Girl Walks Out of a Bar Read Free

lived. Also, it was only a few blocks from Lenox Hill Hospital where Dr. Merkin saw patients, in an expensive Manhattan neighborhood.Maybe it would have a better class of addict. “Who do I call?”
    â€œJust call the main number, and tell them what’s happening to you. If you need a referral, tell them to call me.”
    â€œThank you, Dr. Merkin. I’ll call right now,” I said.
    â€œLet me know what happens. Good luck, Lisa.”
    Gracie Square made reserving a bed less complicated than booking a hotel room. They took my insurance and said I could arrive any time until eleven that evening. I felt a pang of excitement at the thought of doing something that might relieve my addiction, and also a pang of dread of putting down the bottle. It reminded me of what people said about the most difficult partners at law firms: “He may be an asshole, but he’s our asshole.” Addiction was my asshole and the devil I knew. After ten years of drinking like a full-blown drunk, I couldn’t imagine life without it.
    â€œWhat’d they say?” Mark asked. I saw that he had poured himself a glass of wine. I always felt better when I wasn’t the only one drinking, particularly before 9:00 a.m.
    â€œThey’ll have a bed for me. They’ll give me medicine, something called Librium, for withdrawal.” Then I waved him away. “Let me deal with my office now, before anyone gets there.”
    Mark sat in my overstuffed club chair staring at me as I pulled my laptop out of its case. His knees were bouncing up and down which made me anxious, so I gave him an errand. “Hey, they said ‘no cell phones’ at this place. But there’s a pay phone. Can you go get me a phone card? I think they have them at the bodega on the corner of 18th.”
    â€œYeah, no problem,” Mark said. “I’ll pick up an egg sandwich while I’m out. Do you want one?”
    â€œNo, I definitely do not want an egg sandwich.” I said.
    I lit another cigarette, logged onto my computer, and sent an email to my boss and several partners. I claimed I had come down with a “stomach-related illness,” that required “a procedure” in the hospital. Not to worry, I’d be back “in fine shape” next week, but this week I’d be “out of touch.” As I passed off my immediate projects for coworkers to handle, I thanked God for the privacy laws that prevented the firm from questioning me about my health.
    I could never let them know what was happening. It wasn’t just because I was ashamed, which I was, it was also because of the stigma attached to substance abuse by lawyers. If they found out, overnight I’d go from being viewed as hardworking and smart to weak, defective, and untrustworthy. This was the attitude of the entire industry.
    But my parents needed to know. They lived in New Jersey and we had always had a close relationship. Still, as far as they knew, I was doing great. I had told them countless happy lies and called only when sober enough to have a normal conversation. But the bubble of deceit now had one breath too many blown into it, and this phone call would draw a clear line dividing line between “before Mom and Dad knew that I had lied to them for years” and “after Mom and Dad knew that I had lied to them for years.” The fact that I was an alcoholic would be less upsetting than the fact that I had been a fraud in our relationship. They believed they knew me well. They didn’t. The phone felt like a fifty-pound weight.
    â€œGood morning,” my mother said. I pictured her sitting at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee and trying to spot birds outside the picture window. It was her favorite time of the day, and she was probably wearing one of her cotton pajama sets with a soft robe and socks. She was a petite, beautiful woman, a mix of Eastern European Jew and Irish Catholic with deepbrown eyes,