Getting to Happy (36 page)

The boxes barely fit in my car. I put one on the backseat and the other on the passenger seat. I get behind the wheel and sit for what feels like hours. Eventually I put the key in the ignition. I’m wondering if what just happened really happened. If I really and truly no longer have a job. I suddenly feel scared as hell and yet relieved at the same time. It is not a good feeling, because I don’t know which one I should trust. I turn the key hard. I gun the engine. It sounds loud down here. Not loud enough. I gun it again and again and again, until I see the exhaust coming from the tailpipe.

When I come to my senses, I look around to see if anyone has noticed, and there, standing a few feet away, is Norman. He has no boxes, just an outdated attaché case and a plaque he got ten years ago for doing something none of us who went into his office ever paid any attention to. Right now, those spider veins on his face look like a map. That brown plaid jacket he has worn on a weekly basis no matter what the temperature is drooping off his shoulders. Norman looks like he’s lost weight. Our eyes meet. Mine say, “What are you going to do now, Norman?” His say, “I don’t know.”

He waves. I try to smile as I wave back, and then I back out of my parking space. I have no idea what a person is supposed to do when they don’t have a job anymore. What on earth do you do when you have nothing but free time?

I decide to go to one of my favorite outlets. I float in and out of one store after another, trying on expensive clothes I wouldn’t ordinarily look at twice. Almost all of them are orange. I’m waiting for that thrill I usually get. I don’t feel it. It doesn’t stop me from trying. After three hours, the only thing I remember buying is a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots (I don’t even like cowboy boots); sexy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret that I’ll probably never wear; a neon blue Nano for Sparrow and a silver one for me. I get new outfits for Romeo and Juliet, one of which they already have.

I buy so much stuff I have to make four trips to the parking lot because I can’t carry it all. I shove so many bags into my Porsche I have no idea how they all fit. The sound of each bag rubbing against another is so pronounced I feel like throwing them all out the window.

I’m hoping Sparrow is still at practice. However, the first thing I see when I hit the garage door opener is her hybrid. I can’t tell where that hole was she made in the wall. The damage to my Porsche wasn’t as bad as she thought. I leave everything I bought in the car. I’ll get it when I get it. The kids jump and bounce and bark when they seem me. It doesn’t seem cute today.

Sparrow appears at the top of the stairwell. “Are you all right, Mom?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I know what happened.”

“And just how would you know what happened to me today?”

“Because I called you at work and they said you didn’t work there anymore. And I know you didn’t quit. You got riffed. We study this in civics class, and a hecka lot of my friends’ parents have had the exact same thing happen to them. I’m really sorry, Mom.” She comes down and puts her arms around me like I’m her little girl. “We’ll be fine. I’ll start looking for a part-time job tomorrow. You can have as much of my check as you need. All of it.”

“Thank you, baby. We don’t have to worry about any of that right now. This is probably for the best. It just knocks the wind out of you. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. How are you?”

She turns to run back upstairs and then stops. “I think my heart was broken today, too. Gustav broke up with me.”

“Why?”

“He says he thinks he’s gay. I asked him how do you
think
it? Anyway, I told him never mind trying to explain it. We’re still going to hang out and do stuff because we like each other’s heads. So, I guess I’ve got a new friend. Anyway, I’ve got studying to do. I’m going to say goodnight. Goodnight, Mom. I love you.” She trounces up the stairs and closes her door, and within minutes I hear her playing the violin.

I want to tell somebody what happened today but don’t think I have any energy left to repeat it. When the phone rings I answer it without bothering to check caller ID.

“What’re you up to?” Savannah asks.

“Oh, not much. I went on a shopping spree today.”

“So, what else is new?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I did get canned today.”

“You got
what
?”

“You heard right.”

“You’re not saying you were fired?”

“They call it downsizing since we . . . I mean they’re going through a merger. Same thing. They do it like they’re the Gestapo and you’re a spy or something. They actually put all of my shit in boxes and wouldn’t even let me go into my office.”

“Damn. I’m really, really sorry to hear this, Robin.”

“I know. I’m still trying to digest it. But at least they gave me a decent-enough severance package. Enough to keep me going for a while.”

“I know this is a stupid question, and you may not have had time to think about it yet: but what are you going to do?”

“I have no idea, Savannah. None whatsoever.”

“Wanna go to Paris?”

Before I can register that Savannah is really inviting me to go with her, and before I can even think long enough about whether I could afford it, and before I can take another three seconds to weigh the pros and cons, but mostly before she has a chance to come to her senses and change her mind, I say, “Hell yeah!”

Stick a Fork in Me: I’m Done

“I’m a little nervous,” Bernadine says.

“It’s okay. I understand,” the woman on the other end of the phone says. “So you think you have a problem with tranquilizers and sleeping pills. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What kinds of tranquilizers are you taking?”

“Xanax.”

“Five milligram?”

“No. Two point five.”

“How many a day?”

“One. Sometimes two.”

“And this is the maximum you’ve ever taken?”

“Yes.”

“Any opiates?”

“What’s that?”

“Vicodin, Percocet, things of that nature.”

“No.”

“That’s good. Anything else?”

“Ambien.”

“Five milligrams?”

“Yes.”

“Every night?”

“No. But often.”

“About how often?”

“It depends. Last week I took two. Some weeks none. Rarely more than two nights in a row.”

“Are you taking any other types of medication?”

“Zoloft.”

“Have they helped?”

“I don’t know.”

“And how long have you been taking these?”

“Which ones?”

“All three.”

“Off and on about six years.”

“What did you do during the off years?”

“Nothing.”

“Any alcohol?”

“A glass of wine or a beer every now and then. But never after I’ve taken a Xanax.”

“Do you consume any caffeine?”

“Coffee. No soda.”

“How much?”

“One to two cups a day.”

“When was the last time you had a Xanax?”

“Yesterday.”

“What’s the longest you’ve gone without taking one?”

“Three days.”

“And how did you feel?”

“On the third day: weird.”

“Did you experience any tremors?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

“Yes.”

“Vomiting?”

“Yes.”

“Sweats?”

“Yes.”

“Any mental health diagnosis?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been to any facility before?”

“No.”

“Are the medications you’re taking prescribed to you by your physician?”

“Of course.”

“Why were they prescribed?”

“Because I was going through a bad divorce situation.”

“Then you
do
have mental health issues.”

“I didn’t have a nervous breakdown or anything.”

“That’s not what we mean by it.”

“Well, I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s okay. When was your divorce?”

“Actually, my marriage was annulled. Six years ago.”

“What happened that made it tough for you?”

“I found out he was also married to another woman.”

“Shut up!”

“In another state. So I’ve been angry and sort of numbing myself off and on all these years.”

“Well, no wonder. We would call this a traumatic experience here at A New Day.”

“It was very traumatic, to say the least.”

“We can help you deal with the substance-abuse issue and help you begin to address some of the emotional ones, since they’re obviously linked. So, you’re interested in our twenty-eight-day inpatient program?”

“That’s correct.”

“I see you’ve already given us your insurance information. Is everything still current?”

“Yes, it is. I just sent it this morning.”

“Okay. Let me ask you a few more questions and then I’ll be able to process your application.”

“May I ask you one, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Based on what I’ve told you, how long do you think it’ll take me to detox?”

“Our intake specialist could better answer that. However, between us, based on your usage, and with supervision, it might take four or five days.”

“Is it painful? I mean, will I freak out or anything?”

She actually chuckles. “No, you won’t freak out. They’ll give you medication that will keep you comfortable during detoxification.”

“Thank God.”

“But detoxing alone doesn’t solve the problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“Addiction. It’s a disease.”

“I’ve read that.”

“It’s a chronic illness. Just like cancer. There’s no cure. But you can learn how to manage the disease.”

Damn. Bernadine didn’t think she had a chronic illness. She certainly didn’t think taking these pills should be compared to having cancer. But she wasn’t in a position to argue about that with this woman. “Thanks for clearing this up for me.”

“You’re quite welcome. I just have a few more questions for you. Are you or have you had any thoughts of suicide?”

Bernadine felt like saying “Are you fucking crazy? Kill myself?” Instead, she says, “Absolutely not.”

“Glad to hear that. Okay. So how soon would you like to come for treatment?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

“What kind of support system do you have?”

“Really good friends.”

“And do you work outside of the home?”

“No.”

“And how would you feel about going to a meeting tonight?”

“What kind of meeting?”

“Narcotics Anonymous.”

Bernadine wanted to ask, “Aren’t those meetings full of die-hard drug addicts and junkies?” Instead she says: “I don’t think I can make it tonight. I’m exhausted just doing this.”

“Not to worry. But for now, you’re okay, then?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll try to push your application through. After we get confirmation from your insurance company, someone will be in touch with you. How’s that sound?”

“Good,” she says. “And thank you.”

“Thank you for calling A New Day.”

Bernadine hangs up and just sits there without moving for about an hour. For some reason, she decides to check her e-mail—something she hasn’t done in weeks. There are three jokes from Robin. She opens the first one: “Two little old ladies were sitting on a park bench outside the local town hall where a flower show was in progress . . .”

When the phone rings, it’s Savannah. “I think I made a big mistake inviting Robin to go to Paris with me.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“You do?”

“Of course. It was a nice gesture, Savannah, all things considered. But let’s face it. Robin’s a latte with two shots and no foam. Although she’s our friend, you need to do this the way you planned it. Hold on, I’ve got another call coming in.”

“No. Go ahead and take it. We can talk later. Thanks, girl.”

Bernadine doesn’t bother checking to see who it is before clicking over. “Hello.”

“Yes, is Bernadine Harris available?”

“May I ask who’s calling?” Bernadine doesn’t recognize the voice.

“Yes, my name is Rowena and I’m calling from A New Day Recovery Center.”

“Yes,” Bernadine says suspiciously, as she pushes herself forward in the chair so her bare feet are flat on the floor.

“I’ve got good news for you. Your insurance company is willing to cover all but twenty percent of the cost of treatment.”