Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  He’d gone from preppy, athletic kid to a hippie teenager after their move to Los Angeles. But the change seemed to occur slowly. Maybe she’d been too close to see. By the time he was a senior, he’d let his hair grow and had worn it in a ponytail. He worshipped Jimi Hendrix, attended Grateful Dead concerts, and extolled the virtues of hemp. When he moved away to college in Arizona, Sylvia had lost track.

  “I only smoke pot. It’s just a phase. I’ll never use hard drugs. It’s stupid,” he’d said.

  Yet.

  “I only smoke heroin. I’ll never use needles. I’m afraid of needles.”

  Yet.

  “I’ll never pawn my guitars.”

  Yet.

  “I’ll never steal.”

  Yet.

  The past two years had been a series of yets. He’d stolen tips from restaurant tables and been arrested three times for possession. Four times, he’d said he couldn’t go on anymore and requested treatment. She’d taken him to the hospital for the usual three- to seven-day detox, or the methadone clinic for his daily dose.

  Some things she learned quickly. While he’d been in hospital detox, she double checked his backpack for drug paraphernalia the staff might have missed: a dirty spoon, a box of baking soda, a yawning paper clip with carboned tips, an empty Bic pen, cotton balls, or sugar packets. Sometimes she educated the staff.

  She brought him oatmeal raisin cookies and iced mochas. Sometimes he was too drugged to feed himself, and she spoon-fed him his meal. Or he’d have wet his pants staggering to the bathroom, and she’d take his clothes home to wash. She often waited by his bedside, watching him drift off to sleep, curled in a ball, shaking, methodically stroking his childhood blankie that rested under his cheek. When he was twelve years old, he’d laughingly said that when he grew up and carried a briefcase to work, he’d be the only one to open it and have his blankie inside. The hospital detox staff loved him. His high school buddies had long disappeared.

  Somewhere in between, under the guidance of an addiction medicine specialist and armed with a bag full of prescription medications, she’d tried to detox Trevor at home, all by herself. It was the worst nightmare she’d ever had.

  That harrowing experience—witnessing drug withdrawal first-hand—had brought the reality of the disease home, literally. The initial ten hours had been somewhat smooth, and she never let him out of her sight. Trevor went along with her efforts to keep him occupied: they played cards, watched their favorite movies (Lost In America, A Sure Thing), cooked or ordered take-out, tracked the medication schedule, and oddly enough, actually had a pretty good time together. But when the grip of physical withdrawal became increasingly intense, and he couldn’t sit still, she knew she had to get him out of the house. Sylvia drove him around town then to the beach for a long walk. Trudging in the sand in a gray afternoon drizzle, he quietly, apologetically admitted that he didn’t want to be sober after all, that he didn’t think he could ever be sober. Of course, she tried to convince him otherwise.

  When they returned home, he said he needed to call his dealer, and the insanity took hold. Sylvia ran through the house grabbing all the phone receivers, hiding them in drawers, cupboards, and closets, with Trevor close on her tail. He finally locked himself in the bathroom. While she banged on the door pleading and crying, he was shooting up—somehow under her watch he’d managed either to score heroin or to access a hidden stash. What she’d heard so many times before had now come true for her—they get high and we get crazy. Trevor went back to living on the streets.

  Maybe she’d finally hit her bottom and accepted that there was nothing she could do but get out of his way. She was powerless to cure her son. Slowly, she learned to embrace the mantra, “Relapse is part of recovery.”

  The last time he’d been arrested, he ended up in jail and had called her in the middle of the night. When she asked him what happened, he said he was arrested for having only one headlight. She didn’t believe him and told him so. She had reminded herself to never talk logic with an addict. She thought of the Sepulveda joke she’d heard in a treatment center, where the cop pulls over a normal person driving under the influence on Sepulveda Boulevard in Los Angeles. When he goes before the judge, who admonishes him that he could’ve killed someone, the normal person is very apologetic, saying he’d never do it again and is ashamed of himself. When the cop pulls over the addict or alcoholic driving under the influence, and he goes before the judge who admonishes his behavior, the addict thinks, I should never have taken Sepulveda. Trevor had finally fessed up to Sylvia, “They searched me and found marijuana and some wrappers.”

  She pictured the empty, once mysterious, crinkled wrappers she used to find strewn in his bathroom drawers, his pants pockets, and backpack. Later she learned that the two-by-two inch opaque plastic held white powder (cocaine) or black tar-like balls (heroin).Which wrappers had the cops found this time? she wanted to ask.

  He’d begged Sylvia to bail him out of jail. She refused. She told herself she had made progress. She used to rescue him, but she’d learned to put one foot in front of the other, to take it one day at a time, and to live her day. She had graduated from a fetal position to upright, though catatonic. She still looked away when passing young mothers with bright-eyed, toe-headed toddlers in their arms, chubby hands clutching tight. She learned what to avoid in order to stay upright: old photo albums, depressing movies, parents of his friends, his closet where his robe hung next to his golf shirts and his old soccer shoes still caked with dirt. She no longer avoided the UCLA pool where she swam laps surrounded by healthy, vibrant students so close to her son’s age.

  Trevor finally wanted to go back to residential treatment. Even though he’d stayed clean for six months, she’d lived with so much pain and crushing disappointment that she tried to block out any thoughts of the future, a nowhere place filled with dashed expectations. But she still had hope for Trevor, and she chose not to suffer. She played golf again, took voice lessons, went on trips with her husband, reached out to her daughter, and enrolled in creative writing classes, which she loved. Writing became the only place she could get lost in time, unaware of the passing hours.

  Because Steve’s situation had been thrust upon her when her son’s addiction appeared most hopeless, she decided it wasn’t a coincidence. What, at first, seemed to demand more from Sylvia than she thought she could handle had surprisingly turned into an essential distraction from her son (essential for both their sakes). Sylvia’s ongoing involvement was vital to Steve’s growth toward some degree of independence, whereas her son’s survival was more assured without it.

  13

  SEPTEMBER 1999

  Pills lay strewn haphazardly at one end of the dining room table next to the half-filled pill tray. Amber-colored vials, lids off, scattered at random, stretched across the table’s width, and Steve sat hunched over the disarray, trying to make sense of the recent changes Dr. Pandi had made to his dosages. Sorting and counting, counting and sorting. From ten milligrams of Prolixin to five? One pill instead of two? Thirty milligrams Resperadahl instead of five Prolixin? Can’t be. That’s too much. Three hundred milligrams Lithium. No change. But there aren’t enough pills to fill the tray! And there should be, I think. Start over. He tried different combinations to make it work. Nothing made sense, and now the whole morning had gone by. He was sweating so heavily that droplets fell into the open slots of the tray, and he started trembling. He tried to control it, to steady himself, but the more he tried the worse it got, and the small pile of pills sitting in his open hand sprinkled onto the floor. He stooped down, scrunching his face to see where they’d landed—too far out of reach—he had to get on his hands and knees to retrieve them. Breathing hard, he grunted and struggled and grabbed a few, and then spotted several more wedged between the carpet and the heat register. As he reached, his glasses slid off of his nose, dropping onto the carpet.

  “Shit! Goddammit!” He flung the pills in his hand against the wall and flipped onto his b
ack staring up at the underside of the table. He closed his eyes. He lay there a long time trying to calm down, maybe even dozed off while he thought about calling the pharmacy, his sister, Dr. Pandi, or Nancy. But what could they do? If they tried to explain it to him, he wouldn’t get it anyway. Pandi would want him to come to her office. No way. What’s the use? I give up. This is too hard. He didn’t feel right, something was off. He heard noises and wondered if someone was in the house. He thought someone was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t quite make out the words or recognize the voice.

  “Nancy? Danny?” But no one answered. “Oh, right. Danny’s gone. Unless he came back. Danny? Is anybody there?” Nothing. Maybe it was Sammy, but the dog was in Nancy’s room and the door was closed. Sammy’s too quiet. What if he’s dead? His stomach rumbled. His mouth was parched. I’m dying of thirst. I need iced tea. And a hamburger. I need to get out of here. Glasses in hand, he scooted out from under the table and went to his room to find his wallet. He glanced in the mirror on his way in. When did I get so fat? My neck, my neck, I don’t even have one. And this gut! He knew the medication made him gain weight. Maybe he could get thin again if he didn’t take it, and get an erection. No woman will ever want me if I can’t get it up. He combed his unwashed hair and tucked his tight-fitting navy blue polo shirt—which only emphasized his protruding belly—into his wrinkled, pocket-torn khakis, the cuffs hitting just at the ankles. He cinched his belt tighter to make himself look a little thinner, but now his belly hung over the belt, so he loosened it a notch.

  More confidant now that he had purpose and a place to go, like most people, he was ready to head to his favorite hangout, where he knew he fit in, where they paid attention to what he had to say when he felt like talking, where he felt good when he remembered to tip the waitresses or had enough money to, which reminded him. Where’s my wallet? And the search began.

  It wasn’t on the nightstand or the chest of drawers or under the bed. He wandered from room to room, trying to retrace his steps, but he couldn’t remember where he was last. What if I left it at Friendly’s? Maybe I should call. He went through coat pockets and the car—the floor, under the seats—and back through the house two more times. Defeated, he tromped into the living room and, slumping into his favorite chair, felt the uncomfortable, unmistakable bulge in his back pocket. He jumped up, dug his hand in his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. “I had it all the time. I’m such a dumb shit!” He shouted. He checked to make sure no money was gone, as if it had been missing or stolen and returned—ten dollars. More than enough. Off he went to Friendly’s.

  When Nancy got home and saw the dining room table, she was worried. She wondered if Sylvia ever spoke to Dr. Pandi and decided to give her a call. She left a vague message saying all was well, but Steve’s pills looked a little disorganized. Then she waited for Steve to come home, or for Sylvia to call her back. She thought about dinner—Sloppy joes. They’re easy, and Steve loves them. There were buns in the freezer. Potato chips. She grabbed the instant packaged sauce from the cupboard to add to the ground beef. While it was browning, she took care of Sammy.

  The new carpeting was to be installed the next day, which meant the house would be in an uproar again, with furniture moved from room to room, so she’d have to move some of Steve’s things back upstairs. He’d been up there a lot lately, she noticed. Maybe a habit that started with Danny around, but she hadn’t checked the upstairs for who knows how long and wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Who knew what she’d find up there?

  She stirred the sloppy joe mixture then headed to Steve’s bedroom now on the main floor. Dirty clothes everywhere. Socks, Jockey underwear (which she didn’t want to touch), shirts with dark rings at the neck, shorts, all either dropped on the floor or draped across the chair and bed. Oh brother. He just doesn’t get the need to wash. His clothes or his body. She bundled all of it, carried it to the laundry chute in the kitchen, and tossed two or three items at a time into the small opening. And I’ll have to do his laundry, again. He never did learn how to do his own. She’d tried to show him, to keep it as simple as possible; he’d made a few attempts without any problem, but not often enough to become routine. Every time she pointed to the designated washday on the calendar (Sylvia’s idea), he just moaned and said he was too tired and “Let’s do it later,” but later never came. Even the twice weekly shower days were avoided. As if scheduling tasks on a calendar would get Steve in the habit of taking care of himself. What a joke! Sylvia was clueless. Did she really think Steve might suddenly take an interest in doing housework? Like making his bed, taking out the trash, or getting his car washed? (Washing anything seemed out of the question.)

  Nancy grabbed some of his clothes from the drawers and closet, then some toilet articles from the bathroom, and headed upstairs. The temperature seemed twenty degrees hotter in the attic bedroom, stifling. She turned on the floor fan and put the clothes in a chest of drawers. The twin beds on either side of the center windows were rumpled, the covers askew, pillows balled up. She set the toilet articles on one of the beds and wiped a finger across the nightstand, looking disgustedly at the thick, gray smudge of dust it picked up. Hands on hips, she stared at the work to be done, wondering where to begin, how she’d ever get out of this living arrangement, and when she’d meet the man to whisk her away. She noticed a funny smell and saw what looked like khakis sticking out from under the bed. She reached under and pulled out the wadded up pants and underwear. “Ew!” The stains and smell were unmistakable. Steve was masturbating? Holding the soiled clothes at arm’s length, she strode to the bathroom, turned on the light, and shoved them down the laundry shoot. Another stronger odor caught her off guard and she lifted the toilet lid. She reared back, covered her nose, and reached quickly to flush it down. Christ, I need some fresh air. She took off down the stairs, called Sammy, and they dashed outside to the backyard.

  By the time she went back inside, the sloppy joes were burned, but Steve was sitting in the living room hunched over a paper plate gobbling down the first of two overflowing hamburger buns.

  “Hey, big guy. I see you found dinner.”

  He barely looked up, with a scowl, grunted, sloppy joe plopping off the sides of his bun, and mumbled something about he liked to be left alone while he’s eating. She watched as the sandwich droppings dribbled off his plate onto the carpet. She held her tongue. New carpeting tomorrow anyways. “Sorry I burned the dinner,” she said.

  “Tastes good.”

  She started toward her bedroom and glanced down at the pill mess on the dining room table. She wanted to ask him if he was confused but decided to wait until he was finished eating. “Can I get you anything else? Potato chips? A glass of milk?”

  “I can get it myself.”

  Sylvia hadn’t heard back from Steve after leaving him a message a few days ago, so she decided to try him again.

  As luck would have it, he answered on the first ring. “Steve! I’m glad I caught you. I left a message the other day.”

  “I wasn’t here. I didn’t see it,” he said in a deadpan voice.

  She tried to engage him in idle talk before the business at hand, but he wasn’t in the mood. “I spoke to Dr. Pandi, and she explained your medication changes to me.” Sylvia didn’t tell him how frustrated she was after speaking to his psychiatrist, that Pandi wouldn’t talk to her at first, saying how important it was for Steve to manage his medication on his own. Pandi talked out of both sides of her mouth. Hadn’t she told Sylvia and Scott that Steve would never be independent? And now she’s suggesting he needed to learn just that? She’d called Dr. Nora, who gave her a recommendation for another psychiatrist, but a change couldn’t take place until Sylvia was back in Ohio, which wasn’t until November. “Can we go over this together?” Sylvia asked.

  “Now?” he responded.

  “I think we’d better. Do you have a piece of paper to write it down? And maybe we should get Nancy on the phone, too. She can make sure—”

&nbs
p; “You’re going too fast. Nancy isn’t my doctor.”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “She doesn’t know anything about my meds.”

  “That’s why I wanted her to help—”

  “I don’t need any help. I don’t need meds either. Too confusing. Doctors are all alike. Nancy said so.”

  Was he disassociating or whatever the shrinks called it? Losing track? Off his meds? She wondered if he was hearing voices again. “Steve?”

  “What?”

  “You’re right. Doctors are all alike. Remember what the nurse told you in the hospital a long time ago?”

  “You’ll stay out of the hospital if you take your meds,” he spoke in a singsong, I-don’t-buy-it-anymore tone.

  “Hasn’t that been true?”

  “Hasn’t what been true?” he asked.

  Shit, he’s not following anything. “That you’ve been taking your meds regularly and you haven’t had to go back to the hospital.”

  Moments passed. “Yes,” Steve relented. “I guess so.”

  She let out a quiet sigh of relief. “So, let’s write down exactly what Pandi told me. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sylvia decided not to press the issue of Nancy. She’d tell Nancy afterward. Steve said each word out loud as he wrote it down. At least he was taking the time with her to understand each dosage reduction and corresponding increase of the new medication, and he asked to read it all back to her to be sure he’d gotten it right.

  When Nancy got on the phone, Sylvia asked her to write it down, too, and to check the pill tray regularly. “I never anticipated you having to do this, but it’s too important to let him flounder on his own, sorting out the change.”

  “You’re so right. No problem,” Nancy said. “I’ll do my darnedest.” She told Sylvia about the new carpet being installed the next day and that, within a few days, all would be spic and span. “Maybe it’ll even lift Steve’s spirits.”