Crystal Lies
Page 28
“It’s time for you to take care of yourself, Glennis.”
“I know…” And I think I do know, but then I’m not sure.
“No, I mean really. You’ve been under an incredible amount of stress. And you’ve made some progress. But it’s time for you to get serious about your own welfare.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Whatever makes you feel good. Just take it easy, relax, unwind, let it soak in that Jacob is in recovery. Just breathe, Glennis.”
I almost laugh. “Do you know you’re the second person to say that to me today?”
“Who was the first?”
“Jack. He met me doing laundry.”
“Well, Jack is right.”
“Which reminds me,” I say. “My laundry is still in the washer downstairs.”
“Why don’t you just leave it?”
“The management doesn’t like it when you do that.”
“Well, remember what I said. Just enjoy this time, Glennis. Take it easy and don’t forget to breathe.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up the phone and put on my jacket and prepare to go down to the laundry room. But there in front of my door, just like before, is my basket with my dry and neatly folded laundry and a little note pinned on the top. “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.’ Psalm 91:1-2.”
I’m beginning to believe that there are, and have been, angels watching over me these past several months. I bring in my clean laundry and close the door, then sit down and contemplate some way I can show my appreciation to Jack.
When I was a little girl, growing up in my conservative and fundamentalist Christian home, I adhered to the belief that if I did everything just right, if I did my very best…then life would go well for me. Now I realize that may not be true. Oh, it’s not that I think I should throw in the towel and just give up. But I no longer see my life as predictable. I’ve given up on the expectation that my “good behavior” controls the outcome of my life. In fact, I think the only thing I really control (and I’m not even sure about this) is my own choices. And that’s it. But maybe that’s the way God wants it to be. Maybe this feeling of vulnerability and helplessness is what makes us keep running back to him. It works for me.
Tomorrow is Christmas. But you wouldn’t know this to look around my apartment. Other than the few Christmas cards on my coffee table, there are no signs of the holiday here. This is unusual for me, since I’ve always been one of those women who decorate every available surface. But this year is different. It’s not that I’m depressed so much as that I am trying to be thoughtful and intentional. I don’t need stuffed Santas or snowmen or jolly sprigs of holly to remind me of the gift God has given.
I felt a little bad when Sarah begged me to join her at my mother’s house, but I knew this was more than I could do. I simply told her that I needed to be here for Jacob.
“I don’t mean to sound jealous,” she told me,“but it seems you’ve given enough to him.”
“I know,” I assured her. “And if he wasn’t in rehab right now, I think I would’ve considered leaving town.”
“But if he’s in rehab, he should be okay.”
“Yeah, that’s sort of true, Sarah. But for rehab to really be successful, they encourage the support of family members. I go once a week for the family meetings, and they’ll have this special program on Christmas Eve that they really want family to attend. It’s my way of showing Jacob that I haven’t given up on him.”
“Do you think I should come home for it?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, honey, it’s so sweet that you’d even consider doing this.”
“Well, should I come or not?”
“I think you should come if you really want to come, Sarah. It’s your decision. And if you can’t do this, I don’t think you should feel bad about it.”
There was a long pause. “I guess I don’t really want to come,” she finally admitted. “But if you thought it would help him—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “But if you have time to write Jake a note or a card, I think that might help him as much as a visit.”
“I’ll do that, Mom,” she promised.
And she kept her word and did it. And now I have this card along with a few other things all bagged up and ready to take over to Hope’s Wings tonight.
Is this really how I wanted to spend Christmas Eve? I ask myself as I scrape a thin layer of ice from my windshield. Hanging out with a bunch of addicts and their sad-eyed families in the drab rehab-center activities room? Then I remind myself of how life felt just a few weeks ago, and I am surprised that I can even question this, but I suppose I’m just a little emotionally drained.
Still, I know this is far better than being home alone in my apartment and wondering whether Jacob is dead or alive. Count your blessings, I tell myself as the engine in my car finally turns over. Besides, I remember as I pull out into the street, Marcus will be there tonight. I turn on the radio, and it’s not long before I am smiling and humming to the Christmas music as I drive across town. To be honest, I am warmed at the thought of not only seeing Jacob clean and sober but also spending some time with Marcus as well. Really, life is not so bad.
“Merry Christmas, Mom!” calls Jacob as soon as I enter the room. He is instantly by my side, taking my coat and smiling just as he used to smile back in the old days.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell him as we hug. Then I hand him the bag. The “gifts” I brought for him are only practical items like shaving cream and socks and boxers, and all remain unwrapped (as specified in the party invitation), and no edibles are allowed since there is always the concern that drugs might be sneaked in through food. Although why a loved one would smuggle contraband into this place is way beyond me. I can’t imagine emerging from all I’ve been through to get Jacob into this place just so I could sneak him in a stocking full of needles and crystal meth.
Just the same, I had to pass through the “detox” entrance where Molly (tonight’s “guard”) inspected everything to make sure it was acceptable. They even go through your purse and pockets when you come to visit. Marcus told me that I’d be amazed at the lengths some recovery patients will go to in order to get a friend or family member to smuggle something past the “guards.”
“Then why are they here?” I asked him.
“Some are trying to get out of being sentenced for a drug-related crime,” he told me. “They say the right things and act like they’re here for the right reasons, but later we find out it was really a scam to avoid the rap.”
Of course, that only reminded me of the pressure I’d put on Jacob to agree to treatment. I hadn’t actually told Marcus about that yet. Hadn’t told anyone. Not even Geoffrey when I called to tell him the good news about Jacobs recovery, just in case he wanted to visit his son, which didn’t seem likely.
“Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing,” Geoffrey had said, clearly unimpressed.
“Yes,” I’d agreed, ready to end the conversation quickly. Then to my surprise my ex-husband admitted that he hadn’t told the police that the break-in was Jacob’s doing.
“But I thought you said that you called them?” I asked, feeling confused. “Didn’t you have the police come up to the house?”
“Yes.”
“But couldn’t they tell by the notes and the fingerprints that—”
“I took care of all that.” He loudly cleared his throat. “And if you want to help keep your son out of trouble, you’d better keep that little bit of information to yourself.”
“What do you mean, Geoffrey?” I demanded. “You took care of what?’
“The incriminating evidence.”
“You tampered with evidence?” I felt stunned now Geoffrey was a lawyer; he knew better than to do something like this.
“Look, Glennis,” he said in a gentle voice
. “Jacob doesn’t need me to add to his problems.”
“Yes,” I agreed, still shocked. “I…uh…I suppose that’s generous of you.”
“And the less we say about any of this, the better.”
“That’s fine with me.”
So we said good-bye and hung up in a very civilized way, and I even wondered if this divorce might actually proceed in the controlled and dignified fashion that Geoffrey Harmon hoped for.
Of course, I later learned through Sarah that Geoffrey was getting a very nice insurance settlement for the damaged and stolen items. Naturally, I didn’t mention her brother’s involvement in the break-in. Nor did I mention her father’s unethical behavior in covering it up. Perhaps some things really are better left unsaid. I’m still not sure.
“Merry Christmas, Glennis,” says Marcus as he comes up from behind. I turn around to see him wearing a rather garish red and green Christmas sweater. I try not to wince at the clashing colors.
“It’s a gift,” he explains, nodding over to where an overweight young woman is seated on the sofa. She seems intently focused on a knitting project, and the yarn is a bright orange shade that would probably be welcomed by a highway worker. “Janice made this for me,” he tells me in a slightly louder voice. “For Christmas.”
“It’s very festive,” I say, smiling at Janice. She looks up and smiles back. “It looks like you’re a fast knitter,” I tell her.
She nods. “I do this to keep my mind off of other things.”
“Yeah,” says Jacob,“and we all know what those other things are, don’t we, Janice?”
Several others make comments, and I am amazed, once again, at the openness of these people to discuss their addiction problems with such candor. I’ve heard them admit to all sorts of things and even joke about them. Marcus says that’s just part of their recovery, and I must admit that it’s helped me to lighten up a bit about the whole thing. Not that I take addiction lightly. I still don’t. But more and more I am realizing that addiction is just another element of the human condition. Whether its chocolate, coffee, or sugar, I suppose we’re all addicted to something.
The patients (or clients as Marcus calls them; Jacob still calls them inmates) perform a little Christmas play for us. A quiet young man named Oliver wrote it, and its really not bad, although their acting abilities range from stuttering stage fright to a thirty-something woman who later tells me that she’s destined for Broadway. “Once I’m clean and sober,” she admits as she pours herself some red punch.
The highlight of the evening (for the patients) is when they get to go outside for a cigarette break. “It’s their only legal vice,” Marcus reminds me as we stand out in the icy cold and wait. The patients huddle together like an elite little club, puffing and joking among themselves, impervious to the cold night air.
“Does everyone in the program smoke?” I ask Marcus.
“They usually do by the time they leave.” He laughs. “But, hey, it’s better than some things. And some of them are just social smokers.”
This reminds me of the time I smoked in the church parking lot with Sherry. I suppose smoking’s not so bad, although I wonder how hard it will be for them to break this habit once they’re on the outside. However, I also know from my classes here that it will be even harder for them to stay clean and sober. That’s the real challenge. The counselors here make no secret of the fact that most of the patients will blow it within the first month of being back on the outside.
“You almost have to expect it,” Marcus told me after I questioned him about this statistic last week.
“But what do you do?”
“You don’t do anything, Glennis. It will be Jacob’s problem to solve.”
“But how will he know—”
“Don’t worry. This is what he’s learning right now. He’ll know exactly what to do, what steps to take to get back on track. The question will be whether or not he is willing to do it.”
I sighed in frustration. “Then we’re right back—”
“No,” he assured me. “Just remember its a process. A day-by-day process.”
I consider this as I watch these people bunched together with a white cloud of smoke forming over their heads. I wonder how many of them will make it all the way through this process. How many of them will make it clear to the other side? And how many will be clean and sober one year or two from now?
“Hey, it’s snowing!” yells Jacob, pointing up to the flakes that are illuminated in the overhead light. And soon they are all out in the parking lot dancing like children among the falling flakes. They are laughing and whooping and getting totally silly about the change in weather. And it occurs to me that they are having a really good time… without drugs. And suddenly I feel surprisingly hopeful and happy too.
After the cigarette break we go back inside, and with Jacob’s accompaniment on guitar, we sing Christmas carols for a while. Then we visit and eat the treats that were prepared by the patients, and finally its nearly eleven, and the party begins breaking up. But first Marcus invites the visiting friends and family members to attend the midnight candlelight service at his church.
“We’re all going over there in the bus,” he explains. “But you’re welcome to follow in your cars if you like.”
So my old Taurus joins the peculiar pilgrimage as we parade across town toward Marcus’s church. I vaguely wonder what Geoffrey would think if he could see Jacob and me tonight. Jacob, as one of the motley crew of inmates riding on the decrepit bus with “Hope’s Wings” painted in bold purple letters across both sides. Or me in my Taurus, trailing a bunch of other equally old and beat-up cars. I’m sure he’d want to pretend he didn’t know either of us, like we’d never been a part of his immaculate little family. But maybe that doesn’t matter so much anymore. Maybe it’s time that we all learn to stand on our own feet.
The candlelight service turns out to be the best I’ve ever attended. And when it’s over, I have tears in my eyes as Jacob turns and thanks me for pushing him to get treatment.
“Things are really going to be different,” he promises. “I don’t ever want to go back to my old life, Mom.”
Well, that’s the best Christmas present anyone could’ve given me this year. And despite all the changes in my life, the heartbreaks, the disappointments, the challenges, I feel like maybe it’s worth it to have my son back again.
I wish I could say that we all lived happily ever after, that my worries were over, and that Jacob never stumbled again once he “graduated” from his inpatient rehab treatment, but it wouldn’t be honest, or even fair.
Naturally, I was pleased and proud to attend Jacob’s graduation ceremony at Hope’s Wings in mid-January. All of the patients made a little speech, but I felt Jacob’s was totally amazing. Oh, I realize he’s my son, and I see things through a mother’s eyes. But in my opinion, he was truly a new man. His big brown eyes were clear and bright. His smile was genuine. And best of all, he was truly happy. I have no doubt about that.
The little graduation was held in the activity room at Hope’s Wings. Sarah came home from school in order to attend the ceremony with me. And to everyone’s surprise, Geoffrey showed up as well. I didn’t even notice him at first. Like me on my first visit at Hope’s Wings, he, too, lingered near the back of the room, clearly uncomfortable with these unfamiliar surroundings that have come to feel like a second home to me. But I have to give him this, he did come up and shake Jacob’s hand afterward. He even said a few kind words. And for a brief time, even Geoffrey was a believer in the rehab program at Hope’s Wings.
But our relief was short-lived. For, as we all know by now, there is no sure thing in rehab treatment. It’s all up to the addict to live out his plan, to make that daily decision to remain clean, to attend his meetings, to meet with his mentor, to succeed at his recovery. And to be perfectly fair, circumstances do play a small role as well. But this role is highly overrated by the addict himself. Especially if he’s still in denial.
“I feel like I have to pay my dues,” he told me as he showed me his gray uniform. “Kind of work my way back up through the system, you know.”
“I’m really proud of you,” I said.
“And I’ll be able to take classes and still work,” he told me. “I think I’ll try to start going to SSCC during spring term.”
“That’s great.”
And it was great. For one whole month it was absolutely great. I felt like life had really returned to normal by then. Of course, anyone involved with a drug addict should realize that normal doesn’t exist anymore.
Then one day when I’m not looking, it all falls apart. In one evening, in early February, it all just seems to go to pieces.
Of course, Jacob tells me that it’s not his fault. That he was just minding his own business last night, scrubbing a hallway floor in a local business, when some jerk shoved him and made the bucket of dirty mop water go everywhere.
“It just kept getting worse and worse,” he explains the next day after I’ve been called to come to the emergency room to help pick up the pieces of my son’s recently shattered life.
“My boss showed up and really tore into me,” he tells me as the nurse rechecks his blood pressure. “And I was so sick of it, sick of everything—cleaning up other people’s messes, never being appreciated for anything.” He shakes his head and quietly lets out a curse. “Well, that was it. I just walked out. And then I was on my way home, and I ran into an old friend…” And on his story goes until he is telling me how his friend offered to hook him up with some “good stuff.” Before the night was over, Jacob had binged on an undisclosed amount of crystal meth and somehow made it to the emergency room before it was too late.
“I guess being clean made it easier for me to overdose,” he tells me with some embarrassment, as if his previous ability to use a lot of meth to get high was some sort of an accomplishment.