to me. My pulse quickened. I hadn’t slept with anyone during the few days I was back in Portland; I hadn’t been with anyone since before I’d left for wilderness, which felt like an eternity. I’d half resigned myself to celibacy.

  “Um,” I said.

  I saw him grinning in the darkness. “You want to?” he asked.

  Oh well, I thought as I crawled into his bed. Old habits die hard.

  Frank had already left for breakfast when I woke up in the morning. I showered and headed to the main lodge. He was sitting with two other patients, picking at corn bread; he stared at me as I walked in, and I could feel his discomfort radiating from across the room.

  I cornered him before we headed into group. “You don’t have to make this awkward,” I said. “I’m not trying to date you. We were just having fun.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, bypassing me.

  Later, in group, I sat fidgeting with my notebook as Debbie droned on about forms of acting out. If I’d been at a more conventional rehab that just dealt with drugs, that would have been one thing, but I’d gone to treatment specifically to deal with all of the issues, including—as my mother had come to call it—“sexual acting out.”

  What kind of progress could I possibly expect to make if I was sleeping with my roommate while in treatment? If my time in the wilderness had taught me nothing else, it was at least to be honest, even when it was uncomfortable; there could be no growth if I wasn’t transparent. I did want to develop self-restraint, the ability to say no. I resolved to tell the staff what had happened; surely, I thought, they would let me switch rooms to eliminate the temptation.

  And so, later that day, I met with Debbie in her office and told her that something inappropriate had happened between me and Frank. “Maybe you could move me to a single room,” I said helpfully.

  She made a low humming noise that sounded like thoughtful deliberation and cocked her head, her hair tipping perilously.

  “I’m just not sure, Sam,” she said.

  “Not sure about what?”

  “Well,” she said, “this is more of a secondary program that we provide here—we’re not equipped to handle acute issues.”

  “There’s really nothing acute about it,” I said. “I just— I fucked up, I guess.”

  She made the humming noise again. “If you had come here with a drug problem, and then you had used drugs while on campus, we would send you off-site, to a detox facility. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  “I’m just not sure that we can provide you with the level of care that you need,” she said.

  “I think I’ve been doing great otherwise,” I said. “I just think maybe it would be best if I, you know. Moved to another room.” She wasn’t getting it.

  “I know of a great program that can help with se
xual issues,” she said. “In New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans,” I repeated.

  “New Orleans!” she said cheerfully. “Have you been?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll love it,” she said, reaching for her phone. “I can make a call and see if we can get you in for treatment there.”

  “So, wait,” I said, processing. “I have to leave to go to some program in New Orleans? Does Frank have to leave, too?”

  “Frank has been here for thirty-five days,” she said patiently. “You’ve been here for—four days, I think? Or five? He’s been making wonderful progress, without incident. And you get here, and, well . . .” She motioned at nothing. “This happens.”

  I pulled at the hair on my arm anxiously. “What if I want to stay?” I said. “Are you just kicking me out?”

  “No!” Debbie said. “Not at all.” She looked at me kindly. “I’m just asking you to leave.”

  The program they were referring me to was the sexual trauma and compulsions unit at a psychiatric hospital called River Oaks; it looked considerably more drab than the style of the Bridge. Debbie had called my parents and told them what had happened—I didn’t want to know how she had managed to sell them on a unit in a psych ward.

  I had a sneaking feeling that the cost of my stay had been prepaid and was nonrefundable, but I couldn’t think about that—there were more pressing issues.

  I walked along the road that led away from campus, tears stinging in my eyes, but I would not cry. I lit a cigarette I had stolen from Frank’s dresser and called my father.

  “I’m going to come down south and pick you up,” he said with a sort of practiced even keel, though I could hear anger simmering just below. “It’ll be nice. We’ll drive from Tennessee to Nola. A little road trip.”

  “Okay,” I said in a small voice.

  “There’s a famous ribs place in Tuscaloosa,” he said. “I’ve wanted to try it my whole life.” I could hear him softening a bit. “I had hoped that we would be able to spend some time together this summer. I was going to get a rental in the Hamptons. But maybe this is the perfect opportunity.”

  “That’s nice,” I said miserably. “You probably didn’t think the conditions would be driving me to a new rehab after I got kicked out of the last one.”

  “No,” he said crisply. “I did not.”

  Once it had been decided that I was leaving, the staff at the Bridge were in a hurry to usher me out. The next day’s activities involved a day trip to Nashville; they dropped me off there, at a busy shopping street downtown. I stood on the side of the road with my duffel bag and waved good-bye to the new friends I had made as the van sped away.

  Six days, I thought. I only made it six days.

  I wandered into a department store and listlessly bought a sweater.

  When my father pulled up an hour later, I was standing on the street with shopping bags. I could see his disappointment in my impulsiveness.

  My frivolousness.

  My inability to stick with anything.

  “Let’s go, kiddo,” he said.

  We took the freeway as far as Birmingham, then turned onto a winding country road. The summer was lush and humid, the road expansive and sun-dappled, and I thought back to previous adventures: the drive to Princeton nearly a year earlier. My future had felt so full of promise, hadn’t it? Driving through southern Oregon with Seth—that had been only four months ago—high and happy, warm and loved.

  I didn’t know why things had taken such a sharp turn. It wasn’t part of the plan.

  We stopped for those ribs in Tuscaloosa, at a squat red building with posters on the wall and big Budweiser signs. I craved a beer, though I didn’t even like it. We stayed at a roadside motel, and I sat on the curb while my father slept, chain-smoking, dreaming of New York nights, the heady rush and spin of nightclubs, sex with strangers, the freedom of being desired.

  “How long will they make me stay?” I asked my father. He kept his eyes on the road.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a few weeks.”

  “College starts soon, though,” I said. I was still planning on going to Vassar, though I hadn’t even bothered to visit the campus before applying. It was just the most prestigious school that had accepted me.

  He shot me a look. “You still want to go?”

  I shrugged. It had been too difficult to think about it as a real possibility when I had been in the wilderness; I had been focused on the immediate future, getting through each day. But I was out—even if I was just en route from one rehab to the next—and it was close enough now that I could consider it as an option.

  “I want to go eventually,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “But I think you should defer a year. Or a semester, at the very least. That would give you some time to get everything in order. Save up some money.”

  “Why would I have to save up money?” I said.

  He looked over at me again. I saw something in his body language: he was nervous.

  “That’s part of why I wanted to come down here,” he said. “We need to talk about that. College.”

  “What is there to talk about?”

  He hesitated. “Jennifer and I have discussed it, and—given the shape of this summer and how unpredictable your behavior has been—well, I can’t stop you from going to Vassar if that’s what you really want, and if you think you’re ready for it. But”—he hesitated again—“I’m not going to pay for it.”

  My stomach dropped out. “What?”

  “If you want to finance it yourself,” he said, “that’s fine by me. But the money I had set aside for you to go to school—I spent that on Aspen.”

  “I didn’t even want to go to Aspen,” I said.

  “I know that,” he said. “But I was acting in your best interest.”

  “It was a waste of money,” I said. “It didn’t do anything. How much did it cost—thirty-five thousand dollars? And for what? All it did was get me ready for more rehab.”

  “Well, I didn’t realize that was going to be the outcome,” he said.

  I was furious. “And you spring this on me when I’m so vulnerable.”

  “Sam,” he said, “after this program, the one in New Orleans—that’s it. I’m done helping you.”

  “No,” I said. “I get it. I know I’ve been an expensive project.” I crossed my arms. He didn’t say anything. I could feel his tension and uncertainty. Maybe if I said the right thing I could convince him.

  “You know, Dad,” I said, “I have a lot of friends with problems. I have a lot of friends who have been to rehab and back again. Most of them ended up there because their parents don’t give a shit about them. But at least they have the decency to keep paying for the mess they made.”

  “I love you,” he said. “You know that.”

  “I know you do,” I said. “I’m not arguing that point.” I struggled for words. I wanted to get this right. “Things would have gone differently if you had been there. For me. Maybe all of this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “Your problems are not my fault,” he said. “You have to take responsibility.”

  “I’m not saying they are,” I said. “I am saying that you were completely fucking negligent, and I ended up ruining my life. The least you could do is foot the bill.”

  “I’m paying for your treatment,” he said helplessly. “I’m not going to spend tens of thousands of dollars on an education that I can’t be sure you’ll even show up for.”

  “Can’t we just see how the first semester goes?” I said.

  He sighed and rubbed his temples. The sun was blinding. “Let’s talk about it once you’re out of this program,” he said. “You may end up seeing this differently.” He brightened. “This could be a really great opportunity for you to take more ownership for your future. It could be empowering!”

  I resented this attempt at spinning it into a positive most of all. I leaned my head against the window. I wanted to get away
from him, to get away from everyone.

  Maybe a stint in a psych ward was just what I needed.

  Angela looked a little bit like Teri Hatcher, her face gaunt and tight against her keen cheekbones, and she was engaging in one of her addictive behaviors. She sat crisscross-applesauce on the bedraggled sofa in the common room, the sleeves of her cardigan rolled up messily to reveal the mutilated skin along her forearms. She was scratching her arms with gnawed fingernails, and the scratching was loud against the heavy silence.

  She’s not supposed to be doing that, I thought.

  “There’s something wrong with Angela,” I said to Joni. Joni nodded. Her left eye twitched.

  “That’s one of her addictive behaviors,” Joni said.

  “We have to stop her,” I said.

  The therapeutic staff kept on saying that I was lucky to be there, since River Oaks didn’t admit patients under eighteen and I wouldn’t be eighteen until the following month.

  Eighteen.

  I repeated the number over and over again as I lay in my bed. I would be an adult. I would be free. No, I would never be free.

  But River Oaks had the best program for sexual trauma and compulsion in the country. Lucky.

  Joni stood up awkwardly and rested her weight on the metal frame of her walker. She was forty-seven, she said, and she was a hunchbacked Sisyphus, pushing her walker in laborious strides as though defeated by its staggering weight. She looked splintered. She had been raped in a parking garage, she told us during process group, and then she got hooked on OxyContin and turned tricks for a while, and at a certain point she didn’t walk right anymore. Maybe she’d said why. Was there an accident? I couldn’t remember. They put me on Trazodone after my intake exam, for sleep and depression, but it had made things so fuzzy.

  “We should get the nurse,” I said.

  In group, we described our feelings by transmuting them into a tangible object. We gave them shape, color, and definition.

  “My self-loathing is a black cube,” I said.