The First True Thing

by Claire Needell

  I look at Dad, and he nods, as though he sees how all of this makes sense. But I wonder if in the real world the Center makes any sense at all. I can’t decide whether Chuck coming to the Center is a good sign—a sign that he, too, is out of his depth, scared of what’s gone down, or if I’m not being paranoid in thinking Chuck is here because he and Senna think I know more than I do about where Hannah is, and about what may have happened to her. I’ve half sold everybody out. But what that really means now that Hannah is missing, I haven’t a clue.

  “Welcome to therapy land,” I say to Chuck. “Say goodbye to your old brain.”

  Twenty-Six

  CHUCK LETS ME go in first, pauses in the kitchenette, and gets himself a Coke. Then he takes a seat directly across the table from me. He opens the Coke, takes a sip, and looks around, appearing perfectly within his element watching the other kids file into Group, as though this were his hundredth day here and not his first. Chuck has two speeds, I think. There’s this calm, cool Chuck, and there’s the Chuck that Senna brings out—wild, flailing Chuck.

  I sit between James and Cyndi, a seat away from Ali. Martin is at the opposite side of the table, next to Chuck, with Maria at the end on Chuck’s other side. Martin turns to shake Chuck’s hand and this leads James to call us to order. We get introduced to newbies by the book.

  “So we’ll start today’s meeting by introducing Chuck, a new prospective member of our Group,” James says. “Um, Chuck, usually we have new prospectives give a little intro and fully participate, but since you and Marcelle are OCs, we really have to hold out on participation until tomorrow, when Marcelle can address whether she feels comfortable with you here. Okay? We can’t have new members throw the balance off, and you know Marcelle has skin in the game.”

  At the Center everyone talks about skin in the game, which is basically to say you’ve done your cold two, have Goals, are becoming accountable, and you’ve shown up at a bunch of meetings. If you fuck up at the Center, like get high or drunk, you can come back, reapply, and if you have enough “skin-in,” they’ll let you return, even if you slip up or relapse. “Skin-in” can keep you from getting bounced, as long as you’re making a real attempt to live substance-free. Other stuff will get you kicked out right away, like hitting on someone, violating confidentiality, or trash-talking anyone. Any kind of hostility or aggression at all will get you booted. James saying I have skin-in isn’t like him saying they all like me and want me to be here, it’s just a standard membership rule.

  I watch how Chuck reacts to James, which is basically saying I’m watching for Chuck to reveal nothing at all of his innermost thoughts or feelings. I’ve been in classes with Chuck at school. He never goofs off or zones out. He isn’t like other people that way. He’s just there, embodying Chuckness. His mind must be more spongelike than other people’s because he never seems to be working all that hard, but unlike me, he stays in honors classes seemingly without effort.

  James scans the room, then opens the floor to everyone to speak, and Ali, looking hyped and jittery, gets the session rolling.

  Ali starts about how he is tired of his parents not trusting him, and it’s hard, he says, to trust himself, when everyone is always looking at him like he’s going to burn the house down, which he almost did when he was obsessively gaming in his basement and let a candle burn down to the wooden table. The only thing that saved him was that his sister had cut last period gym. When she got home, she smelled smoke and found the smoldering candle melting into the tabletop and Ali, stoned and using the candle to hide the smell, glued to his PlayStation. If she’d stayed the whole day at school, Ali wouldn’t be here whining about her and the rest of his family.

  Chuck appears to be listening closely to Ali, drinking his Coke, narrowing his piercing gaze. “I’ve been clean four months,” Ali says. “I mean, I was a game junkie and a pothead, okay, got that. But I’m almost eighteen and I have a curfew. My dad is still so pissed at the sight of me, I don’t know, it makes me want to punch him in the face. He pays the fucking bills all right, but then the rest of the time he’s on his ass, reading his fucking newspaper and making my mom and sister wait on him. I’m embarrassed for them, you know? The way he acts like he’s a god and they exist to serve him.”

  Ali pauses and takes a deep breath. He has tears in his eyes, and I feel sorry for him, but his last Group session started off this way too, with Ali spewing shit about hating his father, complaining about his own depression, laziness, and procrastination. I begin to wonder what’s the point. I look around and James, Cyndi, and Martin all look bored.

  “Jesus,” Ali finally says, winding down. “I just don’t know how long I can take living with the fat slob.” I bristle a little at this, especially since no one calls Ali on his anti-fat thing. If he said something blatantly racist or sexist, the group would shut him down.

  I try to think about what Ali is saying, but my head is spinning and my stomach lurches. Tomorrow I meet with Barbara Fine. Detective Perez will come over too. I need to tell him what I know. But first I have to understand it for myself, which is hard without Hannah to talk to. I wish I knew either more or less than I do. What I know is a sketch of a story, but not the story itself.

  I try to go back to Sunday night in my mind, when I got the text from Hannah asking me to lie. Why did she go dark immediately after? Who was she with over there in the Marshlands?

  I can take a pass at Group today because of Chuck being here, but I have my Goals I need to work on and I have my accountability letter I need to get feedback on and polish up.

  There was plenty to tell in my letter that didn’t involve Hannah. There was the beer and vodka I drank in my room. There were those blurry, boozy nights at Senna’s. But mostly there was the belief I had, and I guess still have, that getting through the day without alcohol is too hard. Time always moves too fast or too slow. There’s always something I want to skip over or forget. Even if everything is great, I want more, or I want less. I don’t know if this makes me an addict or not. Maybe, when things calm down, I can ask the others what they think. Today, I don’t know what will come out of my mouth.

  I twitch in my seat, waiting for Ali’s feedback to end, but everyone has something to say. Ali is weepy, and Martin gives him a tissue and pats him on the back.

  “I hear you, man,” Martin says. You aren’t supposed to talk about yourself during someone else’s Group, so Martin doesn’t say exactly what he means, but we all know Martin’s parents still hardly let him go out. Martin was caught dealing Percocet at his fancy private school across the county. He ended up with a suspension. His partner in crime was a white kid whose parents thought Martin was a bad influence. Turns out it was their kid with the connections. Martin says he never ratted.

  Ali blows his nose and leans back in his chair. “That’s it,” he says. “Maybe I just live like this until college. Another year and a half under house arrest.”

  James looks around the table. “That’s it? Anyone want to wrap it up?”

  I raise my hand. I suddenly feel compelled to say something, maybe just to prove to Chuck that I actually belong here.

  “Maybe you can earn trust by letting your parents see you go somewhere with a friend? With someone who’s sober?” I see heads nod around the table.

  “I’d do that with you, man,” Martin says. “We could toss a ball around at Flint, or go for a run. Maybe our dads could talk.” Ali nods vigorously. I feel bad for the guy. I know how it feels.

  The cage is closing in on me, too.

  Feeling good that my suggestion for Ali got some traction, I raise three fingers, the sign for wanting the Group’s attention. Three fingers, I read in the pamphlet last night, is to remind us that Group time is for focused discussion on our three big goals.

  I note the way Chuck seemingly involuntarily ducks his head when James calls on me. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

  “I’m addressing my accountability,” I hear myself say, “which I think includes all my
Goals?” James nods. I’m doing it right for once. I’m supposed to bring all of my questions and struggles to the Group, but you can’t just say whatever comes into your head here; it’s all according to rules and procedures I don’t yet understand, and maybe never will.

  “I have some questions about what I’m writing,” I say. “I’m not sure where my accountability is.” Everyone perks up at this, and I can feel my heart skip a beat. I think I see Martin and Ali exchange glances, looks that say something like What the hell is this girl getting herself into?

  James holds up his hand for me to stop. In any other context this would be rude, but he’s James, Prince of the Fuck-ups.

  “Wow, Marcelle, that’s not where I thought you were going.” He pauses for effect, although everyone is already alert, anticipating the show to come. “Anyone?” he asks, scanning the table for volunteers to chew me up and spit me out, once again. “I thought for sure you were already on this, Marcelle. Maybe I’m wrong about how much skin you have in?” He looks right at Chuck when he says this.

  I see Chuck sit up straighter. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening, but I fear I’m about to be demoted from prospective member to non-member for that one statement. I’m supposed to ask for help here, but I’m not supposed to actually need it.

  Cyndi looks even more impatient than usual. “Marcelle, accountability has to be exactly that. Where is your accountability? That’s not a concept. We don’t locate blame outside ourselves. You need to be fully prepared to enact your Goals wherever you are, whatever other people are doing. We aren’t about our influences here. We are about our potential. Asking where your accountability is, that’s like rejecting this Group and everything we stand for. You need to use us for support. But we aren’t your mirror. Whoever else you are thinking about within your accountability narrative, they aren’t your mirror, either. It sounds like you’re still in the Funhouse.”

  Everyone nods, and Martin even gives a short, curt laugh. Chuck stares hard at Cyndi. I don’t know why he doesn’t look more confused.

  I know what the Funhouse is. Last week, Cyndi had Group on her Funhouse. It has something to do with not seeing other people for who they are, and just seeing how they see you, and your distortions of them. Like you see people as disgusting or frightening, not because this is what they are, but it’s how your feelings make them seem. Cyndi talked a lot about her father, how she thinks her father sees her as a whore and she sees him as evil incarnate.

  I sigh deeply. There is nothing to do but stop trying to speak this foreign language, and to say what I actually have to say. “I’m not sure,” I start again. “I know I’m accountable for my drinking and the other stuff I was doing—smoking weed, not saying where I was, the accident, getting hurt, scaring my parents.”

  The mood in the group shifts, and I can feel even Cyndi urging me on, but they are making me nervous, hanging on my words, listening too close. Chuck leans back in his chair; his eyes are closed and he folds his hands on the table. Somewhere in all this mess is a way out. I want my way out to be the way to find Hannah. But I won’t know anything more, won’t be any closer to helping find her, until I begin the story again. Somehow, I think if I can get the story exactly right, a clue will fall into place. I’ll know why Chuck is here. I’ll be strong enough to go on.

  “But drinking wasn’t my only shit,” I continue. “I also used people.” I know I am on the right track. Everyone watches me now, waiting to hear what I have to say. “I’m going to say that Chuck, my OC, was someone I used. I used to try to see other people, and myself, through his eyes. This wasn’t good for me. It was a way of putting myself down all the time. I think Chuck is superior to me somehow, or smarter than me.”

  Chuck opens his eyes and stares at me. He is pale, his dark blue eyes glittery, impossible to read. Chuck only opens up when Senna or Hannah are around. I can’t recall him ever even smiling directly at me, or laughing at anything I’ve said. Why, I wonder, have I ever thought of him as a friend at all?

  My heart beats so hard and so fast I feel like my chest must be visibly shaking. My voice is otherworldly, an echo coming from deep inside me. I’m nauseous, but I also feel weirdly hollow, almost hungry. There is an emptiness inside me that threatens to swallow me. I’m a human black hole.

  “My biggest fuck-up is with Hannah,” I continue. “I didn’t help her. I didn’t help her because I was afraid of her. And Senna, and Chuck, and maybe even Andy a little, too. When I realized something bad might be happening, I didn’t tell anyone the things I knew Hannah was doing.” I stop and look blindly around the table. “I’m still keeping some of Hannah’s secrets. I can’t tell if I’m protecting her or myself.”

  There is dead silence in the room. Then Ali, in his soft, singsongy voice, says the word I realize I’m waiting for: “Why?”

  “I think Hannah might be dead,” I say bluntly. “They found her phone in a park. The nature preserve near Playland. They say there are two sets of fingerprints on it.” I can tell everyone has made the connection now between me and the missing girl they heard about over the course of the day. Our school sent out a mass email. No doubt the neighboring towns have done the same.

  I take a deep breath and dive in again. “I wish I had called someone when Hannah texted me before she disappeared. I should have told my mother that she had asked me to lie for her. But I was still seeing Hannah as someone whose voice mattered more than mine. Hannah mattered more than me. Hannah was my mirror.”

  James nods quickly, leaning forward, concentrating entirely on me. “Are you saying, Marcelle, if you hadn’t seen Hannah as someone above you, better than you, you might have asked her more questions, or told her mom right away that she was lying?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I loved being around Hannah. But I don’t know if I love—or loved—Hannah.” Everyone is silent. Chuck stands up, walks slowly around the large wooden table to the garbage can by the door, and tosses his Coke can in it noisily. He doesn’t look at anyone. I wonder at Chuck’s timing. I can’t help but feel if it were someone else, James might have raised his eyebrows, or Cyndi might have commented on how we don’t usually get up during someone’s Group.

  It occurs to me in that moment that even James and Cyndi might succumb to Chuck’s weird, silent power, that Group, with all its expectations and special words for things, might not really be any different from the real world after all. Even as they drill me about my so-called Funhouse, about Hannah’s power over me, Chuck is gaining ground within the Group itself. Maybe, I think, there is no such thing as a place to escape to, to get away from other people’s shit, or even your own shit. Maybe places like the Center are Funhouses, too, places where you think you know people, but really who they are is all tangled up with your own ideas about yourself.

  Maybe I’m alone, even here.

  James snaps his fingers and brings me out of my thoughts. When the Group leader snaps, it means the Group is acknowledging that you’re working at a goal, or a step in the program, like accountability. “I hear you taking accountability, Marcelle, for keeping Hannah’s secrets. But not for her doing dangerous things. I think maybe you are moving away from putting Hannah on a pedestal. I think you get the idea that you can’t blame Hannah for your problems no matter how big Hannah’s problems are.”

  I nod.

  I feel Chuck’s eyes on me from across the table. I glance up and meet his gaze, meet that impenetrable Chuck Glasser stare.

  Twenty-Seven

  WHEN WE ALL come out of Group, Dad is still there on the couch, only he’s put down the Center pamphlet and his eyes are closed. I had forgotten about him being my bodyguard.

  James stands with me while Dad collects himself and wipes nap-drool from the corner of his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “Good work in there, Marcelle,” James says. I half smile.

  “Thanks,” I say. For a second, James seems like a regular kid, a semi-cute guy with bad skin and an awkward smile.

  Dad nods to James and shakes his h
and.

  “Have a good evening,” Dad says. James says nothing, but pats me on the back as I walk away. I hate myself for how good it feels to have James’s approval.

  Dad and I drive along in silence until we hit the light at Broadway. Dad drove Mom home right after Group started, so he didn’t actually stay at the Center guarding me the whole time, which makes my family seem marginally less crazy.

  Dad clears his throat. “Seems intense in there,” he says. “Not exactly warm and fuzzy.” Dad has bags under his eyes and seems to be having trouble staying focused on the road. He keeps glancing my way, as though I am about to sprout a second head.

  “I don’t think you and Mom really did a lot of research before getting me in there,” I say. I know this is true. They were freaking out about my accident. They just went with what Dr. Hagan said was best. I’m about to start explaining how weird it is that Chuck is at the Center, when I realize Dad is going right home and forgetting all about Michiko’s. When I remind him, he stays silent, but makes a right onto Summit.

  “I won’t be long, okay?” I say as I bolt out of the car.

  “You know you’re on a short leash these days, kid,” Dad says as I shut the heavy door to the SUV. I don’t say anything to Dad, but nod so he knows I hear him and that I’m not fighting with him.

  The house feels eerily empty. Even the bird is quiet for once. In the kitchen, I switch on the lights and open the usual tuna. In seconds, Marco races in on nearly silent paws and leaps up on the counter, so I have to push him off to get the can fully opened. He jumps right back up and I open the can with Marco’s head cradled in my elbow.

  When I’m through with the cat, I pull the birdseed from the lower kitchen cabinet, beneath Michiko’s glistening bar. There’s a tall, narrow bottle of vodka, a square, clear bottle of gin, a bottle of vermouth, and another bright green liquor that looks like cough medicine. None of her stuff is brands I’ve heard of. It’s all organic and small batch. Above the bar are her wine, highball, and martini glasses, all spotlessly clean. To the right are three unopened bottles of red wine, the labels in French. Somehow, all of these things seem to me to be for show, as if Michiko were waiting for some James Bond–like guy to strut into her immaculate suburban living room so she could make him the perfect drink.