by Gia Riley
“You don’t like the new couches?”
“The couches are great,” I tell her.
She went to five stores with me before I finally settled on a sofa.
Each different one I’d sat on, I’d imagined Meadow next to me, curled up, watching a movie—like we used to do before the accident.
I knew the old Meadow would have chosen a plush, oversize sectional, so we had more than enough room to tangle our limbs together. But the woman in rehab, I didn’t know as well. She might prefer something much smaller. Something sleek and contemporary with just enough room to sit side by side. How was I supposed to pick the perfect couch when I wasn’t sure who was coming home?
I’d worried over every thread in the fabric. Because, on a bad day, the slightest of details might set Meadow off.
“What aren’t you telling me then?” Teddi questions.
She’s not one to give up until I tell her everything. That much I’ve learned.
“I guess I’m just worried about Meadow’s reaction.”
She pulls her legs underneath her and takes a sip of her iced tea. Teddi’s a beautiful woman, and one of these days, I’ll stop focusing on my problems long enough to find out why she’s still single, living in this big house all by herself.
Like the compassionate nurse that she is, she says, “You’ll make yourself sick if you don’t stop dwelling on it.”
She’s right. I have to let it go. For now anyway.
“In case I didn’t say it before, thanks for everything. You’ve been amazing.”
“It’s the least I can do, Cash.”
Teddi’s dealing with guilt, too. She feels responsible for sending Meadow to rehab even if we both know it’s the best thing that could have happened to her.
She did the right thing, calling the police—something I’d never been strong enough to do on my own. Even though I was drowning and in desperate need of help.
Teddi hasn’t come right out and said anything, but I can tell she’s nervous about the reaction she’ll get from Meadow when she returns home. Depending on how the next couple of months go, she’ll either thank Teddi or hate her. It’s one or the other, and we’re both hoping for the best.
I think our biggest fear is rehab turning out to be a temporary Band-Aid that will blow up in our faces. Meadow can’t get her hands on any alcohol in the facility, but there’s no telling what’ll happen once she’s back in the real world, surrounded by temptation.
Meadow’s making progress though. I can feel it, and when she asked me to lie in the bed with her yesterday, that was the first time I felt close to my wife since the accident.
“She’s getting better, Teddi.”
Teddi gives me a warm smile and says, “I knew she would be.”
I’m already thinking about next week’s visit, and I want to take her something special, but the list of what we can and can’t bring into the building is extensive.
If my words were enough, I’d have nothing to worry about, but Meadow shies away from me when I tell her I love her.
With time, I’d like to think we can get past that. Because it feels so good to hold her in my arms and touch her skin.
Maybe I should have paid more attention to the center. If she’s comfortable in her room, I could re-create that here. Trying to remember the color of her walls is impossible though. I was too focused on memorizing the curve of her lips and the sound of her voice to notice the paint.
“Do you think we should have picked the sage instead? I’ve heard that’s a calming color.”
“No,” Teddi tells me with a playful smirk. “I showed you that color, and you said it looked like chewed-up grass, which I’m still hoping you’ve never tried. The paint you chose is perfect. But, if she hates it, I’ll help you repaint. Don’t worry.”
Worry. That’s all I do these days. Teddi talks me off a ledge on a daily basis. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
While I was working out a deal with my lawyer, Teddi gave a statement that cleared me of wrongdoing. She told the officers the pattern of behavior she’d observed each night as she crossed paths with my wife.
When I read over the pages of testimony she’d left, she’d painted us in a very normal picture, given the circumstances. Though she’d rarely seen Meadow sober, she still told the officers there was no malicious intent with her actions.
My wife was a runner, but she did no harm to anyone in the neighborhood. She kept to herself, and though Teddi overheard arguments from time to time, she knew they were a direct result of intoxication.
The fact that I was covered in blood hadn’t scared Teddi. She saw much worse at work and knew that I’d taken extraordinary measures to protect my wife.
The night we formally met on the side of the road, her gut instinct had told her not to fear me. That I’d done nothing wrong.
Teddi cared, and she wasn’t looking to cause any trouble. So much so that we rode home in the car together after dropping Meadow off at rehab. She placed her hand in mine and didn’t care that I still had dried blood underneath my fingernails.
“It’ll all work out,” she told me.
I wanted to believe her so badly. So, I squeezed her hand back and said, “Thank you.”
The rest of the ride was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop, but we didn’t need words. I appreciated Teddi. She’d watched out for my wife for weeks, and then she’d used her best judgment when she felt helpless.
I couldn’t fault her for that. I’d been there too many times myself.
That night, long after she should have been asleep, she walked across the street and rang the doorbell. That was the first time I’d ever opened the door, welcoming someone into the nightmare that was my home.
“Let me help you,” she whispered as she pulled me into a hug.
And I let her. Every day since.
“You’re positive about that color?” I ask her one more time.
This time, she snorts because she knows I can’t help myself. “Cash, she won’t be home for two more months. If you don’t get used to it, we’ll change it. Or show her the swatch next week. Let her decide before you change it.”
I know I am worrying over nothing. The paint will be the least of our worries once Meadow comes home.
Vodka—that will always be the problem.
My phone rings, and I panic like I always do when the center calls, dropping my phone onto the carpet.
Teddi picks it up and hands it to me.
“Hello?”
“Cash, this is Ms. Lucia, Meadow’s therapist.”
I clear my throat and wait for the bad news. Surely, she couldn’t have gotten herself into too much trouble since yesterday. But I know that is a lie. My wife could go from zero to a hundred in three seconds flat. And I pray whatever she’s done is something I can fix.
“Is Meadow okay?”
“She’s doing beautifully,” she says with pride. “That’s actually why I’m calling. I’d like to invite you to visit with her today if you’re free. She’s made significant progress today, and I’d like to reward her. Are you available?”
“Yes, of course,” I sputter, shocked at the news. “What time?”
“As soon as you can get here.”
I don’t know how to respond. Yesterday went well—I knew it did—but the fact that she’s making enough progress to earn bonus visiting time is almost too good to be true. I don’t have to wait an entire week to see my wife. We can pick up where we left off, and I can hold her again within the hour.
“I’ll be there, Ms. Lucia. Can I ask what breakthrough she’s had?”
“I’ll let her tell you about her treatment plan,” she says. “I think she’d like that best.”
“Of course.”
After I hang up, I walk in circles, looking for keys that are stuffed in my pants pocket.
“Good news?” Teddi asks.
“I can see Meadow,” I tell her.
Her smile vanishes; she’s so shocked. And then she p
lasters it back on.
Teddi worries when I get this excited. Because she’s seen how nasty addiction really is. Most of her patients never make it out of the emergency room.
But my wife isn’t going to become a statistic. She’s finally coming around, making the progress we both so desperately need.
fourteen
MEADOW
You are so pathetic, I tell myself as I stand in front of the supply closet with a bobby pin between my fingers, desperately trying to pick the lock. All so I can get my hands on some mouthwash. It’s the closest to alcohol I can find in rehab and probably why there’s none in my bathroom. They don’t give simple luxuries to alcoholics. Those tiny bottles are saved for the patients who don’t want to suck it down in one swallow.
You don’t need this, Meadow.
But I do.
I want a taste more than anything.
If I had to choose between food and alcohol, I’d pick the warm liquid every single time. Because, if I drank enough, the hunger pains would eventually disappear. And the less I ate, the faster the alcohol would knock me on my ass. Not even Grandma’s lemon poppy seed cake could sway me. I’d never miss out on the burn or the happiness that followed.
I shouldn’t still be thinking like this. A month of my life is gone, and though my therapy sessions have gotten way more intense, I think Ms. Lucia’s efforts have been wasted. Nothing she’s said or done has made me forget about vodka. Not even the nights when I detoxed so violently that I begged someone to pour whiskey down my throat.
And, now that I’ve given Ms. Lucia consent to contact the hypnotherapist, I’m petrified about not being able to curb my anxiety with a drink.
This is all Cash’s fault.
He made me come here.
But I’m sober enough to know that that’s a lie. He didn’t force me to drink. Sure, he bought it, but he never handed it over without that pitiful look of regret.
I made him feel so guilty about me losing my memory that he would have done anything in his power to make me happy, anything to bring me back from the hell that had sucked the life out of me.
And he did.
It wasn’t his fault the only thing that brought me happiness was alcohol.
If he could see me now. Shoving a thin strip of metal into a tiny hole to release a lock. I’m a joke.
If I were being graded I’d be ashamed of my report card. Because, no matter how hard I try to put myself out there, I can’t do it. No amount of talking with a shrink is enough to unleash the demons inside my mind.
This isn’t the first time I’ve tried breaking into the closet. When the urge to drink is strong, like right now, I peer through the glass and think about all the ways I can get inside.
Breaking the door down or shattering the glass would definitely get me kicked out. Considering I’m already here instead of jail, I can’t risk getting locked up in a cell.
I’m sure I’m not the only one looking for a fix. But, today, I’m the only one stupid enough to act on it.
Everyone in rehab has a story—an addiction they’re battling and a past they need to work through. People think I have it easier because I don’t remember my life. But they are wrong. Not even the serenity of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” and that tiny ballerina in the music box can make it hurt less.
The metal isn’t strong enough to turn the entire lock, so I dig in my hair for a second bobby pin. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the tip of a shoe, and then I smell the food.
Carrying a steaming hot tray from the cafeteria, he has a black sweatshirt zipped up to his neck and the hood pulled over his head. It’s pouring outside, so I assume he was out for a smoke break; nicotine is the one substance they don’t make you give up when you come to rehab.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I try to hide the evidence.
I must have jammed the bobby pin inside the lock fifty times, and I’m so close to getting what I want. But the knob won’t turn, and I imagine how Cash must have felt when I locked him inside the bedroom. Talk about Karma.
Before I turn the entire way around, I slide the pins underneath my sleeve and then avoid direct eye contact.
His eyes are fixed on me though. I can feel his stare, and I know nothing I say will make this look any better.
“Bad day?” he asks.
“Don’t rat me out.”
A coughing fit shuts him up for a few seconds, and that explains the frog in his throat and the hot soup on the tray.
I don’t want to catch whatever he has, so I take a step backward and wait for him to move. He doesn’t, not right away, and I start to panic.
What if he turns me in?
Stay cool, Meadow.
He’s just like you, probably running from a ton of problems and not looking for trouble.
He’s not a therapist, and he won’t pull me into his office to add to the growing binder of things I’ve done wrong.
“Are you okay?” he says.
I realize I never responded. I’m too busy having a conversation with myself in my head, like crazy people do.
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re fine, why won’t you look at me?”
“Because you’re judging me. Like everyone else in this place.”
He turns his head and coughs some more. And then he takes a sip of whatever drink is on his tray.
“I’m not judging you. I don’t even know who you are, but if you need a key to the closet, you should probably ask someone at the front desk instead of trying to break in. It looks a little less suspicious.”
He’s a real comedian. But asking for a key means I have to sign it out. And then they’ll know who took all the mouthwash when they notice it’s gone missing.
“Thanks for the pointer. I’ll just go back to my room now if you’re done infecting the air.”
“Having a cold isn’t a crime. Picking a lock though,” he says.
“I get it,” I tell him.
“Good. If you need to talk, stop by room five-thirteen.”
I’ve never been to that part of the building. My room and Ms. Lucia’s are on the first floor, closest to the entrance. I always thought the higher the number, the more serious the patient. So, maybe this guy is royally fucked up, and I look like the saint, even while trying to break into a closet.
“I think I’ll just go back to my room.”
I try to step around him, but he shifts, so he’s blocking my path. My whole body stiffens, and when he reaches for my arm, the one where I have the bobby pins tucked under the sleeve, I react. A knee to the groin sends him to the ground. His tray slips out of his hand, and the soup spills all over the floor.
A nice person would apologize and help clean up the mess, but I have to get out of here before he figures out who I am and where to find me.
Walking in the direction I came, I curse myself for choosing this supply closet. I didn’t have much of a choice though. It’s the only closet that doesn’t have a camera pointing directly at it, so naturally, it was the safest choice when I scoped out my options.
I can still hear him yelling as I round the corner, my pace as calm and casual as I can manage despite my racing heart. The less suspicious I appear, the better because his yelling causes heads to pop out of rooms, as people wonder what all the commotion is about.
Thankfully, nobody gives me a second glance. I’m just the weird girl who doesn’t talk to anyone. The one who walks with her head down and sits alone in the cafeteria, staring at dumpsters.
Rehab carries a stigma. Those on the outside see us as damaged goods. Everyone on the inside just tries to figure out who’s the most messed up, and that’s the person they either go after when they’re bored or avoid altogether. So far, they’ve deemed me boring enough to avoid.
Once I’m safely in my room, I close the door and flop down on my bed. Guilt washes over me, and I don’t know how to make it go away. All I want to do is go back and try to get into that closet again. But I know that’s too risky. I can never
go back to that part of the building again.
It could be worse. I could have been caught by Ms. Lucia, and then I would have had to concoct some dramatic story about what I was doing.
Addicts are some of the best actors and actresses you’ll find. We have the uncanny ability to hide our pain better than most, masking our emotions with obsessions. We force our bodies to stop feeling one thing and take advantage of something else that makes us feel even better. It’s a process, a ritual harder to break than the twelve-step program creator realizes.
My heart rate’s just about back to normal when my door opens. I don’t know whether to scream or pretend I’m asleep. It all depends on who’s on the other side, and I’m too afraid to lift my head and see the guy in the black hoodie.
“Meadow?”
Ms. Lucia.
I’m in so much trouble.
He ratted me out.
Sitting up, I fix my hair and then let my feet dangle along the side of the bed.
“What’s up?” I ask her, trying to play it as cool as possible.
She pushes the door open a little further, and Cash walks in behind her.
“What’s going on? We’re only allowed visitors on Wednesdays.”
Ms. Lucia smiles and says, “You made a lot of progress today. I thought you deserved a reward. Plus, I thought you might want to tell your husband about tomorrow.”
So, it’s really happening. Tomorrow, I’ll meet this new doctor, and he’ll hypnotize me.
I’m sure Ms. Lucia already filled Cash in on the details, and I hate that she took it upon herself to invite him here.
She still doesn’t realize that he was part of the problem.
Not remembering my marriage with Cash made me want to drink.
Yet what did she do? She disregarded those feelings and invited him here.
I understand that I’m trying to turn a new leaf, to make a conscious effort to let Cash in, the way a wife should. But I still look at him and expect him to have a bottle of vodka waiting for me.
If he really loved me, he’d have one hiding in his coat pocket right now. Every guest walks through metal detectors and gets searched when they arrive, so I know there’s no chance of him having alcohol on him. Still, that’s what I want from my husband.
