Getting to Happy

by Terry McMillan

  Sparrow appears at the top of the stairwell. “Are you all right, Mom?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because I know what happened.”

  “And just how would you know what happened to me today?”

  “Because I called you at work and they said you didn’t work there anymore. And I know you didn’t quit. You got riffed. We study this in civics class, and a hecka lot of my friends’ parents have had the exact same thing happen to them. I’m really sorry, Mom.” She comes down and puts her arms around me like I’m her little girl. “We’ll be fine. I’ll start looking for a part-time job tomorrow. You can have as much of my check as you need. All of it.”

  “Thank you, baby. We don’t have to worry about any of that right now. This is probably for the best. It just knocks the wind out of you. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. How are you?”

  She turns to run back upstairs and then stops. “I think my heart was broken today, too. Gustav broke up with me.”

  “Why?”

  “He says he thinks he’s gay. I asked him how do you think it? Anyway, I told him never mind trying to explain it. We’re still going to hang out and do stuff because we like each other’s heads. So, I guess I’ve got a new friend. Anyway, I’ve got studying to do. I’m going to say goodnight. Goodnight, Mom. I love you.” She trounces up the stairs and closes her door, and within minutes I hear her playing the violin.

  I want to tell somebody what happened today but don’t think I have any energy left to repeat it. When the phone rings I answer it without bothering to check caller ID.

  “What’re you up to?” Savannah asks.

  “Oh, not much. I went on a shopping spree today.”

  “So, what else is new?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I did get canned today.”

  “You got what?”

  “You heard right.”

  “You’re not saying you were fired?”

  “They call it downsizing since we . . . I mean they’re going through a merger. Same thing. They do it like they’re the Gestapo and you’re a spy or something. They actually put all of my shit in boxes and wouldn’t even let me go into my office.”

  “Damn. I’m really, really sorry to hear this, Robin.”

  “I know. I’m still trying to digest it. But at least they gave me a decent-enough severance package. Enough to keep me going for a while.”

  “I know this is a stupid question, and you may not have had time to think about it yet: but what are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea, Savannah. None whatsoever.”

  “Wanna go to Paris?”

  Before I can register that Savannah is really inviting me to go with her, and before I can even think long enough about whether I could afford it, and before I can take another three seconds to weigh the pros and cons, but mostly before she has a chance to come to her senses and change her mind, I say, “Hell yeah!”

  Stick a Fork in Me: I’m Done

  “I’m a little nervous,” Bernadine says.

  “It’s okay. I understand,” the woman on the other end of the phone says. “So you think you have a problem with tranquilizers and sleeping pills. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kinds of tranquilizers are you taking?”

  “Xanax.”

  “Five milligram?”

  “No. Two point five.”

  “How many a day?”

  “One. Sometimes two.”

  “And this is the maximum you’ve ever taken?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any opiates?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Vicodin, Percocet, things of that nature.”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. Anything else?”

  “Ambien.”

  “Five milligrams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every night?”

  “No. But often.”

  “About how often?”

  “It depends. Last week I took two. Some weeks none. Rarely more than two nights in a row.”

  “Are you taking any other types of medication?”

  “Zoloft.”

  “Have they helped?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And how long have you been taking these?”

  “Which ones?”

  “All three.”

  “Off and on about six years.”

  “What did you do during the off years?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Any alcohol?”

  “A glass of wine or a beer every now and then. But never after I’ve taken a Xanax.”

  “Do you consume any caffeine?”

  “Coffee. No soda.”

  “How much?”

  “One to two cups a day.”

  “When was the last time you had a Xanax?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What’s the longest you’ve gone without taking one?”

  “Three days.”

  “And how did you feel?”

  “On the third day: weird.”

  “Did you experience any tremors?”

  “No.”

  “Nausea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Vomiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sweats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any mental health diagnosis?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been to any facility before?”

  “No.”

  “Are the medications you’re taking prescribed to you by your physician?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why were they prescribed?”

  “Because I was going through a bad divorce situation.”

  “Then you do have mental health issues.”

  “I didn’t have a nervous breakdown or anything.”

  “That’s not what we mean by it.”

  “Well, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “It’s okay. When was your divorce?”

  “Actually, my marriage was annulled. Six years ago.”

  “What happened that made it tough for you?”

  “I found out he was also married to another woman.”

  “Shut up!”

  “In another state. So I’ve been angry and sort of numbing myself off and on all these years.”

  “Well, no wonder. We would call this a traumatic experience here at A New Day.”

  “It was very traumatic, to say the least.”

  “We can help you deal with the substance-abuse issue and help you begin to address some of the emotional ones, since they’re obviously linked. So, you’re interested in our twenty-eight-day inpatient program?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I see you’ve already given us your insurance information. Is everything still current?”

  “Yes, it is. I just sent it this morning.”

  “Okay. Let me ask you a few more questions and then I’ll be able to process your application.”

  “May I ask you one, if you don’t mind?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Based on what I’ve told you, how long do you think it’ll take me to detox?”

  “Our intake specialist could better answer that. However, between us, based on your usage, and with supervision, it might take four or five days.”

  “Is it painful? I mean, will I freak out or anything?”

  She actually chuckles. “No, you won’t freak out. They’ll give you medication that will keep you comfortable during detoxification.”

  “Thank God.”

  “But detoxing alone doesn’t solve the problem.”

  “What problem is that?”

  “Addiction. It’s a disease.”

  “I’ve read that.”

  “It’s a chronic illness. Just like cancer. There’s no cure. But you can learn how to manage the disease.”

  Damn. Bernadine didn’t think she had a chronic illness. She certainly didn’t think taking these pills shoul
d be compared to having cancer. But she wasn’t in a position to argue about that with this woman. “Thanks for clearing this up for me.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I just have a few more questions for you. Are you or have you had any thoughts of suicide?”

  Bernadine felt like saying “Are you fucking crazy? Kill myself?” Instead, she says, “Absolutely not.”

  “Glad to hear that. Okay. So how soon would you like to come for treatment?”

  “I don’t know. Soon.”

  “What kind of support system do you have?”

  “Really good friends.”

  “And do you work outside of the home?”

  “No.”

  “And how would you feel about going to a meeting tonight?”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “Narcotics Anonymous.”

  Bernadine wanted to ask, “Aren’t those meetings full of die-hard drug addicts and junkies?” Instead she says: “I don’t think I can make it tonight. I’m exhausted just doing this.”

  “Not to worry. But for now, you’re okay, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll try to push your application through. After we get confirmation from your insurance company, someone will be in touch with you. How’s that sound?”

  “Good,” she says. “And thank you.”

  “Thank you for calling A New Day.”

  Bernadine hangs up and just sits there without moving for about an hour. For some reason, she decides to check her e-mail—something she hasn’t done in weeks. There are three jokes from Robin. She opens the first one: “Two little old ladies were sitting on a park bench outside the local town hall where a flower show was in progress . . .”

  When the phone rings, it’s Savannah. “I think I made a big mistake inviting Robin to go to Paris with me.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. It was a nice gesture, Savannah, all things considered. But let’s face it. Robin’s a latte with two shots and no foam. Although she’s our friend, you need to do this the way you planned it. Hold on, I’ve got another call coming in.”

  “No. Go ahead and take it. We can talk later. Thanks, girl.”

  Bernadine doesn’t bother checking to see who it is before clicking over. “Hello.”

  “Yes, is Bernadine Harris available?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?” Bernadine doesn’t recognize the voice.

  “Yes, my name is Rowena and I’m calling from A New Day Recovery Center.”

  “Yes,” Bernadine says suspiciously, as she pushes herself forward in the chair so her bare feet are flat on the floor.

  “I’ve got good news for you. Your insurance company is willing to cover all but twenty percent of the cost of treatment.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s pretty good. So does this mean you’d be able to pay the difference?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Fantastic. How soon would you be able to come?”

  “I don’t know. How soon could I come?”

  “How does day after tomorrow sound?”

  “You mean this Sunday?”

  “Will that not work for you?”

  Bernadine almost can’t breathe. The thought of actually going through with this has been in her head for so long, now that the reality of it is here, she’s panicking. It’s difficult for her to take in air. She tries not to pant, but it’s impossible.

  “Are you all right?”

  She reaches inside her purse, takes out a Xanax and swallows it. Her forehead is wet. She wipes it dry. “I’m fine,” Bernadine says. “Sunday works for me.”

  She calls John.

  “I need to tell you something,” she says. Bernadine has no idea what made her call him first.

  “I think I may already know. Whatever you need, Bernie: just say the word.”

  “I need your help.” She also can’t believe she just came out and said this to her ex-husband. She has never asked him or anybody for help—until an hour and a half ago. “I have a problem,” she says.

  “I know, Bernie. This is me you’re talking to.”

  She’s trying her damnedest not to cry but it’s hard.

  “It’s okay. Taylor told me you might be going somewhere. I found out it wasn’t a class. I told you, you can’t trust her with a secret, didn’t I?”

  Bernadine starts laughing.

  “She said she lost one mother, she didn’t want to lose another one.”

  “Thank Ms. Big Mouth for me, would you, John? It’s Xanax and an occasional sleeping pill. I just want to get my life back.”

  “Don’t we all? May I please say something?”

  “Go ahead,” she says, somewhat apprehensively.

  “I think I may have something to do with this.”

  “What are you talking about, John?”

  “I broke your heart.”

  “You didn’t break my heart. You betrayed me but that was so long ago I barely remember it.”

  “I’m the one who started this. Not James. I’m the one who disappointed you on a grand level.”

  “Can we not go there?”

  “No, I think it’s important that you know I accept some responsibility for the invisible bruises you’ve been walking around with all these years. James’s bullshit only exacerbated it. You haven’t deserved any of this, Bernie.”

  “Okay. I thank you for caring.”

  “Don’t try to brush this off. I’ve thought about this for years. Don’t think Kathleen’s exit wasn’t my comeuppance. I’m very much aware of that.”

  “She made you happy, though, for years, John. Come on.”

  “The same holds true for us, doesn’t it? We fell in love in college, Bernie. We were married for eleven wonderful years and I just took all of it for granted. Look where I am now.”

  “You’ll be fine. Maybe Kathleen will come back.”

  “She won’t be coming back anytime soon. We’re divorced. I’m glad, if you can believe that. She also wants Taylor to come visit her in London, but Taylor doesn’t want to.”

  “Why can’t she come here?”

  “Apparently she hates Phoenix.”

  “Well, isn’t that just too fucking bad.”

  “Taylor feels the same way. Anyway, we’ll be fine. I just want to make sure you’re going to be.”

  “Thanks for what you just said, John.”

  “May I ask you something, Bernie?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When did you stop hating me?”

  “I never really hated you.”

  “You most certainly did.”

  “Okay. I can’t remember.”

  “Do you remember forgiving me?”

  Bernadine gives that one some thought. Draws a blank.

  “Something happened that allowed you to let me off the hook. You don’t remember what that was?”

  Her chest sinks. She does remember. “It wasn’t one thing, John. After a while, I realized it was wearing me out inside. Not you. That resenting you, holding you hostage and blaming you for my pain wasn’t making it go away. You were living your life. I wasn’t. That’s when I decided to let it go.”

  “Why can’t you do the same thing with James?”

  “Because I haven’t tried,” she hears herself say. “Because I’ve felt that the longer I hate him, eventually he’ll feel it.”

  “If that were possible, hypothetically speaking, then what?”

  “Then we’d be even.”

  “Is that what you really think?”

  “No.”

  “I hope not, Bernie. You need to let yourself off the hook. Because this isn’t about James anymore. Don’t you get that?”

  “I’m moving in that direction. What I do know is all this negative energy has contaminated too many areas of my life. And I’m starting to see that my happiness is more important than my unhappiness. That’s the pill I need to swallow.”

  “Okay. So tel
l me what I can do. You need me to pay for this? Just say the word.”

  “No.”

  “I know these places are off the chart. I don’t care how much, Bernie.”

  “My insurance covers most of it.”

  “That’s good. But what about your bills? The mortgage payment.”

  “What about my bills, and what makes you think I have a mortgage payment?”

  “I know how hard it’s been for you, Bernie. I know what that ass-hole did to you financially. You’ve just been too damn stubborn and proud to say anything to anybody.”

  “What else do you think you know?”

  “I know I’ve paid off the second mortgage and the lease on your old café for the next four years, and I cannot wait to see what kind of hip new restaurant you plan to put in it after you get back home and get your bearings.”

  “Who said anything about a new restaurant?”

  “Taylor, who else? Well, she told me all about your menus and she said she saw some design ideas from photos you’ve ripped out of magazines.”

  “That girl.”

  “Do something exciting, Bernie. Something outrageous and different. Make it joyful. I’ll pay for the architect. Renovations. Whatever it takes. Don’t fight this. Please.”

  Bernadine is literally speechless. Her lips are trembling. She does not know what to say. Finally, she says, “Thank you, John.”

  “No worries. By the way, check your in-box. I sent you the floor plans for some of the properties I’d like you to take a look at. None of them would work for a restaurant. You could certainly lease them out. Nothing like income property.”

  “You’re the best ex-husband, John.”

  “I’m your friend, Bernie. Now. You still haven’t asked me to do anything yet. I’m listening.”

  “Would you be able to drive me to Palm Springs?”

  “Of course.”

  “In two days?”

  “The sooner the better is what I always say.”

  “Oh shit! Wait! I forgot! John Junior’s coming next week! There’s no way I can—”

  “You can and you will. He’ll be fine. Our son is a grown man who’s going to be a father soon, so he’ll just have to be patient.”

  “What can you tell him, John?”

  “The truth, Bernie. It’s fine. And I’ll tell Onika when she gets home in two weeks. They know what time it is—as they say—so this shouldn’t be anything they can’t handle.”