Authors: Catherine McKenzie
Take that, too-good-to-talk-to-me lady!
Of course, once the deed was done, I promptly
forgot all about it. Until after my therapy session, when a craving for
something,
anything,
that might be bad for me sends
me rooting through the bag I shoved the book into in a mad search for a (please,
God!) forgotten pack of cigarettes. I don’t find any, but I do find forty bucks
(score!) and the book I swiped.
I pull it out, unsure where it came from until my
thievery comes back to me. Oh, right. The airport. The drinks. The woman.
Well, maybe it’s a good read?
I turn it over. It’s
Hamlet.
Hamlet
? You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s what
airport woman was so engrossed in she wouldn’t talk to me? Well, maybe it’s one
of those modern retellings, like
The Other Boleyn
Girl.
I check the author. Nope. William freaking Shakespeare. Just
great. It feels thick too, like the movie Kenneth Branagh made. Rory dragged me
to it, and it was like four hours long. It even had an intermission.
And I was so hoping it was something delicious and
readable. I’m sure we’re supposed to spend our free time contemplating how badly
we’ve messed up our lives, but really, how much time can you think about that
kind of stuff? And I can spend only so much time writing in my journal, no
matter how wacky TGND acts in group. That leaves walking in the woods, talking,
talking, talking with the other patients, or the library. I scoped it out
yesterday and it’s useless. It’s full of copies of the
Big
Book of Alcoholics Anonymous
and similar self-help fare. The thought
of reading anything like that, in addition to hearing it twice a day during
group
and
therapy, makes me want to poke my eye out
with a sharp stick.
On the other hand, if someone told me a week ago
that I’d be contemplating reading Shakespeare as a way to pass the time, I’d
have told them to pass me another drink. But now that I’m here, and drinking’s
not an option, why the hell not?
I take the book to a comfy corner in the library,
curl up, and am immediately, surprisingly, semi-engrossed.
“That’s contraband,” a woman says to me an hour
later as Hamlet’s talking to his murdered father’s ghost about “
murder most foul
.”
I keep reading. “What?”
“That book. It’s contraband.”
Hold on a second . . .
I look up. TGND is standing in front of me. Oh my
God. TGND is talking to me.
“How can Shakespeare be contraband?”
She flops down next to me, curling her feet under
her short jean skirt. “If it’s not on the bookshelf, you’re not supposed to be
reading it.”
“Why not?”
“Who the fuck knows?” She plucks the book out of my
hand. “So, Shakespeare, huh? Serious stuff.”
“It’s actually really good.”
“Yeah, he knew how to write.” She squares her
shoulders. “‘What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in
faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an
angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of
animals!’ Doesn’t that give you goose bumps?”
Wow. She doesn’t just croak. She quotes the goddamn
bard.
“Do you know the whole thing by heart, or is that
just a party trick?”
She gives me a coy look. “Wouldn’t you like to
know?”
Well, yeah. Duh.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
She laughs. “Looks like you have a few party tricks
of your own.”
“Nah, I just totally pulled that out of my
ass.”
“Nice image.”
“Sorry. I come out a little crass sometimes.”
She waves a hand at the room. “We’re in rehab.
Crass is the vernacular.”
If she’s trying to impress me, it’s working.
“Got it.”
She hands the book back to me. “Enjoy. Maybe I’ll
borrow it when you’re done.”
“Sure.”
“You’re Katie, right?”
“Yeah. And you’re Amber.”
“That’s me. What’d you say you did again?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Like literature?”
“Like journalism.”
Her shoulders tense. Shit.
“I write about music.”
She relaxes. “Oh. For
Rolling
Stone
?”
“I wish. I write music reviews for a couple of
weekly papers.”
“Cool.”
She glances around the room, and I can tell she’s
losing interest.
Say something interesting, Katie. Quickly.
“You read a lot?”
OK. That wasn’t it.
Her large green eyes track back to mine. “You think
I’m too busy partying to read?”
Whoops. Really not it.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“It’s OK. You’ve probably seen all that stuff on
TV, right?”
I’m not quite sure what the right answer to that
question is.
“A little.”
She smiles. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough. But it’s
not really like that living it, you know? Or . . . I don’t
know . . . maybe it is. I’m not saying things weren’t out of
control. They just weren’t quite as bad as they looked.”
Right. I’m sure that was the first time you ever
smoked crack. Your bad luck that it was caught on tape.
I play along. “I know what you mean. Today in my
therapy session, Saundra asked me about my childhood, and then she picked it
apart until I felt like it was an
After School
Special
.”
“I was in an
After School
Special
once.”
“Which one?”
A blush creeps up her cheeks. “That one about
incest . . .”
“That was you? There was this line that became this
catchphrase at my school . . .”
She scrunches her shoulders, and I can see the
six-year-old girl peeking through. She speaks in a breathy voice. “I don’t like
it when my daddy touches me.”
“That’s it. That’s totally it!”
“Why do people always remember the worst thing
you’ve ever done?”
“Because negative things are way more
interesting.”
“Right. I should definitely know that by now.” She
swings her legs off the chair and stands up. “Anyway, I should let you get back
to that.”
“OK. Nice talking to you.”
“Yeah. You too. You know . . . you
might just be the first normal person I’ve met here.”
Shit, shit, shit. I’m not supposed to be normal.
I’m supposed to be damaged.
“Thanks.”
“See you around.”
I watch her walk away, noticing again how very thin
she is. When I’m sure she’s gone, I grab a pen off the desk and begin scribbling
notes into the empty pages at the back of
Hamlet,
trying to get the gist of our conversation down while it’s still fresh in my
mind.
Bob’s going to be
excited!
One Step, Two Step,
Three Step, Four
“S
tep One:
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become
unmanageable,” Saundra says during our second session in her Dogs ’R’ Us office.
“Do you have any questions about the step?”
I tuck my yoga-panted legs under me, pretending to
ponder her question. Do people actually have trouble understanding this step?
Why would you be in rehab if your life was manageable? Yeah, yeah, OK. I mean,
why would one normally be in rehab?
There is one thing that’s bothering me
though . . .
“Why are the steps written using the royal
‘we’?”
A crease forms across Saundra’s forehead.
“Pardon?”
“You know, like how the Queen speaks about herself.
‘We are not amused.’ It’s called the royal ‘we.’ ”
“It’s the way Bill wrote them.”
I should probably know who that is, right?
“Bill . . . ?”
“Bill Wilson, the founder of Alcoholics
Anonymous.”
“Oh. Well, I think it’s weird.”
Saundra picks up the dog collar and holds it
between her hands. I’m sure it’s just an unconscious gesture, but it’s freaking
me the fuck out.
“I think you might be focusing on the wrong thing,
Katie.”
You don’t say?
“Let’s start at the beginning. Are you ready to
take the first step?”
“I think so.”
“You’ve admitted your problems, that you’re
powerless over alcohol? That your life has become unmanageable?”
Oh, I’ve got a problem all right.
“I thought I had to admit that
we
were powerless over alcohol—that
our
lives had become unmanageable.”
She looks disappointed. “Please don’t turn this
into a joke, Katie.”
“I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath and look as
serious as I can. “I’m powerless. My life has become unmanageable.”
Like, why else would I be here?
“That’s good, Katie. I know that took a lot of
courage.” She opens the file folder sitting in the middle of her desk. “I’d like
to discuss the results of the psychological assessments we did a few days
ago.”
“Am I crazy?”
She gives me that disappointed look again.
“I wasn’t making a joke. I really want to
know.”
“You don’t seem to have any serious underlying
disorders, but the tests indicate that you might be depressed and that you have
some issues with honesty and commitment.”
Yikes. And I was answering truthfully too. I knew I
should’ve gone with the answer-“C”-to-everything strategy.
“I don’t think I’m depressed.”
She considers me. “Then why do you drink?”
Well, duh. Because it’s
fun.
“It makes me feel good.”
“Are you unhappy when you’re not drinking?”
Why do I feel like she’s tricking me?
“I have good days and bad days, like everyone.”
“But you drink every day?”
That’s what I told Dr. Houston, right?
“Yeah.”
“So, most days you need something to make you feel
happy?”
I knew it was a trick!
“I guess.”
“And if you weren’t drinking, would you be unhappy
most days?”
My eyes wander to the oblong window above Saundra’s
head. The sky is gray and cloudy.
“I don’t know . . . I really don’t
think of myself as unhappy . . .”
“Katie, when you’re using alcohol regularly to
alter your mood, it’s generally an indication that there’s something that needs
to be altered.”
“So, you think I’m depressed?”
“As I said, you show some signs of it, but it’s
only through the deeper work we’ll do here that we’ll figure out if depression
is the cause or the effect of your drinking.”
This conversation is depressing me.
“And if it’s the cause?”
“We’ll try to get at the root of it.”
“And if it’s just an effect?”
“Then if you stop drinking, the symptoms should
disappear.”
Great. Only . . . what if the
thought of never having another drink makes me depressed?
“Are you ready to do the work, Katie?”
“I’m ready.”
“And are you prepared to work for as long as it
takes?”
“Yes.”
For as long as Amber takes, anyway.
She smiles. “That’s good, Katie. That’s very
good.”
I
leave Saundra’s office feeling like I’ve spent an hour talking to a confessional
camera on a reality show. You know how there’s always some closet where the
players confess their inner thoughts? I’ve often thought that if I went on one
of those shows, I’d pretend to be this sweet, helpful thing, then let out the
inner bitch when only the audience at home could see it. But the reality of
actually having to be nice to a bunch of crybabies and schemers who talked,
talked, talked about themselves all day long always dissuaded me from
applying.
Oh, the irony.
When I get back to our room, Amy is lacing up her
running shoes to go for a run. She looks fit and healthy in her dark blue shorts
and sleeveless T-shirt. Except for the thin, pink scars on her arms and legs, of
course. Scars too regular to be anything other than self-inflicted.
“You want to join?” she asks as she springs up and
starts running in place.
“The last time I ran for anything other than a cab
was in high school.”
“It’s a really good way to clear your head.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
She pulls a mocking face. “Don’t put off to
tomorrow what you can do today.”
“Is that one of the twelve steps?”
“Oh boy, you really are a newbie, aren’t you?”
I point to my chest. “ ‘Day Five: The First Step to
Sobriety.’ ”
She mimics me. “ ‘Day Twenty-seven: Advanced Coping
Mechanisms.’ ”
“I’m so jealous. Enjoy your run.”
“Thanks . . . and thanks for last
night.”
“No problem.”
She leaves and I lie down on my bed. I place my
hands behind my head and try to block out my conversation with Saundra. What I
really need is an angle to get closer to TGND.
What does Bob expect me to get out of her, anyway?
Should I be rooting through her room to figure out what kind of underwear she
wears? Why the hell did I agree to do this in the first place?
At least I know the answer to that question.
When Amy comes back from her run, I tuck
Hamlet
under my arm and we go to the cafeteria for
some lunch. The beautiful picture window is streaked with rain, making the view
of the lawn and the woods look blurry, like a Monet. Everyone from group but
Amber is already here, filling the gap in their lives left by drugs and
alcohol.
Amy and I collect sandwiches from a hair-netted
lunch lady and sit down at one of the round bistro tables occupied by The Former
Child Star and The Novelist.
TFCS (real name, Candice) is thirty-five but still
acts like she did when she lisped cute/precocious thoughts that summed up that
week’s situation comedy. Her white-blond hair is even curled the same way, and
she holds her Prussian blue eyes open in an expression of youth and innocence
that must take a lot of work. It must’ve killed her when Amber came through the
gates pursued by enough cars to be an inauguration day cortege.
Mary, The Novelist, is a dumpy forty, with frizzy
dark hair that’s mostly gone gray. She has deep lines on her face that make her
look older than she is. Her life spiraled out of control as her first novel
climbed the bestseller lists, and she’s worried she’ll never write anything
worth a damn while sober.
Listening to the stories they tell about the things
they’ve done, the depths they’ve sunk to, makes me amazed/pissed off that anyone
could confuse me for someone who needs to be in rehab. I mean, showing up
hungover to an interview might be stupid and unfortunate, but it pales in
comparison to giving a guy a blow job so he’ll share his drugs, right? Even
up-talking Elizabeth should be able to see the difference.
As I eat my tuna fish sandwich, Candice begins to
complain about the fact that Amber’s allowed to miss meals. Her high-pitched
half-baby voice grates on my nerves.
“Why do you care?” I ask when I can’t take it
anymore.
“It’s not fair.”
“So? Life’s not fair. Deal with it.”
She gives me a disgusted look, stands up, and
storms off without saying another word.
“Thank gawd,” Mary says in her coastal twang. “I
thought she’d never shut her gob.”
“How have you guys been able to stand her?”
“Oh, she’s not that bad, really,” Amy says. “She’s
gotten worse since Amber arrived. Besides, it is kind of ridiculous that she
doesn’t have to follow the rules.”
“You can get away with anything when your Q score
is high enough,” Mary says.
“True enough.” Amy stands and picks up her tray.
“Katie, do you mind if I take a nap in the room? I’m kind of wiped.”
“No problem. I’ve got my book.”
Amy and Mary leave together, and I pick up
Hamlet.
I still feel fidgety from my session with
Saundra, though, and I can’t concentrate on the complicated language. I put the
book down on my orange food tray and watch The Producer, The Judge, and The
Lawyer as they gesticulate and guffaw across the room.
“How are you making out with
Hamlet
?” TGND says, plunking herself down next to me. She’s wearing
a white gauzy dress that makes her look wispy and pale, and her long black hair
falls loosely past her shoulders.
Excellent. Now, just remember
to ask some questions, but not too many.
Yeah, yeah, I got it.
“It’s slow going.”
“But better than the alternative, right?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
She motions toward my half-finished sandwich. “That
any good?”
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
“Tasting food has to be the one good thing about
living clean.”
“You couldn’t taste your food?”
What the hell was she on?
“Nope, everything tasted pretty much the same.
Like
cheap wine and cigarettes,
” she sings a
snippet of The Wallflowers’ “One Headlight” in a good, pure voice.
“I love that song.”
“Me too. You know, I met him once.”
“Jakob Dylan?”
“No, the dad.”
“You met Bob Dylan?” My voice comes out all high
and squeaky.
“I think so. He wrote that ‘Everybody Must Get
Stoned’ song, right?”
How can you be unsure if you’ve met
Bob Dylan
?
“You mean ‘Rainy Day Women Nos. 12 & 35’?”
“I don’t think that’s what it’s
called . . .”
“No,” I say before I can help myself. “That’s what
it’s called. Lots of people don’t know that, but . . .”
“If you say so . . .” Her eyes begin
to wander around the room.
Change topics, dum-dum, before
she leaves.
“You have a good voice. You should make a
record.”
Oh, brilliant
comment.
She makes a face. “Nah.”
“I bet it’d probably be pretty easy for you to get
a record deal.”
And now you kind of insulted
her. Bravo.
Will you stop? This is really not helpful.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ve been offered one, but I
turned it down.”
“You turned down a record deal? Why?”
She eyes my sandwich like someone who hasn’t eaten
in a while. Like maybe a week.
“It’s a little
embarrassing . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Please, please, please tell me.
“Well . . . I have stage
fright.”
Yes, yes,
yes.
Bob, you
are an evil genius.
“But, you’re an actress . . .”
“Oh, I’m fine in front of the
camera . . . but the one time I tried to do a play, I froze in
front of the audience, and the thought of singing to thousands of
people . . .” She shudders.
Geez, that’s kind of arrogant, thinking you’ll be
singing in front of thousands
of people. Then again,
there probably would be thousands of people at a TGND concert.
“Isn’t imagining the audience naked supposed to
help?”
“Nah, the only thing that helps is large amounts of
drugs and alcohol.”
I smile. “So, no record deals?”
“No record deals. Besides, I’ve got enough projects
to work on.” She picks up my copy of
Hamlet
in a
distracted way.
“Like what?”
“Well,” she lowers her voice and leans toward me.
“I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but . . . the reason I
knew that quote is because my production company’s working on a script of it
right now.”
“A script based on ‘One Headlight’?”
“No, silly.
Hamlet.
”
She waves the book at me.
“You’re producing a movie of
Hamlet
?”
“Uh-huh. Plus I’m going to star in it.”
“You’re going to play Ophelia?”
“No, that’s a stupid part. I’m going to play
Hamlet.”
Say what?
“But he’s a man.”
“So? They’re changing that.”
“Isn’t that kind of a major change?”
She opens the book and starts flipping through the
pages. “Not really.”
Changing the sex of Hamlet
isn’t a major change? That Oscar nomination has really gone to her
head.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why not? Men played all the parts back in the
day.”
“Yeah, but they were pretending to be women.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
I take a bite of my sandwich, but my appetite is
gone. I don’t know why I feel the need to defend Shakespeare against the likes
of TGND, but I’m ready to raise my dukes.
Amber starts to laugh. “You should see your face
right now!” She laughs harder. “I got you so good!”
“You’re not starring in a remake of
Hamlet
?”
“Nah, I don’t even have a production company.”
And I should totally know that, given what I’m here
to do.