Читать книгу The Joey Song - Sandra Swenson - Страница 14
Оглавление“Joey, take this time to heal and grow.”
It’s an entirely different perspective, being the gardener or being the rose. Where I see signs of withering and the need for a bit of nourishment, Joey sees a torrential drowning and spits out my interference. Where I work to promote his inner beauty and potential, he would rather be—and smoke—a weed. And so, our first weeks of getting settled in have been a bit prickly.
Blatantly watchful, I look for lingering signs of depression, changes in appetite, and pot smoking, and Joey resents it. Although comfortable with the perks, my independence-seeking, now-adult son is not happy with the eagle eyes and rules that come with living under his parents’ roof.
Autumn arrives in Bethesda, a Maryland suburb of Washington, DC, on unsettled winds, matching the mood of our family. Joey storms around the last of the unpacked boxes crowding the hallways of our new home, blaming everyone but himself for his current situation—something Joe, Rick, and I each actually believe some of the time. Doors slam, voices rise, tears flow. I remember the doctor’s warning about the pitfalls of walking on eggshells. But if Joey is sick, shouldn’t I be serving him tea and toast and fluffing his pillows rather than burdening him with work and responsibility and high expectations? I do battle with eggshells daily.
The spiky Mohawk has disappeared, replaced by a pierced nose and peephole earlobes with a view to the side of his neck. You look scary.
We’re covering Joey’s expenses as long as he’s working full-time and until he returns to college—cell phone, health insurance—but his car stays in storage. (We’re paying for that, too.)
Forced to take the bus, his running response is a snarly “Fuck you.” You sound scary. Joey has quit his therapist and his medication. He comes home from his job as a waiter smelling like pot, if he comes home at all, and an empty whiskey bottle is visible under the tan dust ruffle on his bed. I see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil because I don’t want to chase you away.
I drink coffee from my “Proud SDU Mom” mug every morning, waving it around as a sign that I believe Joey can and will move forward. A sign that I don’t see you as a victim. Even though I sort of do.
Our household is anything but harmonious. Seeking clues and truth, I check Joey’s email and social media accounts regularly. (The password he gave me while applying to colleges comes in handy.) Joey doesn’t know that I track his every online move. He doesn’t know that I’m jarred by the dissonance of his silent words many times daily.
I decided, well was pressured strongly, to take a year off so am back in DC with my parents until I figure out what I’m gonna do. I got arrested for marijuana and the cop thought I had crystal meth, I’ll probably lose my license for six months and have to pay some fines, but its not that big of a deal. I had to get my stomach pumped for drinking too much absinthe. I kinda say fuck you mom and dad. I’ve gotten to the point where I am over trying to get their approval on everything, which I am happy about now. It’s a lot less stressful. My parents are being shady. I have to pay for my own health insurance and car insurance and all that stuff and damn it’s expensive. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
Somewhat bug-eyed by the turn of his brother’s events, Rick tiptoes a straight line through the commotion of our life—no detours so far for him. Silent and strong. Or willfully invisible. I don’t know how my fifteen-year-old boy is processing the struggles of his lifelong companion and role model. Does he ever worry about the sureness of his footing on his own march ahead? Does he ever wonder if there will come a time when everybody will stop yelling? I’m sorry I’m not the mom I should be for you right now. I can barely think of anything beyond Joey. But your time will come, Rick. I promise. You’ll get your mom back.
I’m writing this letter to plead guilty to the charges from my August arrest. I’m not a bad person, only made some horrible decisions which I’m lucky didn’t end in the death of either my best friend, another motorist, or myself. I’ve just turned eighteen years old and have lived with my family the whole time. I have a great family life, no alcohol or drug use, and my parents never fight. Since the incident I haven’t smoked marijuana or used any other illegal substances and have found the whole experience rather eye opening to the consequences of my actions and the need to think things through. [Letter to the court from Joey’s computer files.]
After four months of not a lot of fun for anybody, Joey is moving out. He says he’s ready to make his own life. I think what he means by that is he’s ready to party without restraint. But he’s an adult now. His choices, and his desire to make good choices, must come from within. My worrying and nagging sure don’t work. I’m afraid for whatever comes next. And sad. But mostly I’m relieved—and I feel guilty for that.
Me and my parents are doing ok. We’re close but I’m kinda being kicked out. Well more lightly pushed out. They can’t deal with watching me hurting myself anymore with drinking and drugs. Yeah I’ve tried a lot of new stuff here. Coke, ecstasy, mushrooms but I’ve only done them all once and won’t do them again. I know what I’m doing. Kind of. Probably more than you think but less than I think. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
For months, I’ve sat on an uncomfortable bunch of hunches. Now, before Joey leaves, it’s time to speak the unthinkable. Ambling into his room, I find Joey tossing blankets and pillows into a box. His smile fades as I launch into what he is in no mood to hear: There are addicts in our family’s attic, and I don’t want Joey to join them.
“You’ve heard this before, but this time you need to really listen. Addiction runs in our family, on both sides. Smoking pot and drinking are gambles you cannot take. You have too many relatives in various stages of recovery or active addiction to take this lightly. All of them were about your age when they started doing what you seem to think of as something everyone tries, and ‘just having fun.’ And they probably thought the same thing. They had no idea how un-fun things would become. They didn’t know they were stepping onto a slippery slope, but you, Joey, do.” I pick up a corner of a wrinkled black bedsheet, shake it out, and begin to fold. A slippery slope. I’ve seen the power of addiction. And I fear it.
Twenty-five. That’s how old I was when I first gave addiction any thought. I had to. A visiting friend from my college days had the DTs (delirium tremens).
I only remember snippets of what happened after Kelly arrived in Florida. (Faint memories, thankfully, are all that remain once a nightmare retreats to the dark corner it came from.) When Joe and I picked Kelly up at the airport, we were ready for fun—newly employed newlyweds excited to show off our new life.
I don’t remember exactly when I realized Kelly was crazy, but it wasn’t long after we’d shown her around our tiny apartment. Maybe it was when she started squashing the speckles in the granite tabletop with her finger, mumbling about bugs. Or maybe it was when she stood in front of the birdcage, swearing back at the parrot that wasn’t swearing at her. Or maybe it was when she ran out the door and through the apartment complex at the brightest point of the summer day, with spooked-horse eyes and not a lot of clothes on. No, I don’t remember the moment when I knew she was crazy, but I do remember calling her mom.
“Jan, something is really wrong with Kelly.”
I’d never seen addiction before. I didn’t know anything about it. From my perspective, my friend had lost her mind. Kelly was the rattling top of a boiling pot ready to explode, and I wanted to escort her back to Colorado and hand her off to her mom before she did.
The first line of parental defense when dealing with a child’s nightmare is to put a friendly face on the monster and shove it into the closet. That’s what Kelly’s mom had been doing for years. But once she heard what was going on down in Florida, she faced the monster. And she named it.
Kelly, my smart and serious college friend, was an addict.
She wasn’t crazy. She was having DTs.
The vision of Kelly’s mom flapping around her frenzied daughter in the tiny kitchen of their family home still haunts me. Somehow Kelly escaped. Someone called the police. And somewhere down the road she was picked up and taken to a hospital. Searching their house, Kelly’s mom and I found an astonishing number of empty liquor bottles poked into handbags and sweater boxes in Kelly’s bedroom closet and inside suitcases stored under her bed. Silently passing one another on the stairs, up and down, in and out, we took the empty bottles to the garbage cans behind their garage. As quickly as seemed acceptable, I left the nightmare of my friend’s addiction in her mom’s hands and returned home to Joe.
I wrote Kelly a letter, a real scorcher, telling her she was hurting her mom and to stop. Not long after, Kelly was released from detox. She moved back home, began an outpatient treatment program, and from afar, things seemed fine. Handled. Over.
I moved on with my life, unaware that Kelly and her mom were still in the trenches, duking it out with addiction; Kelly was lying, and drinking, and cheating the program, and her mom, doing the only thing left in her power, was trying to believe that her lying, drinking, cheating daughter wasn’t.
It was a rainy day when some final straw, some new promise, was broken and Kelly’s mom Let Go. She watched her daughter walk out the door—no umbrella, no money, no car—not knowing if she’d ever see her again. Weeks later the doorbell rang and Kelly stood on her mom’s front porch, beaten down by whatever had happened and ready for help. She went to an inpatient addiction treatment facility, then on to a halfway house and has been living a healthy lifestyle ever since. Years later Kelly told me that she did whatever she was told because she knew if she listened to herself she was going to die.
Now, decades later, these memories are as present as the curlicues of my breath crystallizing in the winter air. I stand next to Joe, watching Joey close up the trunk of his roommate’s blue sedan. He has tucked our good-luck wishes in alongside our old toaster and is ready to go. Turning, he reaches out for a hug. With my mittened hands, I hang on extra-tight. For all the worrying I’ve done over Joey lately, the only result is a deep crease between my eyebrows. But reason melts in the arms of my child; I’m worrying about him already. I’m worried about what happens next.
Pulling a brush through my hair as I stand before the bathroom mirror, I see that I’m smiling. Joey has invited me to meet him downtown for an ice cream cone on this now-very-fine spring day! I slap on some lipstick and dash out the door. Last month Rick pretended to believe me when I said Joey couldn’t make it to his birthday dinner because of work. But the truth is he never bothered to return my calls. Or any calls since. Today, though, he’s called me!
With Joey at my side, I’m beaming as I order a strawberry double-dip. I try not to notice the trembling hand that may wobble the scoop of chocolate ice cream off Joey’s cone. I just want to have fun. We claim a small bistro table outside on the patio. I dole out a couple of napkins, talking happy tidbits of this and that. Joey cuts me off, voice rising.
“I’ve been talking to people and realize that you and Dad ripped me off. You owe me a thousand dollars since you claimed me as a dependent on last year’s tax return. I want my money back. I need it. There’s a cash machine down the street. Let’s walk over there now.”
The ice cream I’m swallowing curdles as it slides down my throat.
“But Joey, you were a dependent last year. We don’t owe you any money. This is absurd.”
As chocolate spittle and accusations of stealing fly in my face, I stand up to leave. I walk away from the barbs Joey hurls at my back, trying to appear normal, but suspect my smile looks as natural as lipstick on a corpse.
“I hate you! It’s your fault I can’t get ahead! Who fucking steals their kid’s money? And I’m not going back to college. Not to please you. Fuck that!”
Tossing what’s left of today’s sweet treat and now sour illusions into the trash, I walk back to my car. There’s an hour and a half left on the two-hour meter. Stunned by the dissonance between my expectations and my son’s audacity, I’m unable to move any farther. I’m unable to drive. I slump forward into the steering wheel. Oh, how I long for the simpler days. Those of scabby knees and Popsicle breath and easy answers.
It was so good to see my mom again. It means so much to her. And to me. I didn’t realize how much I miss my parents. They are so supportive of me and it’s really nice to have that. I feel sad cuz I feel like I’m letting them down you know? I just want to make them proud and I’m not. Someday I WILL. I can never be good to anyone I love unless I am good to myself. I have gone from being a spoiled little shit, who had everything, to someone who couldn’t support anyone other than myself and that’s not good enough for me. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
When Joey shows up at the back door, a few brown leaves from the walnut tree drift in behind him. A blotchy rash covers the parts of Joey not covered by his T-shirt, but he doesn’t want to talk about that so I give him a hug and pretend nonchalance at this rare visit.
Pulling a stool up to the kitchen counter, Joey leans forward.
“Mom, I need twelve hundred dollars. I quit my job at the restaurant. You wouldn’t believe the bad stuff going down over there. I’m starting a new job in a few days, but I need money to pay my rent and bills until I get my first paycheck.”
Setting aside the meatballs I’ve been preparing for dinner, I look at my watch. Rick will be home from school shortly; this little discussion will need to be quick.
“Okay, Joey, since you have a new job lined up, I’ll loan you the money. But. Don’t ever ask for money again. You need to learn from this and be prepared for when things don’t go quite right. You cannot expect to be rescued. This is not a gift. I expect to be paid back on a schedule and on time—and this will include the twenty-eight hundred dollars you already owe us for your health insurance since moving out.” Looking at his eager-to-please face, I see, and seize, an opportunity. “I’ll loan you this money only if you remove whatever it is that’s holding open the huge holes in your earlobes.”
You want money. I want you to look less scary. Win, win.
Moving into the living room, we sit down, stretch out our legs, and giggle at our sneaker collisions on the shared yellow tuffet. Together we map out Joey’s financial situation—he owes thousands of dollars in past-due bills and overdrawn accounts, but promises he will get and stay on top of things now—and then we gab. About nothing and everything. A pretty darn good moment.
When Rick and Joe get home, I tell them how masterfully I handled the situation. They both look at me like I’m an idiot. It does seem stupid to have loaned Joey all that money now that I see the transaction through less befuddled eyes.
Mother’s Day. Not even a phone call from Joey.
Holes—the things that aren’t—are every bit as real as mountains—and so, what isn’t happening is every bit as real, and significant, as what is. The phone that doesn’t ring, the missed birthdays and holidays, the no-show coffee dates, the end of the pretense of returning to college—these are the holes. The convoluted lies and excuses, the lost jobs, and the reports of unremitting disasters at Joey’s apartment—alcohol poisoning, shattered glass and gushing blood, emergency rescues, and an arrest—well, these are the mountains.
I don’t know why Joey was arrested, but I go to the courthouse to show him he’s not alone. A show of support. And hope. Joe would be here too, but he has to work. As I wait in the slowly moving line to be scanned for concealed knives, guns, and nunchucks, I’m caught between two giants wearing black leather, spikes, and razor-edged irritation. I’ve never been in a courthouse before (other than to get my marriage license, but that must have been at the happy entrance) and I feel ridiculous in my Petal Pink lipstick and matching handbag.
When I find Joey slouched on a bench in a crowded waiting room, I’m so relieved. He looks up, and I smile. But his face contorts as he leaps to his feet; on the verge, it appears, of vomiting out a rabid beast.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Go away. This is some stupid fucking charge by a stupid fucking cop. I don’t need you here fucking things up. I don’t fucking want you here. Leave me alone.”
So, that’s what I do.
Joe, Rick, and I have just finished dinner and are digging into dessert when Joey stops by the house with a bouquet of fall flowers and an apology.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I was stressed out,” he says. “Not everybody has a parent who would show up in court like that. I realize that. So thanks.”
“Well, what happened today?” I ask. I don’t ask about the crime.
“The judge put me on probation. Drug education and community service shit. Asshole. But he can’t stop me from smoking pot. I love pot, will always smoke pot, and no one can stop me.”
“Joey,” I sigh.
“Have you ever tried it? You should. Everyone should.”
I tell Joey I think his life is out of control and that he needs help.
“Maybe a twelve-step or addiction treatment program,” Joe adds, wiping a few cake crumbs from his lips with his napkin. Eyes averted.
There it is. The thing Joe and I have whispered about between ourselves but have been afraid to say out loud to our son.
“Yes, I need help!” Joey hollers. “What kind of parents are you? You won’t give me the car I earned, you won’t pay for me to go to college, and you won’t give me money when I’m having tough times. How am I supposed to be able to afford to live on my crappy income in this crappy town? Work and more work, that’s my life, and I have no hope of ever getting ahead because you never help me out. Parents who love their kids help their kids. I need real help, not the sort of shit you’re talking about. Addiction treatment shit. Fuck you. I’ll just keep getting help from the people who really care about me—my friends. I don’t need or want your kind of help, which is useless. How dare you accuse me of having any kind of problem? YOU are my problem.”
When I call around to some of Joey’s old friends, I hear that I’m overreacting.
“Everybody our age tries drugs. Unless it involves needles or crack, it’s not something to be worried about.” I don’t believe them. I continue to worry.
Today, I really miss my own mom.
Of three siblings, I’m the only girl, sandwiched two and a half years on either side between Richard, the eldest, and David, the goofiest. Growing up in Golden Valley, Minnesota, we lived in a yellow colonial-style house with black shutters at the windows and a milk box on the front porch, and filled our days with riding bikes and sledding and playing in the woods, or pelting one another with icy snowballs and giving Mom gray hair (and Dad no hair).
During high school we still got along well enough—we weren’t best buddies but we could stand to be in the same room together—and during college we would catch up around the kitchen table when we migrated home for holidays and summers. But once our grown-up lives took shape, as we scattered across the country and our trips back home were less synchronized, sibling updates fell to Mom and Dad in weekly calls, with news, security and love relayed from the phone nearest the well-worn La-Z-Boy in the den. Comfort Central.
Mom, I need you. But I don’t want to worry you. Please pick up the phone and call me right now.
Solid Midwestern folks; my dad is a doctor and my mom is a nurse. Sometime in the early 1950s they met on the ward of a county hospital in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Mom in her starched white uniform, nursing cap, and cat glasses. Dad in his resident jacket with a stethoscope hanging from his neck. Someone proposed to someone else while holding hands on a long walk and they’ve been happily married ever since. My parents’ weekly routine includes a lot of togetherness; grocery shopping, brisk hikes, and turns at the churches of their different denominations. Dad mows the grass, keeps Mom’s car topped off with gas, and irons his own shirts now that her hands are crippled with arthritis. Mom is tiny; I can rest my chin on her curly white head. A little bird, she bakes pies and cookies for Dad (a plumper bird), and fusses over him if he doesn’t wear a hat to protect his bald head. My parents see the world as they treat the world: gently.
My world isn’t feeling very gentle right now.
Mom, call me.
Hysteria becomes begging, which becomes scheming, which becomes anger, which becomes a dial tone. Joey hangs up because Joe refuses to drop off a car so he can drive to his girlfriend’s house and save her from a dose of bad cocaine and certain death. He didn’t care for Joe’s suggestion that Joey call 911. The phone rings again within minutes, but this time Joey is crying.
“Dad, help me. Please, Dad, come get me.”
Joe is out the door in five seconds.
Returning a short while later, Joe shoots me a warning look as he shakes off his boots and holds the door open for Joey. My son steps in from the dark, pale and twitching. He zooms through the kitchen and down the hall, in and out of rooms, choking on tears and fears and garbled words about cocaine. Joe and I follow around after him, trying to soothe the wild beast; somehow, eventually, after whatever he’s on wears off, we wait and listen. Joey lies down in his old bedroom, murmuring the words we’ve been waiting to hear.
“I need help. I need addiction treatment. I can’t do this anymore.” And he falls asleep.
Sadness leaks onto my pillow until I’m overcome with exhaustion. But then, drawn from a fitful sleep, I tiptoe through the house to check on Joey before dawn. He’s in the TV room, sitting in near darkness, propped up next to his girlfriend, Julianne, on our green sofa.
Where did she come from?
Neither of them moves, not even a bit, although their expressions become slightly amused, as though I’m some freaky apparition that magically appeared for their viewing pleasure. I don’t know what’s going on, but it feels smarmy. This doesn’t match up with what happened here earlier this night.
“Both of you, get out.”
They do. They stand up and float right out the door. Looking around, I notice a stain on the beige carpet. It looks like blood. What went on here during the night? Holding the edge of the coffee table for balance, I crouch down to touch the ruby wetness, and then slowly bring it to my nose. Not blood. Wine.
Growling now, I shake my head, trying to free my mind of the ugliness snaking into my thoughts. How dare Joey bring his scary world into our life and our home—his drugs, his drinking, his darling little dealer, and whatever that drama was that happened last night?
Furious, I slam my way through the rest of the morning, slamming doors and drawers and cabinets. I slam waffles into the toaster and then onto Rick’s plate (who then eats them in silence). Once Rick leaves for school I head to the garage, slam my car into reverse, and take my fury to Joey.
At Joey’s apartment, a long-haired stranger opens the door, a silent zombie who shuffles off to flop on the saggy black sofa in the middle of the room, leaving me to stand at the entrance. Not sure what to do, I stay where I am, taking a look around. The blinds are drawn against the morning light but I can see dried blood and other crud all over the carpet and walls. I presume the widely splattered blood stains are from the mysterious broken sliding-glass-door incident. Amidst crumpled bits of trash and dirty dishes, a Christmas tree stands in the corner, decorated with silver garlands and a few ornaments from Joey’s childhood. More than the decrepitude of this place where Joey lives, it’s the tree—Joey’s attempt at re-creating fond memories—that makes me want to cry.
Stepping farther into the apartment, I tap on Joey’s door. No response. I’m not at all sure I want to see whatever’s in there. But I have some yelling to do. So, I turn the grimy knob with two fingers and slowly push my way in.
Fully dressed (minus a sneaker), Joey is sprawled on his back across his bed. His long legs are twisted in the less-than-fresh-looking sheets. His eyes are closed, he’s breathing heavily. One arm is bent over his forehead, the other dangles above an empty wine bottle on the floor.
“Joey,” I whisper softly. Not to rouse him, but to see if it’s safe to snoop without getting caught. Not an eyelash flickers. The small room smells of ashtrays, recently smoked pot, and things unwashed; I hold the back of my hand to my nose. Three of the walls are the color of a cigarette filter after a few puffs, and the wall over his bed is spray-painted with mostly black graffiti. Bongs, baggies, and cigarette butts litter the carpet between stiff-looking socks and mildewed towels, and the printer from college sits in one corner gathering dust while robust marijuana plants stand tall in another.
Stepping over some junk, I reach for his backpack. There’s another empty wine bottle and a corkscrew inside. I’m pretty sure these came from the room where Joe and I keep our liquor locked up—a recent precaution in case Joey ever came over. I guess he found a way in. If his room wasn’t so filthy, I might allow myself to crumple up on the floor and cry until tomorrow. Instead, I call out Joey’s name, this time loud and sharp.
Like rusty old hinges, his eyes slowly creak open, get a little stuck, close, and creak back open. Merely a crack. He remains deathly still. And silent. I’m fairly certain Joey’s not aware I’m here, but I yell at him anyway. I let go of my fury over last night’s drama, drugs, and deceit. I feel a little better, but I’m not quite done.
“Take a look at your life, at this mess, at everything you are throwing away. Get a grip. Grow up. Be responsible. Take control. Make something of yourself, Joey. Make a life you can be proud of. Oh, and, one more thing. I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
“How about a bike?” Joe asks me.
“No. I can picture Joey riding around in traffic while high or drunk. How about if we reduce his debt?” I reply.
“I don’t think so. That would send the wrong message and set a bad precedent. An iPod?”
“He’d sell it for drug money.”
Finally Joe and I decide to give Joey a bathrobe for Christmas. Boring yet safe. And a handmade certificate decorated with yellow smiley faces—admission to Havenwood Addiction Treatment Center (redeemable at any time). Not at all sure how Joey will respond to the certificate. Since he was wigged out last week when he admitted to needing help, we are relieved when he says he will use it.
“I think my life is a little out of control.”
I’m so happy I can hardly stand it. I’ve already talked to the Havenwood folks up in Minnesota so I know there will be space available for Joey in a few weeks. I whip out my list and start preparations. I buy Joey’s airplane ticket and move $25,000 of his college funds into our checking account to pay for the first month of addiction treatment. With three days to go and everything lined up to go except Joey, I set out to track him down—he hasn’t answered any of my calls since Christmas—and find him at the restaurant where he works. When Joey says he’s not going to Havenwood after all, I crumble. A snuffling, begging mess. Joey cries a little too, wrapping his arms around me and patting me on the back.
“I’m so sorry for everything, Mom. But everything will be okay now. I’ll go. I’ll go.”
A dollop of something sweet floating in our sour pot.
Almost a year to the day after he moved out of our house, Joey moves back home. For one night. It’s another cold January day of packing up boxes, but this time around my emotions aren’t mixed. When I arrive at Joey’s apartment, the only indication he’s even thought about moving is the absence of his marijuana crop. I don’t care where it went. I only care that it’s gone. Joey is high. Hazy and weird, he keeps negotiating to get rid of me. Fat chance. He mentions wanting to break up with Julianne.
“We do too many bad things together.”
The breaking up part is a bit of good news and I hang onto that.
Chucking Joey’s jumbled bundles of stuff into the back of my SUV, I’m startled by the appearance of a husky, dark-haired young man at my side. But he’s smiling, asking if I’m Joey’s mom and if Joey is upstairs.
“Yes and yes! He’s in the apartment, packing; the door is open,” I say, smiling back, and then get back to my chucking. Moments later I hear loud curses and thumping. Whirling around, I see Joey shoving The Smiler down the stairs from his second floor apartment. Then Joey is screaming at me, right up in my face.
“Mind your own fucking business! That guy is a dealer who wants to kill me and you go fucking let him into my house? You have no fucking idea what you are doing! You are crazy!” Only when Joey storms away do I dare move. I lean into my car, rearranging the mess into a different mess. Swallow hard. Blink hard. Try to focus on the goal.
By the time we dump Joey’s belongings in our basement, it’s already dark, Joe is home from work, and we enter a new moon of madness. Looking over the Havenwood packing list—no cell phone, no iPod, no laptop, nothing sharp—Joey balks.
“No fucking way. What the hell are you getting me into?” Then he calls Julianne and walks out the door. Joe steps out after him.
“Don’t be too late! You’ve got laundry and packing to do! And you need to wake up early!”
As though we let Joey leave. We know Joey is leaving whether we let him leave or not. What we don’t know is if he’ll come back.
Joe and I decide to poke around in Joey’s things. We find glass bongs and metal pipes, a small scale, a rectangular mirror, and other, unidentifiable paraphernalia. Now what do we do? If we throw it all away, Joey will notice—assuming he returns tonight—sabotaging the goal for tomorrow. If we confront him, we’ll need to draw some kind of line in the shifting sand. That will likely send him right back out the door. My vote is to wait until he’s gone and then throw it all away.
“Nope, I’m done being held hostage,” Joe says.
When Joey stumbles through the back door, bumps off the wall, and spins around in our direction, Joe and I are waiting for him—grim-faced, barefoot, and wearing our PJs. Joey’s drug supplies are spread out on the kitchen counter.
“What the fuck? You went through my shit? That’s my personal property. You fucking violated my rights!” Red-faced and weaving, he fumbles around with the paraphernalia, trying to stuff it all into the front of his shirt. “You can’t take these! I bought them. I’m going to hide them where you’ll never fucking find them!” Joey barrels back out into the night, curdling my blood with his fury.
Tossing and turning, I can’t sleep. I sneak out of bed and down the hall, avoiding the squeaky floorboard just inside my study, and ease the door closed behind me. Without turning on the lamp, I burrow into the cushions of my overstuffed chair. Joey is banging around downstairs—high, agitated, and unpredictable. Over the years I have felt afraid for Joey. But I’ve never felt afraid of him. Until tonight. Tonight, I am both. So here I sit, quietly sewing one bump and thump and slam into the next with the stitch of my breathing. Maybe somehow my vigil will carry him all the way to sunrise. Somehow keep him from lighting up or sneaking out or running away. Joey needs to be here come daylight; he’s got a flight to catch. So, I take a breath. I hold it as I wait for the next bump. I breathe.
And I think.
Sometime between the first hint of a whisker and the nudge from the nest, Joey crossed an invisible line—a line where experimentation became addiction. And dalliance became disease. He was a kid when he started down the path that brought him here to this night—just a kid when he made the choices that turned out to be bad choices, influenced by feelings and pressures more powerful than his tender young self could withstand. Besieged by music, movies, magazines, and malls, Joey was lured in.
“Drugs, drinking, party! A carefree life! A dream life! A pain-free life! Sign in blood here.”
Such intoxicating enticements. (Don’t bother to read the fine print.)
An addict is a pea-in-the-pod who spoils the party, shunned by the very same peers who had passed the poisoned apple, as well as by those who slyly winked or looked the other way.
“This is so unexpected, so shocking.”
“What a disgrace.”
“What a mess.”
The world of addiction is a murky place, but one thing is crystal clear: Millions of people choose to take a first drink or first drug—and a second and a third and a hundredth—yet they don’t all become addicts. And, of those who do become addicts, not one of them chooses to. People may choose to use, but they do not choose to lose. Something else does the choosing when a user becomes an addict.
When I was in high school and college, I partied a lot. I slugged down more Boone’s Farm and Schlitz and peach schnapps than I care to admit. I never gave a thought to the risk. Not once. If I had, I would’ve thought addiction only happened to other people. Seriously flawed and weak people. I didn’t know the fun I was having was fun by pure luck. I didn’t know there were others in the family who would be taken down by the drink. I didn’t know that when I chose to drink, the drink could just as easily have chosen me.
Everyone I know eats donuts and cookies and candy-store sweets. Some, but not all, become diabetic or are haunted by visions of sugarplums or land on the scale between chubby and obese. Is slow-torture-by-donut a choice? What makes someone susceptible to heart disease or multiple sclerosis? What makes someone good at math, or stink at drawing, or hate the taste of anchovies, or favor the color blue? What makes one shy, one gregarious, or one like toy cars more than teddy bears before the age of two? I think we’re born with a mix of ingredients and there are some things about which we have no choice.
So, what turns a user into an addict? I don’t know, but I’m sitting here in the dark, hiding from my nineteen-year-old son who is one. Some inner turmoil may have drawn Joey to experiment with drugs and drink, but his inner turmoil did not make him an addict. Something else did.
Morning is here. And so is Joey. Bleary-eyed and subdued, he says he’s ready to go to the airport and has a bulging suitcase to prove it. He will be flying alone; Joey needs to feel he’s going to addiction treatment rather than being taken. If disaster is averted over the next several hours, it will probably be simply because we’ve made sure he has no money.
I should feel happy this morning now that there’s a glimmer of light at the end of Joey’s tunnel. Instead, I have mixed feelings. Much, I suppose, like a mother learning of a new treatment option for her child’s rapidly spreading cancer.
It may be good news, but only relatively speaking.
