Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  “I don’t understand why she’d want to make med changes,” Sylvia said.

  “Doctors. They’re all alike,” Nancy said.

  Sylvia never asked Nancy to be responsible about the particulars of his medication. The adjustment to living with Steve and establishing a friendly relationship seemed a tall enough order. She didn’t want to overburden her with nursing-type duties and, frankly, wasn’t sure she’d be willing or capable. Steve was touchy and easily offended about someone else overseeing what he determined was only his business. Even Sylvia had to approach him with kid gloves when she wanted to verify that he’d filled his pill tray properly. She couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t sure who to trust, since their parents had handled everything. They were all learning the how, what, who, and where of Steve’s life. It was new territory. “I’ll call Pandi tomorrow to find out what the med changes are about.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  Sylvia asked to speak to her brother, but Nancy wanted to get off the phone before he had a chance to talk to his sister and possibly mention Danny. “He’s eating dinner now, but I’ll let him know you’ll be checking with Dr. Pandi. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call you when I have more information.”

  A week went by and Danny was still living there. Steve did his best to stay out of his way, but also thought he should stay home and track his movements, especially since Nancy was gone a good part of the day. Danny spent most of the time lying around on the hide-a-bed in the family room, which he never folded away. Maybe he couldn’t do it by himself. The TV rumbled constantly in the background. He talked a lot on the phone to his friends or argued with his wife about the kids. Sometimes Steve listened from the living room and got an earful—joking, swearing, yelling—‘lowlife talk’ his dad would’ve called it. Back and forth, back and forth Danny went, crutches thumping, the metal leg creaking with each labored step through the narrow stairwell to the tiny kitchen, where he’d stand (too long) in front of the open refrigerator (the food wouldn’t stay cold), rummaging around. Steve wondered who was paying for all the food Danny ate and his beer. He always had a beer in his hand. Probably our money, he thought.

  When Steve did leave the house, he tried to slip away so Danny wouldn’t ask to tag along. He had to go through the family room to get to the garage. On the way, he had to pay his respects to Danny, so sometimes he waited for the perfect getaway, like when Danny was in the bathroom. He’d make a beeline to his car. As he backed out the drive, relief would pour through him. I made it.

  Not only had Danny set up camp in the family room, but the painter had been there for several days, too. Steve could barely stand it. He had hoped the mayhem and the smell would make Danny want to move back home, but no such luck. Danny and the painter seemed to enjoy each other. When Steve retreated upstairs, he could hear their muffled conversations, their laughing it up, and he wondered how the painter would ever get the job done in two weeks. Danny even offered food and beer or to help move some of the furniture, but the painter refused, which made Steve sometimes feel obliged to help. He wasn’t a cripple. At least Nancy rearranged her schedule and was home most mornings to assist where needed. Steve wanted to ask Nancy about her son’s plans, but he figured it wasn’t really his business. And he didn’t want her to feel bad—she seemed so happy to have Danny around, eating dinner together, watching TV shows and old movies, and playing video games in her bedroom.

  On day eight, Steve met with Dr. Nora for his scheduled appointment. Except for the dirty magazines, Steve spilled the beans about Danny—his beer drinking, eating his food, laying around all day, and talking on the phone.

  Dr. Nora was shocked. “Does your sister know he’s living in your house?”

  “I haven’t told her. And I don’t think Nancy has either,” Steve answered.

  “She needs to know right away. He has no right to live with you. Would you like me to call her?”

  Steve brightened. “That’d be great,” he said. “I wouldn’t want Danny or Nancy to hear me.”

  Dr. Nora called Sylvia early the next morning.

  “Steve’s showing signs of agitation and muddled thinking due to Danny’s constant presence. The situation is delicate for him because he doesn’t want to offend Nancy or her son, so he’s walking on eggshells, pretending he’s fine, but feeling like an outsider in his own home.” Dr. Nora explained that Steve’s willingness to speak to her openly was a positive step, a cry for help if you will. “He stood up for himself by coming to me, so at some level he knows how to take care of himself. But Danny clearly has to move out, and the sooner, the better.”

  Sylvia was fuming. How could Nancy bring her drunken son to live with Steve? And leave them alone while she’s working? “I’m struggling to understand how Nancy could do this, especially after Dr. Rita pointed out to Nancy that Steve can regress with too much stimulation—talking, noise, visitors!”

  “She probably convinced herself that her son is ‘guy company’ for Steve, and her son’s in trouble,” Dr. Nora said. “Mothers can be in strong denial when it comes to saving their children, even when they’re grown.”

  Sylvia began biting a fingernail. She knew too well the truth in that statement. She’d bailed her twenty-eight-year-old daughter out financially a dozen times and almost had to be held down to leave her son alone. She and Dr. Nora concluded that Danny could stay two more nights, and Sylvia would need to call no later than the following day. She needed the rest of the day to calm down and collect her thoughts, to figure out how to be compassionate toward Nancy yet firm, without getting angry. Nancy was essential to the arrangement for Steve, and she couldn’t risk upsetting her. She dreaded the conversation. That night, she told her husband about his sister’s bold move, but Adam didn’t understand the problem. He took a purely practical approach. “Well, there is enough room for him and Steve likes him. Danny might be good for Steve.” His stance surprised her, but she chalked it up to ‘blood runs thicker.’

  The next morning, still filled with dread, she placed the call. Steve answered, groggy.

  “Is Danny there now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. He sleeps in the family room. I’m in my room. Did Dr. Nora call you? Oh, yeah. She must have. I didn’t.” He coughed and apologized for it. “Danny’s probably here. He’s always here. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “No. I want to talk to Nancy.”

  “Are you mad? Don’t be mad when you talk to Nancy. Danny’s not so bad. He’s her—“

  “He shouldn’t be there anymore,” she said firmly.

  “You sound mad, Sylvia. I told Nancy it was okay. He didn’t have anywhere to go.”

  “I understand you wanted to help out, which was very kind of you. You’re a good guy, Steve, but Nancy should’ve checked with me, too. She stepped over the line.”

  “What line? Mom used to hang the clothes on the line, remember? But there isn’t one anymore. There’s a phone line.”

  “It’s okay, Steve. I’ll be nice. Will you get Nancy for me?”

  “I’ll see if she’s up.”

  Sylvia heard the phone drop, rustling, and Steve’s faint voice call out to Nancy. She waited, rehearsing how to begin.

  Nancy got on the phone. “Hi there. Have you got some good news about Pandi?”

  “No news on Pandi. I haven’t reached her yet, or rather, she hasn’t called me back.” She sighed deeply. “I’m actually calling about Danny.”

  Nancy didn’t expect this so soon. She put on her best nonchalant air. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, yes, there is. Dr. Nora called me and was concerned about Steve’s welfare. He’s not equipped to handle the added stress of someone around him all day and he has become unhappy with Danny living there, so . . . “

  “Steve and Danny get along great, and Danny is so easy. I didn’t think he’d be a problem for such a short stay,” Nancy said quickly, as if grasping for balance as a rug was being yanked out f
rom underneath her.

  Sylvia had dropped Dr. Nora’s name into to the conversation, so Nancy would see that Steve obviously wasn’t as comfortable with the arrangement as she wanted to believe. Sylvia sensed that Nancy was dodging the real issue. “I wish that you’d talked to me about it first, though.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you with my family problems when you have enough to worry about, living so far away. Since it was only for a few days, I didn’t see any harm. Just ‘til he and his wife sort things out,” Nancy said.

  “Believe me, I know how hard it is when your kids are struggling and you want to be there for them,” she reassured her. She almost mentioned Trevor’s problems but didn’t want to get off track. “But Dr. Nora was pretty adamant, and it’s my job to put my brother’s well-being first. Maybe Danny can stay with a friend for a while.”

  “Of course. I’ll see if he can find another place to stay, but I don’t know how soon . . . “

  Sylvia’s patience was tried. “Dr. Rita explained when we all met with her last year how stressful it is for Steve to have too much stimulation, which Danny is. And his drinking sounds excessive. It’s a bad combination and not good for Steve.”

  “Danny may drink a bit, but it’s only beer. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you. I’d been meaning to talk to you, but what with all that’s going on here at the house, it just never came up. I’ll talk to him right away. Is another night okay, though?” Nancy asked.

  “One more night is fine. Thank you for being so understanding, Nancy, and I hope he can work things out with Becky.” Sylvia hesitated, then offered, “It’s not really my business, but have you ever talked to him about AA meetings?”

  “He’d never go since it’s only beer, and he doesn’t drive. At least it’s not drugs.”

  “That would be worse,” Sylvia agreed. She’d come to realize, whether out of fear of facing the truth or delusional hope the problem would just go away, the mother was the last to know. If Danny was using drugs, she didn’t want confirmation while he was living with Steve. And now she wouldn’t have to worry—Danny would be gone after tomorrow.

  12

  SEPTEMBER 1997

  For Sylvia’s son, in high school, pot smoking had become the problem, not beer. Two years after high school, when she’d found pieces of aluminum foil with black burn streaks in Trevor’s bedroom, she knew something was very wrong. She would wake up in the middle of the night, tearful and afraid. She had asked her husband if he knew what they might be. He didn’t know, but he suggested she get the foil pieces analyzed at the pharmacy, get Trevor in for a physical, get out of denial, and ask him what he was doing. So she did.

  Trevor didn’t skip a beat. He said they were hashish marks. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he tried to assure her. “It’s just a stronger form of pot.”

  Sylvia detected a strategic ploy—if confronted, provide plausible information with an air of nonchalance. So she plunged on, “You’re so thin. You look ill, and you sleep till two in the afternoon. I’m taking you to the doctor.”

  Once she’d made the appointment, she waited anxiously for her older daughter’s return from France. Trevor and Alice were five years apart but quite close. Sylvia had hoped he might open up with his sister, and she counted on Alice to help them. When Alice arrived home and saw her brother, she was astounded by his condition.

  Sylvia hugged her hard and started to weep. “I’m so glad you’re home to help me find out what’s going on.”

  “It’s okay, Mom, I’ll find out right now,” Alice said. She walked down the hall to Trevor’s room at the far end of the house. Sylvia heard his door shut and their muffled voices, then abruptly turned and walked quickly back to her bedroom. She flopped down on her king-size bed and hit the remote.

  An hour later, Alice entered her mom’s room. Sylvia shut off the TV. “I’m afraid to know. But I need to know,” Sylvia said.

  Alice sat down on the bed by her mom. She pursed her lips and cleared her throat. “I’ve given him twenty-four hours to tell you, or I will. I pretty much guessed from looking at him. It’s not good, but he’ll be all right.”

  That evening, Trevor came to Sylvia. His hair was straggly and he had dark circles under his eyes. He was so thin, he looked skeletal. “I need to tell you something,” he said. “Let’s go to my bedroom.”

  He sat on his futon bed and hung his head. “I don’t need to go to that doctor appointment. I have to go to rehab.”

  “I thought maybe,” she said. “But I’m relieved and glad you’re willing to go.” She sat down next to him and held him close. “I love you, honey.”

  He held her tight and started to cry. “I love you, too, Mom. I’m sorry.” He told her he knew about a place that his dealer went to. She said she’d make the call.

  Sylvia found out the following day that Trevor needed to be evaluated first. An out-patient facility was nearby in West LA. That afternoon at the facility, Sylvia sat next to her son as he filled out the evaluation forms. She still didn’t know his ‘drug of choice,’ but she assumed it was marijuana or hashish. She glanced down at the form. In the box headed “Substance,” she read heroin. Slowly, mechanically, she rose from the chair, excused herself, and, once in the hallway, ran to the restroom and vomited.

  Trevor spent his twenty-first birthday in detox. On the second night, he jumped the fence. The treatment center had his wallet, his clothes, and his acoustic guitar in its safe. Within two hours, Trevor returned. He would stay clean for sixty days, then he’d relapse.

  His counselor told Sylvia that relapse was part of recovery. “He’s an addict. He’s one of us. At least he’s still here.”

  Overwhelmed with despair from his relapse, Sylvia lost her focus for daily tasks: unpaid bills piled up; hair, nail, and dental appointments were made and missed; keys appeared in the linen closet and milk ended up in the pantry; she couldn’t concentrate enough to read the newspaper. Even her neighborhood looked unfamiliar. Every Sunday and Tuesday evening Sylvia attended ‘family day’ and parent support meetings at the treatment center, a two-hour drive round trip. Entire mornings passed on the telephone with either the insurance company or other mothers of addicts, or at Al-Anon support meetings for friends and families of alcoholics or addicts.

  Trevor had spent three months in residential treatment and another twenty days in a sober living house near the treatment center when he called home to say, “They kicked me out because they thought I used.”

  “Why did they think that?” Sylvia asked.

  Trevor told her it was a long story and asked if she’d come and get him. He had no place to go, he claimed. It would only be for one night then he’d find another sober living house, he promised. So Sylvia agreed. She called his drug counselor, who told her not to let him come home. Instead he’d arrange for Trevor to stay in a homeless shelter. Sylvia ignored his advice. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he didn’t relapse. They’ve only known him a few months.

  Trevor was home for four days before he finally admitted he’d used. The only boundary Sylvia was clear about was that he couldn’t live at home if he was using drugs. She called sober living houses, but he had to test negative to get in. He tested positive, but he refused to go back to any residential treatment. Sylvia knew what she had to do. She took his house key and his car keys, and she said, “I love you with all my heart, but you can’t stay here. Call me when you want treatment again.” He left on foot, with only his backpack and no money.

  Sylvia’s husband, her daughter, and the few friends she’d confided in told her it wasn’t her fault, that she’d done all the right things and had always been there for him. Walk in my shoes, she thought. She was numb and vacant and guilt-ridden from the years of her haphazard choices that tumbled and tripped over each other: her affair then her divorce from her children’s father; her out-of-state move with her children to marry her lover, Anthony, who turned physically abusive (at least they never married); the abrupt move back to Oregon then, ten years later, another move to
Los Angeles after marrying Adam only a month after her ex-husband, Tom, was killed in a car accident, when Trevor was sixteen. Wasn’t it the mother who was usually to blame for the wayward child? It was payback to her. The “if onlys” of yesterday ricocheted in her mind like ping pong balls in a Keno machine.

  The counselor’s advice had been clear: “Stop being a mommy or he’ll die.” But she didn’t know how to unlearn her mothering instincts. She’d tried to follow the rules:

  Don’t give him food.

  She did.

  Don’t give him cash.

  She didn’t.

  Don’t let him in the house.

  She did.

  Change your locks.

  She didn’t.

  Hide your jewelry and your wallets.

  She did.

  Box up his belongings and put them in storage.

  She didn’t.

  Don’t believe anything he says; he’s lying.

  She did.

  Tell him you love him.

  She did.

  Don’t give up.

  She didn’t.

  She was told that he had to “hit bottom,” but she had to reach hers before he could reach his. The bottom kept lowering.

  Trevor would show up at the front door, and she’d prepare his favorite foods: hamburger pie, boneless, skinless chicken breasts, eggs sunny-side up, or crepes. Sometimes, she’d let him sleep in his own bed. His handsome face was gaunt. He was six-feet tall and weighed 128 pounds. When Sylvia looked into his eyes, she couldn’t find him. He was never angry or belligerent, just vacant. When he’d leave, she’d follow him out the door, watch him walk away, his shoulders hunched, backpack on his emaciated frame, head down, ashamed. Then, as if he knew she was watching him, he’d turn and wave his wave. Just like when he was ten and the pitcher in Little League. Before the game began, he’d look for her in the bleachers, call out to her, and wave.