“How do you buy a—”
“At least a hundred fifty dollars,” Hannah says.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“For a six-year-old?”
“You should see the kids at James’s preschool. Real Uggs and jeans that cost hundreds. They dress better than I do,” Hannah says. The woman is wearing her own fedora, placed just so on the very back of her head. She has a loosely done side braid that trails down her back. She’s wearing a stylish maxi dress, and from her pinky lipstick to her vintage boots, she drips with the height of hipster fashion.
“You know they keep chickens,” I say.
“Oh, absolutely. And she’s really getting into canning. You know, keeping it real,” Hannah says, pounding her chest with her fist.
“The little girl’s name is either Holden Caulfield, all one name, or possibly Soirase,” I say.
“And she corrects everyone when they pronounce it wrong,” Hannah says.
“Um, it’s SHER-sha?!” I say, in my best hipster affected accent.
“Everything in her house is in mason jars,” Hannah says. I laugh.
“And the husband—”
“Who’s really into modern Danish furniture,” Hannah says.
“Only uses those old-timey suitcases when they travel,” I say.
“They use them for dressers as well,” Hannah adds.
“And he plays the banjo in the evenings,” I say.
“Because, um, they don’t haaaave a TV,” Hannah says.
“But they are reading little Simonetta Jinx the classics—starting with Finnegans Wake,” I say.
“Simonetta. Jinx.” Hannah laughs. And on we go. For another hour. We talk about everything and nothing.
And it’s fine.
Fine. There’s that word again. But there’s a difference. Not everyone in my life has to be this wildly intimate, super intense, wholly authentic experience. I had a blast with Hannah. It was light and it was fun and we kept it totally on the surface. And that’s fine. That’s what she wants. Who am I to judge her or say that that’s a bad thing?
Let it go.
Let this friendship be what it is.
And maybe someday work up the courage to tell her how much I loathe coral.
18
But I’m not fine the next day or the next. Or the next week or even the week after that. It could be partly due to my overachieverness. I’m doing everything I can to change and be all in and be the heroine of my own story and level up and let go, and I still haven’t gotten that gold star yet? I’m just beginning to see that the gold star is the act of unraveling.
This. Enrages. Me.
If vulnerability were a person, its picture would be taped to a bull’s-eye with a thousand darts in it right now.
I’ve thought about calling Lincoln no less than one thousand times. And that embarrasses and surprises me. I see something funny and I want to tell him. Something happens at work and I want to tell him. I want to talk about missing Ferdie and how nervous I am about going down to Virginia tonight to watch him get his thirty-day chip. But mostly I just want to hear that quiet snoring of Lincoln’s as I fall asleep and wake up to him telling me the kettle is on. And when I think about that? I realize how stupid it is to be happy with “fine.”
I have too many questions and not enough answers. And not even, oh, give me some time and I’ll figure it out. No. It’s give me some time and I’ll get even more confused.
Here’s how I know I’m on the right track. I’m wildly uncomfortable and everything feels wrong. That’s my answer these days. That’s me “living authentically.”
I pull into the Recovery House’s parking lot in my rented car and find a spot. I’m early so I scroll through the ten or so e-mails that came in since I left the office. We’re heading into New York next week to—my phone rings. Preeti.
“Hello,” I say, stopping just short of saying hi or hiya or something less formal.
“Anna, hi,” she says, finding the perfect balance of casual and formal that eluded me. “We’re all set for next week to shoot Josh and then we’ll have Lantz that Tuesday and then finish up with Jake on Wednesday.”
“Yep, we’re all set,” I say.
“I know you know this. I think I’m just—”
“No, me too.”
“The art Sasha sent over is breathtaking.”
“I know. She’s amazing,” I say.
“It’s like she has this Norman Rockwell thing going on, but then it’s just . . . not.”
“I know.”
“And the ideas you sent over about social media and how we can disseminate the campaign are with our digital department now,” she says, obviously going through her checklist for the day.
“Oh, perfect,” I say, watching people stream into the meeting. I check the clock on the rental’s dashboard. I’ve got time.
“I was talking to Audrey yesterday and she had some new ideas about billboards and how we can play off the Just Be tagline. They’re pretty great,” Preeti says.
“Oh, cool. I’ll meet with her tomorrow and see what she’s thinking,” I say through gritted teeth. Of course, I’ve heard nothing about these ideas and had no idea that Audrey was communicating with Preeti. So glad she’s part of our team.
“Our focus groups are through the roof on this campaign. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says.
“Really?”
“Yes, so now it comes down to execution, distribution, and consumption,” she says.
“The hard part is over. We have a great campaign and a shared vision. I’m excited,” I say, popping another antacid.
“Okay, I’ll channel your excitement so I can steer away from nausea, which is the arena I’m currently in,” she says. I laugh and we sign off. I send an e-mail to my assistant asking her to set up a meeting with Audrey tomorrow. You know, to hear her great ideas for billboards.
I power my phone off and slide it into my purse, and get out of the car into the humid Virginia evening. Fireflies dot the wooded area just behind the Recovery House as dusk falls. It’s beautiful. I lock my rental and follow the people toward the side door where I’m assuming the meeting is.
I walk past a crowd of smokers and find what looks like any other meeting inside. It could be PTA or Junior League, same milling people, same terrible folding chairs, same smell of burned coffee and stale cookies sitting out at the back of the meeting room. Except for the smoke wafting in from outside and hanging in the air above us. It brings me to my knees. There’s a haze from here to the podium, which, I’m guessing, sits at the front of the meeting room. My eyes begin to water as I dig through my purse for eyedrops. I put the eyedrops in and blink their lusciousness in. It helps for exactly one second. I turn around, wringing my hands and searching the room. Is Ferdie still even here? I mean, he could have left and be on another bender for all I know.
I walk over to where the seats are lined up in neat rows and sit on the aisle, my purse still on my lap. There are about fifty people in the room—either talking to someone, sitting down, or pouring themselves some terrible coffee. People are laughing. People are keeping to themselves. I notice a couple of other women who look like family members sitting on the aisles with their purses on their laps. I told Mom and Dad about this meeting. How we’re supposed to come to support Ferdie when he gets his thirty-day chip. Dad hung up on me before I could give him the address.
A line of about ten people comes in to the meeting from behind the podium. Thinking that it might be the residents of the Recovery House, I pay close attention. There he is. He’s in a white T-shirt and khakis, his hair is now all the way shaved off, and he is clean-shaven. And he’s wearing his glasses. Tears spring up immediately as I realize I haven’t seen Ferdie’s face in more than just the thirty days. He’s been hiding behind beards and facial hair and mohawks and bloodshot eyes and pulled-low hoodies for years.
He sees me.
And the smile. Oh my God. The smile. The light is ba
ck on. He’s . . . there. I smile back, trying to hold it together (and failing). I wave, not knowing what the protocol is for these kinds of meetings. He motions for me to hold on a second as he goes off into the crowd. I’m having a hard time keeping myself together; the emotions are coming from everywhere. It’s just so vast. I find a tissue in my purse and dab at my eyes, telling the woman next to me that it’s all the smoke. She looks at me and just nods and smiles, letting me lie to her.
Ferdie walks over with the biggest man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
“Anna, this is my sponsor, Ralph,” Ferdie says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Ralph’s mahogany skin is set off by a shock of white hair. He wears glasses, too—but I think when a man like Ralph wears glasses people call them spectacles. I shake hands with Ralph and my hand disappears in his completely.
“Nice to meet you, Anna,” he says.
“Sponsor?” I ask.
“Ralph’s been in the program for—”
“Almost thirty-two years,” Ralph adds.
“So, he’s going to help me. Guide me,” Ferdie says.
“I played professional ball back in my day, so Ferdie coming from his athletic background felt like a good fit. Plus, I’m the only guy bigger than he is,” Ralph says, laughing. Ferdie smiles. “I’ll give you two a minute,” Ralph says, then lumbers away toward the coffee.
I lunge into Ferdie and he sweeps me up in his arms. Tight. Tighter than he’s held me in years. He smells like soap instead of pot, and I nestle into the crook of his neck as he squeezes tighter and tighter. We break apart. I look into those big hooded brown eyes of his and they’re just . . . they’re bright again. How did I not notice how dull they’d gotten? He looks so young, so alive, so vital. He’s taken off a good fifteen to twenty pounds since we checked him in and he’s back to that titan I used to marvel at as he skated so gracefully across the ice.
“How are you? Am I allowed to ask that?”
“I’m good, and of course you’re allowed to ask that,” he says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“You look—” And I start crying. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to . . . I’ve been crying a lot lately and it’s not . . . I don’t want to pressure you or make you upset. I’m . . . I’m just really happy to see you . . . you look . . . you look happy and I just—” I pull him in for another hug and I whisper in his ear, “I just love you. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” he says. His voice is so smooth and easy.
“Okay, y’all, we’re gonna get started,” a wiry man announces from behind the podium. He has a rich Virginian accent and his direction to sit and settle is like butter through the smoke-filled room. I tuck into my row, not letting go of Ferdie’s hand just yet, and we sit. Ralph joins us, the chair creaking beneath his weight. The wiry man continues, “Hi, I’m Joe and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Joe,” the room answers. Joe winds through the rules of the meeting before asking people to come up and read from The Big Book. I look over at Ferdie.
“It’s got the Twelve Steps and the Twelve Traditions in it. It’s AA’s guidebook, I guess,” Ferdie whispers. I nod, tuning back to the young-looking girl whose voice is tight and shaking as she mutters through her reading. By the fourth person I now know to say hi back when they introduce themselves. Joe calls on Ferdie. He lets go of my hand and rubs his sweaty palms on his pants. Ralph watches him go.
“Come on over here,” Ralph says, motioning for me to scoot closer. I oblige quickly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m sorry . . . my parents . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. That’s normal here,” Ralph says.
“Hi, I’m Ferdinand and I’m an alcoholic and an addict.” Ferdie’s voice is shaking.
“Hi, Ferdinand,” we all say back. Ralph passes me some tissues as the first tear pools in my eye. I thank him. Ferdie goes on to read a passage from The Big Book. When he finishes he walks back over to us and I shift over, leaving his seat next to Ralph vacant. I smile as he settles in.
“I hate that part,” he says.
“Would anyone like to share?” Joe asks from behind the podium.
And person after person stands up and just talks. Bares their soul, really. Hi, I’m Beverly and I’m an alcoholic. Hi, I’m Terrance and I’m an addict. Hi, I’m Marcus and I’m an addict. And every time we say hi back. And every time we clap when they finish. They talk about life and pain and the want to use or drink. They talk about the people they’ve let down and the promises they’ve broken. They talk of never fitting in. Hi, I’m Marilyn and I’m an alcoholic. Hi, my name is Sun and I’m an addict. Hi, I’m Carly and I’m an addict. They talk about getting a job and finding love again. They talk about seeing their children and feeling overwhelming guilt for the mistakes they’ve made. They talk about when tragedy struck and they were too high to help. They talk about the guilt they live with day in and day out. Hi, I’m Kyle and I’m an alcoholic and an addict. Hi, my name is Sara and I’m an alcoholic. Hi, I’m Lydia and I’m an addict. They talk about what they’ve had to do to get drugs. And they talk about who they hurt to get them. They talk about what got them here and the scars and the life before. And some people are funny and some people can barely get out a sentence. And some people just sob as they retell horror stories, the shame of it finally loosening its stranglehold on them word by word. Some people have just used or drank and are back and some people have over thirty years, but goddamn life gets hard sometimes.
And it’s raw. And it’s brave. And it’s vulnerable.
And it’s intense. And it’s sad. And it’s painful.
And I realize I’m crying. Not because I’m sad. And it’s not fear or vulnerability or dread or pain. It’s hope. I look over at Ferdie and . . . do I really get to have my brother like this? Bright-eyed and present?
Ferdie stands up.
“Hi, I’m Ferdinand and I’m an alcoholic and an addict.”
“Hi, Ferdinand,” we all say.
“I get my thirty-day chip tonight.” A smattering of applause as Ferdie nods. “Why do I feel like I don’t deserve it, you know?” He stops and lets his head dip. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Ferdie looks down at me, tears streaming down his face. His voice is a whisper. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” I just sit there. I don’t want to enable. I . . . “My dad used to take me on the ice when I was little and he’d make me shoot goals at him. He’d never let one pass. He was all over that cage. And I didn’t care, because my old man never gave a shit about me except for when I was shooting on him in that goal. I didn’t care that nothing ever went in, you know? But he used to heckle me. Just the worst shit. And I still lapped it up. I’d be happily shooting away, he’d block it and call me some name, and on we’d go. Until one day, I thought . . . what if I actually tried? I mean, maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe that’ll make him . . .” Ferdie’s voice chokes. He wipes his eyes and finally puts his glasses back on. “Maybe that’ll make him love me.” A smile and a cruel laugh. “So, I shoot on him. And I score. And I score. And I score. And he’s all quiet and I think he’s just in awe, you know? That this is going to be the moment I’ve been waiting for. So, then I’m showing off and skating all these patterns and scoring. And scoring. Our time is up and the team is lining up along the rink. And I skate over and I’ve got the biggest grin on my face. And I start in with some line and he just punches me. He . . . he broke my nose. I remember how cold the ice was. On my back. And I hated that I was crying. I hated it. I mean, it’s not like it was the first time he’d hit me. Dad threw his hockey stick at me, but it missed. Which just pissed him off even more and I . . . the sound of it skittering across the ice . . . it’s just . . . there. Right there. I knew enough to stay down. I was maybe twelve at the time. He skated off the ice and never came back. Not to a game. Not to shoot around. Nothing. And we never talked about it. I finally got up off the ice and all the kids and the parents and the coache
s were just standing there staring. I picked up his stick, and do you know what I said as I passed them?” Ferdie crumples up and rests his hands on his hips. The room is so quiet. “I wonder if the concession stand is open yet, right?” And he laughs. “The poor kid I said it to was like, ‘I don’t know, man.’ Blood was everywhere. And right then, I never wanted to feel that again. Shit, I never wanted to feel anything ever again. Since I’ve been here that’s all I’ve been doing and I am so tempted every day to just drink it away. Go back to that sweet numbness where I can’t remember the sound of that hockey stick skittering across the ice or what it felt like to get hit by my dad for being proud of myself. But then I think about”—Ferdie’s hand clasps around my shoulder—“real love and how safe it can feel. I think maybe I’ve got a shot. Thanks.” Ferdie sits down and Ralph pats his leg and tells him he did a good job. Calls him son.
Ferdie looks over at me and I shake my head . . . I’m sorry I’m crying. I’m sorry I’m almost hysterical, I try to get across. And he smiles, pulling me in. I tuck under his arm.
“Okay, it’s time for birthdays,” Joe says. He counts back from twenty years. A gray-haired woman in a pressed pantsuit stands up at eighteen years. Fifteen. Ten years. Five years. Three years. And at a year a handful of people rise and Joe presents all the people who are celebrating a birthday with a cake. We clap and the cake gets swept off and cut and set out on paper plates next to the terrible burned coffee.
“Okay, nine months . . . six months . . . ninety days?” Joe asks. A few people stand and accept their chips from Joe. We clap and they can’t help but smile. This sneaking smile that just breaks my heart. They tuck the chip into a pocket or slide it onto a key ring with the others. Whatever they do with it, it’s clearly a treasure.
“Sixty days?” Joe asks. One man steps up and Joe presents him with the chip. He has much to say. How he got here. How he’s an inspiration. I hear Ralph whisper, “Well, he has it all figured out, doesn’t he?” to Ferdie. And Ferdie smiles.
“Thirty days?” The people who appeared in a line from behind the podium all stand and approach Joe in the front of the room. Joe presents them each with a little chip. It looks almost like a poker chip from where I’m sitting. The men and women thank him and they smile. Hope. Fear. Stooped shoulders on some and others walk tall. Ferdie takes his chip and he just . . . holds it, lovingly curling his fingers around it as he walks back to us.