Lucy is playing with a couple of her friends when I get to the preschool. They have some game going on in the sandbox and I feel bad breaking it up. I’ve dropped the prescriptions off at a local pharmacy, but I’m not gonna pick it all up till tomorrow. There’s no rush.
I watch Lucy and the other kids playing at their game. When I was their age, my parents were still together. I don’t really remember anything from that time. The one thing that comes to mind is walking home from school with my babysitter and finding a fuzzy caterpillar. I knew we had a garden behind our house in the Berkeley Hills. All I wanted to do was bring that caterpillar to our garden so it would have the opportunity to eat all our great plants and things. I remember carrying it the whole way home. But other than that, I have no memories of that period in my life. So maybe everything happening in Lucy’s life right now is going to be a blur in her memories. Still, children seem like empty vessels who pick up on everything and are so affected by their surroundings. I mean, that’s what they tell me in therapy and it seems to be true. Stuff I don’t consciously remember affects my behavior every day. I see that now. So even if Lucy has no conscious memories of today, she still is taking everything in like a little sponge. And, moment by moment, she is developing her skills to cope with the situations life throws at her. If she is full of terror, she will grow up terrified. If she is made to feel safe and accepted, she will grow up trusting herself—confident and self-assured.
I want so badly to be a part of her growing up strong and comfortable with who she is—something I never experienced really.
Because Michelle has decided that she wants Lucy to finally go and visit Spencer in the hospital, I drive her out to Beverly Hills. In the car I do this imitation of Pete Seeger singing “Abiyoyo” and telling the story and everything. It’s actually from a tape I used to listen to all the time with Jasper. Abiyoyo is a giant who attacks this village, and a musician boy and his father, a magician, are the only ones who can stop him. My mind can just retain information like that—reciting the story almost word for word, with all of Seeger’s intonations and everything. Lucy seems entranced, and as we pull into the hospital in Beverly Hills, it’s as though no time has passed. She’s laughing and I’m laughing and we both sing the song: “Abiyoyo, Abiyoyo. Abiyoyo, yoyo yo, yoyo yo.”
It’s a little after seven when I pay the ten dollars to park at Cedars-Sinai.
The sun is still out and Lucy is wearing a colored skirt with a black tank top, ruffled socks, and white sneakers that light up red as she walks. We hold hands, walking across the asphalt to the main entrance. She skips and laughs and dances. I ask if she’s scared and she says, “No.”
Having visited here so many times, I don’t check in at the front. We go into the elevator and climb the three floors to where Spencer is. The fluorescent lights crackle like insects. The smells of chemicals and disinfectant permeate everything. Lucy and I walk out into the sterile air, past the nurses’ station, where everyone is rushing around looking busy and overworked. We follow the patterned carpet along the halls. Spencer’s door is closed and I knock softly. We wait.
When Michelle opens the door she is looking better—more rested and uplifted than I have seen her since this whole thing started. I guess Spencer’s situation really has improved. Spencer has gotten so much color and everything back in his face—he even seems to have gained a little weight back. He’s unshaven and scraggly, but the dead, glossy clouded film over his eyes has cleared. Lucy runs to give him a hug.
“Daddy!”
She scrambles up into the bed and just nuzzles in as close as possible.
“Oh, my big girl,” says Spencer. “I missed you, Squirt.”
“Were you sick, Dad?”
“Yeah, pretty sick.”
They hold each other and Michelle and I exchange glances. Both our eyes are red as the tears start to well up. Beyond everything, I think, we’re relieved not to have to lie to Lucy anymore. Watching her with her dad—how much they love each other—how much they need each other—well, it just takes my breath from me. When Michelle puts her hand on my shoulder I can’t stop from crying. Spencer is well. He’ll be out of the hospital maybe tomorrow or the next day. I guess I didn’t even realize what a big deal this has all been. It’s like the world’s gravitational pull has just lessened tenfold. Everything trapped in me, rushing in and out like the ocean against a jetty—pounding over and over, trying to crush the breaker wall with each rhythmic explosion—has finally been taken away. I cry for that and I’m not sure what else. Michelle cries too and then Spencer cries and we’re standing around the hospital bed like that, until Lucy says, “Why’s everyone so sad?”
And I say, “We’re not sad, sweetheart, we’re happy.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because happiness goes like that too.”
A little later I go pick up pizza for everyone at a place on Third. We all eat in the room, watching the opening ceremony to the Summer Olympics on the TV they have strapped to the ceiling. We’re all joking about the costumes and all. Lucy seems enthralled. Björk does this whole vocal art piece and Lucy asks me all kinds of questions about her and Iceland and everything. We’re like a family sitting in here, having come through this whole ordeal together. We’re like veterans after a war. Laughter has never felt so effortless.
Michelle decides to go home with Lucy at her bedtime and spend the night with her. So, at least for tonight, I won’t be babysitting Lucy. Spencer wants me to wait with him a while longer. The pain comes back at night and he’s still on the morphine—though a much smaller dose. A fat white nurse woman comes in to administer the shot and Lucy and Michelle leave for the night. The hair stands up all over my body as I watch the needle puncture the skin—as she registers and then pushes the blood/drug mixture up into his arm. I almost feel like throwing up. Sometimes, still, I long just to stick a needle in—just to feel it hit a vein. Sometimes I crave that almost as much as the drugs. I watch Spencer’s eyes roll back in his head for a second as he thanks the nurse.
It takes maybe a minute or two for him to come clear again.
“I’m sorry, Nic,” he says. “I know that’s hard for you to watch.”
“Yeah,” I say, lowering my eyes. “It is. But to tell you the truth—all I feel is grateful that I don’t have to be so fake and clouded by that shit.”
“I’d give anything not to need it. And I’d give anything not to go through the process of stopping again.”
“Is it going to be hard to stop?”
“Let’s just say”—he smiles—“I’m very aware of the time and when the next shot is due. Now some of that is the pain—but some of it is just my addict getting a taste of being high again and I’ve missed that. You may not think you miss it—but guaranteed, somewhere in you, your addict is there—still alive—biding his time until he can get you where he wants you again. He will never be gone completely and he’ll use any opportunity to bring you back.”
“Yes,” I say, looking away. “I know.”
“I’m gonna need your help, Nic. I need you to walk with me through this. I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Spencer, please, don’t worry. I’m here for you. I’ll spend every moment with you if you need it. Spencer, beyond anything that’s come before, I am your friend. I mean, you are my best friend. I could never repay you for all you’ve done. I love you. I mean, I do.” I put my hand on his much bigger hand, standing over him as he lays there. “Whatever you need,” I continue. “You can be sure of me.”
Spencer smiles and rolls over slightly onto his side.
“You tired?”
“Yeah, I’ll sleep in a minute. Just remember, Nic, the only thing that ever really gives us any genuine satisfaction is caring for other people. It doesn’t matter how popular we are or anything. The only thing that actually makes life more fulfilling is our love for others. When I help you, I’m really helping myself—saying yes to humanity and to the connection that exists am
ong all people. And the results speak for themselves. Like, how have you felt this last week?”
I go back over to the cot and sit down, crossing my legs. “Well, I’ve been scared, of course. But yeah, I haven’t even really thought about myself at all. I mean, if I have time to take a shower that’s a luxury. Mostly I’m just trying to make sure you’re all right—or Lucy or Michelle. And I guess there is something very liberating about all that. Things have been hectic, but I feel very calm and, well, just purposeful inside.”
“And that’s what I wanted to point out,” says Spencer, falling further away into sleep. “That is the crux of the whole twelve-step program. This is—what you’re experiencing now. We are two people helping each other through life. The satisfaction of being there for someone else is unparalleled. This has been a fucked-up way to learn that lesson, but in my mind, it’s been worth it. And you also get to see now, without a doubt, that the more you give to others the more gifts you receive. That is a universal truth. It will never fail you. Now I’m going to pass out, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I stand up and go over to switch off the bedside lamp. The room is swallowed in darkness and I stumble toward the door.
The walk to the car and most of the drive home I’m just thinking about what Spencer said. I’ve always been amazed at how selflessly he took me in and helped me want to live again. Never once did I think that he might be doing it in order to help himself at the same time. As a using drug addict, all I ever really cared about was getting high myself. There were a few people around—Gack, Bullet, Lauren—but at the end of the day, all that really mattered to me was that I had whatever drugs I needed not to get sick, or come down, or whatever.
Now that Spencer has pointed it out, I realize that the times I have known some sort of inner peace in my life, those have always been times when I focused on helping others more than myself. Volunteering at Jasper and Daisy’s school, babysitting, cooking dinner for my family, cleaning up the house, talking to a friend on the phone and just listening to them vent about something or other without offering an opinion or judging. Those have been the moments when I get to stop obsessing about myself and really feel a sense of liberation. “Freedom from the bondage of self,” that’s what they call it in twelve-step language. I never really understood that before, but now I do.
I drive back to my apartment along I-10. Los Angeles is glowing toxic and orange in the nighttime blackness. My phone rings a few times—friends from the program. Josh is calling after going on a date with some girl. He talks to me and I just try to listen. Kevin calls ’cause he’s got a problem with his girlfriend, Emily. Then Emily calls to talk about Kevin. I have the stereo turned down in the car and I end up staying on the phone for about fifteen minutes after I’ve parked in my underground garage. Thinking about all these people in my life—all people I’ve met in the program—well, I’m just so grateful. I breathe out, not wanting to be anywhere but exactly where I am. As I hang up and take the elevator up to my floor, I feel like the impossible has become possible, I feel a sense of completeness and satisfaction just being in my own skin. I am comfortable being me—at least, for the moment.
I go inside and eat some Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream. I put a DVD in the player. I fall asleep.
DAY 238
Yesterday I finally drove Spencer home from the hospital. He’s still in a lot of pain and plagued by horrible headaches and body aches. Still, it was a huge relief to make it home. Michelle’s been back at work at the salon and I’ve been relieved of some of my Lucy-watching duties—not that I minded them. I’m still staying pretty close, going to their house after work, making dinner and cleaning as best I can. There hasn’t been more than a moment of calm, but I seem to thrive on that, reveling in the chaos.
On my lunch break today I grabbed a copy of the LA Weekly and saw that the L.A. film festival is coming to town. Pedro Almodóvar’s new movie, Bad Education, is screening over the next few nights and I call my mom at her magazine to see if she can get our names on some sort of screening list. My mom is very nice on the phone and calls Sony, the film’s distributor, right after we hang up. Turns out there’s a screening of the film tonight at the Sony lot and my mom has gotten me and her and one guest on the list. My stepdad doesn’t want to go, so I invite Josh. He seems excited and agrees to meet us at the studio a little before it starts. Michelle doesn’t seem to mind, but I call Spencer, just to make sure he’s not gonna need anything. Spencer happily tells me to go to the screening, so I guess it’s all set. I look forward to it all day.
When I was little, especially when I visited my mom in L.A., the only escape I had was watching movies. It was the one thing that could take me out of myself—let me forget the world I lived in. I remember this one time when my mom and stepdad were fighting. My mom was screaming as she was trying to get away from Todd—trying to pack me up and take me to a hotel with her somewhere. They screamed and screamed. My mom tried to drive off and Todd blocked the car with his body, losing his glasses. I ran inside to the couch and put on this Sergio Leone Western with the volume up real loud. I could still hear them screaming, but the movie offered me some relief. For ninety minutes, I was transported into another life, another reality, another character. Basically, it let me be someone that I wasn’t. It allowed me to travel, to be a part of different cultures, different world views, different societies. Plus there are all the elements of movies: music, visuals, writing, and acting. In some ways it is the perfect art form. It is the culmination of all mediums.
Throughout my whole life I have obsessively watched and studied movies, learning all about different directors and their work. It was like having my own personal film school, and for whatever reason, my mind has almost perfect recall when it comes to information about film. I remember being young, sitting by the heavy dining room table in Karen’s mom’s house. Her mom and I would watch Jeopardy! all the time on this tiny little TV that barely even got reception. One night one of the categories was movies, and she bet me a penny that I couldn’t answer them all. Well, I sat there and got every single one of the questions right. More recently, Josh started working for this company that makes a DVD game called A Night at the Movies. When we played the demo version at Josh’s apartment, people got sick of playing with me ’cause I knew all the answers. I’m definitely not bragging, either, it’s more of a freakish phenomenon. I’m like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man when it comes to this shit.
Anyway, because my mom works for a magazine, I’m able to go to these screenings and I try to take advantage of them as much as possible.
I meet my mom outside her office building on La Cienega. She takes forever coming down the stairs and I listen to Terry Gross on NPR—half getting angry that my mom is always (always) LATE. I mean, ever since I can remember my mom has always been late. I’m not sure what that means.
The sun’s still keeping the sky somewhat colored, even though it’s already gone down beyond the horizon. There are strips of patterned pinks and oranges layered up like sideways color bars. A Los Angeles sunset, made beautiful by a screen of haze, pollution, and trash. It says a lot about this city. It says a lot about the people who live here. But I figure my mom’s all right as she comes running up to the side door, carrying all her bags and things.
I’ve always thought my mom was beautiful. I don’t know, maybe every kid does. But my mom really is very stylish and she steps into the car wearing Jack Purcells, flared corduroy pants, and big sunglasses. She’s like this mass of energy coming into the car, though. She starts talking immediately about her work, throwing stuff everywhere. I mean, she says hello to me for a second, but then she’s just ranting about these “stupid celebrities.” She has to go to this nightclub tomorrow night in Koreatown where Nicolas Cage met his new wife, a waitress there. Apparently, they set you up with dates when you go in and then you sing karaoke or something together. My mom is so pissed about having to go on her Friday night.
I drive across
town to Sony. I listen to my mom. She had to get quotes today about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner’s possible marriage.
We get to the Sony lot late, going in past a guard station and parking out front. Josh is sitting in his car next to us, smoking a cigarette and listening to music. He gets out when he sees us and I introduce him to my mom. He has long, tightly curled hair and a hawk nose. He shakes her hand with his skinny, pale fingers—his wrist collapsing some. Josh gives me a hug and I ask him about work and whatever. Honestly, after my relapse, he’s never really been the same to me. There is a way he keeps himself guarded around me now. I guess it’s the same with most of the people in my life—they’re too afraid of getting hurt to let me in all the way. After relapsing I just find it impossible to be as close to my old friends as I used to be. Mostly I just pretend I don’t notice it—but I always do.
We go and all sit down together in the small underground screening room. There are big plush chairs upholstered with red fabric. I’ve been to a couple of different screenings here. I actually came here a couple of times with my dad when he was interviewing some celebrity and we had to see a screening of their film.
The movie is sort of Hitchcockian, but tells the story of a gay transvestite heroin addict writer who is molested by a priest at a Catholic school in Spain. Josh and my mom and I just can’t stop talking about it. We decide to all go out to dinner at Kate Mantalini’s in Beverly Hills. For some reason they have all these pictures of Andie MacDowell on the walls. Anyway, it’s open late and they have killer chicken pot pie and osso bucco. It’s funny to see my mom interacting with one of my friends. Growing up, my mom was never around me and my friends. She and Josh seem to be getting on really well. She is trying to get him to help give her story ideas. Josh’s twelve-step sponsor, this guy Voltaire, is a doorman at all these clubs and is friends with Paris Hilton and whoever. You can tell that Josh loves talking about it.