Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 18

In a Family Way





“Why didn’t you tell your family you were checking into a rehabilitation facility?” Saundra asks me the next day.

“I didn’t want to upset them.”

“Why do you think it would upset them?”

Because I didn’t want them to think . . . ah, hell.

“Wouldn’t it be upsetting to you if your daughter went to rehab?”

Saundra gives me one of her reassuring smiles that never quite manages to reassure me. “I’d be proud of her for recognizing she had a problem, and relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“Having an addict in the family can be very stressful.”

“I guess.”

Saundra considers me. “Katie, you’re a self-sufficient woman, and I know you like to think you can solve everything yourself, but you can’t.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you trying to?”

“I don’t think I am. I came here, right?”

“Yes, you did. And that’s a great first step.”

“I thought I was up to Step Five.”

The corners of her lips turn into a smile. Maybe I am making progress.

“Yes, Katie. But you also need to work through your issues with your family.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Things with my family are fine.”

“I don’t agree, Katie. And thankfully, neither do your parents.”

I have a bad feeling about this.

“What do you mean?”

“They’ve enrolled in the family program. They’re arriving tomorrow.”

Yup, that was the bad feeling.

I feel like stomping my feet. “But I don’t want to do the family program.”

“I think you’d get a lot out of it.”

“No. I don’t want my parents to know about any of this.” I gesture to the walls of her office as if the dog pictures and calendar can repeat my secrets, like the talking photos in Harry Potter.

“I know you might find it difficult . . .”

A flash of rage flows through me. “It’s not going to be difficult. It’s going to be excruciating, humiliating.”

“Katie, being vulnerable in front of people who love you is how you grow and change.”

Then I’ll stay as I am, thanks.

“What a load of horseshit.”

Saundra looks concerned. “Why are you so angry?”

“I told you. I don’t want my parents to come here.”

“I think that’s a mistake.”

“Isn’t it my mistake to make?”

“Yes, it is. But you’ll have to make it fully.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you don’t want them to come, you’re going to have to call and tell them not to.” She gestures toward the black, old-fashioned phone sitting on the corner of her desk.

Goddamnit.

“Why?”

“Because part of the program is taking responsibility for your actions.”

“But that’s not fair. I never asked them to come.”

Ah, Christ. I sound like Candice.

Saundra taps her pencil against her pad of paper. “What will it be, Katie? You decide.”

I slump in my chair and stare at the phone. All I can see is the expression on my dad’s face yesterday when he put all the pieces together.

“Fine,” I mutter into the front of my sweatshirt.

“What was that?”

“I said, fine.”

“You’ll let them come?”

I nod.

She smiles. “I’m glad, Katie. I think you made the right decision.”

That makes one of us.

It’s approaching midnight and I’m lying in my bed staring at the ceiling. After two hours of counting moonbeams, cracks, sheep, sheep backward, and a million self-hating thoughts, I know sleep is a hopeless cause.

I think briefly about sneaking to the library and reading one of the sure-to-make-me-sleepy self-help books, but the last thing I want to do is spend more time thinking about drugs/alcohol/self-awareness, self-anything.

I listen to the silence around me. It’s empty and deafening at the same time. Even Muriel is sleeping quietly.

I wonder if anyone else is awake. Or are visions of sugarplums, or sugarplum-flavored brandy, dancing through their heads?

Where the hell are Amber, Connor, and Henry when I need them? I could totally go for a Girl, Interrupted moment right now.

Henry, Henry, Henry. What the hell am I going to do about him? Do I need to do anything? Does he like me? Like me like a boy likes a girl? Like a boy likes a girl he has chemistry with even though he met her in rehab? I think he does. I think he does, but I’m not sure. Not sure sure. Not sure enough to know if I should be pushing him away.

But if he does like you, why push him away?

I would’ve thought that was obvious, given what I’m here to do.

Well, maybe you can have a little fun while you work?

Maybe you can let me go to sleep?

I’m just saying . . .

No. I want to go to sleep.

So you can dream about Henry?

F*ck off.

Maybe he’s awake too?

Now there’s a thought . . .

Working quietly so I don’t wake Muriel, I place my pillows under the covers, stop at my dresser to run a brush through my hair, and leave my room. I’m at the end of the hall before I realize something kind of important. A fatal flaw in my plan, really.

I don’t know where Henry’s room is.

Shit.

Bravo, Katie.

Will you shut the f*ck up?

I’m just saying . . .

You’re always just saying. I’ve had just about enough of you this evening.

OK, think. I know the men’s rooms are on the floor above mine, and there must be two separate hallways full of bedrooms, just like there are on my floor. I concentrate, thinking back over our conversations, looking for some clue . . . Got it! Wasn’t Connor saying something about sending messages through the floor to Amber the other day when we briefly considered having another Risk night? So, that must mean . . .

I ease open the door to the stairway. The red exit sign casts a devilish glow over the stairwell. When I get up the stairs, I put my face to the glass panel. The hall seems deserted. I open the door and count doorways until I’m standing in front of the door to Amber’s room, one floor up.

So this must be Connor and Henry’s room. Which means, of course, that Henry and Connor are in there. Which is totally something I should’ve thought about before. Do I want Connor to know I visited Henry in the middle of the night? And what do I mean by “visiting,” anyway? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

I reach out and turn the door handle gently. “Henry?”

I hear what seems like an answering sound and push the door open a little wider, letting the light from the hall fall across one of the single beds.

Oh crap. When am I going to learn my lesson about opening doors in the middle of the night?

There are two men in the middle of . . . fraternizing on the bed in front of me. In the light from the hallway, all I can see is that one of them has dark hair and one . . .

“Get the hell out of here!” yells the definitely gay Director.

“Sorry, sorry.” I pull the door shut and shove my fist into my mouth to keep my laughter from escaping. The Director and The Banker. Who knew?

So, what now?

Good question.

I have two options. Walk back to my room and resume the endless staring at the ceiling, or hope to find Henry’s room by some miracle without being discovered.

And if I’m discovered, I’ll probably get tossed out. And tossed out means I’ve been doing all of this for nothing. That my parents are upset, my sister’s feeling superior, my friends are falsely proud of me, for no good reason. And most importantly, that any future at The Line is history.

So, I already know what the decision has to be. But still, I hesitate.

Decisions have never been my strong suit. Go home at a reasonable hour or have the next drink? Give a guy my number, or invite him to my apartment? Lie to my friends and family, or be frank and honest? I’ve always chosen drink, invitation, lying.

And tonight? What the hell am I going to do tonight?

Just go to bed.

That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said . . . well, maybe ever.

I creep stealthily back to my room and crawl into bed. Muriel’s lying flat on her back, snoring like a drunken sailor. I hug my pillow to my chest and wait for sleep to come.

“Are you staying in the same room as Connor?” I ask Henry in what I hope is a casual tone the next morning after our run (eighteen minutes!). It’s a cloudy, cool day, a good match for my sleep-deprived, can’t-believe-my-parents-will-be-here-in-an-hour state of mind.

Henry wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “Nope.”

Crap. I should’ve asked him while we were running. He’d probably have drawn me a map by now. Can I risk one more question?

“So, where do you sleep then?”

“Why are you so curious?”

I guess not.

“Just making conversation.”

His eyes twinkle down at me. “I see.”

Changing topics!

“My parents are coming today.”

Now why the hell did I tell him that?

“For that family therapy thing?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at me intently. “You don’t sound psyched.”

“Would you be?”

“I don’t know if I’m qualified to say,” he says gently. So gently that I feel like I might start crying.

Again with the crying! Well, no way, I’m not crying in front of Henry.

I speak quickly through the lump in my throat. “I’d better go take a shower.”

“You OK?”

“Sure. I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

We lock eyes for a moment. He places both his hands on my shoulders and pulls me toward him. His arms feel warm and strong around me. He smells like salt and soap.

“You’ll do fine, Kate, Katie, whichever,” he says close to my ear.

Crap. I’m so going to cry now.

“I’ve got to go.” I place my hands on his chest and push him away, keeping my head down.

And before he can say anything else nice or sweet, or wipe a tear off my face, I turn and run.

My parents arrive around ten, pulling up in their battered old navy VW station wagon. I’m waiting for them on the rock retaining wall that encloses the parking lot wearing the nicest clothes I brought to rehab—a jean skirt and a light green shirt that needs pressing.

My parents climb out of the car in unison. My mom is wearing a loose khaki skirt and a white blouse, and her long gray hair is swept back in a neat bun. My dad (who wears shorts from April 1 to November 1 no matter what the weather or occasion) is wearing a pair of plaid golf shorts and a dark red polo shirt.

We hug hello, and then the day goes from bad to worse.

“What, no hug for me?” Chrissie smirks as she leans against the car. She looks smart and angry in a light gray shirtdress and more makeup than she usually wears.

What does it say about my family that we all thought Family Therapy Day had a dress code? Rehab casual by the Sandfords. Available at a Target near you.

“What’s she doing here?” I ask my dad.

“This is family therapy, Katie,” he answers reproachfully.

“Hah!” Chrissie sputters. “Since when has she given a shit about our family?”

I watch her angry face with regret. When I left town and didn’t look back, my parents started off being proud of me, and the brand-name university I got into. But Chrissie just started off being mad. That I left her behind? That she didn’t have the grades to follow me two years later? I was never sure, and, to be honest, I never bothered to ask. Then the Michael thing happened, and it was all downhill from there.

“What’s your f*cking problem, Chrissie?” I say loudly enough to catch the attention of Mr. Fortune 500 and several other patients who are close by.

My mother cringes. “Katie, please.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, but this is hard enough without Miss Chip-on-Her-Shoulder blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong in her life.”

“I don’t do that!”

“Yeah, you do. You know, I’m not the reason Michael cheated on you.”

She flinches at the sound of his name. “He was staying at your apartment when it happened.”

I turn toward my father. “You see what I mean, Dad?”

I give him my don’t-you-want-to-please-your-little-lost-girl look, and I can see him softening. He’s never been able to discipline me.

“Chrissie, maybe it would be better if it was just me and your mother . . .”

Chrissie’s face turns red. “Unf*ckingbelievable.”

My mother shakes her head firmly. “No, Topher. Don’t let her manipulate you.”

Since when did my peace-loving mom start calling me on my shit? This is a bad, bad day.

“Mom . . .”

“No, Katie,” she says, without quite looking at me. “We’re all here, and we’re all staying.”

I can tell by the tone in my mother’s voice that she’s not going to cave, and I’m sick of being this minute’s entertainment for the other patients. “Fine, whatever. We’re late.”

My sister raises her chin defiantly. Is it possible to hate someone who looks just like you?

I lead my happy family out of the fishbowl parking lot to the first session of the day: group therapy with parents and sibling in the common room. Yay.

Four of us are participating in the family program: Me, Amber, Candice, and Mr. Fortune 500. We sit around Saundra in a circle made up by the metal folding chairs we use in group.

Amber’s parents are old-money WASPs with perfectly tailored clothes and accents. Amber sits between them sullenly as they each hold one of her hands. They seem sad but stoic. Candice’s mother is a sixty-something version of Candice with a bad facelift who is clearly waiting for an opportunity to jump in and make it all about her. Mr. Fortune 500’s wife is short and pretty in a plain, faded way. She looks miserable, but given who she’s married to, I can’t blame her.

Saundra welcomes us, gets everyone to introduce themselves (“My name is Topher, and my daughter is an alcoholic,” says my dad nervously), and then launches into an explanation of addiction and the role that family can play in enabling it. Then she talks about ways our families can help us break past patterns and become a force in our battle to remain sober.

While Mrs. Fortune 500 and Amber’s parents ask questions at regular intervals, my parents don’t say anything the entire morning. They just listen to Saundra. Occasionally, my mom writes something down on the small notepad she always keeps in her purse. Enabling, she writes at one point. Support system, she writes later.

Chrissie spends much of the morning staring out the window at the lake, looking like she wants to make a break for it. I can’t help but smile to myself. I’m not Miss Talk-Things-Out, but Chrissie makes Amber’s WASPy, contained parents seem like contestants on The Bachelor. I can only wonder why she wanted to be here so much.

I don’t get a chance to find out. When the session breaks up, my sister announces that she’s leaving.

“But you made such a fuss before,” my dad says, his eyes troubled. “Why don’t you stay out the day?”

“And sit around and listen to more reasons why we’re responsible for Katie’s bullshit? No, thanks.”

Amber smiles at me sympathetically as she heads toward the door with her parents.

“So leave,” I say. “I never asked you to come here in the first place.”

Chrissie glares at me. “No, and you never would, right?”

Sigh. We used to be so close that we liked it when people mistook us for twins. And now, I wouldn’t have a clue what to say to keep her here, even if I wanted to.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

My mother sucks in her breath sharply, and my father makes a clucking, disapproving sound in the base of his throat. Chrissie just picks up her purse and stalks out the French doors. I watch her walk away, her shoulders stiff with anger. I know I should run after her, but I don’t have the energy, or know what I could do to fix what’s wrong between us.

I turn and face my parents. My father’s arm is draped across my mother’s shoulders, holding her close.

“Do you want to leave too?” I try to keep the note of hopefulness out of my voice.

“We’re staying,” my mom replies firmly, finally looking me in the eye.

OK, then.

It’s time for lunch, so I take my parents to the cafeteria, where we pick at our chicken Caesar salads and make small talk. I spy Henry sitting with YJB a few tables away. He gives me a friendly wave, and I wave back.

My mom catches me at it. “Who’s that?”

“Connor Parks,” I answer, though I know that’s not who she means.

“No, dear, not him. The one you waved at. The red-headed one.”

This is so one of the reasons I didn’t want my parents coming here.

“His name is Henry.”

“Is he a patient?”

“No.”

“Does he work on the staff?”

“No.”

My father pats her arm. “Marion, honey, I don’t think she wants to tell you who he is.”

“Well, why not? It’s a simple question.”

“Maybe it’s private.”

“I don’t think rehab is really about privacy.”

“Marion, we talked about this . . . we should be supporting Katie, not pushing her.”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think that’s right.”

Serenity now. Serenity now.

I stand up. “We need to go to Saundra’s office.”

My mother looks like she wants to say something but then gives in. “All right, dear.”

At her office, Saundra greets my parents and leads us into a small meeting room next to it that I’ve never been in before. It has a round oak table with four matching chairs and a high oblong window that lets in the light. There are (of course) framed photographs of dogs on the walls.

“What a lovely room,” my mom says stopping in front of a picture of an ordinary-looking dog. “Did you take these photographs?”

Saundra beams. “Yes, I did, thank you. Dogs are a passion of mine, particularly dachshunds.”

“Those are the little ones that look like hot dogs, right?”

Saundra flinches slightly at the word “hot dog.” “That’s right.”

“How delightful. Do you breed them?”

“Yes. And I show them in competitions.”

“Oh, like in that movie.” My mom turns toward my father. “What was it called, Topher? That one with that actress, the funny one.”

Best in Show. Catherine O’Hara.

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Sure you do. We watched it a couple of weeks ago. You know, the one about that dog show with those two funny men doing the commentary?”

“Best in Show,” I say.

My mother’s face clears. “Ah, yes. That’s it. Don’t you remember, Topher? Best in Show. It was very funny.”

“You must have seen it with your other boyfriend,” my father grins.

“That’s one of our little jokes,” my mom explains to Saundra. “Of course, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Saundra looks like she doesn’t know quite what to say. “Of course.”

“Did you see that movie? Best in Show ?”

“Yes, I did. It was very funny.”

Oh. My. God. Aren’t we supposed to be talking about me?

“I think that same cast did another one about a movie. They were trying to get an Oscar . . . Oh, now, what’s that movie called?”

For Your Consideration. Shoot me now.

Saundra clears her throat. “Perhaps we can discuss this a little later.”

“Oh yes, of course.” My mom sits next to my dad and pulls her notebook and pen out of her purse, looking at Saundra expectantly.

“As we discussed this morning, the purpose of today’s session is to discuss the extent of Katie’s alcoholism and the way it’s been affecting her life, and yours.”

“So, she is an alcoholic?” my dad says, suddenly serious.

I look down at the floor and place my hands under my thighs to keep myself from launching across the table and strangling Saundra. Even though I know it’s not her fault, I want to blame her anyway.

“Yes,” she replies.

“Is it only alcohol?” he persists.

Yes, Daddy. Pot, hash, ’shrooms—I heard you. I did what you said.

“Perhaps Katie can answer your questions.”

He turns toward me. I keep my eyes steadily on the carpet pattern. “Yes, Dad. Just alcohol.”

“A lot of alcohol?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does ‘a lot’ mean, dear?” my mom asks, her pen hovering above her notepad.

Why the hell is she taking notes, anyway? Is she really going to have trouble remembering today? Or are they going to become one of her many keepsakes, like my bronzed baby shoes and the teeth I left for the tooth fairy?

“What does it matter?”

“Katie, your family is simply trying to understand the magnitude of your problem. Be patient with them.”

Impossible request.

I stare back at the floor. “Sorry.”

“When did this happen, Katiekins?” my dad asks, using a nickname he hasn’t used since I was thirteen, when I forbade it after he called me that in front of a boy I liked.

“I don’t know. It happened gradually.”

One delicious cocktail at a time, in fact.

I can hear the scratching of my mother’s pen. “Is it because you’re unhappy in the city? Do you find it overwhelming?”

“No.”

“Is it because you don’t have a boyfriend?”

“Marion, honey, that’s enough.”

“Can’t I ask my daughter a few questions?”

“Why don’t we let her tell us what she wants to tell us?”

“But she doesn’t seem to want to tell us anything.”

That’s right. I don’t. I want to scream. I want to stomp my feet. I want this session to be over. Immediately. But I don’t want to tell my parents anything.

Maybe there’s a way to make that happen. Not a nice way, but being nice doesn’t feel like a priority right now.

“Saundra says it’s because Dad let me drink when I was a child,” I say, raising my eyes to catch Saundra’s reaction.

My dad sucks in his breath sharply, and my mom begins to cry, her notes forgotten.

I am a terrible, terrible person.

My parents look at Saundra, waiting for an explanation. And even though I’m miserable, and guilty and sad, I feel a little bit of pleasure as her feet squirm under the table.

“Marion, Topher, what Katie is alluding to is certain discussions we’ve had regarding her early experiences with alcohol, which I believe occurred in family situations. This does not mean, however, that you are to blame for Katie’s alcoholism. In fact, no one is to blame.”

Oh, someone’s to blame all right.

My dad shifts in his seat. “But it’s true, we . . . I . . . let her drink when she was young. Not frequently, but . . .”

“Topher, please believe me when I tell you that there’s no way of knowing whether that made a difference one way or another. In all likelihood, Katie would have developed a drinking problem regardless.”

You’re not getting off that easily, Saundra.

“But you said that the pervading permissiveness in my childhood was one of the reasons I failed to recognize that alcohol was detrimental to me.”

Now my dad looks like he’s on the verge of tears.

I am a terrible, horrible person.

“Topher, Marion, would you mind giving me a moment with Katie, please?”

My dad takes my mom by the elbow, and they both stand up. “Of course not.”

They leave, and Saundra closes the door behind them. I avoid Saundra’s gaze, feeling like a caged animal.

“What’s going on, Katie?”

“I told you I didn’t want them to come here.”

She sits down next to me. “Are you trying to get them to leave?”

Well, duh.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Katie, you’re going to be leaving in a couple of days, and you need a support network so you can begin to repair the holes you’ve created in your life.”

“Don’t you mean the wide, gaping chasms?”

She almost smiles. “I don’t think they’re that wide, or gaping. But I am curious about something. I remember you telling me that your parents were great parents.”

“Yes, they are.”

“So, why are you so angry with them?”

The funny thing is, I didn’t even realize I was angry with them until a few seconds ago. But I am. I’m angry with my dad for not looking surprised when he found out I was in rehab. I’m angry with my mom for trying harder to understand my “disease” than she ever did to accept my career. And I’m angry with my sister for not caring enough to stick it out to lunch. But that’s just my shit, right? I came here, and now they think they have to deal with an alcoholic in the family. I shouldn’t blame them for trying to understand her.

“Bring my parents back in and I’ll explain.”

Saundra opens the door and beckons them. I stare at the patch of gray sky I can see through the high window, not looking at them as they sit back down.

“Katie has something she’d like to say to you both.”

Here goes nothing.

I force myself to look into their sad faces. “Mom, Dad, I’m sorry for what I said before.”

“That’s all right, dear, we understand.”

“No, it’s not all right. And it’s not your fault. It’s mine . . .” I search for the right words. For something that has a core of truth that will reassure them. “It’s my fault. I’m here because I made bad choices. And I said those things because I didn’t want you to come here, and I guess I was punishing you. But I wasn’t being fair, and what I said wasn’t true.”

My dad places his hand over mine. “Why didn’t you want us to come here, Katiekins?”

“Because I didn’t want to involve you in this . . .”

This lie, this sham.

“But we’re your family, dear. If you need help, we want to help you.”

“I know, Mom.”

“We love you, Katie.”

“I know, Dad. Thank you for coming. Thank you for wanting to help me. It means a lot.”

My mom wipes a tear away with the corner of her thumb. “Thank you for saying that, dear.”

Saundra is beaming at the three of us. “I think we’re making some real progress here. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” my dad says with a glint in his eye that isn’t related to tears. “But there’s still something I want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Who was that man in the cafeteria?”