Clean Page 5

  The Sexy AC is practically purring: “Feel the warm air on your skin. Imagine you’re lying on a bed of feathers. Take in a deep breath. Now breathe out.” I wonder how many guys in here have boners.

  The only one who’s not lying down is that annoying Hippie Girl. She asked if she could sit in the “lotus position,” and the Sexy AC practically gave her a standing ovation. “Of course, if you’ve found that that’s your most open physical state for meditation.” Then Hippie Girl went over to the wall and sat with her legs crossed weird and her hands turned up on her knees, with this smug look on her face like she’s way more enlightened than everyone else in here. She’d actually be really pretty if she shaved her armpits and put on some makeup and wore clothes that fit. She’d probably be the hottest girl in here. I wonder if she knows that but chooses to look the way she does instead. I wonder what makes some girls work so hard at being pretty, while others don’t seem to care at all.

  Classical music is playing on the portable stereo. It’s that song they always play at weddings. I think it’s called “Taco Bell Cannon” or something like that. Olivia’s on the other side of the room, but I swear I feel her stress all the way over here. What do they call it? Vibes? Her vibes are stressing me out. What she needs is to smoke a joint and get real mellow. I can’t believe she was addicted to speed. I do not want to see what that looked like. Hopefully it had the opposite effect on her, like how Ritalin and Adderall calm down people with ADD.

  Eva’s a couple people away from me, lying perfectly still, and I wonder what she’s thinking about. She hardly ever says anything, and when she does it’s usually bitchy, but I don’t think she’s really as mean as she wants everyone to think she is. More than anything else, I think she’s sad, but maybe she thinks mean looks better than sad. Maybe she thinks it makes her look stronger.

  “Go to your place of relaxation,” Sexy AC says. “Breathe the fresh air. Do you smell fresh-cut grass? Flowers? The sea?” All I smell is this nasty carpet and somebody’s BO.

  “Look around you. What do you see?” I don’t know. My eyes are closed. I don’t see anything. My bedroom? The kitchen? The basement? No, those are definitely not my places of relaxation. Nowhere in my house is. Neither is school or my car or probably anywhere I’d have to spend time with myself. There’s just nowhere that far away.

  I remember going to summer camp once, when I was nine. It was the only time I’ve ever been anywhere on my own, without my parents or my sisters. It was the only trip that was ever just mine, where I didn’t have to share the spotlight with Shayla and Nicole. Pretty much all the other kids in my cabin were homesick and cried the first couple of nights and had to call their parents. It was this big production with the counselors taking them to the phones at the office, trying to keep them calm when they were all freaking out. I couldn’t understand what they were so upset about. I was thrilled to be on my own and away from home. So I left. While they were all pissing their pants waiting for their turn at the phone to call their parents, I just walked away. I went down to the beach and found a nice spot under a tree, and sat down and looked out at the water, and everything was finally quiet. But not just quiet like no cars and no city noise kind of quiet, but quiet like all the noise inside shut up for a minute too, all those voices you carry with you that have an opinion about everything you do. I remember the inside of my head feeling clean, and I could actually stand my own company for once. In those few moments I felt like maybe I wasn’t so bad after all. The sun was setting and painting everything yellow-orange, and the boats were rocking like something breathing, and the air felt just right, and for once in my life my skin fit perfectly.

  I remember thinking I wanted to stay there forever. I wished all those girls in my cabin would take forever talking to their parents. Because in that place, in that moment, I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t have to make anyone happy. I didn’t have to worry about making anyone mad. I could just listen to the bugs and watch the lake slowly change to a different shade of orange, and it felt like I could breathe for the first time.

  The AC says, “Breathe.” I smell pine needles and salt water. She says, “Tense your muscles for five seconds—five, four, three, two, one. Now relax.” And all of a sudden I feel my skin melting off, dead weight sinking into the floor, and I imagine myself lying on a boat in that water, drifting slowly out with the tide, and no one wants anything from me, and I have everything I’ll ever need.

  CHRISTOPHER

  We just started talking,

  and my mom’s already crying. You see what I have to deal with?

  “Oh, honey, it’s so good to finally talk to you,” she says over the phone. “I just don’t understand why they wouldn’t let you call before.”

  “They’re doctors, Mom,” I tell her. “They know what they’re doing.” I know this is what she needs to hear, but I’m not quite sure I believe it either. Last night after dinner we watched a couple episodes of a reality show involving a one-legged drug addict prostitute. First of all, that’s just crazy. Second of all, I don’t see how it’s supposed to help us get sober. Third of all, is that really the best they can do with all the money they’re getting paid to fix us?

  “Are you praying?” Mom says. “Are you reading your Bible?”

  “Yes, Mother.” I should tell her I’m leading Bible study workshops with the Heroin Addict and the Satan Worshipper. I wonder what she’d think of that.

  “That’s my good boy,” she says. “That’s my good, sweet boy.”

  There’s only one phone for patients, and we’re only allowed to use it at a specific time on two designated days per week. It’s stuck out here in the middle of the hall by the nurse’s office, in a little cubicle with no doors, and walls that only go halfway to the ceiling, and I’m holding the receiver as close to my ear as possible to make sure no one can hear my mom blubbering on the other end of the line, because you can never be too careful in here. Can you imagine what kind of torture the Scary Guys would come up with if they heard this conversation? They’d probably strip me naked and put me in diapers and shove a pacifier into my mouth for being such a baby.

  “We’re praying for you, Christopher,” she says. “We all are. Pastor Tom. All your friends at church.”

  “But they all think I have mono,” I remind her.

  “They’re praying for you to be healed, sweetie,” she says. “It’s all the same in God’s eyes.”

  Really, Mom? Staying at an imaginary relative’s house because I’m sick with mono is the same as being in rehab for crystal meth addiction?

  “Are they treating you all right?” she asks. “Are they feeding you enough?”

  “Yes, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

  “They’re not hurting you, are they? The other kids in there?”

  “No, of course not. Everyone’s pretty nice.” “I’m just worried, Christopher. I don’t like the idea of you being in there with a bunch of…”

  “Drug addicts?”

  “Oh,” she says, like this is the first she’s heard of it. “I think we made a mistake sending you there. We should have waited for a spot to open up at one of the Christian places. I should talk to Pastor Tom again. Maybe he can pull some strings.” Her voice is getting higher and faster, like she’s going to blow her top any second. I can just see her wringing her hands and sweat beading on her face as she contemplates the kinds of unsavory people I must be spending time with here. “You don’t belong there, do you, honey? With those people? Do you even know if they’re Christians?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. It hasn’t really come up.” I look around to make sure no one’s listening. Eva’s too busy arguing with the nurse about something, and Jason and Kelly are down the hall whispering pornographic things to each other, but I swear Mom’s voice is coming through the loudspeakers and everyone can hear her and I’m going to be more of a laughingstock than I already am.

  “You’re not like those people, Christopher.” I can hear the tears coming back. “You�
�re a good boy. You belong at home with me. You should be going to church. Isn’t that right? Honey?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do, Christopher. You know you’re nothing like those kids in there.”

  I don’t say anything for a while. It’s strange not looking at her when we’re having a conversation. Right now I should be seeing her sad eyes begging me to say the right thing and to assure her that everything’s fine and there’s nothing to worry about and I’m her perfect little angel always. But all I see is the wall of this cubicle and the painted-over graffiti of penises and pot leaves and drug dealers’ phone numbers. I can hear her breathing. I’ve never noticed how loud and kind of disgusting it sounds, like her lungs are wet, like she has to cough something up.

  “Maybe I am,” I say.

  “Maybe you are what?” she says.

  “Maybe I am like the kids in here.” I don’t know where this comes from, but I know it has something to do with me being here, and her being there, and the miles of distance between us.

  “Don’t be silly, Christopher,” she says.

  “I’m a drug addict, Mom.” Wow. It feels good to say it. I’m a drug addict, I’m a drug addict, I’m a drug addict, I’m a drug addict.

  “Christopher, don’t.”

  “I’m a drug addict.

  I’m addicted to crystal meth.”

  “Oh, Jesus, please help my boy.”

  I’m being cruel. I shouldn’t be scaring her like this. I should be telling her I’ll bake her two dozen cookies and we’ll sit on her bed together while I read her Psalms and massage her shoulders. I should be assuring her that everything’s going to be okay and I’m going to come home soon and everything’s going to be just like it was when I was five years old. But I would be lying. Nothing’s going to be the same. Once the truth is out, no amount of denial is going to put it back.

  “Mom,” I say. “I’m in rehab.” I talk slowly to make sure she hears it.

  “Pastor Tom says everyone in youth group misses you. They pray for you at the beginning of every meeting. You know, they’re doing a canned food drive for the homeless this year. Your friend Lynn is helping me clean out the pantry. Do you think we want to keep a can of water chestnuts? I can’t for the life of me think what I would have wanted water chestnuts for. Pastor Tom’s making sure someone comes over in the afternoon every day to help me. Isn’t that nice of him? But of course no one is as good a help as you, honey.”

  I wonder what my mom would say if she saw all the stuff that’s been carved in this wall, all the sketches of body parts and references to sex acts, the various profanities. I don’t even know what some of these things mean.

  “Don’t you think that’s nice?” she says.

  Is it weird that this graffiti is kind of turning me on?

  “Christopher? Hello?”

  “Mom,” I say, “I’m not as perfect as you think I am.”

  “What are you talking about?” She’s trying to laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Christopher, honey, don’t be silly. You’ll always be perfect to me.”

  “Even if I’m a drug addict?”

  “Christopher.” She is not laughing anymore.

  I don’t know why I’m talking to her like this, but I can’t stop. It’s suddenly so easy. Is this how normal teenagers talk to their parents? Is it our job to try to hurt them?

  “I have to go, Mom,” I say. It’s time for dinner. Everyone’s heading into the cafeteria.

  “No, honey. Just stay on a little while longer.”

  “Tell everyone I say hi.”

  “Christopher, wait.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  I hang up and feel a surge of electricity. I suddenly feel the air around me, the empty space that proves I’m not attached to my mother. A cord’s been cut and I’m here, alone. It is me deciding to stand up now. It is me deciding to walk.

  Maybe I’m not who my mother thinks I am. Maybe I’m not who anyone thinks I am. Eva’s waving at me from the end of the hall. She thinks I’m somebody worth talking to. Maybe I am.

  DRUG & ALCOHOL HISTORY QUESTIONNAIRE

  QUESTION #2:

  Tell the story of what happened that caused you to come to treatment, the drugs and the amounts, and the thoughts and feelings you had at the time.

  KELLY

  It was Friday. Saturday morning, actually. I had been drinking and doing coke all night, which was pretty normal. I guess I had a gram of coke that night—really good stuff—and God, I don’t even know how many drinks. At some point we started drinking straight from the bottle, so I lost track.

  CHRISTOPHER

  I don’t know how long I could have kept going. It’s not like I was ever going to get caught. My mom probably couldn’t make it up to the second floor if she wanted to, plus there’s no way she would ever intentionally destroy her delusion that everything is perfect and fine. Todd sure wasn’t going to tell anyone he was smoking meth with the weird homeschooled kid down the street.

  OLIVIA

  I was running. Janice said I couldn’t just be skinny, I had to be toned. She says skinny girls with cellulite are worse than fat ones.

  JASON

  I’m sure my parents already told you about that at my intake. Nobody wants my side of the story. Next question.

  EVA

  Her father could have chosen any moment to start paying attention, any one of millions of moments in those almost three years. No one knows why he chose the one he did, that one particular moment when nothing out of the ordinary happened, when he and the girl had just been going about their regular lives, living in the same house, not getting in each other’s way, he forgetting in his way, she forgetting in hers.

  CHRISTOPHER

  My mom would have probably stayed in denial until I shriveled up and died. I’d still be her little angel even if I was seventy pounds and splayed out on the floor of my bedroom, twitching and scratching myself to death because of the imaginary bugs under my skin.

  OLIVIA

  I was running, and I started feeling dizzy, which was pretty normal. I just kept running. I was going to run right through the feeling, because I knew that if I stopped I wouldn’t be able to start again. That’s what you have to do when things get hard—just keep going, even if you think it’s going to kill you.

  KELLY

  I guess I blacked out. I don’t remember much about that night. I don’t remember much about most Friday nights.

  EVA

  The father became a hermit and the girl lived in fog. Sometimes others would join her, and the hermit would stay in his cave, leaving them untended. But mostly she was alone, and mostly she was grasping at smoke and the magic pills that kept her forgetting, that allowed her to pretend she was in some far-off land. And still the hermit stayed in his cave, pretending the same thing.

  JASON

  I know you already heard about Jessica. You probably have all the police reports in my file. That’s all you need to know.

  EVA

  This scene does not end with fireworks. The girl did not get arrested, or overdose, or any number of things that happen to girls like her. She just finally got caught. But the truth is, she never really tried that hard to hide it. The truth is, the father just decided one day to open his eyes. And there she was, right in front of him. There she was, right where she’d been the whole time.

  KELLY

  It was just a regular Friday night. That’s the weird thing. I drove home drunk and high all the time. But this time, I don’t know, maybe I’d had a little too much. Maybe I hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe it was just really bad luck.

  JASON

  I was drunk. Big surprise. I came home after school because my mom was making me watch Jessica. She had one of her stupid military wife parties where they sit around drinking pink wine and talking about dumb housewife shit. So I got home and she left, and it was just me and my three-year-old sister and nothing to do. So I made myself a drink. I have this giant plastic Hus
kies cup that fits, like, three or four drinks in it. I had a couple of those.

  CHRISTOPHER

  I could have probably kept going and going until I died. No one was going to stop me. No one was going to do anything.

  OLIVIA

  I got dizzier and dizzier. And my chest started to hurt and everything got blurry and I couldn’t breathe. It felt like there was a belt around my chest that kept getting tighter and tighter, and I just couldn’t keep going, and I tried to keep going, but then I knew I had stopped, I had finally stopped, I was falling, and everything was going to be different from that moment forward.

  KELLY

  When I woke up, the cops were in my living room and my mom was crying and my dad was pacing back and forth, and the first thing I thought was, My sisters. Oh my God, something happened to my sisters.

  EVA

  He saw her one day out of the corner of his eye, and the girl had changed into something unrecognizable. She was no longer a small, sweet thing. He had not noticed all the clues she’d left for him to find, not her silence, not the shadows she hid behind. But that is to be expected when a mother dies and leaves a father to finish raising a half-woman, when he turns his home into a cave and refuses to come out. It is hard to see anything from inside a cave.