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“Are you all right?”

“Just peachy.”

When we get to Dr. Houston’s office, I change into
a thin hospital gown. Carol gathers up my clothes and tells me she’ll be back
when my exam is done.

Feeling woozy, I lie down on the examining table
while I wait. The minutes drift by, and I feel sleepy. I yawn widely. It’s cold
in here. It’d be nice to have a blanket. So inconsiderate of them not to provide
one.

“Carol tells me you were ill.” Dr. Houston’s
pleasant voice startles me from my half-doze.

I open my eyes. He’s standing over me with a
concerned look on his face.

Mmm. He really is quite cute. Kind of like Jason
Patrick’s older brother.

“Are you feeling better?”

Better is kind of a relative concept right now.

“I guess.”

He pulls up a round, wheeled metal stool and sits
down. “Good. I’m going to begin the physical examination, all right?”

“Sure.”

“This might feel a little cold.”

Dr. Houston loosens my gown and places his
freezing
stethoscope on my chest. I suck in my
breath.

“Inhale deeply.” He moves the stethoscope around my
chest. “OK, you can release it.” He takes the stethoscope’s earpieces out of his
ears. “What are you here for, Katie? Alcohol? Pills? Cocaine?”

He examines my arms one after the other.

Is he looking for track marks?

“Alcohol.”

He takes a penlight out of his chest pocket and
shines it in my eyes. “Anything else?”

“Nope. I just drink.”

“How many drinks do you usually have a day?”

Who keeps count of that?

“It kind of depends.”

He slips a blood pressure cuff around my arm and
pumps it tight. “Just give me an average.”

What does an average alcoholic drink in a day? I so
should’ve done some research before I came here, you know, other than Googling
TGND to death.

“I don’t know . . . two bottles of
wine . . .”

I watch him nervously. Is that enough?

He pushes his hands into my stomach. “Every
day?”

Maybe I went too far?

“Yes.”

“Sit up, please.”

I sit up and he taps his fingers along my back,
making a hollow sound.

“How long has that been the case?”

“A year?”

“Is wine your drink of choice?”

I think back to Joanne’s dwindling supply of
investment wine and my stomach flips over. I eye the sink in the corner,
mentally calculating how long it’ll take me to get from here to there. I’m
pretty sure I’m going to need at least seven seconds.

“Are you all right?”

Breathe in, breathe out. I. Will. Not. Puke.
Again.

“I think so.”

“You look green.”

“Is ��green’ a medical term?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Your pallor is
troubling.”

Maybe it’s the lingering Jameson and Cokes, but I
think he might be flirting with me. I glance at his left hand. No ring.
Interesting.

I look into his eyes for some sign of interest.
There’s nothing there.

Oh my God, will you get over
yourself! He’s a doctor who works in a rehabilitation center. He’s not going
to flirt with a patient he’s admitting into his facility!

After depressing my tongue and inspecting my
throat, Dr. Houston takes a needle and a few color-coded vials out of a drawer.
He ties a plastic tourniquet around my forearm and waits for a vein to bulge,
then dabs my skin with a swab of alcohol.

“This will pinch a little.”

I turn my head away. I’ve never been able to stand
the sight of a needle pushing through flesh.

The needle enters my arm, and I swear I can feel my
blood flowing out into the vial. I try to focus on something else. The number of
door handles on the cupboards. The spider spinning a web in the corner.

He pulls the needle out and places a piece of gauze
firmly on the hole in my arm. He gives me a paternal smile. “We’re almost
finished.”

I can’t believe I thought he was flirting with
me.

“Good.”

“When we’re done, Carol will take you to a room in
the recovery wing, where you’ll begin the detoxification process.”

“What is that exactly?”

“Simply put, it’s not drinking in a medically
supervised environment. It should take two to three days depending on the
severity of your withdrawal symptoms.”

Sounds lovely.

“What kind of withdrawal symptoms?”

“Have you ever tried to quit drinking before?”

Does not having enough money to buy drinks
count?

“Not really, no.”

“The symptoms can be both physical and
psychological. Common psychological symptoms are depression, anxiety, and
cravings. Physically you may experience tremors, headaches, vomiting, loss of
appetite, and insomnia. In severe cases, patients can also experience
seizures.”

Shit, that doesn’t sound good. Thank God I’m only
pretending to be an alky.

“Seriously? Seizures?”

“I don’t think that’s likely in your
case . . . if you’ve been honest about the amount of alcohol you
generally consume.”

I really have to find a way not to flinch when
people use the word “honest” while I’m in here.

“Yes.”

“Even so, we’ll give you some medication for the
first couple of days in order to help you through the detoxification and ensure
that you don’t have a severe reaction.”

He wheels his stool over to a metal medicine
cabinet in the corner, unlocks a drawer, and tips some pills into a small paper
cup. He spins his stool and kicks the ground with his foot, skidding back to
me.

He hands me the cup. “Would you like some
water?”

I stare at the pills. They look big. “Do I have to
take them?”

“I would definitely recommend it, unless you have a
specific reason not to.”

I don’t really, it’s just . . . the
day before I started high school my father sat me down to have the drug talk. He
was supposed to tell me to “just say no,” only my still-hippie-in-his-heart dad
(who I was pretty sure grew pot in the corner of the garden he was always
telling us to stay away from) couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he
gave me a set of guidelines.

“The way I see it, Kid, anything that comes from
the ground is OK,” my father said. “It’s that manufactured shit, pardon my
French, that gets people in trouble. If you can consume it in its natural state,
and never tell your mother I said this, I don’t see why you can’t experiment a
little.”

I stared at him from the middle of my beanbag
chair. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

“I’m talking about pot, hash, and ’shrooms. If you
stick to those, you should be OK. Not that I’m telling you to take them. But if
you decide to do drugs, those are the drugs you should use.”

“OK,” I said, feeling freaked out. Did my dad just
tell me it was OK to use drugs? Rory wasn’t going to believe this.

To date, I’ve followed his advice. I may have done
a little pot, hash, or ’shrooms back in the day, but I’ve never ventured any
further down the yellow brick road.

“What’s the matter, Katie?” Dr. Houston says.

“I think I want to do this on my own. You know,
without chemical help, or whatever. Isn’t that the point?”

“It’s absolutely the point. But your addiction is
more than psychological, it’s physical. And if you can’t make it through the
physical part, you’ll never get a chance to work on the rest.”

I stare back into the cup, looking at the pills as
if they might tell me what to do.

Why are you hesitating
now?

It’s just . . .

Spit it out!

I didn’t think I’d begin my first day in rehab
expanding the list of drugs I’ve taken.

Will you stop being such a
priss!

I upend the cup and dry-swallow the pills. They
leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

“You can get dressed now, Katie. I’ll see you again
in a couple of days.”

He leaves, and Carol returns with a set of soft
cotton pajamas that are a size too big for me. I change into them, and she takes
me to my room. As we walk down a long corridor, my slippers make a shuffling
sound on the hardwood floor. I realize I haven’t seen another patient since I
arrived.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

“There’s group therapy every afternoon.”

Joy.

“Here we are.” She opens a door. The room behind it
looks like a dorm room. There’s a single bed with a simple blue cover on it
underneath a barred window, a fold-out suitcase rack supporting my suitcase at
its foot, and a small bedside table. A stainless-steel kidney pan sits on the
simple chest of wooden drawers. The air smells clean and slightly
institutional.

“The bathroom is two doors down. If you need
assistance, you can push the button here.” She points to a white button set into
the wall above the bedside lamp. “This will be your room until you finish
detoxing. Meals will be brought to you three times a day. Do you have any
questions?”

I look around the tiny room. “Am I supposed to stay
here the whole three days?”

“Most patients generally do, but if you want to go
outside, let me know.” She takes a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “This
is the treatment schedule you’ll be following over the next thirty days. Let me
know if you have any questions.”

I take it from her. “Thanks.”

“I suggest you get some rest.”

“Right.”

“Everything will be all right now, Katie.”

Oh God. Is she going to hug me? I’m so not into
hugging strangers.

Carol squeezes me tightly to her. She smells
faintly of lilac, like my grandmother does, which is pretty odd for someone who
seems my age. I know I’m supposed to put my arms around her, but I can’t bring
myself to do it. Instead, I stand there until she releases me.

After she leaves, I lean over the bed to look
through the window at the daffodil-ringed courtyard. The grounds are empty and
peaceful.

I sit on the bed and unfold the piece of paper
Carol gave me. It’s a thirty-day events calendar. I have a larger, erasable
version on my own wall at home left over from university. Only, instead of
entries like
Kegger @ Delta Phi
or
Matt Nathanson concert,
this says things like
detox
(Days One to Three),
learning the steps
(Day Four),
coping
skills
(more days than I can count),
visiting
day,
and (oh, please God, no)
family
therapy.

I toss the schedule onto the bedside table. Christ,
I’m already bored. How am I going to get through the next three days? Maybe the
pills will help pass the time? I wonder when they’re going to kick in. I guess I
feel a little sleepy. Maybe a nap wouldn’t hurt.

I take off my slippers and climb under the covers,
closing my eyes to block out the sun seeping through the curtains. In a few
minutes, I can feel myself slipping away, the drugs taking effect.

Sorry, Dad.

Chapter 4

Hi, Katie!

I
sleep
right through the rest of the day and into the next morning. When I finally wake
up, there’s still light slipping past the curtains, but now it’s a pale, morning
light.

As I open my eyes, I feel fuzzy from the drugs and
hungover from the Jameson and Cokes. I need to drink a huge glass of water, to
pee, and to puke my guts out. Maybe not in that order.

I eye the kidney pan on the dresser. Absolutely
not. I will
not
puke into something that belongs in
a hospital or an old folks’ home!

I pull back the covers and stagger down the hall,
trying to remember which door Carol said leads to the bathroom. The second
handle I try is the right one.

Please let me finish peeing before I puke. Please
let me finish peeing before I puke. Please let me . . . not quite
the Serenity Prayer, but it works. The clenched feeling in my gut recedes and
eventually passes.

I find an empty glass by the sink, still in its
hotel-like paper wrapping, and fill it with tap water. The first sip feels like
heaven in my cotton-wool mouth, and I drink and drink, refilling the glass again
and again. When I’m sure I can safely leave the bathroom, I retrieve my
toiletries and fresh clothes from my suitcase. After a shower and a good teeth
brushing I feel almost human. Well, OK, a human with a wicked hangover, but this
too shall pass.

What I could really use is the hair of the dog, but
something tells me they let dogs bite you around here.

When I get back to my room, I realize it’s only
6:40, presumably in the morning. I’ve got a lot of time to kill.

Might as well get to work.

I take the new journal I purchased at the airport
out of my bag and start a fake entry that’s really notes on what I’ve seen and
heard up to now. All the puking and prodding will make good atmosphere for my
article.

When I’ve captured every sight, sound, and smell I
can remember, I pull out a soft case from my bag that contains the iTouch Bob
gave me as a way to communicate with him while I’m undercover.

“There aren’t any cell phones allowed,” he said,
handing me a matte black box. “Fill it up with music, make it look like your
own.”

I felt a moment of panic. A whole month, maybe
more, without texting? My friends were going to think I’m dead.

“Is email forbidden too?”

“That’s right.”

No cell phones, no email. Where are they sending
me?

“Sounds strict.”

“It’s not one of those chi-chi spa places.”

Damn. I was already imagining myself immersed in a
mud bath.

“So, how am I going to use this?”

“You’re going to hack into their Wi-Fi
network.”

“I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to do
that.”

He handed me a slim envelope. “The instructions
you’ll need are in here. You should memorize them tonight.”

I opened it and read them quickly. They looked
simple enough for me to follow.

“How did you get the password to their system?”

He looked smug. “We have our ways.”

I squash a pillow behind my back and cross my legs
into a weak lotus position. I start up the iTouch, hoping the Jameson and Cokes
didn’t erase the memorized instructions. Thankfully, Apple has made breaking
into someone’s poorly protected Wi-Fi network a piece of cake, and I’m soon
entering the Oasis’s password and connecting to the Internet.

I open my email and write a short update to Bob.
Have arrived. In detox. So far, so undercover.
I
hit send and scan through my inbox. There are three emails from Greer and two
from Rory sent ten minutes apart.

I open Greer’s first. It was sent at 6:44 p.m.
yesterday.

K, is your phone dead? Let’s
hook up 2nite. Bring your drinking boots.

The next one comes from someone named Patrick
Morrissey, but the subject line says “From Greer,”
so I know it isn’t someone trying to sell me a penis enhancer. It was
sent at 8:32 p.m.

Some scrounger banker let me
borrow his BB. Where RU?

I smile, thinking of Greer flirting with Steve
before shifting her attention to a guy in a suit (she
hates
guys in suits) so she could finagle him into letting her use
his BlackBerry. Classic Greer.

At the time of the last email (11:24 p.m.), Greer
was clearly drunk.

I’m letting this guy take me
home and you can’t stop me!

I laugh out loud, then smother my mouth with my
hand. I listen carefully, but I don’t hear anything other than the birds
twittering outside. For all I can tell, some psychotic addict has killed
everyone in the place and I’m the last person alive.

Moving my fingers over the touch screen, I write
Greer back.

Sorry about last night. It’s a
long story, but I had to go away suddenly for work. I probably won’t be back
for at least a month. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch. Love, Katie.

I hesitate before opening Rory’s emails. The fact
that there are two of them isn’t a good sign. Rory usually says what she has to
say the first time around, and I’m pretty sure the double email has something to
do with the breezy message I left her two days ago.

“Rory, Rory, quite contrary, something’s come up,
and I have to go away on a new assignment! So, I won’t be able to take the job
after all. I’ll let them know. Thanks so much for the help! Love you!”

Maybe I took the coward’s way out, but lying to
Rory has never been my strong suit. I knew if I told her the truth she’d be
horrified and shocked, and would probably persuade me to be horrified and
shocked too. And I didn’t want anyone talking me out of taking this job.

Joanne was the only one I’d told, because I had to
tell someone. She seemed like the safe choice since she has no real connection
to my other friends (Rory and Greer both loathe her). Her reaction was typical
Joanne—she just shrugged and asked for my share of the rent in advance. The only
rehab-related comment she made was that she expected me to pay her back for all
the wine I’d drunk when I got out.

I open the email.

You’re not answering your
phone and you know I can’t stand talking to Joanne. I can’t believe you
abandoned this job. I know it wasn’t what you hoped you’d be doing with your
life, but it’s time to grow up. I thought you’d have a little more respect
for me than this.

Jesus. She’s madder than I thought. And hurt. I’m
an evil, evil person.

The second email picks up where the first one left
off. Clearly ten minutes wasn’t enough time for her to calm down.

I can’t believe you’ve put me
in this position. I really went out of my way to get you this job, you know,
even though I knew I’d regret it. Don’t expect me to do anything for you
ever again.

A tear runs down my cheek as I sit on my bed, in
rehab, feeling very alone.

S
everal hours later, after I’ve attempted to eat some of the breakfast
Carol brings me, stared out the window for an hour, and off into space for
another, I get an IM from Greer on the messenger service I downloaded onto the
iTouch.

Where the hell
RU?

Secret mission.

U’ve joined the
FBI.

No.

CIA?

No.

Cult?

No.

Joanne says UR in
rehab.

God fucking shit, Joanne! The last words I’d said
to her were “Don’t tell anyone where I am.”

Joanne’s an
idiot.

It’s OK if UR. I went to
rehab 1x.

You did? When?

In 6th form.

How come?

Mam and pap thought I
smoked 2 much pot.

Why?

Cuz I smoked 2 much
pot.

What was it
like?

Like pot.

LOL. I meant
rehab.

Talky.

That’s it?

Didn’t stay long enough to
find out.

Why not?

Did you know they don’t
let you drink there?

There’s a knock on my door. I hastily shove the
iTouch under the covers.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Carol,” she says as she opens the door. “How
are you feeling today?”

“All right, I guess.”

She looks at the tray of mostly uneaten breakfast
sitting on the dresser. “How come you’re not eating?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“It’s important that you try to eat, Katie. We
can’t move you out of the recovery wing until you need less medical
supervision.”

I sit up straighter. I already want out of the
recovery wing very badly.

“I’m sure I’ll be ready soon. I just needed
to . . . well, sleep it off, really.”

“Recovery’s not something you can rush
through.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I’ll be in to check on you a little
later.”

She leaves, and I pull the iTouch out. There’s
another IM from Greer waiting for me.

Where did you
go?

Had to talk to the
warden.

I knew it!!!

A
fter
lunch, I start going stir-crazy. Sure, at home, with the comforts of wine, a
couch, and my TMZ
,
I’m happy to spend days at a time
without even thinking about the outside. But put me in a white room and I don’t
care what I’m supposed to be pretending to be, I need to get out of here.

Right now.

Feeling desperate, I push the emergency button.
When Carol arrives a few minutes later, I ask her if I can go outside. She looks
at my nearly empty lunch tray and agrees. As she leads me toward the front door,
she explains that there are several walking paths through the woods that
surround the lodge. She suggests I take the shortest one. I nod my head, barely
listening. By the time we reach the front door, I feel almost giddy. She tells
me to be back in an hour, and I step outside and raise my face toward the sky.
Its weak warmth feels gentle and inviting.

I take the path Carol suggested through the flower
gardens, following the meandering stones that mark it. The air is full of the
perfume of the daffodils and crocuses that are pushing through the black earth.
I round a bend and come across a couple of gardeners digging up one of the
flower beds. One of them is about my age and looks incredibly familiar.

I shake my head. It must be the medication, because
if I were straight right now I’d swear that was . . . oh
no . . . it can’t be . . .

I crouch down behind a tied-up rosebush and peer at
him through the twine. Right height, right build, right former quarterback good
looks. And didn’t Mom say something about him starting a gardening service with
his brother the last time I talked to her?

He turns his head toward me, and now I’m sure. Zack
Smith, my high school boyfriend, is standing a hundred feet away from me shading
his eyes from the sun with a weathered hand. In fact, he’s looking right at
me.

Shit. He’s looking right at me. I’ve got to get the
hell out of here. But how am I going to escape without calling attention to
myself?

“Katie, is that you?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I so did not think coming here
through.

I stand up, brushing a stray piece of bush from my
jeans. “Hi, Zack.”

We walk toward one another and exchange an awkward
hug. He smells like earth and sweat.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when we
separate.

“Oh, you know, just a little medically supervised
detox. You?”

He grins, revealing his still-perfect white teeth.
The breeze blows a lock of his chocolate brown hair onto his forehead. “Oh yeah.
Same here.”

“Are you serious?”

“Nah. You?”

“Unfortunately.”

His face grows serious. “Oh. Well, they help a lot
of people here . . .”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

I meet his warm brown eyes and am momentarily
transported back to when we were the Perfect Couple and
Mrs. Katie Smith
covered every one of my notebooks.

“So . . . what are you in here for?”
he asks.

Christ. I can’t believe the guy who taught me how
to do a keg stand is looking at me like I’m dying of cancer.

“Oh, the usual, you know. Anyway, you’re still
living around here, huh?”

“Yeah. Me and the wife and kids.”

The wife and kids. Jesus.

“Do I know her?”

“It’s Meghan.”

Of course it is. My mother mentioned that too.
Meghan Stewart. My high school rival. White-blond and bouncy, she couldn’t quite
manage a full beer bong. Now she’s married to my first imaginary husband, and
I’m talking to him in a rehab garden. There’s a lesson in that somewhere, I
know, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“That’s great, Zack.”

“Most days. You know, my oldest is in your sister’s
class.”

Shit, that’s just what I need, for my sister to
know I’m in rehab. I can imagine her reaction—gloating, superior. And, of
course, her first instinct will be to tell my parents.

“Huh. That’s . . . funny.”

“Chrissie didn’t tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to her in a while. Look, can you
do me a favor and not tell anyone you saw me here? Especially my sister and my
parents? They don’t know I’m here and . . .”

“You don’t need to explain. We have to keep patient
information confidential anyway.”

“Right. And thanks. Anyway . . . I
should get back to my room.”

“And I’d better get back to work.” He pulls me
toward him again, hugging me close. “It’s good to see you, Katie.”

“Even in rehab?” I ask into the front of his
shirt.