Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  Big silence, painful scrutiny. I try to avoid the gazes of Adam, Wade, Talia.

  “So, that’s what I’ll do then. I’ll go.”

  But everyone is so still and quiet and some of them are looking at me with…pity? It’s creepy.

  “Listen, it’s not like I had a bad time. The pool is nice and the classes are interesting and if I were an alcoholic I’d be having an amazing time,” I say, and then wince. “What I mean is this is obviously a good program and a good place despite the rules and lack of privacy and all the reflecting and contemplating and getting up in the middle of the night and—”

  Horse tranquilizers—that’s what needs to happen. Someone needs to get some and inject me with them so I can either die, or at least wake up a few days from now when this humiliation is behind me.

  “I mean…if I meet any teen alcoholics or drug addicts or whatever, or if anyone I know becomes one, I will totally send them your way. Right. So, see you later, I guess.”

  At this, I give what I hope is a friendly-and-confident-but-respectful smile and start backing away. Unfortunately I back into my own chair and almost fall over it and a few people gasp and both Talia and Jade reach out to steady me, making my exit less than smooth. But I manage to stay on my feet and am soon giving a last wave and marching my ridiculous, crinoline-clad self out the door.

  And then I’m out.

  I’m about to start on the path back to the dorms when the door opens and Adam appears.

  “Lola—”

  “You know what? Don’t even start. I can’t deal.”

  “Okay,” he says, right in front of me but surprisingly cool and calm. “What do you need?”

  “What do I need? You’re actually asking me?”

  “Yeah. I’m asking.”

  “I need to know what has to happen to get me out of here.”

  “A parent or guardian has to come pick you up.”

  “I can’t just go? Call a limo? Or a taxi, even? I thought the program was voluntary.”

  “It is voluntary—technically we can’t keep you here if you want to go. But we can only release you directly to a guardian.”

  “Oh, nice loophole.”

  “There are good reasons for that, if you think about it. Safety, liability…”

  “Yeah, yeah, fine. I need to make a phone call.”

  “All right, let’s go.” Adam takes me by the hand, the heat and solidity of his grip sending waves of reassurance through my frazzled body. He leads me into the main building and through the foyer and back downstairs to his office, which is the same room I was in for therapy.

  “Any chance I can have some privacy?” I ask as he shuts the door behind us.

  “This is privacy.”

  “I mean, no offense, but from you.”

  Adam shakes his head.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Sorry.”

  He motions me to sit in the chair in front of his desk, then reaches over me, picks up the receiver, and punches in some kind of code.

  “There you go,” he says, and hands me the phone, then goes to lean against the nearby wall. All of the walls are nearby, actually—it’s a really small office. Which means he’ll probably be able to hear both sides of the upcoming phone call. Nothing I can do about it, though.

  I dial.

  After six rings, Mom picks up.

  “Yes? Yes? Who is this?” she says, sounding flustered.

  “Mom? Hello? It’s me.”

  “Lola? You woke me up.”

  Why she’d be asleep at nine o’clock on a Friday night, I’m not sure, but Adam is waiting and I’m sure his sympathetic mood won’t last, so I need to get to the point.

  “Mom, I need you to come get me.”

  “Come get you?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Sunrise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Darling, you just got there. You can’t possibly be cured already.”

  “Um, no, not cured. That’s the thing, Mom. I…I didn’t mean to be…ah…I mean, I think I overreacted. About the alcohol. I think I made a mistake and I don’t belong here.”

  “Lola, it’s absolutely the best and most luxurious rehabilitation center around. They have an excellent reputation, we’ve spent a fortune to send you, and everybody knows you’re there.” From the sound of her voice, she’s waking up fast. “You can’t just come home after such a short time.”

  “Everybody knows? Who is everybody?”

  “I mean everybody, everybody.”

  I groan.

  “Price of fame, honey.”

  “Mom, the thing is, I know it’s kind of embarrassing, but I’m not an alcoholic after all.”

  “So Monday you were and now you’re not?”

  “No, I wasn’t on Monday either. I just…I maybe got confused, exaggerated a bit. But I’m not. If you’d just come get me, I can explain on the way home.”

  There is a long sigh on the other end of the phone and then Mom says, “That won’t be possible.”

  “What, you don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not about what I believe,” she says. “I don’t know what to believe. But for the moment, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “The point is, Lola, I cannot come to get you regardless.”

  “Okay, Elise then.”

  “Elise can’t come either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, darling, we’re in Tokyo.”

  I stand up fast, gripping the phone.

  “You’re in…” I glance at Adam, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “You’re what?”

  “In Tokyo. Do we have a bad connection?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I can’t believe you’d…you just dropped me off in rehab.”

  “And I’m supposed to…what? Sit by the phone in Malibu in case you need to call, turn down all work opportunities and so on? You’re in good hands.”

  “But…”

  “It was very last-minute,” she says. “Danny landed me a series of commercials, and Elise came along to keep me company while we shoot.”

  “What about all your excitement about coming for family therapy?” I shout, even though I was actually dreading it. “That’s this weekend. How were you planning to participate from Tokyo?”

  “You don’t actually need me or Elise for that. We know your issues don’t come from us.”

  I try to ignore the series of tiny explosions this statement sets off in my brain.

  “Fine. Never mind the family therapy. Or any of it. Maybe you can just give permission for me to take a taxi home.” I look at Adam to see if this is true.

  He shakes his head and mouths, No way.

  “Or… Okay, then write a letter of permission for someone else to pick me up?”

  Adam’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t say no.

  “Well, Uncle Bruce is at the house looking after the plants and such. I suppose I could scan a letter that says he can come get you.”

  “Uncle Bruce?” I drop back down into my chair and groan. “That man has never looked after a plant in his life. The best he’s probably done is take a piss in one.”

  “Oh Lola, don’t be crass. Besides, Bruce won’t bother you.”

  “Won’t bother me? I’m sorry, but Uncle Bruce bothers me just by virtue of being, Mom. He’s the Barbie defiler.”

  “Bruce is just lonely and a little immature, honey.”

  “Barbie was never the same again,” I say through clenched teeth. “She was so traumatized I had to euthanize her.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I did! I buried her with her favorite ball gowns in the front yard. How could you do this to me?”

  “I haven’t done anything to you, Lola. You’re in rehab, which you did to yourself. You can go home and be mature enough to deal with Bruce, or you can stay in rehab. Your choice.”

  “That’s not a choice at all!”

  “Enough with the hysterics, please.”

/>   “Someday I’ll show you hysterics for real, Mom.”

  “I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

  And then, to show my maturity, I hang up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Well, that’s great.

  I’ve gone and confessed to everyone here that I’m not an alcoholic, which means I can’t stay here, and the defiler has taken over my house, so I can’t go home, either.

  Adam looks at me. I look back.

  “Good chat?”

  “Oh, fantastic.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.”

  “Don’t.”

  “All right,” he says, easing himself down into the other chair in the room, his voice softening. “What about your dad?”

  “Yeah, what about him,” I say, deflating even further.

  “No, I mean, do you want to call him?”

  “Yes. I’d love to. I’d really love to.”

  “O-kay then…” Adam gestures at the phone.

  “Nah. Actually, I can’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. He’s…” I keep track of where my dad is most of the time, but I’ve been distracted, plus I’ve been without internet so I’m not actually sure right now. “He’s directing some crime drama, I think. In New York. I’m not supposed to bug him when he’s working.”

  “This is kind of important, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Look,” I say, “if I didn’t call him when I was afraid I was an alcoholic and might need rehab, I’m certainly not going to call him to tell him I’m not.”

  “Ah,” Adam says, and as I look into his dark brown eyes, I feel like he knows, like he can see something I haven’t said and he knows about my dad and what I feel way deep down, and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and cry like I am some kind of whiny reject instead of the very smart, strong, resourceful, unsinkable Lola Carlyle I am supposed to be.

  Right.

  “But hey, whatever. I mean, he sends presents and I have a very nice allowance. Like my diamonds? And how about my dress?”

  “Actually, I was thinking earlier that you look cute and sort of eatable—like a cupcake.”

  “Well, Adam! Are you sure that’s an appropriate kind of comment?”

  “Not entirely, no,” he says, then looks away and abruptly stands up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Existentially, yes—we always have a choice.”

  “I don’t mean existentially, Adam.”

  “Oh. Then, no. Come on.”

  We leave the office. Adam locks up behind him, takes my hand again, and leads me to the end of the hallway, up a short set of stairs, and outside to a courtyard I’ve never noticed before, with a labyrinth made of stone in the center.

  “Nice,” I say.

  “Yeah, it’s peaceful,” he says and then propels me toward a bench. “Now sit.”

  I shrug and then sit near one end, and Adam straddles the other.

  “So, Lola,” he says, hands braced in front of him and leaning toward me, watching my every move and expression. “You want to talk?”

  “No, not really. You?”

  “I’m here to support you for as long as you’re at Sunrise.”

  “I appreciate it,” I say, and I do.

  “I have a few thoughts for you to consider, if you’re up for it.”

  “Lay it on me,” I say, and prepare for a lecture on wasting people’s time, waffling about whether one is an alcoholic when for most people it’s a very serious disease, and how now I’m going to be sent to some kind of hideous halfway house until some legitimate member of my family can come pick me up.

  “You’re not the first person to freak out and try to bail at her first AA meeting.”

  “Well, that’s very reassuring, but—”

  “Just listen. I know it can be overwhelming, and I can see from your behavior since you got here that you haven’t really come to terms with why you’re here. Plus, some people’s stories are so hard-core, it can make your own experience feel invalid or not serious enough.”

  “Adam—”

  “And you thought rehab would be easier—that much is obvious. Like, you just had to get yourself here and everything would magically fix itself and it didn’t. So now you want out. That’s your addict talking, Lola, not you.”

  “My addict. I’m starting to feel like she’s my invisible friend.” And then what he’s saying finally starts to sink in. “Wait. Wait just a second. Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not exactly that I don’t believe you, it’s just—”

  “Oh my God, you don’t.”

  He looks down at the bench, then back up at me, eyes dark, face wiser than his years. Though I guess he’s not that wise or he’d have figured out I was faking being an alcoholic in the first place, not that I’m faking not being an alcoholic now.

  “I believe you believe what you said,” he continues. “But you need to at least consider that you might be in denial.”

  I start to laugh, and then I can’t stop. I laugh until my shoulders are shaking and I can hardly breathe. And then I’m crying at the same time and Adam is looking at me with a mixture of pity and alarm, which makes me laugh harder, and cry harder. And then he scoots closer to pass me a tissue, clearly not sure how to deal with me, and as I’m swiping at my eyes with the tissue, the crying takes over and I throw my arms around him and bury my head in his shoulder.

  He doesn’t shush me or really say anything, just holds me, one hand in my hair and the other on my back, until I recover.

  “Sorry,” I say, once I can speak again. “It’s been a heavy day.”

  “I know.”

  “So you think I’m in denial.”

  “Possibly.” His hand rubs gentle circles on my back.

  I pull away and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been drunk once, Adam.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, truly, honestly. Not that I never drank any other time, but I exaggerated—lied—about how much. I’ve only been really drunk once.”

  “Once might be enough. You arrived with fifty chocolate bars, Lola, and you’re as jumpy and edgy as any addict I’ve ever seen. You skipped therapy to go swimming, you’re manipulating people all over the place, and you’re very good at avoiding the truth—telling it or hearing it.”

  “That’s…that’s not—”

  “And you’re sad.”

  “Hey—”

  “Not that kind of sad. Sad, sad. Like, deep sad.”

  “I am not sad. Or sad, sad. No offense, but piss off.”

  “I’m just saying if it looks like an addict and smells like an addict…” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You seem like an addict to me.”

  “That’s…that’s… No.”

  “Listen,” he says, shifting so we’re sitting side by side but keeping one arm around my shoulders, “regardless of what you believe, there has to be something going on for you to come here in the first place.”

  I look down at that.

  “Why don’t you just give yourself a few more days to see how you feel, to see if your perspective changes. I promise you, the program works if you let it.”

  “Isn’t it, ‘It works if you work it’?” I say.

  “That, too.”

  “If I stay, will you promise to be more fun?”

  Adam laughs, then says, “Nope.”

  “Damn.”

  “Besides, you don’t exactly have a choice. For now, you’re staying. My advice is, get your shit together and make the best of it.”

  “Right. Goody.”

  “One thing you might think about is the attitude,” he says. “It doesn’t help.”

  “Au contraire,” I say. “My attitude usually helps me quite a bit.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The truth does not exactly set me free.

  I soon discover it’s done the opposite.

  Thanks to my supposed state of denial, when I go back to the room, our balcony door
is locked and we are put on half-hourly room checks throughout the night. Jade and Talia are uniformly unimpressed.

  And then on Saturday morning, just when I’m getting ready to bail early from Contemplation so I can go try to find Wade to tell him I’m still here, they descend.

  Dr. Koch, Mary, and Dr. Owens show up in the lounge and “invite” me to come with them. Adam gives the affirmation (I am rigorously honest with myself and continue to make an inventory of my shortcomings) and then he comes along, too.

  “What’s the deal?” I say as we enter Dr. Koch’s office. “I don’t get to Contemplate?”

  Adam points to a chair.

  “No coffee even?”

  Dr. Owens and Dr. Koch sit across from me on the couch and Mary sits in another chair.

  Adam hovers.

  “We’re concerned about you,” Mary says. “And we also want to show you our support.”

  “Yes,” says Dr. Koch. “We’ve seen this type of crisis before, and we are equipped to help you through it.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Mary is planning a special process group this afternoon with the other female patients to talk about what happened last night, Adam has been pulled off all other files and has committed to accompanying you throughout each day, and Dr. Owens here has come in voluntarily on her weekend to do an emergency therapy session.”

  “Look, I can see this denial idea has taken hold with you all, but I’m really not—”

  “I have also heard from your mother, who is adamant that you stay in the program.”

  “What happened to the whole voluntary aspect?”

  Koch ignores this question, which actually kind of answers it, and continues. “She wishes me to convey that your sobriety is her utmost concern, and she has requested and paid for you to have therapy daily from now on.”

  I put my head in my hands and groan.

  Ten minutes later, I’m walking into Dr. Owens’s office. She shuts the door behind us with a thud that vibrates in my bones.

  “So, a rather rough night last night?” she says.

  “I guess.”

  “And how are you this morning?”

  “Uh, fine. And you?”

  Out comes the bullshit bell, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding…

  “I haven’t even sat down yet,” I shout over the sound of the bell.