“I hope that you find Dr. Adair satisfactory,” the Conrad voice said. “Of course you know I’m acting chair of psychiatry at Penn, but substance abuse is not my field. However I have used hypnosis—”
“We appreciate your being here,” Meredith said, cutting him off.
“Meredith?” Ashley’s voice sounded tiny and Carla remembered how quiet she’d been as a kid. Maybe because she stuttered. “W-where’s Carla?”
Carla wanted to run out and hug Ashley, tell the others to get the fuck out. Now, not later. She backed up in the hall, planning to duck back into her room for a blast of rock. Then split.
“Mr. Schiller is here, Mrs. Parnell,” Sara announced before Carla made it back to her room.
“Send him in here,” Meredith called. The bossy bitch. Carla had always wondered what it was like for her and Frank. In bed. Like who did what to whom?
“Meredith, sorry I’m late.” Uncle Carl’s voice.
Carla fought the overwhelming impulse to rush out. If only she could sit in his lap as she had when she was a little girl. Carl and Phyllis had never had a child, and Carla was named after “Uncle Carl,” always his special one. Until lately, when they had drifted apart. Carla still felt horrible about the way she’d blown them off the last time they came to see her. It hadn’t been a good time for her that day. Today was not a good time for her either. The HIV thing curdled in her stomach. Could she confide in Uncle Carl? Crazy thought. What she had to do was get out of the apartment.
“Ashley and Conrad are in the living room. Dr. Adair is waiting in the library.”
“The psychiatrist?”
“An addiction specialist,” Meredith said. “Ph.D. psychologist. I met with him last week. Told him about Carla. How she’d become withdrawn, unpredictable, careless about her appearance, slovenly even. Lying about her whereabouts and her friends. Druggie friends sleeping at the apartment. Trouble with the building management. How could this happen, I asked him? Carla had so much going for her.”
Carla had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. These people had no right fucking up her life. Especially now that she was going to die from AIDS.
Meredith kept on lecturing. “Dr. Adair explained how drug addiction was an illness, a disease like diabetes or kidney failure. Believe me, when I tried to explain that to Frank, he wasn’t buying. Self-indulgence, he says. He’s always complained that Vivian and Paul spoiled Carla.”
“What drugs is she hooked on?” Carl asked, his voice shaking as if it too had palsy.
“Dr. Adair thinks cocaine. Maybe crack cocaine. Ecstasy. Maybe even heroin. Based on what I told him, he thinks she’s sinking fast. That if her addiction is left untreated, it could be fatal. Ashley wanted to wait for Rory to get back from her vacation, but Frank agrees that we should do it now as you recommended.”
“Frank’s not here?” Carl asked.
“Oh, no. Drug abuse is the kiss of death in a politician’s family despite all that talk about it being ‘just an illness.’ He needs to distance himself. Let’s hope this intervention works. Did you read that book I sent you?”
“I looked it over,” Uncle Carl said.
“No time for all that prework and practice sessions,” Meredith said. “We have to make the best of this.”
Carla knew she was fucked. She’d heard about interventions. Everybody showing up to throw all your shit in your face. Then force you off to detox.
“You’re doing a good thing, Meredith,” Carl said. “You’re just what this family needs right now.”
“I had expected Rory to take the lead,” Meredith said, as Carla stood grounded, needing to hear what they had planned for her. “What a complicated family. No way Frank and I are having more than one child.”
And I’ll never have a kid either, Carla thought. The concept came as a shock. Not like she’d wanted kids, but with AIDS—she’d be dead.
Then they started talking about Rory. How she refused to postpone her trip, claiming that they’d promised the kids. How tough it was for Chan to get another doctor to cover his practice. So Rory couldn’t be bothered about her, Carla surmised, as she rushed to the safe in her dressing room where she kept the bag of rocks and the pipe. When she jerked open the door, she discovered the safe was empty. She slumped back against the racks of clothes. Where the fuck had she put the stuff? She crawled to her purse, ripped through it. Pills, only pills. She needed rocks. She threw the purse across the room, scrambled up, rifled through her drawers, her bathroom cabinet. Nothing. She scrambled back to her purse, yanked out her cell phone, called Bunky. No answer.
“Miss Carla?” It was Sara. Carla had told Sara to drop the “miss.” It sounded too Gone with the Windish. But all the Parnell housekeepers called the kids “Miss” or “Missus” or “Mister.” And they were supposed to do the same, only Carla didn’t. “Mrs. Waring” was “Sara.”
Carla cracked open the door. She could smell coffee, but caffeine wasn’t going to help. “Sara, I have to go find Bunky.” She tried to tone down her desperation. “He’s probably hanging out near the park. Just be a few minutes.”
“Mrs. Parnell sent me to get you,” Sara’s voice faltered and her hands trembled. “They’re here to see you. Mrs. Parnell and Mr. Schiller is here too. And Miss Ashley with Dr. Welton.”
Right. To put me in fucking prison. Carla felt like a trapped animal. Her heart raced, her voice shook. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Sara, but I don’t like it.”
She slammed the door in Sara’s face. She would not stay and listen to any more. If she couldn’t find Bunky, she’d need cash to buy on the street. She ripped open the secret drawer beneath her dressing table, pulled out a pouch and checked her cash: $500 in fifties. She grabbed it, stuffed it into her purse, and bolted toward the door, halting abruptly when the door did not budge.
“What the fuck?” She banged on the door and yelled, “Sara, get me out!”
No response. She pounded with her sandal, feeling a rush of paranoia. As a user, she lived paranoia.
“Carla.” Meredith’s voice, not Sara’s, and she was right outside the door. Carla heard the insertion of a key.
“Carla, it’s me, Ashley. Come on out. Okay?” This was “April Fool’s” all right and she was the fool.
She heard the key turn, and the door opened. She was trapped. She ran to the window. Could she just jump? Nineteen floors onto Park Avenue? She felt an arm on hers. Uncle Carl’s.
“Let’s talk, Carla,” he said. Carla turned to face him. Meredith was at his side, a look of horror on her angular face, like she thought Carla would really jump. And maybe she would have. Carla couldn’t be sure. Then she saw Ashley standing at the door, a man next to her, his arm encircling her waist.
Just stay calm and act normal, Carla told herself. Don’t fall into their trap. You’ve always talked your way out of shit. Smart talk. You can’t let them put you away.
“What are you all doing here?” She needed to stall for time.
“Carla, there’s somebody I want you to meet,” Ashley said. “Conrad Welton. He’s a doctor.”
Carla stared, not bothering to hide her hostility.
Welton held out his hand. “Charmed to meet you, Carla.”
“Better not,” Carla mumbled. “I’m coming down with the flu.” She needed to keep them all at a distance. The taste of vomit lingered in her mouth, making her stomach queasy. She needed a drink.
Welton withdrew his hand, but Ashley pulled away from him and threw her arms around Carla.
“And, this is Dr. Adair,” Meredith interrupted, gesturing toward a trim man with curly brown hair and matching moustache. He was maybe ten years older than Carla, mid-thirties. He had a twitch in his eye, making him seem nervous and shifty. Not someone Carla could trust, she knew that.
“Miss Parnell, I’m happy to meet you.” He squeezed through the door, extending a puffy white hand.
Carla cringed at the voice she’d heard discussing her with
Meredith. She kept her hands behind her back. “It’s really not a good time,” she said. “I do have plans.” She glanced around. “I guess no one called me to check. Sorry.”
“Let’s go into the living room.” Meredith, used to issuing orders, herded the group out of the bedroom and ushered Carla to the sofa. She sat Carla next to her, too close. Uncle Carl settled himself on her other side. She was trapped.
“Dr. Adair is an addiction specialist,” Meredith began.
“And Conrad is a psychiatrist,” Ashley added, too smug.
“We’re all here to help you.” Meredith again.
“I don’t need help.”
“Why don’t you just hear us out, Miss Parnell,” the shifty doctor said. “May I call you Carla?”
“I don’t care what the fuck you call me,” Carla shot back, losing control easily. “I don’t know what you’re doing here anyway. I’m sorry, everybody, I have to go.” She tried to get up, but Uncle Carl’s frail arm held her back. Anyone else and she would have bolted, but she couldn’t push Uncle Carl away.
“I promised your father that I would take care of you,” he said. “Now let’s talk.”
Carla sat silently between Carl and Meredith, then Carl put his arm around her as he had when she’d been a child. He always said that he was her godfather, even though he was Jewish. Her Catholic godfather, a cardiologist that her mom knew, had died when Carla was two, and she didn’t even remember his name.
“Carla,” Meredith began, “we know you’re in trouble—that you have been using drugs.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s been going on for a long time,” Ashley said. “We’re here to help you.”
“What right—?”
Uncle Carl interrupted. “Talk to us about it so we can get you some help.”
“Look, maybe I’ve made some mistakes. Sure, even used some drugs.” She shrugged, casting her eyes downward. And I have AIDS, she almost said aloud. “Look, everybody does a little pot. Clinton. George W. Anybody who says they don’t is a liar.”
No one said anything.
Still looking down, Carla mumbled, “My life hasn’t been so good lately, and once in a while I take something to help me feel better. Nothing serious. Nothing I can’t handle.”
The addiction doctor said, “You feel in control of your life?”
“Yes. You’re blowing this all out of proportion. Really now, I have to get going.” Carla looked at her wrist, and remembered that she had lost her diamond Piaget watch.
“Carla, Ashley has been very worried,” Ashley’s boyfriend said. “Very concerned.”
Mister, it’s me who has problems, Carla wanted to scream. Instead, she kept silent, eyes cast downward. How was she going to put a stop to this?
“Look, I’m an adult. Nobody has to tell me how to live my life.” Carla stared at Meredith. “And that includes Frank. He’s the one who sent you here, right, Meredith? My lifestyle doesn’t fit his political agenda, the illusion of a perfect Parnell family.”
“Carla,” the addiction doctor broke in, blinking as he spoke. “We’re here to talk about reality. First, we know from the paraphernalia that you keep in the apartment and the drugs found here over time that you are a heavy user. We also know that the people that come and go here are known addicts.”
Stay calm, under control, throw them off, Carla tried to tell herself. Don’t lose it.
“Did you know that addiction is a chronic disease?” Ashley’s boyfriend sounded like one of those voice-over commercials. “If you have it, you have to deal with it. If you don’t, it can be fatal.”
“We want to get you into a treatment program,” Ashley said. “Fortunately, this disease can be treated.”
“A disease? Like HIV is a disease? A treatable disease?” Had these words slipped out of her mouth?
“Yes,” the doctor said. “Like—”
Carla cut him off. “Uncle Carl, help me out here. Who’s been feeding you all these lies? I just admitted that I use drugs sometimes. Okay? But that doesn’t make me an addict. I can’t believe that you all would accuse me of that.” She did not miss the sideways glance from Carl to Sara.
“We’re not with you every day,” Meredith said. “That’s why Mrs. Waring is here.”
Carla gasped and spun toward her faithful companion and protector. Sara knew way too much.
“I’m sorry, Miss Carla,” Sara’s voice trembled, “but Mrs. Parnell convinced me that we all had to get together to help you. Otherwise bad things will happen. I just know they will.”
“How could you turn on me? I trusted you.”
Tears welled in Sara’s kind, dark eyes, and Carla wanted to apologize immediately, but the doctor interrupted. “Carla. I know this is difficult for you. For us too. We want you to face reality. We’ll be going over some specific examples that we have prepared. All we ask is that you listen. Okay?”
Carla felt so bad about yelling at Sara that she nodded her head. She was in a trap and the only way out was to listen to their bullshit. She felt like hell—shaky, sweaty, heart racing, head raging.
Meredith pulled out what looked like a printed agenda. “Mrs. Waring will start off.” she announced as if she were on Court TV.
Sara started to read from a yellow lined pad of handwritten notes. She began by staring at them, but as she went along, she began to look up at Carla with eyes that pleaded for understanding.
“Miss Carla, when they explained what they wanted me to do, I sat at the desk in your father’s office. I wanted to remember everything important, everything that might help you. I started four years ago when you moved here from Philadelphia. Before you met Bunky. Just about the time your mama got diagnosed with melanoma. You were going to Parsons. You weren’t happy there.”
Carla shrugged. Damn right. Her grades had been too rotten for an academic college, so Dad bought her way into Parsons School of Design. She’d flunked out the first semester. But she met people who got her into modeling – and into heavier drugs. For a couple of years she’d had a good run. Mostly catalogues until she got to be the “face” for Sensation Cosmetics.
Carla, mute, nodded.
“You were very thin back then. Still are, skin and bones. Anyway, I started to think that you were drinking too much, like in the morning. And I noticed suspicious medicine bottles back then. I thought they were diet pills.”
Yeah, back then it was amphetamines.
“Since they had a doctor’s name and all, I didn’t bother you about them, Miss Carla.” Sara had turned toward Carla and spoke to her as if no one else was in the room. “About then I started to smell that sweetish marijuana. I didn’t like it, but I let it go. Then after your mama died, I knew that you were slipping bad. I don’t know much about drugs, but I did try to talk to you about it. Remember?”
“Yes,” Carla said.
“I wish I’d tried harder. You begged me not to tell Mr. Paul, and then he got the cancer and he was at Sloan-Kettering and Fox Chase and Baylor and Mayo Clinic that first year. And things got worse and worse.”
She was right there.
“Do you remember when you got fired from the modeling agency after you didn’t show up for your shoots? And nobody knew where you were? That was when things started to get really bad. And after that Bunky moved in here? All our arguments about how he was taking advantage of you?”
“Mrs. Waring,” the doctor prompted. “Why don’t you get back to the list”
Carla felt like screaming. Hadn’t enough been said?
“Yes, doctor.” Sara picked up the yellow pad and started reading an endless list of Carla’s abuses. Wild parties. Damages. Blackouts. And the final straw, prompting the eviction process.
Carla listened as if the person Sara was discussing was someone else, a disgusting slut. Not herself at all, but a fucking loser, one with no self-respect, no redeeming qualities. Then Sara finished by saying she hoped it wasn’t too late.
“Too late?” Carla asked
aloud. Too late for her was AIDS.
“Thank you, Mrs. Waring,” the shrink said. He kept up his repulsive blinking habit. “Now, Mrs. Parnell?”
Carla buried her head in her hands. She’d never liked her sister-inlaw and had always tried to avoid her, never imagining that someday she’d be presiding over her life. Now Carla felt trapped, like in a tornado where everything was sucking her into a vortex of confusion. Maybe she did hate what she’d become. Sometimes she did think about just ending it all.
“Carla, deep down, you must know that you need help,” Meredith started out. “Your habit and your friends have taken all of your money. A million dollars in six months. Your junkie friends are taking advantage of you.”
“What do you know about my friends?” Carla forced a civil tone.
“You’re right. This is about you. About giving you the help you need. We’ve made arrangements for a treatment program,” Meredith concluded.
“I’ll think about it,” Carla said, trying to focus on getting out. “Maybe you’re right, but I need time to think about it. Anyway I appreciate your concern. I really do.”
“The Roberts Clinic,” said Uncle Carl, taking Carla’s hand in his and pulling her so close to him that she could feel the random tremors. “It’s the best. It’s in upstate New York. In the Catskills. Quiet, comfortable, and experienced.”
“No. I know people who have been to places like that. Horrible. All kinds of ugly drunks and junkies. No, I don’t think so.”
“You need inpatient care,” the jerk said. “You’re fortunate that your family can afford it.”
“Fucking fortunate,” Carla mumbled, not caring if they heard.
“Mrs. Waring, why don’t you pack her things,” Meredith said. “Nothing formal. But enough warm clothing for the cool mountain evenings.”
The Test Page 7
