Girl Walks Out of a Bar (23 page)

My Librium dosage was tapered in preparation for my release the next day. I would get my final dose on Friday morning, meet with Dr. Landry, and then be handed over to my family for reintroduction to the outside world. I agreed to continue taking the Lexapro indefinitely. I liked Dr. Landry's explanation: I had a chemical imbalance in my brain that drove my depression and anxiety. For decades I'd been self-medicating—numbing it with alcohol and cocaine—but that had made my condition much worse. That was the story, and now I was supposed to start treating my mental imbalance with the right medication. It sounded simple enough.

When Friday morning arrived, I went through my final appointed rounds of breakfast, physical exam, and meds line. At about ten o'clock Dr. Landry appeared in my doorway. “Did you know your parents and brother have been waiting in the lobby for about a half hour?” he asked.

“No, but that sounds right,” I said, smiling.

“They've been very supportive. That's good. Let them help you.”

“I will,” I said. My mother's idea of help would be snatching a drink out of my hand as if I were a four-year-old trying to lick rat poison. My father and brother would be more subtle. They'd talk about work—my successes, my goals—and then they'd offer to bring me hot tea and fruit smoothies.

I saw my discharge papers on Dr. Landry's clipboard. Sitting across desks from partners in a law firm for years had taught me to read upside down. I saw the diagnosis of “Major Depressive Disorder” and a prescription for Lexapro.

“So, how are you feeling? Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

“Yes. Ready to leave,” I said. I patted the packed and zipped duffle bag at my feet to confirm it.

“Annie tells me that you're refusing to go to a twenty-eight-day program from here. Or even a daily intensive outpatient program. I had hoped that after our talk you would understand the critical importance of immediate, focused aftercare.”

“I do understand,” I said. “I didn't say that I wasn't willing to do
anything
. I just have to go back to work on Monday. They don't know where I am and I can't let them know.”

“Why not?” he asked. “You told me that you spend a significant amount of your time at work. Don't you think it will be better if the people you're with every day know that you're in the earliest stages of recovery? There's nothing to be ashamed of. It's a disease, not a personal failing.”

“Yeah, I get that, but no. It's not OK in a big law firm. We talk about alcoholics behind their backs.” His expression didn't change, but I still felt like a jerk. “I know that sounds bad, but . . . well, nobody cares if it's a disease. It's considered a weakness, and they always find a way to cut the weak from the herd. I'll come clean anywhere but at work.”

“I understand what you're saying, but Lisa, that's just wrong,” he said. “The only way you're going to get healthy and stay sober is if you start to live your life honestly. Lying to the people you spend the most time with is not the way to do it.” I was pretty sure that my expression didn't change. “Do you want to stay sober, Lisa?”

“Yes. I think I do. I feel a lot better, and I'd like to not drink for a while at least. And see what happens.” Did he have any idea what “staying sober” was going to do to my life? I couldn't promise him forever, but I could promise him for now.

“Well then, you really need to attend an outpatient program that meets two or three times a week in the evenings. Is that something you'd consider?”

“Yeah, sure. I'm happy to do that,” I said.

“I must tell you, Lisa, if you want to stay sober out there, you're going to have to work really hard. It will be the most difficult thing you've ever done. Right now, your sobriety couldn't be more fragile. And you haven't even been away for the recommended twenty-eight days. You should do more than the outpatient program a couple of nights a week. You really should go to 12-step meetings every day.”

Meetings. Every day. You're killin' me, Doc
. “OK,” I lied. “I'll do that.”

It was my fourth day without an unprescribed substance in my body. My hair hadn't been washed in over a week and my face was covered in an oil film, but I felt ten years younger. Still,
daily
12-step meetings? This had been a huge week, and I needed a break from all this crap. I just wanted my life back.

“Good. I'm glad you'll attend meetings. What you're doing isn't the best next step or what I would recommend, but if you commit to sobriety and take the suggestions you're given, you'll be able to do it, one day at a time,” he said. “Just remember
there's always support out there. I'll set you up for a Monday morning appointment at HopeCare, the outpatient rehab facility. You can go back to work Tuesday.”

He handed me the forms I needed to sign for official release. I decided not to fight him on going to HopeCare on Monday. I had one foot out the door and didn't want to blow it.

Ashley showed up as I was signing the last documents. Then Dr. Landry shook my hand. “Good luck, Lisa. We're here if you need us.”
Please God no
, I thought.

“Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it,” I said, trying to look like a mature, sober person.

Ashley gave me copies of the forms and all of the contraband that Vivian had confiscated when I arrived. The sight of the gold and white Marlboro Lights pack sent an adrenaline surge through my body. No one had said I couldn't smoke when I got out of here. But wait, what did that mean the sight of a bottle of Yellow Tail was going to do to me?

“OK! Let's go downstairs and see your family,” Ashley said.

Before I followed her, I took a hard look at my room, the nurses' station, and everything else I could see on the floor. Maybe if I seared the memory of it into my brain, I could bring the worst images to mind every time I thought about having a drink or a line of coke.
Take a deep breath
, I thought.
What have you learned here
?

I thought that I could control my drinking by myself. I was wrong.

I believed that the alcoholic way I was living was just “who I was.” I was wrong.

I believed that I would never consider quitting drinking entirely. I was wrong.

The week gave me hope, but walking past those hospital doors and back into the wild city was going to make me feel
like a lamb on the Serengeti. I no longer felt like the ass-kicking corporate lawyer who looked a CEO in the eyes while firmly shaking hands or the independent New York broad who would walk twenty blocks alone at 3:00 a.m. I felt frail, like someone who's just survived a vicious round of stomach flu, and nothing sounded more comforting than sliding back onto my barstool at Kenny's and dialing Henry.

19

As soon as Ashley and I made it down to
the lobby, my mother rushed me with a bear hug. The intensity of it reminded me of when she would nearly tackle me at the Newark Airport when I came home during college breaks.

For several seconds, she held me with both hands at a “let me look at you” length, and then she hugged me again. Without a bloodstream full of booze, I found the scent of her cologne comforting. A week earlier it would have been nauseating.

As was his custom, my dad gave me a peck of a kiss and rubbed my head. I thought I could see relief behind his eyeglasses, as if all was better now that I was in their custody. After Lou hugged me and kissed my cheek, he nodded at my dad, as if to say, “We're OK.” I sprouted more tears, this time at the memory of how I turned a car around for coke on the day my brother's baby was born.

This was awkward. I was a successful, independent thirty-eight-year-old woman, and my parents were retrieving me from a locked down psychiatric ward. Was there etiquette to govern such an occasion? Should I apologize? Make a joke? Should I tell
them about the merits of the Asian floor relative to the detox floor? I didn't know so I stayed quiet.

“You look good, kid,” my dad said, nodding.

“Good one, Dad,” I said. “But thanks. I actually feel pretty good.”

The four of us walked out the front door of Gracie Square into the sunny April morning. I was wearing the same grubby jeans and sweater as when I walked in Monday night. Having not seen the sun, the moon, or anything else outdoors since Monday, I turned my face toward the light. The day was cool, but the sun shot a bolt of warmth through my body.

As we walked up the block toward the car, my mother linked her arm through mine. “So, your father got the tuna fish from Ronnie's and a fresh pumpernickel rye bagel for you. Does that sound good? You'll stay until Sunday?”

“Yeah, great.”

“That's good,” she said.

My father and my brother walked in front of us discussing my brother's latest case. I appreciated that no one asked me about what went on inside the hospital, and I was profoundly relieved that they didn't ask about what had gone on to land me there. Were we all going to try to move forward without discussing it? Maybe the questions would come later. Certainly, I owed them some explanations, but for that moment, we were just a regular family walking down a city street. I tipped my head back, closed my eyes, and took deep breaths of the cool air. I wasn't exactly Andy Dufresne just finished tunneling my way out of Shawshank, but in the sunshine of that New York morning, I felt free and full of hope.

My dad gave his ticket to the parking lot cashier and I watched the bustle along First Avenue. People carried Starbucks cups while walking little dogs on long leashes. Pairs of
fluffed and manicured mothers around my age pushed baby strollers. I looked down at the Gracie Square hospital bracelet on my wrist and felt a little sick about the differences in our lives. According to my teenage master plan, I was supposed to have been one of them by now. My successful New York husband and I were going to have two deliriously happy children thriving in their exclusive, super-smart-kid academies. They would come home each day to healthful after-school snacks prepared with love in our kitchen with its granite counter tops and Viking stove. I couldn't rip off the bracelet so I covered it with my sleeve.

One day at a time, Lisa
. Don't compare yourself to other people—some of those women probably have Starbucks cups full of cranberry and vodka.

“Let it go.” “Easy does it.” “Live and let live.” I was determined to try out these new slogans; maybe that would help quiet the racket that was already revving back up in my addled brain. My insides were calling for drinks, drinks. For me, morning in New York meant “time for drinks.” Oh to feel icy cold vodka oozing down my throat right now. Or warm red wine or even a light white pinot. Fuck. It was brutal. How was I going to make it? I reached under my sleeve and rubbed the hospital bracelet as if it had super powers.

On the ride into northern New Jersey, I sat behind the driver's seat with my head tilted against the window. Mom sat next to me, holding my hand the whole way. Her skin was soft, mine felt scaly. Maybe this new start would bring new grooming habits, and I would moisturize every day as Mom had always preached.

As soon as we arrived at my parents' townhouse, I dashed upstairs to the shower. I peeled off the clothes that I would never wear again and threw them into a heap on the carpeted
floor of the guest bedroom. I walked naked past my Cabbage Patch doll and the stuffed panda I'd bought during an eighth-grade class trip to DC. They just sat there smiling at me like silly-faced old ladies offering encouragement behind frozen faces that masked their disgust. I gave them the finger.

The shower felt miraculous. I stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water run over me while I swayed back and forth with my eyes closed. This was what it was like to stand up straight in a shower. My God, how long had it been since I'd been able to stand, turn, or bend forward in a shower without the risk of falling over and cracking my head on porcelain? How many times had I vomited while showering? To think that most people go their entire lives without vomiting in a shower.

My thoughts began to whirl again. Why did I abuse myself with alcohol and drugs for so long? Why could other people shut themselves off after a few? What was it that made me decide to check into Gracie Square? What the hell did sober people do with their time??
Stop focusing on negative things—none of the answers are going to appear in the shower. Focus on the shower. “Let it go.”

After two shampoos and a thorough scrubbing, I emerged from the bathroom feeling clean for the first time in a week. I grabbed a pair of my mother's soft cotton pajamas and a pair of my dad's oversized, padded socks from their bedroom, combed out my hair and went downstairs. Lou had taken the day off of work, so he was planted in the den with my parents.

“Better?” my mom asked, looking up over her reading glasses.

“Much. Thanks,” I said. They were watching a Bogart movie on the big screen television that Lou and I had bought for our dad's seventy-fifth birthday. I lay down next to my mom
on the long couch and rested my head on her lap. I wanted a cigarette, but I was too tired to move. With a system still full of Librium, I feel asleep in minutes.

When I woke up, it was five o'clock, and my head was on a pillow instead of on my mother's lap. “Hey, look who's up,” Lou said from the couch across the room.

“Yessss! Sleeping Beauty rises,” my dad said from his recliner. He removed the giant headphones he wore over his ears. At seventy-five, Dad had pretty bad hearing, but the headphone system allowed the rest of us to watch television with him.

“You hungry?” Lou asked. “We were just talking about dinner.”

“Yeah, definitely,” I said, without raising my head from the pillow. “I think my stomach might be completely empty. But I'm not taking off these pajamas.”

“OK, we'll order Chinese,” my mom said. “I'll grab the menu.” She trotted up the stairs to the kitchen.

Given my recent release from the all-Asian-all-the-time floor at Gracie Square, I would have preferred pizza, but I was committed to no longer being a pain in everyone's ass—starting right now—so I didn't say anything.

Not five minutes later, I learned that the world was not about to start revolving around me. “Are we drinking?” my dad asked my mother and brother, slightly tentatively. After all, it was cocktail hour and everyone had had a rough day. “We know
you're
not,” he said to me with laugh. Then all three of them looked at me for a response.

I looked back at them blankly. Of course, my first thought was that if I couldn't drink, nobody else should. So much for not being a pain in everyone's ass. No one at Gracie Square had told me what to do in this situation, but Dr. Landry had
said that staying sober would be the hardest thing I'd ever do. This must have been what he meant.

Buck up, Lisa. Welcome to your new life
. “You guys go ahead,” I said. “It's OK. I'm going to have to get used to it,” I said. I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand.

“Are you sure?” my mother asked.

“Yeah, I'm sure . . . I guess. I can't tell everyone around me not to drink because I'm an alcoholic, right?”

For ten years I'd known that I was addicted, but right then I was amazed at how easily the words, “I'm an alcoholic,” breezed from my mouth in front of my family.

“OK, as long as you're sure,” my dad said as he headed up the stairs toward the booze. Minutes later he came back down with two glasses of Dewar's and a Heineken.

“I need a cigarette,” I announced loudly in a small act of revenge.

“Really??” my mom asked. Her forehead was scrunched in distress. “You smoke? Like a regular smoker?”

Time for me to launch another ugly truth about her little pink daughter. “Well, not like a
regular
smoker. I always just smoked when I drank,” I said. “But then I started drinking all the time, so . . .”

“Just do it outside,” she said.

“What? You're going to make her go outside?” my father asked.

“She's not smoking cigarettes
in the house
.”

“Dad, it's fine. I'm happy to go outside. The fresh air will be good.”

“I'll go with you,” Lou said. He popped up from the couch and slid on his leather loafers. I pulled on my crummy Nikes.

Cigarettes and lighter in hand, I opened the sliding glass door of the den and took a seat outside on one of the cement
steps leading to the patio. I felt my parents' eyes on me as I moved. Lou sat next to me.

“So unreal,” I said. “I can't believe I did this.” I lit my cigarette and took a long drag. It tasted like home. I blew the smoke away from Lou and took another greedy drag then rocked my head back and exhaled, “Ahhh.”

“Hey, you did the right thing. The guy at Gracie Square told us that people don't end up there unless they need to be there. He said you really have to try to stay sober now.”

Wow, if I did decide to go back to drinking, I was going to have to become an even better liar. “Well, my plan is to try it. I can't make any promises, though. Everyone I hang out with drinks, and I'm not going to get rid of my friends. But I have to say, this is the first time in years that I haven't felt close to barfing or passing out.”

“Well, that should tell you something. You know we'll all do whatever we can for you. Seriously.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “As long as it doesn't mean not having a drink at cocktail hour,” I laughed a little and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Oh, no! Seriously, we don't have to drink. Oh man, we should have known better.”

Then came more guilt. Was I ever going to get any of this right? “No, no, it's fine,” I said. “Really! I have to get used to being around people who can drink. I mean, I'd love a drink, but they kept saying that for me alcohol is like poison, poison that kills over time. So I'm going to have to try the ‘one day at a time' stuff.”

“One day at a time?” Lou laughed. “You've always mapped things out a week in advance.”

“I know!” I smiled. “Now time is going to move in slow motion. Anyway, how are Mom and Dad doing with this?” I asked.

“They're OK. We all feel bad that we didn't know.”

“There's no way you could have known,” I said. “The things I was hiding, you wouldn't believe. I became a great liar. Apparently it's a thing alcoholics do. It's how they, we, keep going.” I shrugged and stared at the sky, watching the trail of my exhaled smoke.

“If it was so bad, why didn't you come to us? We wouldn't have judged you. Why didn't you let anybody help you?”

“I didn't want to stop.” I gave him a moment to let that sink in. “Lou, if you'd had any idea of what I was putting into my body, you would have done everything you could to make me stop.”

“That's true.” He thought about it for a moment. “So what changed?”

“Honestly, I don't really know. I guess I realized that I couldn't get it under control and that it was going to kill me.” I stubbed the cigarette out in one of my mother's plants and said, “I don't want to die.”

He reached over and held my hand, and I began to cry. “Thank God.” he said. “I can't even imagine that.” I cried harder. Then I thought again about his baby's birthday and the choice I made. I covered my face with my free hand and wept, wondering if that memory would ever stop hurting.

When we went back inside, it was clear that cocktail hour at my parents' place had taken a big hit. The glasses were still filled, but there were no joyful clinks of glasses and no toasts to each other's health, just quiet sips between hunks of Jarlsberg cheese on Carr's Water Crackers. Stuffing my face with food comforted me in my strange new life. If I had to be the only person not drinking, I'd certainly let myself enjoy eating. But would I get fat?
Oh God, please don't let my addiction transfer to food.