Girl Walks Out of a Bar Read Free Page A

short and perfectly coiffed reddish-brown hair, a delicate nose, and a smattering of freckles.
    â€œEverything OK?” she asked. I didn’t normally call this early. I tugged at my hair and felt sweat break out across my face and chest. There was still time to lie, but I was too tired and sick of it all. I took a swig of wine and spoke.
    â€œNot exactly. Are you sitting down? I have to tell you something.” I’d always thought that, “are you sitting down?” was the kind of line that belonged in soap operas and black-and-white movies. But I genuinely wanted her to hear this sitting down.
    â€œOk. I’m sitting.” Then very quickly, “What is it? Are you sick?”
    â€œUm, I’m just going to say it. I’m having a problem with alcohol.” I decided to leave out the coke, at least for now. “It’s a big problem. I’m going to check myself into a detox today.” She was quiet, so I kept talking. “It’s OK, though. I’m going to be OK. I just need help.”
    When she did speak it was in a voice slightly higher than normal. “What? What do you mean check yourself into a detox? What does that mean?”
    â€œI’m going to go to a hospital, here in the city, just for a few days. They monitor you while you detox from alcohol. They give you medicine for withdrawal.”
    â€œ Withdrawal ? What are you talking about? How bad is this? You drink too much sometimes, but is it so bad that you have to be hospitalized ? Couldn’t you just stop drinking for a while?” I could picture her face contorting in confusion. She was in that early phase, when you still think you can fix the situation with words. Tears began to stream down my cheeks.
    â€œNo. No, I can’t just stop drinking for a while,” I sniffed. “I would if I could, but I have to drink all the time just to function. I’m sick all the time, my hands shake, my head throbs. I can’tconcentrate. Drinking is the only thing that makes me feel normal. It sounds backwards, but it’s true. It’s bad and I need to go somewhere to make me stop. I just have to .” It was becoming difficult to keep talking through my tears, and I gasped for breath.
    â€œAll right, all right, it’s OK,” she said, in the same voice she used when I was eight years old. By now I was sobbing. She continued, “It’s OK. If you need help, you’ve got to get help. I’ll go get dressed. I pictured Mom dumping the rest of her coffee down the drain and pacing in front of the wall phone, eager to hang up so she could start taking action. “Daddy and I will get to your apartment in about an hour. We’ll figure this out.”
    â€œNo!” I half screamed. “No, really. You don’t need to come in to the city. I talked to Dr. Merkin and he gave me the name of a place that takes my insurance, and they’re already expecting me. It’s called Gracie Square.” Before she could respond, I tried to comfort her by blurting, “It’s on the Upper East Side!” I got off the couch and began pacing back and forth across the living room with my head still down.
    â€œWait. If you really need this, shouldn’t we look at a few places? Peggy’s husband went somewhere nice in Connecticut for a month. I’ll call her now.”
    â€œNo. I have to go today or I’ll lose my nerve. Plus, I can’t go away to one of those one or two-month-long places. I’m going back to work next week. This is detox, just a treatment so I can feel better.” The pitch of my voice was rising. “I don’t need to go anywhere that long. I’ll be fine. I just feel really sick right now and this will fix it.” I slumped back onto the couch. Then I was quiet.
    â€œAlright, OK,” she took another long pause. “Talk to your father.”
    There was a mumbling, scraping sound as she covered the phone receiver and