We All Fall Down Page 3

  Melonie laughed.

  She laughed right in my face.

  “The twelve steps are the only chance you have,” she told me, her words coming out eerily calm and even suddenly. “There’s nothing else to say and nowhere else to look. You can either accept that and live, or reject it and die. It’s up to you. But for now you are absolutely forbidden to do any writing on your book or any writing at all. And you’re not allowed to talk about your book to anyone—not me, not the other clients, not people you talk to on the phone—no one. And if I get word back that you have been talking about it or that you’ve been doing any kind of writing, we will immediately have a meeting with Linda, the director, and we may be forced to transfer you to a higher-care facility with more structure and more intense supervision. Do you understand me?”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  I mean, what the hell was I supposed to say to that? She had me. She’d ground me down to nothing.

  That was the last meeting we had together. So you can imagine how goddamn excited I am to be meeting with her today. I mean, I’m sure that someone’s snitched on me about something and that’s why she’s dragged my ass out of bed so damn early.

  ’Cause, see, the thing is, besides Melonie, there are, like, fifty of these people called counselor’s assistants—you know, CAs—who are constantly swarming the grounds like an infestation of head lice.

  As far as I can tell, their only real job is to spy on us—or me, in particular—and report back to our counselors whatever it is we’ve been doing wrong.

  And, fuck, man, somehow they’re able to catch everything.

  I mean, at least with me.

  Other people can be walking around holding hands and flirting like crazy, but if I so much as even look at a girl, I’m telling you, Melonie’ll get me—every time.

  And she knows I can’t do shit about it.

  Like I said, I’ve got no money—no one to bail me out. If they kick me outta here, I’m on the streets—the fucking streets of Phoenix, Arizona. If it was San Francisco or LA, at least I’d have a chance. But here? Man, I don’t even know where the nearest store is.

  Not to mention that the longer she keeps me here, the more money my parents have to pump into this bullshit place.

  It’s brilliant, really.

  I mean, at this point my parents are so desperate they’ll do just about anything Melonie tells them. She’s replaced a God I’m pretty sure neither of them actually ever had in their lives in the first place.

  And if I try to argue, shit, they all just assume I’m resisting ’cause I secretly wanna go get high. If I try to call this place out on its bullshit, the staff just dismisses me, telling me it’s my “addict” talking. As if, because I’m a junkie, I’ve somehow lost all ability to reason—to analyze and critique situations. Maybe when I was high I didn’t know the difference between reality and psychosis, but I’m sober now, and I’m telling you, when it comes to this place, the emperor has no clothes—no clothes at all.

  But I’m as good a bullshitter as anyone.

  I can’t wait to see Melonie’s chunky, placid, dopey-looking face when I tell her me and my girl are over. That I’m ready, like Jonathan said, to commit fully to the hard work that lies ahead of me here.

  Ch.4

  So I wake up, right? Even before the bedside alarm clock goes off—just lying there awhile—the thick comforter pulled right up to my neck—staring at the goddamn Lincoln Log ceiling.

  Gray light, all dull and muted, floods the room.

  I turn onto my side—shut my eyes—open them—just trying to get my head to shut the hell up.

  There’s this feeling of… I don’t know.

  Hopelessness, I guess.

  Images of suicide are projected against the textured blur of my unfocused eyes.

  Blood turns to poison—gasoline—lit fires.

  A gun barrel is there, pressed up against my temple—cold, heavy, tangible.

  My finger squeezes the trigger tight—my arm jerks back.

  A noise so loud my eardrums burst open.

  A serrated kitchen knife plunges in behind my ear, slicing through the vital arteries there.

  There is a chain wrapped serpentine ’round my throat—a dog’s choke chain and leash—secured to a heavy wooden beam beneath the ceiling.

  I kick the chair out from underneath me—feel the metal cutting in, the heaviness of my body. My lungs spasm, legs twitching, stomach convulsing. Sexual arousal. Fluids draining out.

  But, honestly, if I was gonna do it, I mean, really fucking do it, I’d take the easy way—the only way: a shot of black tar so thick my hand would have to struggle against the plunger.

  No pain.

  Just bliss.

  And one final nod.

  I’ve told Melonie about it.

  I mean, it kinda freaks me out—these fantasies of death.

  She tells me there’s actually a term for it, so I’m obviously not that unique or anything.

  Suicidal ideation.

  I’m pretty sure that’s it.

  She also tells me that killing myself would be a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

  Thing is, my problems really don’t seem all that temporary.

  I mean, why do you think I started getting high in the first place?

  I was twelve years old.

  My friend’s brother got us some weed—a dime bag, that’s all.

  We hiked down to a creek near his parents’ house—trees grown over thick—mud and veins of ivy pulling at our shoes like thousands of clutching fingers.

  The smell.

  Damp, rot, sweet.

  We huddled together, terrified of cops and parents and parents’ friends.

  The bowl was passed to me.

  I took a hit, holding the smoke in my lungs for as long as I could—feeling the drug reach out into the cavities of my brain—spinning webs of pixie dust and cotton candy.

  I felt open like a child—full of wonder—innocent, like I could never remember being.

  I had permission to do anything—act any way I wanted.

  I was high.

  That was my purpose.

  But most of all, more than anything else, smoking herb gave me freedom.

  I didn’t care anymore.

  I didn’t need to hold my family together.

  I didn’t need to rescue my mom from her abusive husband.

  I didn’t need to worry that my dad loved his new wife and children more than me.

  And nothing, I mean, no one could touch me.

  It was instant relief.

  At only twenty bucks a gram.

  But, unfortunately, I mean, what no one told me, was that my tolerance would build. By the end of high school, I was smoking all day, from the moment I got up to the moment I passed out—but it wasn’t really working for me anymore.

  I was barely getting high at all.

  The relief had been taken away.

  And I was stuck with the pain of living as myself again.

  I needed something—something to take it all away.

  And then I found hard drugs.

  After that, man, pot seemed like baby aspirin.

  And I went down.

  I mean, down, down, down.

  Sleeping in the devil’s bed.

  As Mr. Waits would say.

  But, you know, after all these years, even hard drugs aren’t really doing it for me anymore.

  And maybe that’s the scariest thing of all.

  ’Cause if I can’t find something else—some way to live with myself—then, yeah, suicide’s gonna be all I’ve got left.

  And, honestly, it doesn’t seem all that bad.

  Or that far off.

  But I figure I can keep holding on for at least one more day.

  I mean, that’s what they say, right?

  One day at a goddamn time.

  Hell, one fucking second at a time.

  It’s Tuesday morning.

  Six fifty-fiv
e and I-don’t-know-how-many seconds.

  All I’ve gotta do is get out of bed.

  So I do.

  I mean, I sit up, the sheets and blankets falling down around my waist.

  My roommate David, who sleeps directly across from me, must’ve gone to the gym or something, ’cause he’s not in his bed. Fucker must’ve been the one who turned off the heat, ’cause I definitely switched it on in the middle of the night, and now it’s freezing.

  I mean, goddamn.

  I can barely get my clothes on, I’m shivering so bad.

  Plus, like I said, basically the only pants I have are a bunch of my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend’s tiny fucking bell-bottoms.

  Struggling to get into them is a bitch, but since I’ve dropped, like, fifteen pounds in the last six months, it’s not as bad as it could be.

  I swear my body’s been practically eating away at itself—little by little—day by day.

  Back when I was sober, man, I’d basically killed myself with exercise.

  I mean, every day.

  Training for races and triathlons—obsessively biking, swimming, and running.

  I was strong, really strong.

  To look at me now, I mean, you’d never even know it.

  I can’t walk up the hill to the smoke pit without feeling like I’m gonna puke.

  I’m pale, white, and sickly.

  My arms are scarred to shit.

  My skin’s all broken out.

  My bones are jagged—protruding sharply down my spine and hips and shoulders.

  Anyway, at least this way I can fit into these tight fucking jeans.

  So that’s something.

  But besides these bell-bottoms, pretty much all the clothes I have with me are Zelda’s—or her famous ex-husband’s—or were given to me by her.

  The long-sleeve T-shirt I wear.

  The fringed tapestry jacket that looks like a converted throw rug, or something Neil Young might’ve worn on an old album cover.

  The Rod Laver Adidas she bought me ’cause she hated my old shoes.

  The knit hat she gave me—made by her cousin.

  The thick, boxy silver ring from her collection—a symbol of our engagement—worn on my left ring finger, of course.

  I put a burned CD into my Discman and secure the headphones.

  It’s one of hers. The title is spelled out almost illegibly in her scratchy handwriting, the black Sharpie smudged in places. If I Could Only Remember My Name. David Crosby.

  I press Play—walk out into the still, frozen morning.

  My breath catches.

  I pull the thin jacket tighter around my broken frame.

  Coffee and a cigarette—some toast and jam, maybe.

  I’ll meet with Melonie—tell her it’s over, that I’m ready to move on.

  Stupid cow.

  She’ll be so pleased with herself, taking full credit for my sudden transformation—a result of her profound insight—her expert counseling skills—her intricate knowledge of the human psyche—her brilliance—whatever.

  I mean, fuck it.

  I don’t mind giving her that satisfaction.

  ’Cause I do need to move on.

  It’s the only choice I’ve got.

  The song plays loud in my ears.

  It’s called “Music Is Love.”

  I walk over to the main lodge.

  The fire burns hot—light flickering—shadows playing violently across the chairs and tables.

  I keep my head down—pour the weak Folgers coffee into a small porcelain cup—add vanilla creamer—stir.

  I grab a pack of cinnamon bread, putting a couple of slices in the pop-up toaster, and then start heading out the side door to go smoke.

  Jonathan actually bought me a carton of cigarettes when he went out on pass—a carton of my brand—so that was super amazing of him.

  I push open the heavy wooden door.

  But then a voice calls out, “Hey.”

  I turn.

  They say self-hatred is a form of narcissism—and obviously Melonie would call me a narcissist—so of course I assume the “hey” is directed at me.

  Surprisingly, this time it actually is.

  That new girl—Sue Ellen, right?—is sitting up close to the fire, reading the New York Times Arts and Leisure section—obviously.

  She’s wearing these kinda deco cat-eye glasses and a striped wool hat.

  Her hair is dark and tangled-looking. Her neck cranes back, long and elegant.

  I point to myself stupidly.

  “Me?”

  She laughs.

  “Yeah, you. Where’re you from? You look familiar to me.”

  I rub some of the sleep out of the corner of my eye.

  “I don’t know, uh, LA. I grew up in San Francisco. What about you?”

  She cocks her head.

  “Charleston, South Carolina, but I’ve been to San Francisco. What’s your name?”

  I tell her, but she still can’t seem to place me.

  “Huh, weird, I swear you look familiar.”

  “Well,” I say, “my mom’s from the South. But, uh, I’ve never been down there. I always figured I’d get lynched or something.”

  She sits up real suddenly.

  “You know, not everyone in the South is a conservative bigot. And it seems pretty ironic that most Northern liberals I know are just as closed-minded about the South as they always claim we are toward the rest of the world.”

  I scratch at the back of my head, kinda just studying her for a minute, watching her heavy eyelids fluttering anxiously, thinking she really is quite beautiful. Her features are delicate—gaunt cheekbones and thick, flushed lips. She hides behind her hair like I do. Her skin is pale, pale white. Her long, slender hands fidget constantly—fingernails bitten down, scabbed and bloody.

  My eyes dart up at the bland yellow paint on the walls.

  “Okay, okay,” I tell her. “Point taken. Anyway, it’s too early for this shit. I gotta go smoke.”

  She jumps up from her seat suddenly, grabbing up her newspaper and things.

  “I’ll come with you. And by the way, you got cool style. I’ve been wanting to tell you that.”

  I push the door open, holding it while she walks past—inhaling the smell of her.

  A feeling of sexuality comes over my body.

  My eyes close and open.

  I laugh out loud suddenly.

  I mean, it’s all so ridiculous—everything spinning around and around and around again.

  She walks with her body pressed close to mine.

  She asks me, “What are you laughing at?”

  And I say, “Nothing.”

  Ch.5

  When Melonie sees me, she sure as hell ain’t smiling.

  She stares very deliberately into my eyes, but I look away, saying something stupid like, “Man, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  She makes a sort of grunting noise, struggling to lower her massive body onto the cheap swivel office chair.

  To say she’s morbidly obese is kind of an overstatement, I guess, but she’s definitely fat and getting fatter all the time. Plus, she wears these ridiculously tight clothes—baby doll T-shirts—low-waisted pants that must cut off her circulation completely—high-heeled sandals, her foot fat pinched and swelling so the veins bulge out underneath.

  But it’s not like I’m judging her. I mean, I just get pissed off ’cause she’s always harassing me about food and my body size. Last time we met, she accused me of trying to maintain my skinniness ’cause I’m afraid of having a grown-up body and becoming an adult. She even has me showing my plate of food to the CAs at lunch and dinner so they can make sure I’ve finished everything.

  It’s bullshit.

  I sit down and cross my legs, then uncross them again.

  I cross my right arm over so I’m grabbing my left shoulder.

  I can feel Melonie staring at me, but I keep avoiding her eyes anyway.

  “Look,” I try again, “I’m real
ly sorry. That new girl was talking to me up at the smoke pit, and I guess I felt too bad just cutting out on her. I mean, she was starting to go into her story a little, and I didn’t wanna make her think I didn’t care or anything.”

  Glancing up, I see that Melonie is definitely not smiling.

  She shakes her head slowly back and forth, the pores on her cheeks catching the light, revealing a landscape of soft, downy hairs.

  I can’t help wondering if she ever shaves them.

  “Nic,” she says, startling me slightly, “it sounds to me like, once again, you’re letting your codependency get in the way of your treatment. Instead of stating your needs, you were content to sacrifice your own mental health—all because you didn’t want to offend someone you only met today. A girl someone, no less. Are you noticing a pattern yet?”

  I nod my head slowly, basically just ’cause it seems appropriate.

  “It sounds to me,” she goes on, “that this is exactly what you’ve been doing your whole life. Just look at your relationship with your biological mother—your relationship with Zelda. How many times are you going to forfeit your own needs before you have nothing else to give? And that includes your life, Nic, let’s not kid ourselves. Because obviously you don’t value yourself enough to arrive on time for an appointment with me that very well could be the very thing that finally saves you.”

  If I could roll my eyes, I would.

  She concludes by telling me that I’d never be late for scoring drugs like I would for therapy.

  My neck’s getting sore from nodding so goddamn much.

  “Yeah,” I stutter out. “That’s crazy. I never thought about it like that before. It’s so weird that you can be acting out on all these old behaviors without even realizing you’re doing it. I mean, you just keep repeating the same destructive pattern over and over.”

  She holds her hand out, palm facing forward—gesturing “stop,” I figure—so I do.

  “What are you trying to say, Nic, that I keep repeating these destructive patterns?”

  I’m not sure what she’s getting at, and my head kinda cocks to one side like a dog’s would.

  “Nic, you said, ‘You keep repeating them.’ But you’re not talking about me, are you? You’re talking about yourself. That’s why we encourage clients to use ‘I’ statements here. Each one of us needs to own what we’re saying about ourselves, understand?”