Family Inheritance (22 page)

“It's time to take Suzanne to meet Liz,” Annette told the group.

“Oh, you'll love her and hate her,” one woman responded. “You'll hate her because
she makes you deal with your problems. Then you'll love her for it.”

Annette led Suzanne outside, and they walked along a tree-lined path to another of
the one-story buildings that dotted the landscape. The lake glistened in the sunshine.
Male laughter sounded through the quiet afternoon.

“Are there men here?” Suzanne asked alarmed.

“Sure. They're in other cottages. Addicts come in both sexes.” Annette watched Suzanne.
“Why, does that scare you?”

“No.” Suzanne consciously slowed her breathing. “I was just wondering.”

They entered
a building filled with offices and Annette guided Suzanne down a hall and to a door
with a nameplate that read “Liz Jackson.”

“Liz does one of the group meetings for Cottage A. You'd never think she was a therapist
to look at her. She's just a tiny thing with red hair and freckles. Her energy is
boundless. Sometimes she really catches me off guard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don't know. The way she seems to be able to see into me.”

Annette tapped on the door and it was opened by a woman fitting Annette's
description.
Liz Jackson's smile was wide and bright. She looked like she belonged on a beach
playing volleyball or in the middle of a softball game instead of in an office at
an alcohol and drug addiction center.

“Hi, Annette. And you must be Suzanne.” Suzanne shook the hand offered to her. “It's
nice to meet you. Thanks, Annette. See you later in group.”

Annette gave Liz a wave and walked away.

Leading Suzanne into her office, Liz motioned to a chair close to the door and sat
down across from her. “How are you doing, Suzanne?”

“Fine,” she replied as she sunk into the comfortable, overstuffed chair.

Liz watched her. “You had a rough seventy-two hours.”

“It was a little tough.” Suzanne avoided making eye contact as she spoke.

Liz sat back in her chair with her elbows on the armrests. “Tell me what brought
you to the center, Suzanne.”

“Drinking,” Suzanne stated, and when Liz didn't say anything in return, Suzanne started
to fidget. “I mean, I drank a lot.”

“Did you lose your job because of drinking?”

“No.” Suzanne fidgeted.

“You just decided to come?” Liz tilted her head slightly.

“Yes.” Suzanne quickly glanced at the counselor, then scanned the room for something
to focus on so she wouldn't have to gaze into those kind, inquisitive eyes.

“That's great,” Liz responded. “I had three suicide attempts before I finally went
for treatment.”

Suzanne's eyes widened in surprise. She knew the pamphlet had said that the counselors
were former addicts, but at this moment, that wasn't registering. “You're . . . ?”

“Sure,” Liz acknowledged. “Most of the counselors here are. We understand what you're
going through because we've been there.”

Suzanne leaned forward in her chair. “Well, my mother got sick.”

“Are you close to your mother?”

“No,” Suzanne reluctantly responded.

“Why don't you tell me about yourself and your family?” Liz settled back in her chair
with a notepad on her lap.

Realizing that the questions weren't about to stop, Suzanne settled back
in the chair.
“There's not a lot to tell. I have two sisters. I grew up on a farm in northern Minnesota.
My dad died many years ago. My mother is hospitalized in a diabetic coma. I'm a sales
manager for a big company and live in Dallas, Texas.” She paused. “That's all there
is to tell.”

“What was it like for you growing up?” Liz made a few notes on the pad.

“Like?” Suzanne squirmed in her chair, once again avoiding eye contact. “What do
you mean?”

“Was it fun?” Liz asked.

“Fun?” Suzanne was confused. “Was what fun?”

“Being a kid.”

“Fun?” The word seemed to stick in Suzanne's throat. “No, I wouldn't say it was fun.”

Shifting the subject, Liz asked, “What did you like to do?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Suzanne drummed her fingers on her leg. “What does that have
to do with my drinking? Let's just fix my drinking.”

Liz placed her pen on the table and leaned toward Suzanne. “And how do we do that?”

“I don't know.” Suzanne peered around the room at the desk, the bookshelves that
were filled with a myriad of books and titles, and finally to the diplomas on the
wall before answering. “That's why I'm paying money to be here.”

“So, since you're paying money, we should just make everything better for you?”

“Well . . . yes.” Suzanne's eyes briefly met the counselor's.

“Can money do that?” Liz softly inquired as she sat back in her chair. “Just get
everything fixed?”

“Well, no.” Suzanne took a quick, deep breath and audibly let it out, showing frustration
in every part of her body. “What's the purpose of this anyway?”

“Suzanne.” Liz's voice became firm. “Why are you here?”

“Because you were on my schedule.” Suzanne glanced at the woman as though she didn't
understand the question.

“Why are you at the center?”

“To stop drinking, of course.” Suzanne's fingers curled and uncurled as her hands
stretched out on her legs. “Why else would I be here?”

“Why do you want to stop drinking? Everybody has to hit their own crisis. What's
yours?”

Suzanne averted her gaze. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Well,” Liz smiled, “you can think about it and we'll talk more tomorrow.”

“We're done?” Suzanne asked, completely baffled.

“No, Suzanne, we've just gotten started.”

Chapter 27

Atlanta, Georgia

“I just thought it would be easier.” Helene slumped back in the upholstered chair
in Raymond Welsh's office. “Bill and I seemed to grow so close when I was away. He
even told me he loved me a couple of times. But now that I'm home, it's harder than
ever. Now, it's like playing a game where nobody knows the rules. At least we each
knew what our roles were before.”

“Would you want to go back to the old way?” Raymond softly inquired.

“No. I just want the new way to be easier. I mean, it's better than it was. Bill
is home for dinner more often and we spend time together as a family. But it often
feels awkward, as if we don't know how to relate to each other.”

“Nothing's easy when you first learn how to do it,” Raymond said as he leaned forward
in his chair. “And that includes marriage. It takes a lot of hard work.”

“But we're not new at marriage,” Helene protested. “We've been married for over twenty
years. It should be getting easier now.”

Raymond settled back in his chair. “Why?”

She squirmed under his gaze. “Because we should know each other better than we do.”

“People constantly change. You and Bill haven't been open and honest about your feelings,
so how could you get to know each other under those circumstances?”

“It's just not what I expected.” She looked around the room. “I mean, after coming
face-to-face with all these feelings about my childhood, I felt like nothing would
ever be the same and that I'd now have a handle on life. But nothing's changed that
much. Bill still gets angry at Thomas, and Thomas sulks off to his room. I want them
to talk, to get along. Why haven't they changed in that regard?”

Raymond gently touched one of her hands to bring her focus back to him and their
conversation. “They didn't deal with their childhood, Helene. You did. Why should
they have changed?”

“Because I have.” Her eyes begged him to help her understand, to help her make things
better.
It's got to be me. I must be doing something wrong.

Raymond sat back in his chair. “Helene, you are not the controller and motivator
of their lives. They don't respond to things you experience, but they do respond
to you. They have their own lives, their own feelings, their own pasts.” He gently
smiled. “Not yours, Helene, theirs.”

Helene scanned the diplomas on his wall. “But you told me that if one member of a
family changes, that family unit can't be the same as it was.”
Maybe I haven't changed.
Maybe I just think I have.

“It can't,” he said. “You don't have control of what will change, and you can't decide
when it will change.”

“Well, what can I do?” She frantically flourished out her hands in front of her.

“You can do the things you've been learning to do. Continue to get healthier, set
your boundaries, and talk about what's going on with you. The only thing you have
control of, Helene, is the way you respond to situations and people—nothing else.”

“But I never know what's the right way to respond to a situation. I never have.”

Raymond's voice was soft as he responded. “There is no right way or wrong way. All
you can do is be yourself. Respond in a way that feels good for you while respecting
others and their boundaries. Just be Helene.”

“I don't know who Helene is,” she admitted.

“Maybe it's time you found out,” he suggested.

Helene's eyes dropped to her hands. “I don't know how.”

“That's why you're here . . . you're trying to learn.”

“But I'm not learning very fast.”

“Is there a time schedule?”

Helene sighed. “I feel like I've wasted half my life and I don't have all that much
time anymore. I have to catch up.”

“Helene, if you race through trying to make up for lost time, you won't enjoy this
time either.” Raymond lightly patted her hand. “Enjoy the process, Helene. Enjoy
the process.”

She glanced at him, confused. “What process?”

“Living.”

“Mr. Foster.” Lily's knock sounded on their bedroom door. “Mr. Thomas says he's not
going to class today. He says he's sick.”

Helene, who was curled up on the bed, leaning against the pillows that were propped
up behind her, stayed quiet.

“Damn that boy.” Bill quickly sat up on the edge of the bed and punched the mattress.
“Nobody can be sick that much. He's a little over a month into his senior year and
already he's missed three days. At this rate, he won't even graduate high school,
let alone get into college. He's not getting away with it. He's not staying home.”
Bill angrily got out of bed and grabbed his robe. Turning toward Helene, he said,
“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” Helene softly replied.

“Well, don't you have something to say?” He forcefully pulled his robe around him
and tied it.

“No,” she calmly answered.

“Well, what do you think about him staying home?” Bill said angrily.

Helene consciously kept her breathing even as she replied, “I think you have some
strong feelings about it, and you and Thomas need to work it out.”

He stared at her as if she had just grown three heads. Then he once again slammed
his fist against the mattress. “Damn it, Helene. Don't you care? Do you care about
anything anymore except yourself?”

Keep your cool, Helene. Take care of yourself. Don't get sucked in. He wants to fight
with you instead of dealing with Thomas. Stay cool. Stay cool.

“Did you hear me, Helene?” Bill demanded.

“I did.” She steadily met his gaze.

“Well, say something, damn it!”

Continuing to meet his gaze, Helene kept her voice soft. “I'm not going to fight
with you Bill, so you can get mad at me instead of dealing with Thomas. I refuse
to do that anymore.”

“Oh, excuse me, Miss High and Mighty,” he fumed. “I forget, you've got everything
all figured out now. You're all healthy. Pardon me for having feelings you can't
handle.”

“This isn't new, Bill.” Even though Helene wanted to pounce out of bed and leave
the room, she stayed propped up on her pillows, looking directly at him as she spoke.
“I've handled your anger for years.”

“You want to see anger? I'll show you anger!” He picked up a shoe and hurled it at
the large mirror on her dresser. The mirror cracked and glass perfume and makeup
bottles scattered, some falling to the floor and shattering into pieces.

Helene's heart pounded so hard it hurt. She wanted to fight or run, yet she knew
she shouldn't do either. Those would be her old ways of responding. Raymond had helped
her understand the healthy thing to do was to remain quiet and let Bill deal with
his own thoughts and feelings. So she silently watched Bill.