novels.
She gives me a deck of cards she forgot she had and never opened. I give her a plastic key chain that has no real significance.
“I’m really going to try to stay sober this time,” she says to me quietly. “I never really tried before. I’m going to do yoga and meditate and go to AA and all that.”
I nod hopefully.
I help her carry her stuff onto the porch. Then we sit and wait for her mom. I look at the arm of the chair and think of all the people who have sat here, waiting to be picked up, waiting to start a new life. Not many actually get a new life. Most people go right back to their old life. That’s what Cynthia always says. The statistics are not pretty.
A black Cadillac Escalade appears. Trish’s mom gets out. And her little sister. Her mom is an older version of Trish, tons of makeup, cheesy highlights, prob able boob job. The little sister is dancing around in the reflection of the car windows, singing into a hairbrush. For a moment my heart sinks for Trish. This is the genius family who let her get raped in her own pool house.
Her mom picks her way across the muddy yard, trying to protect her designer shoes. But when she gets to us, she hugs Trish and I can see the strain in her face. And the worry. And the love.
It kinda kills me. It does. It breaks my heart.
The freaky sister hugs her too, and then Trish introduces me. I step forward and shake hands and the mom says, “Trish has told us all about you. She says you’ve been a great friend to her.”
“I didn’t really do anything,” I mumble.
“Thank you,” her mother says again, gripping my hand. “Thank you so much.”
Trish and I drag her stuff to the car. The little sister is still bopping around, sticking her ass out.
Trish gets in the passenger seat. Her mom starts the car. I stand there while Trish lowers her window. “Will you call me?” she says.
I nod that I will.
The Cadillac pulls away. I stand in the street watching them go. I feel like I’m having my heart ripped out.
It’s so weird being straight. You have no defenses. Shit happens and you have to feel it. You have no choice.
10
W ithout Trish, the whole house situation changes. It’s just me and a bunch of old hags basically. I stay in my room as much as I can. I start reading a ragged copy of Stephen King’s
The Stand.
I hide in the bathroom, picking at my toenails and reading for hours.
Later in the week, they shuffle the bunks around and we get two new people in our room. One is Margarita, a Nicaraguan woman who shot her husband in the stomach when she was drunk. The other is an ice-cold rich lady who only wears sweat clothes but spends two hours every morning putting on her makeup and fixing her hair.
God, I miss Trish.
On Monday I meet with my counselor, Cynthia, and she tells me I have to be more open to others and not judge people so fast. She says: “Your disease wants you isolated. Your disease wants you alone.”
That’s how they talk in rehab. Being a cranky bitch is “a disease.”
11
T hen my dad calls. My dad is sort of a big deal. He used to be an engineer at NASA and then he ran a solar energy business and now he’s a private consultant, and so he travels constantly, raising capital and talking to rich and powerful people around the world. I think he cheats on my mom on these trips, but whatever, it’s for the good of the family, making truckloads of money and all.
So we talk. He’s obviously really busy and doesn’t have time and doesn’t know what to say. But he does his best. It’s better than talking to my mom at least, who always tries to tell me what to do. This has never worked, since I’m about ten times smarter than her and always do what I want anyway. But that’s our family dynamic. Mom is clueless and pissed off, while my dad and I both see what totally outrageous bullshit we can get away with.
Later, back in my room, I have an argument with ice queen Sweatpants Lady, because one of my dirty socks touched
She gives me a deck of cards she forgot she had and never opened. I give her a plastic key chain that has no real significance.
“I’m really going to try to stay sober this time,” she says to me quietly. “I never really tried before. I’m going to do yoga and meditate and go to AA and all that.”
I nod hopefully.
I help her carry her stuff onto the porch. Then we sit and wait for her mom. I look at the arm of the chair and think of all the people who have sat here, waiting to be picked up, waiting to start a new life. Not many actually get a new life. Most people go right back to their old life. That’s what Cynthia always says. The statistics are not pretty.
A black Cadillac Escalade appears. Trish’s mom gets out. And her little sister. Her mom is an older version of Trish, tons of makeup, cheesy highlights, prob able boob job. The little sister is dancing around in the reflection of the car windows, singing into a hairbrush. For a moment my heart sinks for Trish. This is the genius family who let her get raped in her own pool house.
Her mom picks her way across the muddy yard, trying to protect her designer shoes. But when she gets to us, she hugs Trish and I can see the strain in her face. And the worry. And the love.
It kinda kills me. It does. It breaks my heart.
The freaky sister hugs her too, and then Trish introduces me. I step forward and shake hands and the mom says, “Trish has told us all about you. She says you’ve been a great friend to her.”
“I didn’t really do anything,” I mumble.
“Thank you,” her mother says again, gripping my hand. “Thank you so much.”
Trish and I drag her stuff to the car. The little sister is still bopping around, sticking her ass out.
Trish gets in the passenger seat. Her mom starts the car. I stand there while Trish lowers her window. “Will you call me?” she says.
I nod that I will.
The Cadillac pulls away. I stand in the street watching them go. I feel like I’m having my heart ripped out.
It’s so weird being straight. You have no defenses. Shit happens and you have to feel it. You have no choice.
10
W ithout Trish, the whole house situation changes. It’s just me and a bunch of old hags basically. I stay in my room as much as I can. I start reading a ragged copy of Stephen King’s
The Stand.
I hide in the bathroom, picking at my toenails and reading for hours.
Later in the week, they shuffle the bunks around and we get two new people in our room. One is Margarita, a Nicaraguan woman who shot her husband in the stomach when she was drunk. The other is an ice-cold rich lady who only wears sweat clothes but spends two hours every morning putting on her makeup and fixing her hair.
God, I miss Trish.
On Monday I meet with my counselor, Cynthia, and she tells me I have to be more open to others and not judge people so fast. She says: “Your disease wants you isolated. Your disease wants you alone.”
That’s how they talk in rehab. Being a cranky bitch is “a disease.”
11
T hen my dad calls. My dad is sort of a big deal. He used to be an engineer at NASA and then he ran a solar energy business and now he’s a private consultant, and so he travels constantly, raising capital and talking to rich and powerful people around the world. I think he cheats on my mom on these trips, but whatever, it’s for the good of the family, making truckloads of money and all.
So we talk. He’s obviously really busy and doesn’t have time and doesn’t know what to say. But he does his best. It’s better than talking to my mom at least, who always tries to tell me what to do. This has never worked, since I’m about ten times smarter than her and always do what I want anyway. But that’s our family dynamic. Mom is clueless and pissed off, while my dad and I both see what totally outrageous bullshit we can get away with.
Later, back in my room, I have an argument with ice queen Sweatpants Lady, because one of my dirty socks touched
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