The treadmill whines as I coax it to 3.0 mph. Red plods along beside me, trying to work up to a jog. I’d give anything to run, but after the push-up incident, the doctor had made me promise not to do anything that might further injure my bruised ribs. Besides, even walking makes me feel like I’m wearing steel ankle weights. At least the pain gives me something to focus on, something other than re-hashing the Step Two share that I’d fumbled through in group earlier this morning.
Afterwards, Howard had opened the floor for guys to share about their higher powers. Mo talked about the AA community; Prison Tat was the only one who talked about Jesus—he kept kissing the heavy gold cross around his neck and holding it to the sky like he was fist bumping the Holy Spirit.
Words like “hero,” “trust,” and “unconditional love” got tossed around the room like balls of yarn, weaving a web around the circle with me on the outside. Because it’s not enough for me. Like I told Richard Fisher this morning in counseling, it’s like I’ve stalled out at Step One. I don’t how I’m supposed to pick a higher power when, in my experience, there are no heroes, just regular guys dressed in capes and masks. They’re not there when you need them, and they sure as hell don’t come when you call.
Red stumbles on the treadmill, struggling to keep his pace. I glance over at the fluorescent numbers on his dash. “You can do better than that,” I joke.
Red shakes his head and fumbles for the Pause button. His face is a tomato, and he bends over, clutching his side. “I gotta quit smoking,” he wheezes. The treadmill conveyer belt is spattered with sweat. “Whoever said your muscles remember is full of shit.”
“How long has it been?”
“Three years, maybe?” Red wipes his face on his shirt sleeve and starts the treadmill again, slower this time. “Nothing since high school.”
“I don’t think muscles remember that well. What sport did you play, anyway?”
Red shoots me a wry smile. “Cross-country.”
I laugh. We walk side by side for a minute, like those old ladies at the mall. Except slower. Finally, I work up the nerve to say what’s on my mind. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“What’s your take on this whole ‘higher power’ thing? I mean, it’s bullshit, right? Some magical being is going to make me better?”
Red gives me a sideways glance. “I guess it depends on who your higher power is.”
“Don’t tell me you’re actually falling for this crap, dude.”
Red presses the Pause button again and turns to face me. “You know, after Lisa died, I was really fucked up. I kind of went off the deep end. I think I wanted to follow her, you know? But not the easy way. Not with a handful of pills or a gun to my head. I wanted to do it slowly. One needle at a time.”
I wince and glance around the gym to see who else might be listening. Everybody’s doing their own thing—a few dudes are lifting weights, and there’s a chick on the elliptical. It’s just me and Red and the story that unfurls between us.
Red tips up his water bottle, takes a long chug, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So anyway, there I am, basically homeless, sleeping in flop houses mostly. I didn’t have any bags, so I kept everything in my pockets. My stash. My money. I spent a couple of weeks like that. During the day, I’d wander around on the streets and try not to think about Lisa. Then I’d find a place to crash for the night.
“So, this one morning, a couple weeks in, I wake up with a gun to my head. There’s this dude in a ski mask, his hand shaking so much that the gun keeps bumping my cheek. ‘Give me all your shit,’ he says. And so I did. The dude took everything, all the cash I had on me, my stash. Everything. Then he took off. I followed him out into the street, and I remember the sun was so bright, burning, you know? And I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know how I’d gotten there. I reached in my pocket for my cigarettes, but they were gone, too. The only thing left was one quarter.
“So I took that quarter to a pay phone, and I stuck it in the slot, and I dialed Lisa’s number. Because I knew I was done. I knew it was time to end it. But I was scared, and I wanted to hear Lisa’s voice, even just on her voicemail, one more time.
“I’m standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, and I remember there was a used condom on the ground. Nasty, right? But that’s what I remember. A used condom on the ground and me at the end of my rope. I dial Lisa’s number, and I’m waiting for her voicemail to pick up. But then somebody answers. And it freaks me out, you know, because who could be answering Lisa’s phone? And then I realize: it’s Lisa’s mom.
“I’m so embarrassed that I almost hang up. But get this. She tells me she was praying for me, right before I called. She was praying that I was okay, that I was safe, and that I would get the help I need. So when she asks me how I am, I don’t know what comes over me, but I tell her. I tell her that I don’t know where I am. I tell her I don’t have a dime to my name. I tell her I’m scared, and I’m so sad, and I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to do any of it. And you know what she does? That woman who had just lost her daughter, she tells me, ‘Come home, Ronnie.’ And that’s when I knew. Lisa didn’t want me to die. She didn’t want me to join her. She wanted me to get better. She wanted me to have a life.
“So, I let her mom call me a cab. It took me to her house, and then she brought me here.”
“Lisa’s mom?” I ask.
Red nods. “My pop sure can’t afford this place. Lisa’s parents are footing the whole bill.”
I stare at the dash on my treadmill, watch the seconds tick by. “So, what, you think that was God or something?”
Red shrugs. He presses a button, and the treadmill cranks slowly back to life. “Beats me, dude. Maybe it was God. Maybe it was Lisa. All I’m saying is, maybe it’s not all crap.”
“Maybe.” Maybe Lisa is a ghost or an angel or something; maybe she’s looking out for Red. But if that’s true, who’s looking out for me?
Dinner is roast beef and potatoes with carrots, gravy so creamy, you could eat it with a spoon. It tastes like food somebody’s grandma would make, not the ex-coke head with five years sober who works the kitchen. But the food sits like stones in my stomach. I pick at a piece of meat, move it around my plate with my fork, and let my thoughts take over.
It’s as if my admission in Richard Fisher’s office carved something out of me, and while everybody else around here seems to have something or someone to help put them back together, I know I have to do it on my own. It’s like on the lax field—I got myself into this mess. Now I have to get myself out.
I hardly notice Red and Will plunk down their trays.
“Ping-Pong later?” Red’s fingers drum the table in between bites. “Or are you gonna sit in your room and cry about your breakup again?”
I scowl at him. “I don’t cry.” In public, anyway, and that is between me and the concrete walls of my shower. “And yeah, I’m down for Ping-Pong.”
Across from me, Will groans. “Not me. I’ve got a week of Self-Reflection during free time.”
Red grins. “Apparently, gambling is ‘frowned upon’ at LakeShore.”
Will tosses his fork onto his plate and drops his head in his hands. “I had a whole pool set up and everything.”
Red slaps an invisible cymbal with his fork (bum, bum, CHING!). Then Libby’s voice cuts through our laughter, like the husky bedroom melody of an indie acoustic. “You three losers have plans tonight?”
She’s leaning over the end of the table, her palms flat on the laminate. Her two-toned hair hangs in a loose braid over one shoulder, and her wrists are covered in jingling silver bracelets.
Will gives her a half-cocked smile that looks more like a sneer. Libby hasn’t exactly been his favorite person since the gym incident. “What, is there a party somewhere we don’t know about?”
Libby rolls her eyes. “Howard’s taking a van off-campus to an NA meeting in town. He asked me to let people know.”
Red clears his throat, casts his eyes my way.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
Libby shrugs. “Consider yourself invited.” She flicks her braid off her shoulder and walks away.
Will shoves a piece of gravy-soaked roll in his mouth. “Do I smell a rebound?”
“What? No way, dude.” I toss my balled-up napkin at him. It bounces off his shoulder and hits the floor. “She was just doing what Howard told her to. I mean, look, she’s probably inviting those people over there, too.”
I point across the dining hall, where Libby’s chatting with a girl by the coffee bar.
Red grins, punches me lightly on the shoulder. “You could do worse, you know.”
“I’d sleep with one eye open, though,” Will adds. “That chick’s a praying mantis.”
“She’s not a rebound! I’m not even looking . . .” My words get all tangled up, and I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Savannah and I just broke up, and if I have anything to say about it, we’re not going to stay that way. Plus, even if I was looking for a rebound, it wouldn’t be Libby. Not because I wouldn’t want to, but because she’s Libby, all sharp edges and jagged angles that bite. Will’s right. Libby’s not the girl you rebound with. She’s the girl that eats you alive.
Will’s eyes search my face, an evil grin playing around his mouth. “You’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” I snap, and Will cracks up.
“Alright, alright . . .” Red makes a big display of zipping his mouth shut. For a second it’s quiet at our table. I take a swig of iced tea. Maybe I should go to the meeting. At the very least, it’d take my mind off Savannah. And if Libby’s going . . .
I glance around the room casually, my eyes settling on Libby. She’s joined Mo at their table, and she must be telling a story or something, because her hands flutter in the air like delicate Chinese fans.
“So . . .” Red’s voice cuts through the wandering melody of my thoughts. “Ping-Pong, then?”
I almost choke on my tea. “Um, I was actually thinking . . . you know, a meeting sounds nice . . . or whatever.”
Red blinks. Then he and Will crack up.
It’s 7:30 and LakeShore’s white nine-seater is idling by the front curb. Uptight Howard, dressed in mom jeans and a tucked-in polo, ushers kids into the van like we’re already late.
“Evening,” I say.
He makes a hurry up motion with his hand. “Get in, get in.” A thin sheen of sweat shines on his forehead. I climb into the van.
Libby and Mo are already sitting in the back seat. Mo looks like a giant back there, his knees practically in his mouth. “Yo, Roomie!” he calls. “Glad to see you decided to join us.”
Libby gives me a half-smile. “No self-pity soup tonight?”
“Not tonight,” I tease, sinking into the gray vinyl seat in front of her and propping up my feet. “Turns out you can get too much of a good thing.”
Mo laughs.
“What about Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber?” Libby asks. “They coming, too?”
I shake my head. “Will’s restricted to campus, and Red . . .” I think about the vague explanation Red gave me, the look on his face when he told me he’d have to sit this one out. He’d slipped away right after dinner, and I’d wondered, not for the first time, where he goes to be alone. “He said he doesn’t trust himself to leave campus yet.” I give Libby and Mo a sideways look. “I mean, what kind of trouble is he going to run into at an NA meeting, right?”
“You’d be surprised, man,” Mo says. “I actually got approached in the parking lot one time. Dealers stake out NA meetings. They figure it’s a sure thing.”
“Like steak in a shark pool,” Libby adds.
She and Mo share a dark laugh.
“I’m pretty sure I can handle it,” I muse.
Libby raises an eyebrow, and suddenly I feel self-conscious, like I’m bragging about myself or something. “I don’t know, I just . . . don’t even want it anymore.”
A look passes between them, and then Libby gives me this smile that’s almost sympathetic.
My stomach curls up like a fist. I know she and Mo are both thinking I’ve found my “pink cloud,” or whatever the shit they call it in group. It’s the artificial sense of confidence that comes from being in a place free of temptation. But it doesn’t describe me. “I don’t!”
Mo chuckles. He reaches over the seat to clap me on the shoulder. “Then consider yourself lucky, bro. You’re one step ahead of the rest of us.”
A couple more kids get on the bus, and I have to put my feet down so some girl can sit next to me. And then Howard climbs into the driver’s seat, all flustered and pink-cheeked.
I lean back in my seat and whisper out one side of my mouth. “Should he be driving? He seems pretty worked up.”
Libby giggles. “He’s just nervous,” she says. “He’s speaking tonight.”
“What, like at the meeting?”
She nods.
“But what’s the point of that?” I ask. “I hear him talk every morning at group. I thought the whole reason we’re doing this is for a change of scenery!” Where Libby’s voice is the music you peace-out to in the car, Howard’s is the radio personality that interrupts the song to sell you self-tanning or laser hair removal. If I’d known I’d be listening to him talk all night, I’d be playing Ping-Pong with Red right about now.
“It’ll be good for you to check out a meeting on the outside,” Mo tells me. “Trust me, these meetings have saved my ass more than once. They’re going to be your lifeline when you go back home.”
“More meetings?” Nobody said anything about more meetings. Isn’t that the point of rehab? It’s supposed to fix me, so that when I go home, I can work on getting my life back.
Mo nods. “This is Howard’s home group,” he continues. “It’s where he goes to meetings on his own time. His story’s pretty interesting.”
“Define interesting.”
Libby laughs. “You never know,” she says. “He might surprise you.”
“Everybody buckled up back there?” Howard asks, and I give him the thumbs-up sign.
“Locked and loaded, capt’n.”
Howard glances nervously in the rearview mirror before pulling out of LakeShore’s parking lot and onto the empty road.
“The Right Track” Narcotics Anonymous meeting is held at LakeShore United Methodist, a tiny stone chapel topped with an old-fashioned steeple. A small metal side door has a cardboard sign propped outside, welcoming newcomers. “This is us,” Howard says, holding the door open.
I follow Libby and Mo inside. The meeting’s being held in some lower recess of the church. It smells like coffee and mildew. People sit on metal fold-out chairs that form a semi-circle around an ancient upholstered recliner, apparently the seat of honor. In the far back, one guy’s got a black wool beanie pulled down low over his ears; he’s hunched over, twitching hands covering his face, like he’s coming off a bender. But there are others, too—clean-cut men and women dressed in work clothes. One woman catches my eye; her manicured nails clutch a Starbucks cup, and she douses a teabag repeatedly. She gives me a tentative smile, looking more like someone who should be spending her evening at my mom’s book club than at an NA meeting.
Howard helps me and the rest of the LakeShore kids pull out extra chairs, and then he takes his seat up front. I end up sitting between Libby and Mo. Libby takes off her jacket, hangs it over her seat. Her perfume is warm and spicy—like incense or something. Or maybe that’s just the way she smells.
Sharp edges, I tell myself. Not a rebound. And as the meeting starts, I do my best to focus on the front of the room instead of Libby’s white skin where it sticks out from the unbuttoned cuffs of her denim shirt, or the way her knees bounce in rhythm, like she’s singing a song in her head.
Turns out a “real” NA meeting is pretty much the same as our group meetings at LakeShore, except that they start with people who take turns reading a too-long list of rules and regulations—really boring shit, like why members should donate money, and how you’re not allowed to interrupt when someone else is talking. We’re ten minutes into the meeting before it’s time to talk about anything that matters, and considering the speaker’s Howard, I’m pretty convinced that the whole thing’s going to be a giant snooze fest.
“Good evening,” Howard says, in that nasal talk show host voice of his. He thanks the people who read for their service to the group, and then he settles himself back in the upholstered chair and crosses his legs. I can’t help but picture a fake fire smoldering on a hearth behind him and a pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “Since this is a Step One meeting,” Howard continues, “I’ve been asked to share about my experience working the step, and the journey that brought me into these rooms in the first place.”
Libby gives me a sideways look, and I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking, that Howard’s own boring personality was probably what drove him to drugs.
“Some of you know this about me,” Howard continues. “But I actually played college football. In fact, I was headed straight for the NFL draft when my disease interrupted my life.”
Um, what? Howard and the NFL are two things that cannot peacefully coexist in my brain. Mo elbows me in the ribs, a gentle I told you so. And he’s right, because Howard had me at “draft.”
Turns out Howard hasn’t always been an uptight group leader with a donut belly and bad taste in jeans. He was, at one point, a football star. Full ride to a state college, town hero, the works. But Howard couldn’t manage the pressure.
“It started as Adderall during exams,” he tells the group. “Anything to keep me awake so I could cram after double practice days.”
Howard’s nasty little habit quickly evolved into a taste for coke at parties after they won. But it wasn’t until he tore his ACL and had to recover from surgery, that he got hooked on painkillers.
“Suddenly, I wasn’t living to play football anymore. I was living for my next score.” Howard clears his throat. “I lost my scholarship and my place on the team. My disease took everything—my football career, my education, my friends, and even my family.”
Howard tells us about the shitty little apartment he landed after dropping out of college, how he couldn’t keep the lights on or food in the fridge. When his mom would give him money, he’d spend it on dope. When he got arrested, she’d bailed him out. And when he’d gotten into a car accident and didn’t have insurance, she’d had to foot the whole bill.
“My parents went bankrupt because of me,” Howard admits. “My rock bottom was the day they finally wised up and wouldn’t let me into their house. In one year, I went from a football hero to a homeless junkie. It took that much for me to see that I was out of control, that my life was unmanageable, and that I was completely powerless over my addiction.
“The best thing my mother ever did for me,” Howard continues, “was to lock me out of her house. You know what she said to me?” Howard leans forward in his chair. “I’ll never forget it. She lifted a curtain in the kitchen window, where I’d banged so hard I’d cracked a pane. ‘You are not your disease,’ she said. ‘You are a good man and my precious son. But your disease is dark and selfish, and I will not let it step foot into my house again.’”
Howard’s laughter shatters the silence in the room like broken glass. “And boy did she mean it. Heck, I’ve been sober for ten years, and she only let me back in two years ago!” The room rumbles with relieved laughter, relieved that Howard’s sober, that his mother let him back in, that for a small second, we can stop thinking about how our own lives have fallen apart.
“I want to emphasize one part of my story for you guys.” Howard looks around the circle at me and Libby and Mo and the smattering of other LakeShore kids sitting on the outer rim of the group. “It’s those words my mother said to me. You are not your disease.”
Libby inhales sharply, and without even thinking about it, I reach for her, drop my hand on her knee—not in a weird creepster way, but in an I know. I feel it, too, kind of way. I steal a glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She looks down at my hand for a second, but she doesn’t shove it off or tell me to go fuck myself. She looks back at Howard. So I leave my hand where it is. Because I know. Because I feel it, too.
“Ten years,” Howard echoes. He shakes his head like he can barely believe it. “The disease of addiction took everything from me. But these rooms gave me back my life. Thanks for letting me share.”
The room erupts in a chorus of “thanks for sharing,” and then someone opens the floor for individual shares. My hand slips from Libby’s knee. She leans into me, whispers, “Good, right?”
I nod. Because like it or not, I felt something while Howard was talking. Like my deepest darkest secrets were written on my skin in permanent marker. Like everyone could see them, but it’s okay, because they have secrets, too.
That feeling stays with me until the end of the meeting, when I follow Howard and the other kids out into the parking lot.
I climb into the van ahead of the other kids who linger in the parking lot to chat with people leaving the meeting. I settle onto the cool leather and stare out the window. A few minutes later, Libby joins me. Mo climbs into the front next to Howard, like some kind of NA groupie, no doubt gushing about how this meeting has changed his life. Mo’s had so many life-changing experiences, he’s practically schizophrenic.
“Ten years,” Libby muses, settling back into the seat and wrapping her cargo jacket across her chest. Her eyes are shining, even in the dark van interior. “Hard to believe, right?”
I nod, wondering if we’re going to talk about how my hand was on her knee. Or how right it feels for her to be sitting next to me, so close that the right side of my body is warmed by her jacket. So close I’m breathing incense.
“I’ve almost got thirty days,” Libby says.
I turn to look at her. “How long have you been here, anyway?”
“Almost three weeks,” she says. “A little over a week left.”
I gaze at her for a second, feeling like Benny that time we ran into his teacher at Target, and he finally figured out she didn’t live at school. I’d been so focused on getting through my own 28 days, I hadn’t even thought about the people who got here before me. Like I’d leave, and they’d all still be here, living their lives at LakeShore. Red, Will, Mo.
Libby.
I open my mouth to say something, but then the girl in the seat in front of us swivels around, hangs her arm over the seat back. “What’d you think about Howard’s share?” she asks Libby, and the two are soon lost in conversation.
Howard cranks up the van, and cold air from the overhead vents blasts the top of my head. All around me, kids settle into hushed exchanges as they process the meeting, but I hike up my hoodie and lean against the window. The van is packed, and Libby’s arm is still touching mine. But for some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel completely alone.