Lola Carlyle's 12-Step Romance

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “I want you to be honest,” she shouts back.

  “Everyone says ‘fine’ when someone asks how are you. I was being polite. Stop that. Please. Fine, I’m miserable. Happy?”

  She stops.

  I sit.

  “Your psychological test shows you’re depressed, and now you’re trying to leave the program,” she says. “I don’t want you to be polite; I want you to be honest.”

  “Yeah, I tried that. Yesterday.”

  “You’re referring to your statement that you are not, in fact, an addict?”

  “Of course. All it did was convince everyone I’m in denial. My own mother doesn’t believe me.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Kind of shitty, don’t you think?”

  “You’re feeling as though you can’t depend on her.”

  “I’m feeling like Sunrise has become the most expensive babysitting service on the planet.”

  “And your mother is not here for you.”

  “I guess not.”

  “And neither is your father.”

  “Well…in the sense that he’s not here here, no.”

  “What about in other senses?”

  “Do we have to talk about this? My parents are fine. Leave them out of it.”

  “I find it interesting, though, that you are here and protesting that all is well and you have no problems with your parents. And in the meantime, your supposedly concerned parents are nowhere to be found and/or refusing to come get you. Which means they either feel strongly that you need help or…”

  “Or?” I say, even though I know I’m falling into her trap.

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Give me the bell.” I stand up and grab for it, but Dr. Owens pulls it onto her lap.

  “What do you want it for?”

  “I want to ring it. I should be able to ring it, too, when you’re bullshitting me.”

  “How am I bullshitting you?”

  “Well, you’re using bullshit techniques. You’re trying to trick me.”

  “Trick you into what?”

  “Into saying my parents don’t love me, into saying I’m an alcoholic. Or something.”

  “Do your parents not love you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Why are you so defensive?”

  “I’m not defensive, I’m just not doing this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need therapy and I don’t enjoy being badgered by a wack job whose sole purpose in life is to make people break down and cry. I’m not into it. Plus I’m not going to tell you anything about my family.”

  “You know I’m legally bound to keep our sessions private, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, like that ever stops anybody.”

  “There’s an opportunity here, Lola,” she says after a pause. “An opportunity to get things off your chest, to know yourself better, to find ways to deal with the things that are bothering you.”

  “Why are you so sure anything is bothering me?”

  “Besides the things I already mentioned?”

  “Yeah, besides those.”

  “Because you’re human, and because you’re here.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Therapy is bad, but the next thing is almost worse.

  It’s group family therapy (“therapy” and “group” being two of my least favorite words, I like them even less when combined with “family”), and since Adam is now apparently glued to my side for eternity, there’s no chance of skipping it.

  The only good thing turns out to be that it’s not my family. Otherwise, it’s excruciating.

  First up is Camille, the one who killed her boyfriend and best friend while driving drunk. They give her a seat at the front, lead her parents plus a brother and an aunt to sit across from her, and then each family member gets a turn to list and describe every bad thing Camille ever said or did to them in service to her addictions, and how it made them feel.

  Like she doesn’t already want to annihilate herself.

  The aunt goes right into a story about taking Camille in after a family fight, only to have Camille steal money from her purse and disappear.

  Camille’s brother tells her that at school he’s embarrassed to admit he’s related to her.

  Camille’s mom cries.

  Her dad yells at her and then cries. The massacre continues. Camille cries so hard it looks like she’s going to break into pieces.

  I bleed for her. I have the urge to run up to the front and put my arms around her and shout at these people who are putting her through this to stop. Of course I can see they’re in pain too, that they have legitimate cause for their pain, but still.

  It goes on.

  Three hours, four families, more agony than I ever wanted to see.

  There’s nothing to distract from what’s happening in the room or lessen the intensity, and the anguish and drama are impossible to turn away from. What this means is that every person who talks yanks us all (or me anyway) into their shoes, into their issues, their agony.

  For some bizarre reason, no one gets to defend themselves; they just have to sit there and take it.

  Midway through, Jade gets up, goes to the back of the room, and starts to slowly, rhythmically, bang her forehead against the wall. One of the staff stands nearby watching, but he doesn’t stop her.

  Messed. Up.

  At the same time? I get it because I feel like throwing up, like I’ve been poisoned by all the sad/bad/gross/horrifying stories from this session, and at this point I’m starting to think banging my head against the wall might help.

  After, I practically limp to the dining hall, where I eat my lunch with Adam beside me.

  Talia is nowhere to be found, and I also haven’t seen Wade since last night.

  I’ve been trying to ignore Adam since I realized he turned me over to Koch. He went from being a comforting presence last night to a betrayer this morning, in my opinion. But finally I have to ask: “Okay, where is everybody? I mean, the ones who weren’t in Family Flogging.”

  “They’re on a sober outing,” he says, with nothing but a lifted eyebrow at my other comment.

  “A sober what?”

  “Outing. As in, going out. Sober. You have to be Level Three—”

  “I’m Level Three.”

  “Real Level Three. Plus you need permission from your group leader, your therapist, and”—he grins—“me.”

  “Sounds a little overly wholesome anyway. Obviously they’re lawn bowling, or attending a G-rated movie with all the lights on. Or drinking wheatgrass lattes.”

  “They’re hiking Topanga Canyon.”

  “Exactly. But still…”

  “No chance we’d let you go,” Adam says. “Even Dr. Koch agrees you’re high risk for a runner right now.”

  “A what?”

  “Taking a runner—running away.”

  “Oh, sure,” I say. “Because homelessness or living with a perv are great options.”

  “Well hey, next Saturday is Disneyland. Maybe by then you’ll be approved. You ready for the process group this afternoon?”

  “Okay, you know what? I’m not impressed.”

  “About?”

  “You led me to believe if I stayed I’d be given some time and space to figure out…you know…whether I really need to be here. But instead you’re letting everyone gang up on me.”

  “We’re here to s—”

  “Support me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And you do have a free period right after this. You can lie by the pool, read a book or some magazines…”

  “Or work on my list of shortcomings.”

  “Sure. Absolutely,” he says, but he has the decency to look embarrassed.

  “While you sit on my freaking shoulder.”

  “I will be accompanying you,” he says stiffly, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, thanks for the suggestions, Cupcake,” I say and his mouth
opens, then snaps shut. “But I think I’ll go hang myself instead. That was a joke.”

  “I—I know.”

  “Good.”

  “You can not call me Cupcake.”

  “You’re right—you’re more of a bran muffin anyway.”

  We’re walking by the lounge on the way back to the dorm when I pull away.

  “Where are you going?” Adam says.

  “Duh,” I say, and head toward the lounge.

  “But…”

  “It’s my free time. I’m going to make a phone call.”

  “You can’t—”

  I take out my Level Three card, wave it in his face, then pass it to the tech on duty.

  Adam rolls his eyes and goes out to the balcony, leaving me with the lounge to myself.

  Once I’m settled on the couch, I try Sydney on her cell. It rings and rings, the voicemail picks up and says her mailbox is full, and I hang up, try again, get the same result. I sit for a few frustrated moments, then decide to try the cell one last time because, well, I don’t know any of her other numbers and damn it, I need some answers from that girl. Just when I’m about to hang up, she answers.

  “Sydney? It’s me—it’s Lola.”

  “Holy shit, Lola,” she shouts, her voice, combined with the background noise, so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “Where are you?”

  “Where do you think I am? You know exactly where I am.” I want to shout, but am too aware of Adam just outside. “My question is where are you?”

  She laughs.

  “No, seriously. You’re laughing about this? What the hell?”

  “Oh honey, I didn’t think you’d really do it.” She’s still laughing, not sorry in the least, obviously. “Then I saw you and your moms all over the internet and I heard my clean-cut friend is actually a badass boozer. I almost fell over from shock. WATCH THE DRINK, BUDDY. Hang on, let me go somewhere quieter…”

  “Sure,” I say, and listen to what sounds like a huge party going on in the background, then hear the noise receding and the click of high-heeled shoes.

  “Ah, that’s better,” Sydney says.

  “Where are you?” I say.

  “Oh my God, the craziest pool party—that action flick with whatsherface in it—they’re having a party. Like a wrap party but they haven’t actually wrapped. I have the best dress, you won’t believe it, and a Real House-husband just hit on me. Who let him in, I can’t imagine because he’s obviously not in the film. The script is supposed to suck but whatever—they hired circus performers for the party and I heard Drake was going to do a surprise concert this afternoon and you won’t believe—”

  “Sydney.”

  “What?”

  “When I said where are you, I actually meant where are you because you’re supposed to be here. And I am not supposed to be stuck here without you. You knew I was going to do it. What happened? And why didn’t you tell me you’d left?”

  “Oh, that. Well, I guess my parents freaked. Too much information or whatever. Too much work. And the thing is I don’t want to be a meth face but come on, a girl’s gotta be able to have a drink sometimes. Plus, no iPhone. And sharing a bathroom? Please. My mom asked me if I really wanted to stick it out, I said no, she sprung me.”

  “But you knew I was coming. You’re the one who said it was so great—practically a spa, you said. Remember that?”

  “I honestly really never thought you’d do it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What do you need me for, anyway?”

  “Nothing at all, apparently,” I say, feeling, for a moment, like I might cry, like I am going to hang up on her and never speak to her again. But then the horror stories of my fellow patients rise up in my mind and I’m filled with a gut-clenching worry about her. She just got out of rehab without completing the program and she’s at a party. Being a shitty friend might be the least of her issues.

  “So tell me, have you made any progress with Mr. Miller yet?”

  “Wait, Syd. Look, I’m pissed. Really, really pissed, like I might never believe anything you say again. But are you okay? This addiction thing is worse than I realized.”

  “I’m good, I’m good. No need to call sexy Dr. Koch on me. I’m not going to take any drugs. And you know I can handle drinking. I’m totally fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Do I sound drunk to you?”

  “A little, actually.”

  “No, no. Anyway, alcohol I can handle. And I have your clutch ready in a gift bag when you get out, by the way. How long are you staying? Who’re your roommates? Tell me about Wade Miller. Is he as perfect and sweet and dreamy as you remember him?”

  “He’s here,” I say quietly, giving up on the idea that I can be of any help to her at the moment. “And we’ve hung out a bit. But you also misled me about how much I’d be able to see him. Not to mention the rules about fraternizing.”

  “Oh, no one cares about that. They just have to put that in there for liability.”

  I’m pretty sure Adam would care.

  “So? Progress?”

  “Y-yes…” I realize I don’t know what to say about Wade. I still have a crush on him, but I can’t rescue him. The chemistry is good, looks promising, but I can’t get enough time with him to find out more, and I can’t really tell how much of his old self is still in there. “The thing is—”

  “Just a sec—I’LL BE RIGHT THERE, LOVER BOY—oh my God, I forgot to tell you, I’ve been partying with your dad.”

  All other thoughts and concerns fly out the window. “What?”

  “Oh don’t worry, that’s not who I was calling Lover Boy—your dad’s cute for his age but I’d never do that to you; it would be way too weird. Can you imagine me as your stepmother?”

  “No. God. That’s…” I shudder and shake my head. “He’s there? Right now?”

  “Earth to Lola—that’s what I said. He’s in fine form, I must say. I told him I can’t believe how much you two look alike these days. You don’t see it as much in pictures as you do in person.”

  “So you told him…I mean, he remembered you?”

  “Duh. Well, I’ve grown up a bit so I had to remind him, but of course. How many freaking sleepovers did we have?”

  “Right. Well. Did he…does he…” I stop, thoroughly flustered at the hurricane of emotions I’m experiencing and the list of things I want to know but cannot ask.

  Does he care that I’m in rehab, for example?

  “I’M COMING, DON’T START WITHOUT ME! You know what, Lo? I can’t wait to hear everything, but I have to go.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll say hi to Ben for you.”

  “Oh, I… No, that’s—”

  “Or wait, it might be loud but let me see if I can find him again. I mean what a coincidence, hang on…”

  “Hang on. Wait,” I say, but either she’s not listening or she can’t hear.

  There’s clinking, laughing, splashing, and a deep, thumping bass and lots of rustling as Sydney goes back inside the party.

  “BEN? BEN!” I hear her shouting over the noise.

  My heart is in my throat, which means I won’t be able to speak and what the hell will I say anyway? I can’t do this. I should hang up.

  “OVER HERE, BEN, I (rustle, rustle) SURPRISE (rustle, thump) YOU…”

  Holy shit. I’m going to have a stroke. I’m going to pass out. My thumb is hovering over the end button and I’m going to push it because there’s no way this can go well. Except I might hear his voice at least and he would hear mine and maybe…

  “Hello? Who’s this?” It’s him. My dad.

  My mouth moves but no sound comes out.

  “Hello? Someone just shoved a phone in my face, who is this?”

  Fucking speak, Lola.

  “D-Dad…” I manage to croak.

  “What? Can’t hear a thing. Call back tomorrow…(thump, rustle, dial tone…).”

  Afterward, I sit for a long time, listening to the dial
tone and staring into space until Adam comes back in to get me.

  I’m not hearing bells or looking for the deeper why or pondering the meaning of life.

  I’m not even looking for the quiet place…just a less painful one.

  Chapter Twenty

  Saturday evenings are mercifully free of programming, even for those in denial.

  Instead there’s a movie night and I am actually allowed to attend, albeit with Velcro Adam by my side. But at least it’s a break from the scrutiny and self-defense that now fill my every waking moment and a distraction from the ache that’s been expanding in my chest since I heard my dad’s voice this afternoon.

  We all crowd into the chapel where there are snacks—bags of popcorn, fruit slices, baked chips, veggies with dip—and pillows on the floor. Wade is there, and I am suddenly overcome with feelings of dorkishness. The intensity of the day has me exhausted and off my game, so instead of being cool when our eyes meet, I break into the biggest, happiest, most ridiculous smile that probably broadcasts to the entire world, including him, that I have a crush on him.

  It’s hideous.

  But…he smiles back. And then I kind of freeze, standing there smiling like an idiot and causing a backup in the snack line until Talia finally gives me a gentle shove.

  I stumble forward. Need to get a grip.

  Talia and I, with Adam in tow, head to the back, away from Wade, who’s looking for a seat near the front. Talia sits on one side of me and Adam plops down on the other.

  I look at him. “Okay, really?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you have other patients to liaise with?”

  To my surprise, he looks a little hurt. Just for a second.

  “Or are we on a date all of a sudden?” I say, trying to turn it into a joke.

  Talia giggles.

  “I mean, you’re actually lovely, Adam. Most of the time. And you’re a one hundred percent cute enough to date. But as you so clearly pointed out to me a few days ago, this is a professional relationship. Right? So could I not have, like, a five-foot radius? I mean, you must be sick of me by now, too.”

  He grunts and then moves so he’s directly behind me instead.

  “Better?”

  “Perfect. Now you can literally breathe down my neck.”

  He puts a handful of popcorn in his mouth and crunches loudly, probably on purpose.