 
In the Rooms and on the Couch

Nick J., sober seven years, questions his recovery program when a terrifying phone call from the ER forces him to deal with his wife's tragic suicide attempt, an unscrupulous doctor and the demons from his past. When he arrives at the hospital, Nick learns that Officer Martin has found Debbie passed out behind the wheel of her car in the middle of US 1.

Nick is jolted awake as he learns that Debbie has overdosed on a combination of booze and pills. He rushes to the emergency room obsessively reviewing in his mind the possible traumatizing events that could be the cause of this shocking desperate act. He learns that physically, Debbie's chances for recovery are good, but Nick realizes that his problems are just beginning. If Nick and his marriage are to survive, he must first learn to overcome his own shortcomings.

This very personal story takes the reader into the workings of one man's mind as he tries to deal with crisis and the intense, often pathological, yet sometimes humorous characters in his recovery group while he struggles to maintain his sobriety.
IN THE ROOMS  
AND  
ON THE COUCH

NICK J.
Copyright 2016 Nick J.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, alive or deceased, events or locales is completely coincidental.

Published by: NickJPub  
Contact: Njimbanis@nc.rr.com

Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar  
www.gopublished.com
In Loving Memory  
of  
SAMIE and STONEY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

If not for the support of my twelve step fellowship, I do not know where I would be today. And most certainly, I would never have been able to write this book. Although the characters in this book are made up, they represent a cross section of the good people who have helped me along the road of recovery. I owe a debt of thanks to each and every one of you.
TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One: I Could Write a Book

Session One: Nick 'Jam Bananas'

Session Two: Renee Grissom, The Bitch

Session Three: Spoiled Milk and Buddha

Session Four: Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Session Five: Live Nude Girls

Session Six: Dr. Liu, I Presume

Session Seven: Hello, Nick

Session Eight: Going, Going, Gone

Session Nine: We Keep Our Own Time

Session Ten: Fuck You Where You Breathe

Session Eleven: Just Be Yourself

Session Twelve: How Many Nuts Can You Fit In One Bowl?

Session Thirteen: Braless Breasts, Green Poop And Black Friends

Session Fourteen: Acupuncture, Baltimore and a Plan

Session Fifteen: Good Doctor, Bad Drug

Session Sixteen: Ballistic, The Arrogant Little Bastard and NAMI

Chapter Two: Book Written. Check.
CHAPTER ONE

I COULD WRITE A BOOK

My wife was gone.

Debbie had left the building.

It was dark when I got out of bed to get a drink of cold water. I did not notice the empty spot of only rumpled sheets beside me. Carefully, avoiding my sleeping dogs, I navigated my way to the kitchen. There was some illumination there. I was standing in front of the refrigerator, my arm extended, when the phone rang. It was barely audible, a quiet ring, the way we liked it. I looked at the bright red numbers above the stovetop.

1:12

The time was one twelve in the A.M.

How many people know the exact time their life changes forever?

* * *

No!

Cut!

No. No. No. This is not the way I want to begin.

This is not how I would have chosen to start my book, but I have completed an on-line writing course. The instructor clearly stated that publishers do not like prologues. A prologue is a sign of weak story telling. Start with a hook, get the reader's attention, just jump right in, was the gist of it. However, this is my story.

I watch a lot of television. On a show recently, I heard an actor say that as an artist you are at your best when you don't give a damn. While the word 'artist', hardly applies to me, I understood what the actor was saying.

So much for the seventy-five dollars I spent for the on-line writing course.

I have decided to call this Chapter One; I am putting it here, at the beginning. I am not trying to be smart alecky about this, but you see I have already written about forty pages. Something big happened and I just started to write about it. After a while, I thought that I may have something here, not necessarily, 'The Great American Novel', not even a great novel, but I may have my novel.

So I thought it a good idea to put some sort of backstory here at the very beginning, some authors, a word that I use very loosely in regard to myself, might call this an introduction or worse a prologue, the kind that publishers hate. However, I am simply calling this chapter one. To be honest, I have gotten so lazy in my old age that if I saw something called a prologue or an introduction, I would skip over it to get to the story, another good reason not to use such a gimmick.

I will attempt at this point to lay a quick background and to peak your interest, so that you may decide, whether or not, to continue reading. But the truth is that if you continue reading or stop, it does not matter to me. It is my novel. It is therapeutic, cathartic and enjoyable for me, just to be writing it.

I can promise you one thing though. I will keep chapter one short, so you can decide quickly if you want to read the entire story.

The primary characters in the story are my wife, Debbie, and me, Nick. Our parents were neighbors in Yonkers, New York, where we were both born a little over fifty years ago. My parents moved to central Florida when I was just three years old. It is where I grew up. They stayed in touch with Debbie's parents who had remained in New York. So when I was in my twenties I made contact with Debbie and she flew down for vacation. Not long after that, we married and lived in Florida, at first. Then we moved back to New York, back home to Florida again and finally retired to North Carolina. We have been married about thirty years.

Oh, and dogs, we have always had at least one dog.

Dogs rule.

Sorry to bore you with all of the confusing details about moving from state to state, but I will not be explaining it that much in detail anymore. I am just going to tell the story the way I remember it. If it seems like I jump around, I probably do. No, most assuredly, I do. If details are important to you, just remember New York, then Florida, then New York, Florida again and finally, North Carolina. However, this is not a story about geography. It is a story about people.

I majored in Journalism in college. When I switched from pre-med to Journalism, it was for no other reason than I liked to write.

"What do you plan to do with a degree in Journalism?" my father had asked, not bothering to mask the disdain in his voice.

"Work for a newspaper, I guess."

I had put about as much thought into changing majors as I had put into which socks I wore that morning. At least in thirty years, people were still using socks. I could not say the same for newspapers.

So anyway, I never did work for a newspaper. Well, that is not entirely true. For about a year when I lived in Florida, I was an adult newspaper carrier. In other words, I drove my car around in the middle of the night tossing rolled up papers onto people's lawns. My degree in Journalism had finally paid off.

Who's laughing now, Daddy?

I did win a short story contest once. A magazine published a picture in its monthly edition. Based on the picture, readers were invited to make up a 250-word story, just about one page. That certainly suited my attention span. One day I opened a letter to find a check for twenty-five dollars and notification of my one pager's upcoming publication. In a way, it was too much, too soon. It was a major achievement, cause for much celebration. Success went to my head. (I am being ironic and self-deprecating here, two of my most endearing qualities.)

I rested on my laurels for the next several years, rarely writing anything, except for the occasional email, hence the need for the on-line refresher course. It has been a while. But technically, I am a published author.

So anyway, when this thing happened in my life, not too long ago, I started to write about it. Actually, I suppose it really all happened to my wife and I would like this story to be all about her. However, one thing I remember from way back in a writing class in college, the professor said to write what you know. Makes sense to me. What I know is what happened to me when Debbie did what she did. What I know is how my life changed, how I was changed and how the people around me influenced my decisions when all of this happened.

So, when I went to see a shrink and I began telling her this story, I realized it was about me. What my wife did that night is where I begin, so I started out thinking the story was about her. But make no mistake; this story is all about me.

Short enough?
SESSION ONE

NICK 'JAM BANANAS'

"Would you like to try the couch, Nick?" Dr. Barnett asked.

"Isn't that just a cliché? You know, someone laying on the couch telling their shrink all of their deep dark secrets."

"Not really," Dr. Barnett said, "most people find it comforting and easier to talk about whatever is on their mind."

I had decided that I needed to talk to someone. Most of the people in my twelve-step group had heard my story too many times, in bits and pieces. It had helped me to share with them on a daily basis, but I felt I needed to get it all out. Hence, the appointment with Dr. Barnett, the psychiatrist we had seen briefly, when I had taken early retirement and we had moved to North Carolina.

"How long has it been?" she asked greeting me with a firm handshake after closing the door to her office.

"At least five years," I said.

Dr. Barnett was a tall woman, about my height, in her late fifties I would venture, a year or two older than I am. Her hair was blonde, very blonde, and shorter than I remembered. There was a slight bulge around her middle. That was new. She wore a tight fitting bright red knee length dress. She had always dressed colorfully for a psychiatrist. At least that is what I thought, but then again, I really do not know what other psychiatrists wear to work.

There were two oversized brown cushioned chairs separated by a small table. Across from the chairs was a matching leather couch where I sat down. Her desk and bookshelves were on the other side of the room.

"How is Deborah?" she asked as she sat down in one of the chairs.

Before, Debbie had been the patient and I had always just tagged along for support. There had been a therapist in Florida and when we had moved, Dr. Barnett had been something of a transitional shrink until Debbie found another guy, Dr. David, but I will get to him later.

"That is why I am here. Shoes?" I asked looking at my feet.

"Whatever makes you comfortable, Nick."

I untied my athletic shoes and kicked them off. Laying back, I put my head against a small throw pillow on the armrest and stretched out. My feet fit comfortably against the armrest on the other end of the couch. It was a good fit. Perhaps this could work.

"Alright," I said, "just don't pull out the Rorschach inkblots, Doc. A psychiatrist at one of my alcohol rehabs showed them to me once a long time ago. All that I saw were women's sex organs, every single inkblot, a woman's reproductive system. Sex, sex, sex."

I don't know why I said that. Well, I do, I was uncomfortable, trying to be funny.

"Did any of the inkblots remind you of your mother?" Dr. Barnett fired back.

"No, of course not," I said defensively.

"We should be fine then," she said.

"I'm sorry, Doc. I'm nervous. I've never been here for myself."

I was becoming vulnerable and less defensive. The couch was working, already.

"I know. Just relax, Nick, tell me what brings you here today."

I closed my eyes and started to talk.

* * *

It was an early Monday morning, the one right after Mother's day, as I stood in front of the fridge, dressed in only my boxers and a t-shirt.

I opened the refrigerator door, aglow in its light; I reached in and took one of the liter-sized bottles of cold water from the top shelf. It was a heavier than normal plastic bottle designed for my Soda Stream, a contraption that I had bought at Walmart. I used it to carbonate water.

Turns out that having consumed huge amounts of diet soda over the years, it was actually the burn of the bubbles that I liked, not the taste of the cola flavored saccharin. For some reason, my mouth and throat became hot and dry at night. I did not know if everyone experienced that as they aged, or if it was the years of booze and coffee, cigarettes and other recreational herbs. Even though I had long since abstained from all but the coffee, the scarring and burning dry feeling in my throat every night was an unpleasant reminder of days gone by. Maybe I just had sleep apnea and breathed through my mouth as I slept.

Regardless of the cause of the dry mouth, I could not think of anything more refreshing than the ice-cold bubbly water slowly sliding down my throat.

As I tilted the bottle back enjoying the first rush of cold effervescence, I heard the barely audible ring of our kitchen phone. We kept the ringer volume low. With caller id, an answering machine and voicemail, it hardly seemed necessary to be assaulted by a loud angry ring whenever someone decided to intrude on our privacy. We had a phone in the house for our convenience, after all.

The ring sounded a second time. I looked over at the digital numbers above the stovetop. They read, 1:12.

I remember squinting and staring at the phone mounted on the wall, visible in the light from the open refrigerator door, as it rang softly. We get few calls at home, as it is, never in the middle of the night. Could this be some dedicated, yet misguided, phone solicitor working overtime?

I suppose I was mostly curious when I picked up the receiver, maybe one of Debbie's relatives had died and someone was calling to tell us that we had hit the inheritance jackpot. It was a big part of my retirement's long-term financial plan after all.

'Being crazy pays off sometimes,' I wishfully thought.

Alcoholism runs rampant like a genetic time bomb on my side of the family and both alcoholism and mental illness flourish on Debbie's side of the family tree. We never had children, our solution to stopping the spread of the diseases, was simply not to grow the family tree. However, that was only on our side. Debbie had a sister, Rebecca, who had two children. We could not do anything about that.

While it was somewhat comforting to know that such a losing quinela would not be passed along to our offspring, it was not a conscience decision not to procreate. While I would like to take credit for such a noble idea, the truth is that we simply just never thought about or even discussed having any children, probably just the byproduct of immaturity and self- centeredness that comes with the territory.

I have heard it said in the twelve-step fellowship, that I have been attending for almost eight years, that there are no coincidences. I, however, believe most of the time, that stuff just happens. It is how I handle that stuff that ultimately determines my destiny and defines me.

* * *

One such defining day of particular importance was the day of grandmother's funeral when I was about twelve years old. The family was all present, my aunt and uncle from my mother's side, three older cousins that I barely knew and of course my mother and father. There were a lot of other people there too. Older people, whom I had never seen before, were filling most of the pews. I asked my father who they were. He looked at me and just shrugged. Later I nicknamed my father, 'The Great Communicator'.

I realize now that these older people, filling the church, had nothing better to do than to peruse the daily obituaries in the newspaper and attend the local viewings. Paying their respects? Maybe. Or just thankful that it was not yet their time, but most likely I suspected, taking it all in and finding comfort in the notion that hopefully soon they would be next. Grandmother had painted an almost unbearable picture of the isolation and loneliness of old age.

Of course, they may simply have come to wish the lucky guest of honor bon voyage from the aches and pains, the mind numbing boredom and the almost unpalatable mush that passed for food in the world of elder care. Whatever the reason, it gave them something to do. And as it turned out, they had chosen a very good day to attend a viewing.

My young mind was imprinted that day with one of those memories that shapes future development and destiny. I do not think it was any part of a divine plan, although that would have been an easy leap, since all of this happened in a church. But it was just my mother being, well, my mother. I had walked in on her that morning, before we left the house, while she was pouring the vodka into her coffee.

"It's my medicine, Nicky," she had said, "My mother is dead."

She looked at the floor and shook her head slowly and solemnly back and forth, just before holding her jumbo coffee cup in the air in a mock toast and then taking a huge swig of her morning brew. The vodka must have cooled the coffee down or else she would not have been able to take such a mighty gulp.

"God help me," she had said right before refilling the cup to the rim from the bottle of vodka.

It was funny how mother's medicine always made her talk to god and call me Nicky.

Dressed in black, of course, mother now stood alone in the front of the church, hovering over grandmother who lay peacefully in her casket.

"Why?" I heard her ask softly.

I sat in the first pew with my father, aunt and uncle and the three cousins. I was pretty sure we were the only ones who had heard mother.

Again, she quietly asked the question, "why?"

Because she was ninety-three? I thought to myself, but I said nothing, of course. I closed my eyes and embraced the tearful moment as my mother quietly said her final good-bye.

"Why?" she said again, but this time she had turned up the volume.

"It's too soon," she said very loudly, almost screaming.

Really, too soon? I thought, once again, ninety-three.

By this time mother had everyone's attention. I could hear people shuffling in their seats behind me, adjusting positions to see better, leaning and turning heads to hear better or maybe just turning up their hearing aids. They knew, as did I, that something was about to happen.

Mother was sobbing loudly now. Her guttural sounds were becoming almost animalistic and somewhat frightening. Fully aware that this had come a long way from the intimate and touching scene that had begun unfolding just seconds ago, I somewhat sheepishly turned, looking over my shoulder. The audience members were on the edges of their seats, all eyes focused on my mother.

I felt my face flush with heat as I slowly turned red with embarrassment, but turning back, facing the front, I was shocked at the scene unfolding before me. Embarrassment did not begin to describe what I felt.

Shock and awe. Shock and awe.

Mother, still crying, was leaning over the casket, bent down, her lips made salty by her tears were firmly planted on the cold dead lips of my grandmother whose head was tilted up, resting on a pillow, just visible above the edge of the shiny rectangular box that was her new eternal home.

Once finished with the kiss, almost lasting long enough to border on gay incestuous necrophilia, she stood up, reaching straight away into the casket with both hands. Pulling grandmother's limp left arm up from its posed position, peacefully folded across her chest, she held it upright, the left hand directly in front of her face. Examining it carefully, every horrifying movement of this childhood trauma now occurring as if in slow motion, playing out in front of everyone, like a bad movie going frame by frame, mother lowered the arm by her side. With one hand, she held the now useless appendage, with the other she began tugging at the lifeless hand. Pulling and tugging, yanking the arm this way and that, her face contorted with effort and frustration until finally, mercifully she was done.

"You won't need this anymore," she bellowed loudly holding up her prize, grandmother's engagement ring, for all to see. Grandmother's arm had been unceremoniously released, flopping down, bent at the elbow, hanging outside of the casket, swinging slowly, pendulum like, back and forth as if waving a final, sad good bye to all those who had just witnessed this last undignified interaction between mother and daughter.

I could not turn around. Being twelve, my embarrassment had returned and I felt that all eyes were upon me. I could not even look at my aunt and uncle or my cousins on either side of me. Somehow, I felt responsible. Somehow, I felt that my mother's behavior was my fault. I wanted to hide, to be anywhere but here. There was nowhere to go.

My father, the Great Communicator, seated on the end of the pew, got up, pausing to shake his shoulders a bit, allowing his rumpled old suit to unwrinkle itself and fall more into place about his small body. I was only twelve, but I was already as tall as he was. Mercifully, he did not reach around and adjust his pants, pulling the seat of his trousers out of his butt crack as I had seen him do many times before.

He quickly walked to the casket where my mother stood, the tears flowing freely, ring still held high for all to see. My father put his arm around her shoulders and took her by the hand, her free hand, and led her away, off to the side and disappearing through a doorway. As it closed behind them, there was silence. No one said or did anything, not even the minister who had just moments before, eloquently eulogized my grandmother. Even he had been rendered temporarily speechless. Finally, I watched as he signaled the organist who began playing a solemn hymn. The minister approached the casket, respectfully placed the arm back across the chest and turned to the congregation.

"That concludes our service," he said in his most dignified voice.

He walked straightaway down the center aisle, nodding toward the family pew as he passed by. I waited, along with my extended family, until the shuffling and noise behind us had stopped. Then, and only then, did we leave our seats, silently, without a word, we all just got up and single file, exited the church. A part of me wanted to join my grandmother, wherever she was going. After my mother's performance, I believed that today grandmother had been the lucky one.

* * *

This had been the first, but it would not be the last time, that the significant woman in my life would do something that would cause me great pain, confusion and an overwhelming sense of isolation.

I picked up the phone.

It had been an uneventful Mother's day, other than Debbie opening the card from the dogs, that is. I did not know if our traditional ceremony of offering each other a mother's day and father's day card from the animals was cute anymore or sad. But Debbie smiled and seemed to enjoy it, so that is what we would do each year.

"Hello?" I said into the mouthpiece.

"Is this Nick 'Jam Bananas'?" a male voice asked mutilating the pronunciation of my name.

"This is Nick Jimbanis," I said slowly, correctly pronouncing my last name.

It was not the first time that someone had garbled the pronunciation. It was not a common name, I realized that, but still I found it irritating. Jimbanis was an old Greek name from my grandfather and grandmother, not the one that my mother had kissed in the casket, but my father's parents. They were, however, dead as well. They had come from Greece over one hundred years ago. And while I did not speak a word of Greek, I did take some pride in my heritage. Besides, that last name and my unused genetic material were the only two remaining things Greek about me. And I would be taking them both to my grave.

"Well, anyway, this is Officer Martin at the emergency room of First Regional. Is your wife's name Deborah?" he asked mercifully not even trying to pronounce the last name this time.

"It is," I said as I made my way to the bedroom and stood at the door and flipped on the light switch. Two annoyed dogs squinted at me from the end of the otherwise empty bed, nothing but rumpled white sheets on the side where Debbie usually slept.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Your wife has been in an accident. I'll need you to come to the emergency room."

"What happened? How is she?"

"It seems she had been drinking and took some pills, a lot of pills. She drove her car into some divider barriers on US 1. The doctors are taking care of her now," he answered in a very detached and formal voice, matter of fact, but coming across a little too nonchalant. I imagined that he had probably watched too many 'Law and Order' repeats.

"I don't know what to do with the car," he said.

The car? I thought. Who cares about the car?

"It's in the parking lot of the grocery store, near where she ran into the divider."

"Can't we just leave it there for now?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"I have the keys," he said.

Officer Martin seemed confused, not sure what to say or do next. I was pretty sure that he was young, obviously inexperienced. But I knew enough to proceed with caution. I knew not to poke at the police. You would think that everyone would know that, like looking both ways before you cross the street. It should be taught to every schoolchild before they venture out into the world.

'Yes, sir. No, sir,' is how you talk to a policeman whenever he asks you a question. Do not volunteer any information and always act polite and respectful.

I had missed that day in grade school when they were teaching Law Enforcement 101. Maybe it was an advanced course or maybe an elective.

Anyway, I missed it. However, I did learn the lesson the old-fashioned way, through experience in the school of hard knocks.

* * *

Years ago, before my twelve-step fellowship, I had spent an afternoon in a jail cell. I had been arrested for drunk driving. They had actually picked me up in a parking garage near where my wife worked.

I had been at my cushy government job, minding my own business, when a visiting higher-up from D.C. needed to get to one of our other locations on the other side of town. It was early in the afternoon and I was still pretty functional. My routine was to get up in the morning, have a couple of eye openers and then coffee, take my shower and drive to work. I would drink steadily, in a controlled fashion, throughout the day from a few well-concealed bottles and flasks stashed around my office and the rest of the building. When I offered our visitor a ride to our other location, I unwittingly upset my very delicately balanced daily drinking ritual. We arrived at our cross-town office without incident and I dropped him off in front of the building and set out to find a parking space.

"I'll be back," I said in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, not caring whether or not he got 'The Terminator' reference.

When the officers found me, I was told later, I was lying on the pavement on the floor of a nearby parking garage. My car was beside me, the keys in my pocket. I vaguely recall thinking that I would be more comfortable if I could just stretch out and crack the vertebrae in my back. That is the only reason that I could think of for being laying on the pavement, passed out cold. A Good

Samaritan passerby had seen me sprawled out and called Johnny Law to make sure that I was all right.

Apparently, even though the car keys were in my pocket and I was not driving, some ridiculous statute said I was 'in full control of the vehicle' and therefore guilty of driving while intoxicated. The fact that I blew a .322 on the breathalyzer tended to confirm the intoxication.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a small-town jail cell. I was in and out, in what we drunks refer to as a brown out. I do remember striking up a conversation with the arresting officers. Good guys, all things considered.

"Will there be a large black man, named Bubba, in my cell? I'd better not drop the soap," I joked.

The officers smiled good-naturedly.

"Is my blood alcohol level a record?" It was for this year they told me, but then again it was only February. Nonetheless, I smiled and puffed up my chest.

"Hey Barney, leave the keys where I can reach them," I said as they closed the cell door on me and walked away.

Looking back, the 'Andy of Mayberry' reference may have crossed the line.

A few months later when I finally stood trial, I heard my drunken rants read into the record along with my buddies', the cops', comments.

"The defendant seemed to exhibit pride in his blood alcohol level," the officer's statement read.

Some buddies.

I managed to avoid jail time since it was my first offense, but I did receive the maximum fine and maximum community service as well as lose my driver's license for a year. All thanks, in large part, to my behavior at the jail.

It is best not to poke at the police.

* * *

"I have a spare set of keys for her car, Officer Martin, would that help?" I asked politely, still groggy from my sleep and still stunned by what was happening.

"Maybe," he said, putting a lot of thought into it, "I suppose I could give you her keys when you get here and you could pick it up later."

"I think that would work," I offered just wanting to move on. In fact, I was certain that would work since I would then have two sets of keys, but I chose not to point out the redundancy.

"Don't wait too long, though," he said, "The store parking lot is private property and I am not sure what their towing policy is."

Towing policy? I thought. Way too much 'Law and Order.'

"I'll be at the emergency room in twenty minutes, Officer."

I put the phone back on its base hanging on the kitchen wall. This conversation had gone on long enough, at least now I was fully awake. The dogs were milling about by this time, so I let them out for a run and to do their business. We have a nice wooden fence around our pine straw covered back yard. I dressed quickly, let them all back into the house and drove to the hospital.

Once again, on the ten-minute drive I considered the possibility of coincidence versus divine intervention. We live in a small house, but had I not been in the kitchen at precisely 1:12, there is no way I would have heard the phone ring. I would still be home, right now, sleeping. I would not have known what had happened until later, when I would have gotten up and noticed Debbie missing.

Would everything be turning out differently?

I considered things very carefully. Was there a divine force, dare I say god intervening and putting me in the kitchen at precisely the time that Officer Martin called? I have decided that nothing would have been different, other than I would be getting a good night's sleep and feel better in the morning. I always get a drink of cold water in the middle of the night.

Sorry, divine Intervention, coincidence wins.

I parked near the emergency room by an ambulance bay that housed three vehicles.

I entered the ER and gave my name to the receptionist. A young couple came through the automatic sliding doors behind me. I had seen them in the drop off zone as I came in. She was very pregnant. The husband, or father I should say, although that also is a bit presumptuous, had her loaded in a wheelchair and they were now standing beside me. We were the only three people in the ER waiting room. That is, of course, except for the receptionist. She appeared to be in a bad mood, surly, an open John Grisham lay face down on the desk in front of her. From her nametag, RN, behind her name, I suspected she felt belittled by working reception. Perhaps she had lost a bet, dealing with the riff raff, such as myself, was obviously beneath her.

Without saying a word to the young couple or me, she got up and walked to a closed double doorway. She pushed a button on the wall and the doors began to open slowly. She waved a beckoning hand in our direction. I hesitated, thinking the young woman's impending condition, made more urgent by the stream of water running from soggy chair bottom to doorway, following the path of the wheelchair, took priority.

The young man responded quickly with an abrupt shove of the wheel chair, almost spilling his top heavy load on to the shiny linoleum. She managed to catch herself on the armrests as she lurched forward.

"No," our receptionist/nurse said sternly, "you," she commanded pointing directly at me.

As I approached, I could see in, behind the doors there was activity. Frocked nurses scurried about and audibly there was a constant din from the medical equipment, spiking various high-pitched beeps presumably telling the lifesaving professionals that the patients were indeed still breathing. Somewhere in there, amidst the doctors, nurses, noises and bright lights, lay Debbie. Just a few short hours ago, we had been home, relaxing in our easy chairs, side by side, watching our latest nightly offering on Netflix. I wondered if everyone's life was so normal, routine and mundane, right before all hell broke loose.

Obediently, I followed my guide as the automatic doors quietly closed behind us. The pregnant couple stayed outside.

We approached a long three-sided counter in the middle of the room. It appeared to be central command. Behind the counter were seated doctors and nurses glued to computer monitors mainly, but some were writing and one was on the phone. We stood in the corridor, waiting for someone to look our way. On the other side of the hallway, directly behind us, were the patient rooms.

There were several rooms with open doors. In the single hospital beds, I saw bodies of people in various states of animation hooked up to machines. Wires were attached to bodies by sticky electrodes and tubes attached to IV bags were running into veins attached by needles. Lights blinked and numbers flashed on the various instruments. As I surveyed the scene, looking from room to room, hoping to get a glimpse of Debbie, an elderly man rolled over, his sheet falling to the floor leaving his liver spotted backside facing in my direction. This unexpected glimpse into my body's wrinkly future was more than I had bargained for. I quickly turned my attention back to central command.

"May I help you?" asked a heavyset young nurse in a flowered frock.

"Yes," I said still trying to erase the image of the naked old man that had burned into my retinas, "Debbie, Debbie Jimbanis."

My guide, the surly one from the waiting room, still stood beside me. She looked at me nodded and headed back to where we had just come in, presumably to take care of the pregnant couple. Hopefully, they were still a pregnant couple and not, by now, a young couple and an infant.

I followed the flowery-frocked nurse to Debbie's room, daring not to look into any other patient rooms along the way. Debbie lay quietly on a slightly inclined bed, her eyes closed. Her chest rising and sinking slowly. A tube ran from a bag of clear liquid into her arm and another tube ran out of her mouth and down, ending somewhere underneath the bed. There were also some wires leading from under her gown to another machine. The red digital number on the monitor gave her heart rate as 68. I did not know what the other numbers were. This was all becoming real, very real, not just a bad dream anymore, this was happening.

The heavyset nurse gave me the low down.

Apparently, Debbie had been drinking wine coolers, swallowed almost an entire bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills, and downed whatever was left in her bottle of prescription Xanax. For whatever reason, she had used milk to wash everything down, apparently, that had been a good thing for the lining of her stomach. She had run aground in the middle of US 1 where she had been found and rushed to the hospital. The police had gotten her here quickly and the early prognosis was good.

Nice work, Officer Martin.

Another nurse entered the room. I suspected there had been a sale on the flowered frocks. She began force-feeding Debbie a bottle of thick chalky looking goo.

Debbie was propped up right now, her eyes open, but she had not seen me or had not yet chosen to acknowledge me.

"What's that for?" I asked looking at the bottle of white goo.

"That will neutralize the poison in her system."

Soon after the other nurse informed me that it would make her throw up, too. Fortunately, it would take a little time to work and I would make sure not to be around for the cathartic event.

The nurse also told me that overall, Debbie was doing well. She had not fallen into coma and so far so good with her liver, although they would continue to monitor everything, especially the liver function for the next twenty-four hours when, if all went well, she would be transferred to psych for a mandatory forty-eight hour stay.

As the nurse turned the bottle of disgusting looking liquid all the way up, draining the last bit, much of it oozing out of the corners of Debbie's mouth and settling on her cheeks and some running into her hair, I had a strange thought.

Something good is going to come out of this.

Where did that come from? I wondered.

I continued standing there and watching as nurses came in and went out. There was still much of the chalky goo on Debbie's face. She saw me and acknowledged me with her eyes, but the goo seemed to be setting like plaster on her face, making a smile difficult. A doctor stopped by and basically repeated what the nurse had already told me. A woman from the business office also came and asked me some questions, verifying insurance coverage. She also had Debbie's car keys. Officer Martin had been called back to duty, leaving the keys with her.

Something good is going to come out of this.

The thought would not go away. It must be all of those damn fellowship meetings. Most people there are very positive. I thought of going to the next meeting and telling everyone that god was finally speaking to me. That is certainly, what some of the more tightly-wound religious types would have done.

However, I realized that most likely, I was changing, due, as nearly as I could figure, to the positive influence of the fellowship. Oh, and of course, the whole not drinking thing. I had not had a drink in nearly eight years and I suppose that had something to do with it as well. Not drinking is sort of a big deal at the fellowship that I attend.

I usually would have been worried about Debbie of course, the damage to the car, a police report, bills, insurance and basically, all things money. It was always about the money.

Something good is going to come out of this.

There it was again.

Well at the very least, this was a unique way to be thinking about the situation unfolding in front of me.

I could see that Debbie was in good hands. There really was no reason for me to stand there the rest of the night, watching and waiting helplessly by her side. She was drifting in and out anyway and quite probably was not going to remember any of this. If something good was going to come out of all of this, I might as well be prepared for it. Whatever was happening, whatever changes were about to take place, I thought I should, at the very least, be well-rested for whatever was coming next.

I was pretty sure that there would be a lot to do when the sun came up. It was only three o'clock. I could make it home and get another three or so hours of sleep. I told the nurse that I was leaving.

As I walked by the surly receptionist still manning the desk in the ER waiting room, she looked up from her book.

"Good luck," she said with a smile.

Things were changing already.

* * *

"Nick, Nick," the gentle voice of Dr. Barnett pulled me back. I became aware of my surroundings, as I opened my eyes. I just lay there a moment on the magic couch.

"How is Deborah? Did she recover?"

"She is okay, Doc, obviously, this all happened some time ago, last Mother's day, but, no, there were no complications from the overdose. Physically, she recovered fully."

"That is good to hear. A suicide attempt is about as serious as it gets."

"It was so unexpected," I said as I sat up and reached for my shoes.

"Unexpected for you?"

"Yeah, I knew she was still drinking, but I had no idea she felt bad enough to try to kill herself."

"Sometimes these actions are a cry for help."

"Well, she certainly got my attention."

"Had anyone else in the family ever tried or committed suicide? With the alcoholism and mental illness you described, it would not have been unusual," Dr. Barnett said.

"Debbie was the first that I know of."

"Just be thankful that it was only an attempt."

"Oh, I am."

"You had a feeling that something good was going to come out of it?"

"I did. I suppose the sobriety and all of the meetings have helped change my attitude."

"That's the point, isn't it, Nick? Change. Positive change."

"Good Orderly Direction?" I said with a smirk, repeating one of the god acronyms from the rooms.

"Something like that," she said, "now, when can you come back in?"

We settled on twice a week. I thought about Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but Dr. Barnett did not work on Fridays. So, it would be two times a week, Tuesday and Thursday.

Easy does it, but do it. I needed to tell my story, the whole story, to someone.

Shoes tied, I stood up slowly.

"So, I will see you Thursday," she said extending her hand.

I gave her a firm handshake.

"Thursday it is," I said.
SESSION TWO

RENEE GRISSOM, THE BITCH

I arrived a little early for my next appointment. Waiting patiently, I skimmed through the various offerings that passed for reading material in the reception area. I tried to remain focused on the dated material to avoid eye contact with Dr. Barnett's secretary. I wasn't embarrassed really, well, maybe a little. This whole situation was new to me. Asking for help was not manly.

It was not very long before I was ushered in to Dr. Barnett's office.

"You had just left the emergency room and were headed home, last time," Dr. Barnett prompted, "would you like to start there?"

"I had some time to think on the way home that night," I began as I stretched out getting comfortable on the couch.

* * *

"What do you think of a big boy like this who makes a 'B' in phys. ed?" my father had asked his secretary.

I had come home midway through my first semester in college. Proudly, I had gone straight to my father's office with my midterm grades. I had five A's, all in sophomore level courses, calculus, chemistry, physics and the like. I had tested well enough on entrance exams to skip all of the freshman courses. The one course that I had to take was a rather meaningless two-hour physical education course that was a requirement.

The gym teacher had given me a midterm 'B', the grade he gave to everyone. It hardly mattered, but apparently, it mattered enough to my father for him to belittle me in front of his secretary.

"What do you think of a big boy like Nick making a 'B' in phys. ed?" he had asked her.

Later, he told me that he had just been joking and was really proud of me. Too little, too late. It still hurt.

The attempted retraction did little to negate the firmly imbedded message seared into my mind, whatever I did, it would never be good enough.

Had this whole thing with Debbie been my fault? Had my inadequacy as a husband, companion and friend played a role in her suicide attempt?

At a young age and throughout my school years, my parents had both been quite clear and consistent with that message; whatever I did it would never be good enough. I had heard it, over and over again, loud and clear.

My mother had delivered the message early. The first time, I remember, was in the first grade. All of us six year olds were taking an IQ test. Mother, who had been a schoolteacher prior to my arrival, had managed to convince Mrs. Simmons, my teacher, that she could provide valuable assistance in the administration of the test. There I sat in my too small, uncomfortable, classroom desk as the tests were passed out. There were some one hundred and fifty kids taking the test, spread out among five or six classrooms. I really don't remember exactly. But there was mother parading back and forth, a nervous filly pacing before the starting gate, although I was the one running this race.

It turned out to be a long day, not made easier by my mother traipsing about. I am not sure how many hours we spent languishing over the outdated tests. Some kids were taken away, crying, returning later and told to sit, head down on the desk for the remainder of the test, obviously failures. Finally, mercifully, it was done.

By the end of the week, test results were in and my mother was there to help distribute the graded tests. I had scored a 120, angrily mother glared at me crammed into the tiny desk.

"How did you not know that a comb has teeth?" she asked pointing to an incorrect answer on my paper.

Then I saw the real problem, Mrs. Simmons was writing the top ten student scores on the blackboard. I was second; Renee Grissom had scored 121, top of the class.

If I had answered the comb question correctly, I would have gotten two more points. So mother did all but tell me that being second out of one hundred and fifty was not good enough. Whatever I did, it would never be good enough.

I will, however, never forget that a comb has teeth and even after all of these years, I still remember Renee Grissom, the bitch.

* * *

So it only seemed fitting, years later, when my mother finally died, father had preceded her in death by about two years, that I took my medium sized inheritance, quit my job and moved to North Carolina with Debbie. Why bother trying to do anything creative or productive with the money? Anything that I tried would surely fall short. By this time, I suppose that doing the bare minimum had become my philosophy on life.

The good news was that because of my outlook, I did not have to worry about getting up in the morning to go to work. While the economy, a few years back, had turned my medium sized inheritance into a small one, I stuck to my guns, trying to do better was simply not worth it. Because of my lack of effort in showing any initiative whatsoever, I could now devote all of my time to dealing with my wife's suicide attempt.

I could not help but think that my trying to be a husband had not been good enough. Somehow I bore, at the very least, partial responsibility for what had happened.

I pulled into my driveway, the streets had been deserted, I had not left a light on and it was very dark, save for my headlights illuminating the garage door as it automatically rolled itself up. I would give the dogs a quick run and then lay back down for a few hours of sleep, so I could be somewhat rested for whatever fresh hell the morning would bring.

I had played golf fanatically, for a while, when we first moved to North Carolina, but it became expensive and somewhat boring, so I quit. Quitting is a corollary to my philosophy on life. I thought I was being a devoted husband, at least a good, attentive one. Nevertheless, something had obviously gone very wrong.

Debbie had become more and more of a challenge lately. Years ago, a doctor in Florida had labeled her bipolar, a diagnoses I now believe that was popular at the time and used as a catchall, broad enough to include many behaviors, thus covering a doctor's butt sufficiently, should anything ever go wrong.

Debbie was never full-blown crazy, bipolar, like you see on 'Law and Order', Officer Martin would know what I'm talking about, but she was moody. Maybe her bubble was not quite centered at times, but she was not insane, or detached from reality. She was very functional and at most, she came off as eccentric at times, but that was about it.

We both attended the recovery fellowship; I prefer to call it a fellowship. From what I could see, it was the meetings and support of others that seemed to help us both. I considered myself the real problem drinker, as well as prescription drug abuser, and years and years ago the whacky weed. However, they say it is not how much you drink, but it is the effect drinking has on you that matters. Debbie certainly had the family history and she did drink a few beers pretty much on a daily basis, even when we were going to meetings. I found that odd, it was also odd that she thought I did not know. So yeah, Debbie had a problem, too.

We made friends and established a good support system at the meetings. It had become our social life and we enjoyed going. One of my buddies likes to say it is the best entertainment that you can get for a dollar, the standard amount dropped into the basket when it is passed. We are a frugal lot.

Unfortunately, people at recovery meetings are not exactly all better. We are all in varying stages of our recovery and one of the tricks of 'making it,' is differentiating among the various speakers. Stick with the winners, is a popular saying. Implying to me, at least, that there are losers in the room.

Calvin, a jumpy little fellow with a Brooklyn accent, was in his mid-forties and had moved down to North Carolina to live with his parents, not an unheard of scenario in the fellowship. Stick with the winners.

Unfortunately, everyone is allowed to speak at a meeting, personal experience being the only boundary. When Calvin mentioned that the Xanax that he had been taking was like a pill form of alcohol and that drinking a beer while on the medicine was just like drinking four beers, Debbie was listening.

She got her Xanax from her North Carolina shrink, Dr. David. That is not some cool, hippie, commie, pinko, liberal dude named David that just uses his first name and also happens to be a doctor.

"Call me Doctor David, man."

His last name was David. Apparently, Doctor Leonard David was fast and loose with the prescription pad. Regardless, Debbie now had something new to play with and a new hobby, mixing alcohol and prescription medication.

"Thank you, Calvin. Thank you for sharing."

It did not take her very long to perfect just the right, in her mind, combination of the Xanax and alcohol. She managed to achieve a barely functional zombielike state and that was the Debbie that I had come to know over the past four or five years. The girl I had married so long ago was still in there, but mostly she was just a memory.

Usually, we pretended, at least I did, that everything was normal. Dysfunction ain't just a river in Egypt, or something like that. We played our little games, the back and forth, to and fro, of the poor 'nobody understands me, drunk,' and the 'woe is me, long suffering spouse.'

Debbie would hide her beer bottles and wine coolers around the house and, of course, in her little blue hatchback. Behind the wheel was where she chose to do most of her drinking. Makes sense to me. She had gotten lazy with her disposal of the bottles and some cans, but mostly green bottles, imported beer. Classy. She had started just tossing them into the wooded area beside the house where she parked her car under an add-on aluminum carport. She was shielded there and I could not see her, even if I peered through the blinds on the nearest window.

Then one day, summer ended, soon it was October and then early November, and leaves began to fall. It did not take long before a huge cache, a Heineken burial ground, if you will, of empties was revealed on the ground under the trees next to our house. I saw them one morning, glimmering in the sun when I drove out the driveway and on to the road leading from our house. I confronted Debbie, threw the appropriate fit and extracted a promise from her. She swore off, said she would quit and this would never happen again. I then proceeded my martyr-like clean up. I filled four, four, fifty gallon heavy-duty contractor's garbage bags that were left over from when we had moved in. Dirty green bottle after dirty green bottle, reeking of stale alcohol, went clanking into the big black plastic bags.

Looking back, I now concede that her solution to the disposal problem, created by the falling leaves, was rather ingenious, at least in its simplicity. When she started drinking again, she just started dumping her empties on the other side of our property, behind the six-foot privacy fence we had built for the dogs.

Apparently, she would wait until I was not there, take a bag with a day or two worth of green bottles and deposit them in the wooded area behind the fence. Much later, the following spring, I discovered the new huge pile of empties, threw a fit, extracted a promise, never again, but this time she meant it, of course. And I proceeded to use the rest of the contractor bags to clean up the mess.

I often felt that Debbie wanted to quit, but the prescription Xanax from Dr. David, made it nearly impossible for her to stop. I sometimes wondered if I should try to talk to Dr. David, but that seemed unwise, although I wondered how much he knew, probably did not know about the drinking, I suspected. The thing is that alcoholics are supposed to want to quit on their own, at least, that is what everyone said.

'You have to want it for yourself. You have to reach your own bottom.'

Somehow, I managed to remain sober through all of this, but it was wearing thin. I desperately wanted my wife back. I was tired of just waiting and hoping. I had become very lonely living with this version of Debbie.

As I got back to the house and pulled the car into the garage, it struck me. The question nagging at me was, 'why?' Why suicide and why now?

Mother's Day.

Had Debbie been to see her mother on the Hallmark holiday? Had she waxed nostalgic and made a misguided attempt to bury the axe, so to speak?

The Evil One lived only eight point six miles away. I rarely even thought of her anymore since there had been virtually no contact in the past five years. However, Debbie had ample opportunity, after the eleventh step meeting that morning, to drive over there. She always insisted on taking her own car to the meeting and I never objected, anymore. So when she had said she was going shopping after, that is when she had the time to go see Joyce.

I knew Debbie was moody with the medication, alcohol and boredom, but suicidal? I had not had a clue. However, a visit to dear old mom, that would explain a lot. Debbie had always been sensitive and something could have easily happened to push her over the edge.

I mashed the button on the wall and the garage door began closing behind me, groaning and squeaking, in need of some WD-40. I went inside and opened the backdoor for some very excited dogs who ran out, barking as they went out in the yard. I went to the bathroom and by the time I came back the dogs were standing outside waiting for me to let them in. Toenails clickety-clacking on the linoleum kitchen floor, they waited until I had given them treats and then they returned to their spots, unaware. As far as they were concerned, everything was normal. Dogs are cool like that.

I would try to sort this all out in the morning, I decided, as I headed back to the bedroom for a few more hours sleep.

Daylight arrived quickly. The sun shone through the bedroom curtains no matter how dark they were. It was getting light earlier and earlier this time of year and I was usually up by seven. The events of the night before seemed like a dream, as I stood barefoot in the kitchen sipping my morning brew. The dogs had greeted me with their usual exuberance. I swung open the back door and Stoney, the Pyrenees, pushed open the storm door and ran out. I held it open for the other two, lab mixes, Samie and Marley, not as astute at opening doors as the big guy.

"No Barking," I said to them as they ran out barking in unison as they went. It was an inside joke, between Debbie and me. The dogs always barked. But we would say, 'no barking', anyway.

"Good dogs," I said as they bound out into the yard, barking all the way. The irony was lost on them.

We live in the country and everyone has a dog. No one ever complains about the barking because that is what dogs do, they bark. The houses are spaced far enough apart that the sound is not that loud, as a matter of fact, sometimes the only ones in the house that hear a neighbor's dog bark are the dogs. So what do they do? They bark. They are dogs.

Debbie was often the only one even to notice the barking in the morning. I was usually the first one up and the noise would often awaken her. But today that was not an issue. Marley would be pleased that she was not home. He usually slept in a cage at night. It is a Pyrenees sized kennel, so he has plenty of room, but with Debbie not home, he would take her place on the king-sized bed.

After my shower, I said 'good-bye' to the dogs and got in the car for the fifteen-minute drive to the hospital. They had said Debbie would be moved to intensive care today. I needed to find out about that. More importantly, I needed some answers. I needed to find out what had happened.

She must have gone to see her mother yesterday. Surely, The Evil One had something to do with this. It was the only plausible explanation that I could think of.

'Something, someone had triggered this,' I thought as I backed the Corolla out of the garage.

* * *

Debbie's father was dead now. That was a shame. Years ago when we had lived in Florida, the in-laws had come to visit. They drove and on their way to the condo in Vero Beach, they stopped to visit us where we lived in central Florida. I remember that Debbie's mother, I had not yet dubbed her, The Evil One, was put off, inconvenienced, if you will, at the delay of her arrival in Vero caused by the obligatory visit with her daughter. There would be a cacophony of social events, afternoon cocktails and dinners mostly, fashionable clothes, gossip and political discussions awaiting her at the Country Club in Vero. While visiting us, she seized upon every opportunity to let her daughter know how inconvenient it was to be visiting us at our tiny rental house in Lakeland. It could not have ended quickly enough for her.

Warren, Debbie's dad, on the other hand, was truly happy to be spending time with his daughter. They were close. I often heard him tell her that they were two peas in a pod. I thought that was cute, endearing. Debbie loved her father a lot.

Warren was considered to be a bit eccentric. When you are wealthy, you are eccentric, not crazy. Early in our marriage, I remember spending one

Christmas morning with them at their home in New York State. Warren sat opposite me on the couch. We were in the living room, roaring fire in the hearth, shiny gift-wrapped boxes piled high under a magnificent evergreen.

I watched, shocked I suppose, as he opened one of his gifts, a very expensive looking camera. He toyed around with it, turning this knob or that, pushing buttons, until finally the back popped loose exposing the preloaded film. Someone had put the film in, apparently to spare him this frustration. Next thing I know, he has camera in one hand and a loose end of the film in the other. He is pulling. His hands separated as far as they would go, arms spread out stretching the 35-millimeter puzzle across his body, his face contorted with rage and frustration.

Suddenly, his face relaxed and he dropped his hands letting go of the film that recoiled back in the direction of the camera that he set down on the coffee table. Warren looked content. I supposed that somehow in his mind he fancied himself victorious. The camera and film was no longer an obstacle.

He looked up, noticing me sitting there in the chair across from him. I was too stunned to look away.

"Merry Christmas," he said, smiling broadly as if everything was as it should be. Nothing unusual going on here, folks.

Yes. My father-in law, Warren, was a bit eccentric.

I was drinking and hiding it, at least I thought no one knew, maybe they did, when Debbie's parents visited us that time on their way to Vero. Debbie seemed happy and sober. Whatever meds she was on, lithium I think, seemed to be working. Of course, I was wrapped up in my own little alcoholic world, functional, but just barely. Oddly, Debbie and I never drank together over the years. I don't know why. We just never did.

She was working as a retail sales clerk at an upscale department store. Her mother would tell her friends back home and her social circle in Vero that Debbie was a buyer for the store. The position was more prestigious and appropriate. It mattered little that it hurt her daughter every time that she heard her say it.

One afternoon during their visit, Warren was riding with me in my six-year-old Toyota. We were on our way to meet up with our women folk at the fancy restaurant adjacent to Debbie's department store. I was drinking, of course, pretty sure that Warren was unaware. He had supposedly stopped drinking many years ago.

As we passed by a local adult bookstore, a real dive, I noticed Warren staring at the place through the passenger side window.

"Do you want to stop?" I asked nodding toward the place, "we've got some time."

"Okay," he said.

I put on my turn signal, turned into a fast food place and doubled back through their parking lot. As we pushed open the glass door that was covered by a full-length poster of a female figure wearing only a G-string and holding a smoldering cigarette in her hand, a bell attached to the top of the door jangled.

A few heads nervously turned our way from the dark recesses of the magazine and novelty section and then went back to their browsing, comfortable in their assessment of us as just another couple of afternoon pervs. The only one not to look up when the bell rang was the twenty something clerk seated behind the counter, his head buried in a textbook.

We squinted as we looked around, our eyes adjusting from the bright Florida sunshine to the darkened interior of this forbidden world of adult novelties and humongous dildos. Warren spotted an entryway at the back covered only by a spotted soiled sheet hanging loosely from the crossbeam.

Glad there was no ultraviolet lighting, I thought.

"What's back there?" he asked.

"Peep show," I said nodding at the fluorescent arrow beside the door and the flashing letters, 'VID' followed by the burned out ones, 'EO' and the lighted up numbers, '$.25'.

Taking out his wallet, Warren approached the clerk and laid a ten on the counter.

"Change, please."

The clerk took the bill without looking up and counted out forty quarters in a pile.

Warren, carefully cradling the quarters in both hands, walked into the doorway pushing the spotty sheet aside with his shoulder.

"I like to watch," he said as he looked back at me and smiled before disappearing into the video room.

Warren was a long way from his Country Club, but he seemed happy, content, spending his trust fund one quarter at a time.

I never really knew Warren's prognosis, he could have been bipolar like Debbie had been diagnosed or something else altogether. In the end, he had suffered from dementia, not remembering anyone, unable to communicate. It could have been caused by the years of hard drinking that had occupied his youth. Supposedly, he had beat the drink problem by the time we visited that dark dingy video store on that bright sunshiny day. It was Warren, my father-in-law, just being Warren.

* * *

Years later, after his funeral, Debbie found a fourteen-year sobriety medallion among his possessions. Whatever Warren's real story was, I suppose I would never know. However, he had passed on much of his legacy to Debbie. After all, they were two peas in a pod. I choose to remember Warren, a look of happy anticipation on his face, carefully clutching two hands full of quarters as he made his way past the dirty hanging sheet into the video peep show.

Once we had moved to North Carolina, The Evil One, I started calling Joyce that after she had gained control of the family fortunes, set out to prove the axiom – 'only the good die young'. With Warren resting comfortably atop the mantle, his ashes in a decorative urn, Joyce began, not so inconspicuously, lavishing money on my sister-in-law, Rebecca, who through the years had learned to play Joyce like a fiddle. And while The Evil One proclaimed on occasion, that she loved both of her daughters equally, it became painfully obvious to Debbie that mom liked her sister better.

The inequity hurt Debbie greatly, although she did not complain. Through it all, our little family of two, the dogs didn't count when it came to divvying up the money, watched silently while Rebecca prospered. Begrudgingly, and only because of the iron clad wording of the large family trust, did Debbie get her share set aside by Warren many years ago. With that, and what I had inherited from my parents, we managed a modest life.

The final straw was when Joyce bought the large lakefront house next to hers for Rebecca and her family. That was the beginning of the estrangement.

Initially, Debbie had been pleased that her sister would be living close by. We lived not quite in the same affluent neighborhood, but we had paid cash for our small house and we were comfortable. With Rebecca moving down from New Hampshire, it would be the closest Debbie and her sister had been to each other since growing up. Debbie imagined that her sister and she would become close, best friends, now that they were living only eight point seven miles apart.

Debbie had not been angry or jealous about the big house. It was when I suggested that her sister could not afford such a house that the trouble began. If you recall, it is always about the money with me. So, the trouble started when Debbie asked and Rebecca lied.

"I bought the house myself," is what Rebecca told Debbie the first time she asked.

I just sneered when my wife had repeated that part of the conversation.

"No way," I had said, "better ask again."

"Okay, mom helped. But I am paying her back. It is almost all paid back," Rebecca had said the second time Debbie asked.

"So," I said after hearing the new story, "did Rebecca lie to you the first time or the second time?"

Debbie got my point and it was on.

My fault? I cannot take full credit for the ensuing family feud, although as I have said, it was really more of an estrangement. The groundwork had been laid long ago, with Warren's drinking, Joyce's Country Club mentality and all of the dysfunction neatly packaged within the familial genes. No, the estrangement was most likely inevitable, it was not entirely my fault, but I certainly moved things along.

Of course, Rebecca's deal with the devil came with a price, at some point in the future, she would have to take care of The Evil One, sorry, I mean Joyce. But for now, Rebecca and her family enjoyed the million-dollar home on the lake.

To be fair, when Debbie and I had moved eight point six miles away, Joyce had given us a welcome mat. It was a spontaneous gift, bought while she was with us in one of the jumbo home improvement centers that put mom and pop stores out of business. We were shopping for flooring and just like that, Joyce put the $21.95 mat into our cart.

I took it home and to protect the precious gift from the elements, I placed it inside, by the front door. Unfortunately, not long after, Marley had been eating grass in the corner of the backyard and when he came in, he promptly threw up right on the mat. We had to get rid of it, the mat, not Marley. While the doggie puke landing on the mat made the cleanup process easier, it did little for the mat itself. If only we still had it as a reminder of Joyce's generosity, maybe the whole million dollar house for the sister thing, would have been easier to take. Then again, maybe not.

I suppose you cannot put a dollar amount on love. After all, Joyce loved both of her daughters equally.

Glad I was an only child, I thought as I found a parking space only fifty yards from the hospital entrance. With no siblings and parents deceased, I was free to focus all of my attention on the nurturing and loving nature of my wife's family.

Insert sarcasm here.

* * *

"That's our time, Nick."

Dr. Barnett's practiced voice was firm, yet soothing, not startling. It was almost otherworldly as it pulled me back to the office and the couch where I lay.

I opened my eyes.

"That was quick," I said.

"You were fully immersed in your story. That makes it go by quickly."

I swung my feet to the floor and sat up,

"We haven't gotten very far," I said, "you know, in what happened."

"That is fine. It is good that you are going slowly. You have a lot to talk about, not just what Deborah did."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"The message that your parents gave you. It is not true."

"Whatever I do it is not good enough."

"Do you believe that?"

"Yes and no," I said.

"It was imprinted on your mind at a young age, when you were very impressionable. It cannot be erased, but you have the ability to overwrite that message with positive and stronger ones. It is similar to the alcoholism. Genetically, you will always have that, but you can get away from it with a psychological personality change."

"I suppose it is possible, but I guess I'm carrying a lot of baggage."

"Nothing that cannot be overcome. Deborah can get better too. Clearly, her father had a mental issue of some sort. Most likely passed along to her."

"Sometimes, I wish we could just jump off the family tree and start from scratch."

"It doesn't work that way."

"I know. But I can dream."

You are doing great, Nick. Families are complicated."

"That's one way of putting it," I said.

"For now, just do not blame yourself for any of this. You are who you are. Deborah is fortunate to have you in her corner."

I nodded, trying to accept the compliment, gracefully. As I stood up, I extended my hand. I wanted to hug her, but I thought better of it. We should keep it professional, better for me, I figured. I already had enough touchy, feely friends in the fellowship.

"See you next week," I said.
SESSION THREE

SPOILED MILK AND BUDDHA

I knew my way to the emergency room. The routine was the same as the night before, the faces had changed by now and there was no pregnant couple. The on-duty receptionist buzzed me in. My entrance was ordinary. The drama of the night before had dissipated with morning light. I suppose it was just reality sinking in.

My timing was good. Dr. David was there. Since he was Debbie's doctor, he had been called in. He was now in charge of her case. I recognized him from his staff picture on the website. I was surprised that he was such a short man, not just shorter than I was. I am six feet tall and most people are shorter than I am. Dr. David was about five foot two, I would venture, pretty short, that had not been apparent on the website.

I had checked him out a few years ago. He was a Harvard graduate, top of his class, the world had been his oyster. Although, I do not know what that saying really means. Why would the world be like an oyster? Anyway, I had thought it strange that Dr. David had joined the army. Maybe Uncle Sam was going to pay off student loans, but upon further digging I found that Dr. David's family was wealthy. Now, standing alongside of him, I thought, Napoleon complex? As a doctor, he had entered the army as an officer, immediate status over most everyone. Captain's bars commanded respect. Being an honorary member of the lollipop guild did not.

I would give him the benefit of the doubt about the Xanax. When I researched him, I had considered approaching him, telling him Xanax was a bad idea for a drinker. But I never did it. Not because of doctor patient privilege, but I was sure it would backfire when Debbie found out that I had gone behind her back to talk to her doctor.

Ignoring the thinning comb-over on top of his head, right in front of my face, when he looked down at his notes, I tried to listen with an open mind. I am reasonably certain that Debbie never mentioned to him that she drank three Heinekens a day and the Xanax enhanced her buzz. We alcoholics have a tendency to leave things out.

He filled me in. They had gotten to her quickly. It appeared that she would be fine, medically. Emphasis on the word 'medically', innuendo is lost on me at times, but I think it was a way of saying she might be what we refer to in my fellowship as, 'bat shit crazy.'

"Do you think we could take her off the Xanax?" I asked, "She drinks on the pills."

"I see that. Blood alcohol point one five, almost two times the limit," he said rapidly.

Dr. David was what I would call a fast talker. Not pausing for a breath where a normal person would and stringing thoughts together, one after another. He was decisive too, quick to make up his mind.

"I'll switch her back to lithium. She was on that before, no suicide attempts, couldn't hurt. Nurse," he said loudly, not bothering to look up from his clipboard, "new orders."

He held out a sheet of paper with instructions. It took the nurse a second to step over and take it from him.

"Today!" he barked, annoyed that he needed to look up. He glared at his subordinate as she took the paper from his hand.

He looked at me, calmer, a bit more respectfully, than he had been with the nurse.

"I didn't know about the drinking," he said, "I am stopping the Xanax, immediately."

I nodded in agreement. Maybe this little fast talking doctor with the big ego was not so bad after all.

Debbie was coming around; she moaned and slowly opened her eyes. Recognizing me through the slits, she smiled. The chalky plaster Paris goo had been mostly cleaned from her face.

"Hey, you," I said.

I turned back to the doctor, smiling, but he was gone.

Wham bam. I don't give a damn.

Doctors.

I would reserve making a judgment about him. I did not have enough info, yet.

I turned my attention back to Debbie. Her eyes fully opened, she started to talk, and then winced. I passed her the cup of mostly ice with some of it melted in to cold water and she sipped from the straw, soothing her throat, sore from the eruptions caused by the chalky goo.

"Better?" I asked pouring some water from the pitcher over the ice in the plastic glass.

"Yeah," she said weakly, "I think I can talk."

Debbie asked about the dogs and smiled when I told her they were all fine. With some prodding, she began recounting the events that had led to the events of the night before.

"Oh, that's nobody," Rebecca had said.

Debbie, Mother's Day bouquet in hand, had made an impromptu visit to The Evil One's house on Sunday afternoon. Her sister, visiting Joyce, had opened the front door, behind her our great niece (or is it grandniece?), Rebecca's granddaughter, was playing in the living room. The little girl looked up and saw Debbie at the front door, flowers in hand, staring at her sister.

"Who's that?" the little girl asked.

"Oh, that's nobody," Rebecca said closing the door in her sister's face.

It was all beginning to make sense. The estrangement from her mother and sister had weighed heavily on her for some time. It had really all started when Warren died. There had been a sort of balance in the family dynamic, with Warren on Debbie's side of the scale, keeping things pretty even.

Finally, this incident had pushed Debbie over the edge. The pain of being 'no one' in the family equation, in the eyes of our little niece was just too much.

I consoled my wife as best I could while she recounted the events of that Sunday. She was still pretty groggy, fading in and out. Sleep must have seemed like sweet escape as her eyes closed, then opened, then closed again.

I was angry. I wanted to confront Rebecca. How could she have been so callous? I wanted to hold The Evil One accountable for buying the house for one daughter and ignoring the other. But what could I do?

All I could do was take care of what was right in front of me. I had gotten the gist. I would let Debbie rest. I had the car to attend to and dogs to take care of. Life would go on.

I told Debbie that I was leaving. Her eyes closed now. She may have nodded, but I wasn't really sure. I took a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and dipped it into the water in the plastic glass. Daubing at Debbie's lips, I got the last of the white goo off her face. She was asleep, peaceful for now. I folded the paper towel into a little square and laid it on the bedside table.

"I'll be back," I said.

Things must have been getting serious. I did not even use my Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.

I returned home and phoned my friend Harry from the fellowship. He had become a good friend as well as a mentor. He agreed to come over and drive me to the store to pick up Debbie's car. I could fill him in on the way.

After talking to Harry, I took care of the dogs and then decided to wait outside in the front yard. After about twenty minutes, I heard the roar of the engine. Harry's oversized jumbo pickup truck had reached the top of the hill and turned onto our circle, still half a mile away. Harry was never going to sneak up on anyone. I am not sure if there was a special name for the diesel truck that he drove. It was white, loud, American made and big. You almost needed a ladder to get in, at least a step stool. It was a big first step getting in, one helluva jump getting out.

By the time we were out of my neighborhood and back to the stop sign on 15-501, the main drag, I had finished giving him the highlights or more aptly, the lowlights, of the night before.

"That's rough, bud," Harry said pulling out onto the highway. The grocery store on US 1 was about twelve miles away.

Harry was about seventy now, not quite old enough to be my father, well technically he might have been old enough, honestly, I guess I sort of looked up to him like that. He was a local, North Carolina born and bred. He was average height, extra weight around the middle and talked with a twangy southern accent. And, boy howdy, could Harry talk.

He was a nonstop talker, story after story, on and on. Entertaining most of the time, but try to get a word in edgewise. The only one that I ever saw have any success establishing a two-sided conversation was his wife.

'Excuse me,' she would say while Harry was still talking, and she would jump right in and then start talking a mile a minute herself. But it only worked for her. I tried it once and Harry just looked at me funny and kept right on talking.

There were many things unique about Harry. He had a quirky sense of humor, bordering on the depraved. I suppose that is one of the things that first drew me to him. He had raced cars, owned an airplane, and made his money pumping septic tanks, a proud business owner. He was a member of the Christian Science Church and he owned that godawful truck. And, oh yeah, I cannot emphasize this enough Harry liked to talk.

If you were looking for Harry, and tried describing him to someone, talking is where you would start.

"He talks a lot. Nonstop talk and stories. Heavy southern accent."

"Oh, that guy, I know who you mean. Drives a big truck?"

We continued down 15-501. Harry never drove more than forty-five, even though the speed limit was sixty. There was some traffic, it being a Monday, but it was not going to slow us down, more likely just the opposite.

* * *

One of the first stories that Harry ever told me was about Tara, a middle-aged African American woman in our fellowship. I guess you could have called Tara, special. We have a lot of 'special' people in our fellowship. Harry had words with her one afternoon. Harry had words, as he called it, with a lot of people.

The thing about Tara was as it is with many of us, she had more than one problem. When I had gotten back in the fellowship, about seven or eight years ago, I had attended a special meeting. The meeting was about Tara. I attended mostly out of curiosity and just sat in the back and listened.

"No one can be kicked out," one side would argue.

"But she waits for us in the parking lot."

"So? Does she have a weapon?"

"She might."

"That's not good enough."

Harry Miller was right there at the front of the room arguing for Tara's inclusion.

"You are a member if you say you are a member," he said.

It would be great if Tara walked in right now, I had thought, I should have brought popcorn.

The meeting was not exactly a secret, but to my disappointment, Tara did not show up. The truth was that Tara had mental problems and she was obviously off her meds. It was a situation that I would become personally familiar with later. I did feel sorry for her. She needed compassion and support, not banishment. What kind of a fellowship was this?

People do funny things when they are afraid.

The meeting disbanded in less than an hour. Nothing had been resolved. A short time later, Tara disappeared. Her family had swooped in and rescued her. Rumors were rampant, her family had her committed, she was living with her daughter up north, she had started drinking and flown the coop or she was back on her meds and teaching again at the university. I hoped it was the last one. Whatever happened, we never heard from Tara again. Anonymity, like Renee Grissom, can be a real bitch.

"It was right out there in this very parking lot," Harry would say pointing to the macadam area where his monster truck sat, dwarfing the normal sized vehicles that the rest of us drove.

Harry usually only told this story when he had at least a dozen, newly clean and sober, at least in theory, newbies gathered around. Standing outside the clubhouse, stretching their legs, having a smoke or just taking a break these fellows, some of them from the halfway house, would be captivated or more likely held captive, once Harry began his story. Many of them looking about anxiously, not really knowing how to walk away politely once Harry had started talking.

"She come tearing out of that doorway, right there," Harry would say pointing to the double door entrance to the building.

"The meeting wasn't even over yet. I always leave before the closing prayer, so I was the only one out there," he said once again pointing in the direction of the truck.

"Both of her arms was above her head, fists balled up, and she was yelling, Harry Miller! Harry Miller! Don't you leave, yet, don't you dare leave.

People were at the windows looking out by now. I didn't want nothing like this to happen. All I could think was that she did not like whatever I had said at the meeting. I couldn't remember exactly what I said, but she sure looked mad, standing there shaking her hand, pointing her finger right in my face."

"You are the most insecure man that I have ever met."

"She had lowered her voice some by now, so I was the only one who heard that. I just shook my head a little, climbed up in the truck and cranked it up. She kept talking, but the only thing I could hear now was the diesel engine. I didn't want to make no scene, no more than we already had, so I just drove off. I wasn't scared of her, not by a long shot. I've had words with plenty of these people," Harry said waving his hand around indicating anyone associated with the clubhouse.

"But can you guys imagine that? Me, insecure?" he would say looking out at the confused and bewildered faces of his little audience.

* * *

Harry had been a big influence on my recovery. I had not spoken up for the longest time after I had stopped drinking and began attending meetings. But

Harry always said something at the meeting and it was usually something funny. Harry made what he said interesting and he made me laugh. I liked that.

As usual, there was a backup at the traffic circle. I looked over through the pines by the side of the road, I could see the hospital, and Debbie was up there in her room. It was all still sinking in. Harry inched the truck forward, right on the bumper of the car in front, as we slowly moved along. I wondered what the guy in the subcompact in front of us was thinking when he looked in the rearview mirror. He must have felt like a hood ornament.

* * *

The first time I approached Harry after a meeting I asked him why he left before the Lord's Prayer. I was not one for praying and I was often right behind Harry when he left. Harry told me that I had to be careful whom I prayed with, god is always watching. Be careful about your associations he told me. He also told me he was a Christian Scientist. A person's religion, if they had one, usually did not come up at meetings. We are what you would call nondenominational, 'spiritual not religious', whatever that is supposed to mean. Anyway, I really did not and still do not, know anything about Christian Science, but I knew enough to consider it pretty far-fetched.

"Thanks for the talk," I said as soon as Harry has taken a breath.

I did not talk to Harry Miller again for at least six months.

During that time, I continued to look for someone to help me go through the twelve steps. People made a big deal out of them, all I had done was stop drinking and go to weekly meetings. I had been about five years sober when I approached Harry, looking for someone to tell me about the steps and the spiritual aspect of the program.

I was only looking to talk to someone with a little experience. I was not looking for a sponsor. From what I could see, a sponsor was someone who told you what to do. It seemed like a power trip, but in fairness, the official literature on the topic said a sponsor was simply someone with a little time who shared his experience with a newcomer. The sponsor and sponsee entered the relationship as equals. I liked that. But, it seemed to be only a theory. In reality, the sponsor was the boss.

Not cool.

'I've sponsored a lot of people, not one of them has stayed sober, but I have.' People said that all of the time. It was the most repeated statement about sponsorship. A real 'frequent flyer' saying around the rooms.

So, why would I want a sponsor when all I would be doing is helping him to stay sober?

Besides there were a lot of idiots who raised their hands when the chairperson would ask if anyone was available to be a temporary sponsor. I certainly was not going to subjugate myself to one of these people. Once I heard a pathetic young fellow say that he always obeyed his sponsor.

No thank you.

So I would occasionally ask someone to help me with the steps, out of curiosity really. I was afraid of missing something, but I never asked anyone to be my sponsor. And I never will.

I asked one well-respected fellow, sober nearly forty years, if he could help me with the steps. But his wife had died recently and he was still in mourning, evidenced by all of the widow ladies hovering around him after the meetings. He seemed to be enjoying the grieving process, made all the more pleasurable by modern medicine and a little blue pill.

Boing!

"You can work the steps by yourself, Nick," he offered being led away by a flock of sober blue haired women.

That's something you don't hear every day, I thought.

Even with that newfound knowledge, I continued to ask. The next fellow had said he would love to help me, but he was going to be moving to another state soon and it just was not practical. Oddly enough, he attends our local meetings to this day. I guess the 'move' fell through.

I considered that I was having difficulty finding a mentor because I refused to use program lingo. I simply was not going to ask anyone to be my 'sponsor'.

Then one day a fellow named Pat comes up to me after a meeting.

"Would you like me to help you work the steps?" he asked.

This must be god intervening in my life. Finally! I thought for one brief second. Pat had used the exact same words that I had been using, 'help me work the steps'. Indeed, this was powerful stuff.

I looked him over. I had seen him around. I wondered if he were an emissary sent by god. That minute was all that I needed to return to my senses. I had heard Pat talk at meetings. He used very colorful language. While I did not know much, I was pretty sure that god's emissary would not cuss.

"Let me think about it," I said.

I did think about it and decided to give Pat a try. I realized that he had heard me talk about wanting help with the steps at a meeting and that is why he used those exact words. That mystery solved, I gave Pat a call and we decided to meet at a local coffee house to talk. Pat did most of the talking.

While we sat there in the crowded restaurant, I sipped a soda. I had not taken up the ritualistic coffee drinking that most fellowship people seem to enjoy. Pat sat across from me holding a jumbo sized container of some crappo, frappo, latte concoction, as he went on and on about his drinking days. He had recently moved here from California, sober twenty-five years, he was retiring to North Carolina. He had a sponsee in California that had died about six months ago.

That was all very sad.

I was beginning to feel sorry for Pat, although I really was not certain just exactly what any of this had to do with me. I was just curious about the steps, and wanted someone to go through them with me. I suppose I was looking for a spiritual advisor of sorts.

"Hi, Nick," I heard a loud familiar twangy female voice from behind me.

I watched Pat as he stared up and over my shoulder. His eyeballs popped out of their sockets extending forward on springs, bowing slightly from the weight on the ends. The springs jiggled as the eyeballs bounced gently midair. Just like in the cartoons. Let's say his mouth opened wide and his jaw dropped, chin and lower teeth coming to a jarring stop as they banged on the tabletop. It didn't exactly happen like this, but you get the idea.

Standing behind me was Marcia Magee. I did not need to look. I had recognized the voice, and if I had not been sure from the voice, Pat's reaction was confirmation. Marcia was thirty something, a tall brown-haired woman, fairly attractive, very attractive if you asked her, and, oh yeah, she had ginormous boobs. It is a word and if it isn't it should be, at least when it came to Marcia's boobies.

At that point in time, before I really knew her, I sort of felt sorry for Marcia. Through no fault of her own, she would probably always be identified by her looks, specifically the humongous knockers. Some of the less spiritually inclined men in our fellowship, and most assuredly some not so well-endowed envious women, had nicknamed her, 'Big Titties Magee'.

"Hi Marcia," I said before turning around and starting to get out of my chair.

"Oh, don't get up, Nick. I just wanted to say, hi, y'all. It's nice to see people outside of the rooms."

'The rooms', was what I call program speak, code for a meeting.

"This is my friend, Pat," I said.

""Nice to meet you, Pat. I am Marcia."

Pat's eyeballs had returned to their sockets and his mouth had closed, but apparently, mouth and jaw were not yet functional. He just sat there mute.

"Well, I'll leave the two of you to it," she said, smiled, turned and walked away.

"Thanks for stopping," I said.

"How do you know her?" Pat asked after she was gone. It was a miracle. His ability to talk had been restored.

"She's one of us," I said concerned a little about the anonymity thing,

"The rooms?" I added using her own words.

"Right."

Pat regained his composure and continued with his story.

At the end of our talk, Pat told me, even though I had been sober over five years at the time, to reread the book, front to back. He told me to get down on my knees and pray each morning and to call him every day. Clearly, Pat had appointed himself my sponsor.

What had happened to helping me work the steps? I wondered as I left the restaurant.

I felt duped. Not only had Pat appointed himself my sponsor, he was using some formula on me, trying to fit me, the proverbial square peg into the round hole. He was not considering my personal situation at all. It was too bad his former sponsee had died, but I was not here to fill a need in Pat's life. Moreover, my potential spiritual adviser's reaction to Marcia had been, well, let's just say, wrong.

After sleeping on it, more like tossing and turning on it, I made the only decision that I thought was appropriate. The next day I called Pat, just as he told me to, and I fired him. Whenever I tell the story, I refer to him as my, twenty-four hour sponsor. It usually gets a laugh.

* * *

Harry had finally gotten through the traffic circle and we were roaring down 15-501 at forty-five miles an hour, just a few miles from the intersection of US 1. We rode in silence, not feeling it necessary to scream over the roar of the diesel engine.

After my unsuccessful period of trial and error trying to find a mentor in the fellowship, I went back to Harry Miller.

"Will you help me with the steps?" I had asked.

"Anything I can do to help."

"And Harry, just don't put any of that Christian Science stuff on me."

"You got it," Harry said smiling.

After that, Harry Miller and I became fast friends, at least for the next two years. Not once did Harry tell me to do anything. Not once did he say he was my sponsor. We talked on the phone every day, sometimes twice. I called Harry because I wanted to. Harry also called me. So when I called Harry and told him I needed a ride to pick up Debbie's car, he was there, just as I knew he would be.

"That wheel looks pretty rough," Harry said as we climbed down from the cab of his truck.

The front wheel on Debbie's little blue Toyota Yaris was mangled like a pretzel. Not the tire, the wheel, the round solid steel wheel that the rubber tire is mounted on, although technically since it was so mashed up, no longer round, I don't know if I could call it a wheel anymore. I am certainly no automotive expert, but even I could unequivocally state that this was fatal, a new wheel and tire would be needed. Officer Martin had failed to mention the un-drivable condition of the vehicle. The car wasn't going anywhere until the tire had been replaced. Harry and I were changing a tire if I was taking the car home.

"Is there a spare in this thing?" Harry asked with disdain looking at the tiny subcompact.

"I guess," I said turning the key and lifting up the hatchback. I never drove and rarely even rode in Debbie's little car.

* * *

Harry had first asked me if I was an atheist when we sat down to go over the book.

"No, I don't think so. I was brought up in church, but do not go anymore. It has been a long time. I don't really think about it much."

"That's okay, we'll figure it out as we go," Harry had said.

We were sitting on folding chairs in the clubhouse alongside one of the long tables. It was in the afternoon, between meetings, and we had the place to ourselves.

Harry opened up the book and we went right through the steps, not wasting anytime, we had soon gotten to the fifth step. It was the reason I had been looking for someone really. It required me, at some point in time, to tell another person the exact nature of my wrongs. That other person was going to be Harry Miller, the point in time was going to be that afternoon, as we sat together, by ourselves in the clubhouse on the folding chairs. Technically, I suppose that god was there as well, that is what the fifth step requires anyway. Whatever, I was just glad to be getting it over with.

I was telling Harry the stuff I had done while drinking, lying, stealing and cheating, the usual. Then Harry shared some of his colorful past, to identify, to let me know I was not alone.

"It's fun when someone is running away from you to shoot your gun up in the air. First, they start running faster like they are going to out run a bullet, then all of a sudden they start zig zagging like they just realized that running faster wasn't going to do much good. Then you shoot another one up in the air and the move even faster. Sometimes they crap themselves."

Harry chuckled.

Maybe I am not an alcoholic, I thought to myself, I've never shot at anyone or over their heads. I've never even owned a gun.

As if he could tell what I was thinking, Harry Miller looked at me from across the table. He looked me square in the eyes.

"You are in the right place, Nick."

* * *

The hot stinky air blasted us right in the face as I lifted the hatchback up, opening it all the way. We both stepped back, turning our heads away, as if being punched in the face, a glancing blow of hot pungent disgusting air. The smell of stale cigarettes was the strongest, followed by the strong stench of stale beer and the barely discernable sweet fruity odor of wine cooler. The final smell, the piece de resistance, if you will, was the milk. The gallon jug of milk was visible in the front between the seats, turned over on the console, between the seats, by the parking brake. Spilled out mostly, but about a quarter left in the open plastic container, sitting overnight and then in the already summerlike morning sun.

The sour smell of the curdling milk, cigarette smoke and stale alcohol was going to make this job much more unpleasant than Officer Martin had indicated. I looked at Harry.

"Let's get started," he said.

I was going to owe him after this. I figured he could put in on my tab.

I reached in and pulled up the carpet covered cardboard covering in the storage area revealing the spare. I pulled out the tiny never-used jack, still rolled up tightly, the handle attached by a big sturdy rubber band stretched over everything.

I got started. First getting the jack apart, finding the notch on the car's undercarriage and then cranking it up to the right height. After getting the tiny spare on and lowering the car back down, it was obvious the spare was underinflated, flattening some on the bottom as I took the jack away.

"We'll fill it over at Smith Brothers," Harry said nodding down US 1.

I had never been to Smith Brothers, it was a tire shop and service center, locally owned, the kind of place Harry would go and talk to the boys all day long. I had always gone to the dealer a half mile down. I preferred the higher prices and impersonal touch.

"Sure," I said, "Smith Brothers it is."

"You really need to keep an eye on something like this, partner. It's easy enough to check tire pressure once in a while, even in a spare."

Harry had called me, partner. That meant the tire pressure was serious. He called me 'bud' when we were just talking, 'partner' meant pay attention.

"You are right, Harry. You are right. I'll keep a better eye on it from now on." Although, I really did not give a shit about keeping track of tire pressure sometime in the uncertain future.

"Awful lucky though, looks like just enough air to make it down to Smith Brothers," Harry said.

That may have been so, but I certainly did not feel very lucky at the moment as I dumped the garbage from Debbie's car into the dumpster. I had the foresight to bring a garbage bag with me from the house. As I held it up, ready to drop it in the open top of the green metal industrial sized trashcan, a mixture of warm stale beer, spoiled milk and cigarette ashes rolled down my arm.

"Yeah, lucky," I said.

Harry crawled in his truck as I cranked up the Yaris. He followed me down the road to the service station. I saw him, close behind me, through the rear view mirror; actually, all that I saw was the grill of the jumbo pick up. I could not see Harry sitting high up in the driver's seat of the monster truck, but I knew he was with me, sober twenty-five years, I imagined he had about seen it all.

I gave the guy at Smith Brothers five bucks to put a little air in the spare because I knew Harry was watching. The guy smiled and nodded. Harry would have given him ten, he had taught me always to treat people right. It was a pretty simple philosophy.

"Follow me to the traffic circle?" I asked when we were done.

"No problem, bud," Harry said.

Debbie's car was handling fine with the little spare all pumped up now. I waved to Harry who was following me. Gave him a thumb up, so he could head east toward his house, I would be all right the rest of the way. Harry flashed his headlights and bore to the right, as I continued around the circle and went north.

* * *

It was funny, and I do not want to get ahead of myself, but I only spoke to Harry a few more times after that. About a month later, I was going to something new, a Buddhist lecture and meditation. I went with a friend who also struggled a bit with the whole god thing. I had always been curious and liked what I had read about the Buddha.

When I called Harry and told him where I was going that Sunday afternoon, he got quiet, real quiet, on the other end of the line. That was very unusual for Harry.

"Where does this Buddha get his information from?" Harry finally asked.

That really took me by surprise. Harry sounded suspicious, hurt and maybe a little angry, disappointed. And what an odd question.

"I am not sure, Harry, from within?" I ventured, 'I'm just going to check it out."

"You've really thrown me with this, partner."

Uh-oh, partner.

"Aw c'mon, Harry, a billion Buddhists can't be wrong," I said trying to lighten things up.

There was another pause. More silence from Harry.

"How many people were on the ark?" he finally said.

What the crap?

I did not follow his logic and honestly, I did not know the answer. I mean there was Noah and his wife, three sons (?), wives, kids I presumed. I knew there were supposedly two of every animal, but he had not asked me that. Anyway, I told Harry good-bye and later that day went to the meditation with my friend. I really liked it.

Twice that night I called Harry, twice straight to voicemail. That rarely happened and he never called back. The next day the same thing. This was odd. Harry always called back. I jumped to the conclusion that Harry did not want anything to do with me anymore. Obviously, investigating the Buddha somehow made me complicit with Satan. I never really knew all of Harry's beliefs, but I knew he was careful about who he associated with. I figured Harry and I were done.

I ran into Harry after a meeting sometime later and trying to be funny said something to him. All of a sudden, he got animated, poking his finger in my chest.

He was 'having words' with me. I didn't back off, due to his age, I wasn't too concerned about a fist fight, but I did stand between him and where his truck was parked. I did not want him to get his pistol from under the driver's seat and send me zig zagging through the parking lot.

Tears welled up in my eyes. We were both hurt. Harry backed off.

"You didn't answer your phone after I went to the Buddhist thing," I said.

"I don't care nothing about that. You stopped calling me."

It had all just been a misunderstanding. Harry said he never got my messages or saw that I had called. I believed him. The thing was though, that we were both so ready just to assume the worst about each other. We tried talking; phoning each other a few times again, but things were just never the same.

We pretty much had gone our separate ways, after that.

* * *

I arrived home and parked Debbie's car under the carport. I went in through the garage and opened the kitchen door to the usual canine greeting. You have to love dogs. Everything was normal in their world. I opened the back door and they were off running barking and chasing whatever nearby squirrel or bird happened to be in their territory. It was as if it was the first time they had ever seen the backyard.

I noticed the clock over the stovetop. It was 1:08 in the afternoon. It had not even been twelve full hours since I had taken Officer Martin's call. I was relieved that it was not 1:12, exactly twelve hours. Then I would have to start considering an act of providence or divine intervention, like so many of my religiously inclined brethren in the fellowship do. You know, twelve steps, twelve traditions, twelve apostles, and exactly twelve hours...What did it all mean?

Thank goodness, it was only, 1:08. All it meant was that I had already gotten a lot done and the day was not yet half over.

* * *

Dr. Barnett ended the session there. I heard her voice gently calling my name. I kept my eyes closed, then swung my feet to the floor while sitting up. Slowly, I opened my eyes.

"Harry Miller." she said, "Have you considered why you chose him as your mentor?"

"At first, I was curious about him never staying for the prayer. I liked that. I do not stay for it to this day. I want new people to know that praying is not a requirement for sobriety. And he was funny. He saw things in his own way. It was refreshing. He always made me laugh."

"Anything else?"

"Well now I see it. Deep down, Harry was insecure. He was an uneducated, septic tank guy. Even though he was smart, common sense smart, and had done well in business, he never felt like he was good enough. Many of the old-timers were country club types. They were retired with fancy houses, nice cars and golf, how they loved their golf. Harry didn't fit in."

"So you had something in common with Harry."

"Yeah, birds of a feather, I guess."

"Do you think he was a good influence or a bad one?"

"Overall, good. He told it as he saw it. Lots of folks just say what they think others want to hear. Not Harry," I said as I finished lacing my shoes.

"Eventually, you were always going to go your separate ways."

"Too much insecurity in one place?"

"At first you were attracted to each other, but when two people rely on each other and they start leaning the same way."

"They fall," I finished her sentence.

"When you eventually broke away from Harry, you were learning to stand on your own two feet."

"So Harry did help me."

"Absolutely. And I am sure that you helped him."

"I never did get a sponsor."

"The way you've described it, that is probably a good thing."

I just nodded. It was good to be validated. There is a lot of pressure to conform in the rooms. Some think that sponsorship is essential.

"How did it make you feel when Deborah told you about Mother's Day?"

"I was angry. I mean how could her own sister treat her like that?"

"It is a lopsided family dynamic. Unfortunately, it is not that unusual."

"I will probably never really understand, not having a brother or sister, myself, but damn, how nasty can family be to each other?"

"It can get pretty bad, Nick."

"I never should have said anything about the house, you know, to Debbie, when The Evil One bought it for Rebecca."

"Do not go there," Dr. Barnett said sternly, pointing her finger at me for emphasis.

I just looked at her, feeling guilty.

"This was always going to play out badly, Nick, with or without you. With Warren out of the picture, the family was different, unbalanced; things were bound to get worse before they got better."

I sat on the edge of the couch just staring at the floor. Dr. Barnett's words were comforting. But still, if I had not said anything, I thought.

"Nick, you are as much a victim in all of this as Deborah. Just remember, this family dysfunction put Deborah on a collision course with her sister, regardless of your input. From what you have said so far, you are handling things very well."

I nodded as I stood up.

"Good job," Dr. Barnett said looking me straight in the eye, extending her hand.

I took her firm handshake and smiled.

"Thanks. I do feel better," I said and I meant it.

"Good session, Nick."
SESSION FOUR

FOLLOW THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

I had fulfilled my obligation to Officer Martin. Debbie's car was home. It had a broken fog lamp; there were pieces of heavy black plastic ripped off from the undercarriage, and several scratches and dings, not to mention the remains of the pretzel-like wheel in the back. It looked like I would be returning to Smith Brothers, but not today. I could worry about Debbie's car another time.

Later, after letting the dogs back in, I took a shower and changed for the gym. I went for my workout as was my habit and without really realizing it, I worked out extra hard, really sweating, getting out the tension, I suppose, working out frustrations for what I did not understand.

The gym was affiliated with First Regional and I was right across the street from the hospital. When I was done, I just left the car parked where it was and walked across the street. I would go over and see how Debbie was doing. She had been moved to intensive care as expected where they would continue to monitor her liver function for the next twenty-four hours. I had been told it was precautionary, for all intents and purposes, if something was going to go wrong, it would have by now.

Debbie seemed in better spirits when I saw her. She was working on some red Jell-O and engaged in The Wheel of Fortune. I spoke briefly with a nurse who confirmed the prognosis, full recovery expected, at least physically. Tomorrow, Debbie would be moved to the psych ward.

I did not stay for very long. Debbie was in good hands. When I told her I wanted to go to a meeting that night, she understood.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I said.

She nodded and smiled then got back to Wheel.

I went straight home to veg out in front of the television. I just wanted to be alone, the dogs and me. I was not ready to share at a meeting quite yet.

"I am Nick, and I am an alcoholic."

"Hi, Nick."

"Usually, Debbie, my wife, is here with me. A funny thing happened last night, attempted suicide. Boy, some people will do anything to get out of going to a meeting."

Pause for spontaneous laughter.

No too soon. I was not ready to talk about what had happened at a meeting.

It was actually a relief that night, to know that Debbie was safe and secure in the ICU. Nothing to disturb me. No phone calls from the police, no snoring, no Debbie falling asleep in front of the TV leaving me to wonder if she was passed out or just tired. I could actually relax and get a good night's sleep. That is, if Marley did not hog the bed.

The next morning after the gym, I went over to the hospital. Debbie had been moved to the psych ward sooner than expected. Her liver was fine and a bed had opened up. Because of the suicide attempt, she would spend at least a mandatory forty-eight hours in psych.

Visiting hours were restricted on the unit, 6pm to 7pm, so I had the day to myself.

What to do? What to do?

I decided to go to the meeting at noon. It was our regular meeting, where we both knew the most people. I still was not ready, or willing, to share about what had happened. It would actually be somewhat tricky, trying to share about what I was going through, without putting all of Debbie's business out there. I did talk to a couple of people after the meeting, though.

First, I went up to Nancy who was in the kitchen drinking coffee. Nancy, well regarded in the fellowship, had been Debbie's first sponsor. She was a little shocked when I told her. But she told me to take care of myself that things would work out. It felt good to let someone in on what was happening and I was glad to have Nancy's support.

I then spoke with Sylvia. Just about everyone had cleared out and we sat at one of the tables close to where Harry Miller and I had sat to go over the steps. We talked for about thirty minutes. It felt good to unload.

* * *

I had first noticed Sylvia about a year ago when she showed up at our meeting, although she had previous exposure to the fellowship as most of us do when we finally decide to stick around. She was a small lady with short blonde hair, older by at least ten years, and she always seemed to wear black clothes, as if in permanent mourning over something. At first, she sat in the back, in the rows of chairs, the peanut gallery. It is where most of us sit at first. Gradually, she moved up to the tables and began to talk. It is often like that.

Several months ago, everyone was standing around after the meeting, talking, socializing, doing what we do, when I noticed Sylvia, standing alone, sobbing. I went over to her.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm a mess, Nick."

She looked up at me, a desperate look, a look of isolation, tears flowing freely.

I bent over and carefully hugged her.

"We know, we know."

That got a little giggle. I did not disagree with her. If we had not made a mess of things, if we were not a mess, we would not be here. A recovery fellowship is pretty much the last house on the block.

"Everything is going to work out. One day at a time," I said. The sayings may seem cliché, but they work. Sometimes, most of the times, we have to keep it that simple, by the way, another saying, Keep It Simple.

Debbie had come over and we all talked for a while, until finally, Sylvia appeared to be feeling better. She had just been feeling restless, irritable, discontent and sad. She did not know why. It helps to talk with people who understand.

About a week or so after that talk, Sylvia sought me out after a noon meeting.

"Nick," she said, smiling today, a pleasant slightly quizzical look on her face. It was the look of someone about to ask for something.

"I'm having cataract surgery next week," she started.

I knew immediately what she wanted. With some relief, I stopped her, this was not any big deal.

"You need a ride?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Could you?"

"Just let me clear it with Debbie."

"Sure, you can borrow him," Debbie had said, "just bring him back when you are done."

It was a bit surprising that she had asked. We just knew her from the meetings and had only talked that one time we had consoled her when she was crying. I took it as a compliment that she had asked besides I was always the one talking about fellowship and treating other people right. It was sort of my thing. I liked keeping it real and steered clear of all the god stuff. I also realized that Sylvia must really be alone, a little needy.

I had not thought of it at first, but they do cataract surgery early. I hid my shock well; at least I think I did, when she told me she had to be at the clinic at five thirty a.m.

"No problem, I'll set my alarm clock to four and call you when I get up. If you don't hear from me by four fifteen, you call me. That way we'll both be sure to be awake."

Sylvia seemed pleased with the arrangement. And that was what was important, besides I could sleep anytime.

"Thanks so much, Nick. This would have been so much more complicated if I had one of my nieces take me," she said.

Holy crap! You have family here? I thought, Nieces? Plural?

But I said nothing, just nodded and smiled, I reminded myself that it was a compliment that she had asked me.

"Thank you, Nick, we'll talk later."

"Okay," I said.

They say in our fellowship, men with men and women with women. Duh, really? Sometimes the obvious has to be stated so that complications are avoided. We are generally people who will bend the rules, take advantage of a situation, and look for the path of least resistance, if you will. We like to feel good.

That is basically, why we ended up here. I heard an actor in a sitcom say that if you put men and women together in a church basement on folding chairs, it will not be long before they are mounting each other. It was a joke, but true, hence the saying men with men, women with women.

I never mounted Sylvia. Never even thought about it. She was older; not necessarily an obstacle, Mrs. Robinson, but it was just not an issue. I'll admit I was lonely much of the time with Debbie in 'La La' land on the Xanax and beer. However, with Sylvia it was more of an intellectual connection. She just became a friend for a while, someone to talk to and someone to laugh with mainly about fellow travelers in the fellowship. But we really aren't supposed to do that.

Love and tolerance is our code. We don't judge. Yeah, right.

Finally, the morning of the cataract surgery arrived and all went as planned with the alarm clock and phone call. We arrived in plenty of time and of course, sat and waited before going in. I accompanied her for the initial interview, a Q&A with a nurse, making sure everyone knew who was who and what was going on, a malpractice requirement no doubt. It was then that I learned Sylvia's age, sixty-eight, and also where I first got a good indication of her sense of humor.

After the interview we were ushered back to reception to wait some more.

"Good luck," the nurse said, a valiant effort at sincerity.

Sylvia looked at me very seriously. We were now seated. Then she began to laugh. Little girl giggles at first, then a boisterous chuckle. I got it and started laughing myself.

The nurse just stood there, not understanding.

"Good luck?" Sylvia said, laughter subsiding.

"It's just what I say. I don't know what else to say," the poor girl said, defensively.

"It's alright, dear, you've made me feel better," Sylvia said.

The nurse, still confused, went back in her office.

"You know," I said leaning over, almost whispering, "I saw a picture of your doctor back there." I nodded toward the interview area, "I think I saw him at the meeting last week picking up a beginner's token."

She looked at me quizzically.

"Good luck," I said.

We both laughed again. It was good for both of us - The mental picture of a newly sober doctor, shaky hands wielding a powerful laser to cut away the cataract in Sylvia's eye, perhaps not so funny to some people. However, our senses of humor seemed to sync up, maybe we both needed to relieve some stress, but for very different reasons.

So Sylvia was becoming a friend, someone to talk to. Most of the time Debbie was unavailable, always driving her own little car, hiding her drinking, taking her Xanax, often passing out early in front of the TV in the evenings. I would sit there pretending things were normal, night after night, watching Netflix with my wife, all by myself.

Sylvia filled a void, and later I realized I was filling an empty spot in her life. She had many problems that I was unaware of at the time. We were the proverbial two ships passing in the night, offering each other a little, much needed support.

* * *

After the meeting that day, I told Sylvia how Debbie had ended up in the emergency room, about her sister, about picking up the car with Harry Miller.

When we were done talking, she told me I would get through this.

"Take care of yourself, Nick," she said as we left the building.

Nancy had told me the same thing before the meeting. The parking lot was empty except for our two cars.

"Thanks," I said, "we'll talk later."

When I got home, I let the dogs out and did busy work, ran the dishwasher, made the bed, filled the water dishes. When I was done, I sat in my easy chair and closing my eyes, I got comfortable. I began counting my breaths. It was how I meditated, one-one, two-two, inhale-exhale, up to ten and then back down to one. It was something I had started doing while in the fellowship. I just liked to calm my mind and relax, if my mind wandered and I lost count, it was okay. I would just start over. I think I fell asleep. By the time, I opened my eyes it was time to go.

I arrived at the hospital about five-thirty for my first visit to the psych ward. I was envisioning Jack Nicholson's character from 'One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest' as I walked into the entrance to the hospital.

* * *

Honestly, I cannot say I am not entirely unfamiliar with places of confinement, whether voluntary or involuntary, I have been through three twenty-eight day treatment programs for alcohol and drug dependence. That is correct, I said three. It was in the good old days before the insurance companies had figured out the retread pattern of people such as myself.

Granted I was going to the psych ward, a little different from rehab, but I would not call any of my twenty-eight day programs a hot bed of mental health. I recalled standing in the dinner line at rehab number one. I had been admitted early that day and was not feeling hungry. I had told them I had no intention of eating the mound of spaghetti that was unceremoniously dumped on my plate. They said dinner was not an option. We dine as a community.

It takes a village, I thought, how quaint.

Well I did not exactly see how, being forced to eat with my fellow inmates that I had only met that very morning, was going to help me get over the case of the shakes I was getting since my arrival at the Inn. We were not in a hospital. Oddly enough, we were in a village, our rehab facility was an old converted hotel, where addicts and such were sent to convalesce and take the cure. It was cute that they called it an Inn. We could all pretend we were there on a little vacation, a wonderful month long holiday and in just twenty-eight days, everything would be all right.

When I got to the end of the service line, the mandatory plateful of spaghetti in my hand, I stepped immediately over to the return line and tilted my plate over the trash receptacle and watched as the sauce covered noodles slid unceremoniously into the garbage.

"Someone else may have wanted that," one of the servers/guards barked at me.

"I told you I wasn't hungry," I said.

Just then, an older woman, one of the female patients, wearing a full-length lacy nightgown over flannel pajamas, passed dramatically through the dining room. Her head held high as the gown flowing behind her.

"It is time for bed," she enunciated clearly from the diaphragm in a resonant voice obviously developed through formal training.

By the time she had made her third pass through the dining area, my transgression with the spaghetti had been completely forgotten as both staff and patients watched the performance in captivated silence.

"It is time for bed," she announced again on the fourth pass when I noticed one of the medical staff who had admitted me just hours earlier approaching her with a syringe. No doubt filled with some sort of sedative, to incapacitate our harmless performer.

"Good night," I said loudly before the syringe-toting staffer had reached her.

She paused and turned my way, not acknowledging me really, her head still tilted upward in dramatic fashion.

"Good night," she said with finality as she exited stage left toward the women's dormitories mercifully avoiding the disappointed fellow wielding the syringe.

* * *

I would be fine visiting Debbie on the psych unit. It was not exactly my first trip to the circus. I'd fit right in.

"I'm looking for three west," I said to the pink lady sitting behind the information desk.

"Oh," she said in a judgmental whisper.

She lowered her voice and spoke slowly as she gave me directions. I had not attached any stigma to my visit, until now that is. I mean, I wasn't some poor fellow here to identify the bodies of my family as the chief pathologist slowly unzipped the body bags. I hadn't said, 'Morgue, please.' People in psych are sick, just like anyone else in the hospital.

I didn't really have the time or the energy to get a resentment against the pink lady, let alone get into it with her. I just got my directions.

"Thank you," I said when she was through.

In order to get where I was going, I had to follow the yellow brick road. Well not really, but that is what I thought it was akin to, when she told me to follow the yellow line on the ceiling. There were several other colored lines painted on the ceiling to guide visitors. It was fortunate that at least the folks who worked at the hospital knew where they were going. They could simply look straight ahead and manage to avoid those of us walking along, looking up.

I followed the yellow line successfully, except for one junction of hallways where it simply seemed to stop, but after surveying the ceilings carefully, I caught sight of the yellow down an adjacent hallway and continued my trek. Finally, I emerged at two elevators; the sign simply said 'Three West.' I mashed the up button, the elevator to my right opened. I got on and rode up to the third floor.

Getting out, I looked around. Everything was sterile and barren, deserted. Amplified by the silence, the high-pitched ding of the elevator sounded loudly as the door closed behind me.

I stood alone in the empty hallway, a plastic grocery bag in my hand. Debbie had left me a message on the answering machine. I had brought a pair of sneakers, some underwear, toothbrush and toothpaste.

There was a button on the wall just under a speaker, an intercom probably. It was not yet six o'clock. I had made good time on my journey through the hospital corridors. I figured I was supposed to push the button.

It was very different here. There was no surly receptionist, no buzz of doctors and nurses scurrying about and no condescending pink lady. There was no one to greet me. I stood alone. Nothing here except for a lone button on the wall.

"I have a feeling I am not in Kansas anymore," I said aloud as I meekly pushed the button. I tried not to push it too hard. I did not want it to piss anyone off. I just wanted, quietly and politely, to let someone on the inside know that I was here. I heard a loud intrusive buzz all the way from the other end of the hallway and through the glass windowed door. So much for quietly announcing my arrival.

"Yes, may I help you?" a not entirely unpleasant voice came though the speaker.

There was another smaller button, labeled 'talk' affixed on the same panel as the speaker. I held it down.

"I am here to see my wife, Deborah Jimbanis...for the first time," I said.

When I let go of the button, I immediately wished that I had said it differently. It sounded like it would be the first time I had ever seen my wife, like an arranged marriage or maybe I was about to meet my mail order bride. I meant to say it was my first time visiting at the psych ward. I guess I was nervous, maybe a little scared.

"Someone will be out at six," the voice on the other end did not care whether or not I was seeing my wife for the first time or not.

I pushed the 'talk' button again.

"Thanks," I said.

Through the thick glass, a wire mesh embedded within for security I could see part of the nurses station at the end of the hall. The heavy reinforced glass was a subtle reminder that this was hospital jail.

There was a regular door nearby, across from the elevators. I tried the handle and the door opened easily. Inside I saw some light blue cushioned chairs, two tables with magazines haphazardly lying about and a flat screen TV hanging on the wall. It was off. Directly across the room was a large plate glass window with a good view of the outside world, blue skies and treetops, freedom.

I was a little startled to find a man sitting in a cushioned chair against the wall to my right as I swung the door open fully. He sat quietly staring at the blank screen. He appeared to be a little older than I was. Although I have noticed that I think just about everyone is older. It may be some sort of prolonged immaturity brought on by never having been a parent or some sort of self-image based primarily on wishful thinking. I have a fairly flat belly, all of my hair and my own teeth. It was probably a much simpler concept, such as I had never really grown up.

He noticed me about the same time that I saw him. He nodded soberly at me. I nodded back.

"Someone will be along in a few minutes," he said.

I walked into the room, letting the door swing closed quietly behind me. I sat in one of the chairs opposite him, almost directly under the TV. I set my bag on top of the magazines on the table beside me.

"I did not realize we could bring food," I said looking at a bag of McDonald's setting next to him.

"Oh sure," he said, "My wife enjoys this greasy stuff. It gives her something to look forward to."

"How long has she been in here?" I asked, opting not to ask what she was in for.

"She has been in here a month now. But she gets out tomorrow."

"Oh, good for her," I said, not really knowing whether it was good or not, maybe he liked her being in here.

"Yeah, it is good," he said, "the doctor had her on the wrong medicine and it has taken them a month to wean her off it."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," I said, "who's her doctor?"

"David, Dr. David," he said.

"Small world," I said, making a mental note about Dr. David.

I decided not to pursue this topic of conversation any further with this kindred spirit. We were just two ships passing in the night. Sounds better than two terrified and lonely husbands passing in the psych ward. Looking out the window, I could see a parking lot.

"Can you park out there?"

"Sure," he said, "we're right off Page road. Park at the outpatient clinic, come inside and take the elevator up to three and you are right here."

"That's good to know. I parked over by the emergency room and came in the main entrance. I must have walked a mile."

I quickly calculated in my head that my new friend had just saved me about sixty miles of walking through hospital corridors if Debbie were to end up being here for a month. However, I was hopeful that it would be less, only a few miles saved.

I heard some activity in the hallway.

"Someone is out there."

"Must be six o'clock," the man said.

He looked at his watch and stood up. His demeanor had changed. He was smiling, not somber anymore; he had a bounce in his step as he approached the door, McDonald's bag in hand. He was excited to see his wife, probably happy it was his last night visiting.

I followed him out into the hallway. I was excited, curious, apprehensive, hell I don't know. I just followed.

There was a small African American man dressed in street clothes setting up shop in the hallway in front of the locked door. He had a small table and was in the process of setting up a folding chair when we came out. He put a wooden box on the table and sat down in the chair. He had a laminated employee ID pinned to the front pocket of his buttoned down shirt.

"Good evening, Tom," he said as he opened the wooden box.

"Gary," my waiting room friend replied with a quick nod.

"Burgers and fries?" the man asked glancing at the grease spotted white bag.

"Yeah, the usual."

I watched as Tom recited his wife's three digit patient code. When that was done, the man gave him a visitor pass and signaled the nurses' station to buzz him in.

"She should be getting out soon?" Gary asked as Tom opened the unlocked door.

"Tomorrow."

"Good luck, Tom."

Good luck, reminded me of the young nurse at the eye doctor's office who had said that to Sylvia before the cataract surgery. In this case, 'good luck' seemed appropriate.

I was the only other visitor, so I stepped up to the small table as the door swung closed, quickly, behind Tom. He disappeared down the corridor within.

"Seven zero two," I recited Debbie's patient code. She had left it on the answering machine when she called. I had jotted it down and left it in the kitchen, thinking that I would need it for phone calls. Fortunately, once I write something down I usually remember it.

"Deborah Jimbanis?" the small man asked looking up at me.

"Yes, she is my wife."

"What's in the bag?"

I held open the crumpled plastic bag, as I had seen Tom do with the Mc Donald's bag.

"Toothbrush and some clothes," I said.

He looked in.

"Oh no, these have to stay here," he said reaching in and pulling out the women's size eight athletic shoes.

I looked at him, scrunching up my face in confusion, but he spoke again before I could protest.

"The laces, you can't take laces in. People can hurt themselves with laces. You can leave the shoes with me and get them when you go, or we can take the laces out and you can leave those with me."

Debbie would need shoes. The ones she had worn the night of the accident had been soaked in stinky milk and tossed out when she was in the emergency room. I took one of the shoes and began removing the lace. This way at least Debbie would know I had tried and if she needed to she could flop around in the lace less shoes. Gary must have felt sorry for me. He started working on the other shoe.

When we were done, he held out the shoe. I put mine in the bag and held it open. He dropped his shoe in, as I handed him the lace. He wrote something in his notebook and then handed me a pass. The word 'visitor' was printed on it.

"Wear it here," he said holding his hand up to his chest.

The back was sticky, no sharp pin.

"Okay," Gary said into the intercom as he held down the button.

There was a buzzing sound. Gary nodded at me and I opened the door and went in. It closed quickly behind me, unlike the other doors throughout the hospital that swung closed slowly and gently. No one was going to make a break for it here. They had thought of everything.

As I walked down the corridor toward the nurses' station, a familiar short balding figure strode toward me, his short legs working hard. He was in a hurry.

Dr. David in his tailor made dark suit was heading right at me. He moved as fast as he could taking two steps for every one of a normal sized person. He carried some sort of clipboard under one arm, as he got close, I stopped walking, and looked at him. I wanted some news, some good news. He looked up, sensing an impending collision. Our eyes met; there was no hint of recognition from him. He quickly looked away and angled closer to his side of the hallway. His tiny legs moved even quicker.

He walked right past me, ignoring me; only turning back briefly to look passed me, glaring at the nurse manning the buzzer. He had to wait a nano second, before she buzzed him out.

As I approached the nurses' station, one of the women looked up, checked my visitor's badge and resumed looking at the computer screen. The male, dressed in scrubs, sitting next to her did not bother to look up from his book.

I turned to my right. There was a large open room. It appeared to be a combination dining hall, television room and aforementioned nurses' station. It was like visiting someone who had just moved into a one-room apartment. They would offer you the tour then simply wave their arm and say, 'this is it.'

To my left was a single chair and doctor's scale. In front of me was the dining area with a half dozen tables, each surrounded by four uncomfortable looking folding chairs, beyond that a large console television in an attached open room with a vinyl couch and some easy chairs. Several 'guests' were sitting there in bathrobes, various forms of casual attire or hospital gowns.

Debbie seated at one of the tables, hopped up and came quickly toward me when she saw me standing there. She was all smiles as she approached me, holding out her arms and giving me a big hug. Looking past her as we embraced, I saw Tom and his wife whispering back and forth excitedly like two children about to embark on a secret adventure. Tom was the only other visitor.

Our hug ended. Debbie stepped back, nodding at one of the tables that apparently doubled as dining and game table from the salt and peppershakers, decks of cards and checkerboards scattered about. We headed for the table furthest from Tom and his wife.

"They took your laces," I said as we sat down. I took the pair of lace less floppy rubber soled shoes from the bag and held them up.

Debbie wore a loose fitting hospital gown. It was open at the neck, with the shortest of tie strings on either side to cinch up the top. She took hold of the end of the string on the right and pulled it straight up as far as it would go while closing her eyes and tilting her head to the left.

"We wouldn't want anyone to get any ideas," she said, "I should have told you to bring my slip-ons."

Quickly, I looked around, particularly back at the nurses' station, making sure no one had seen the hanging motion Debbie had made.

"Relax," she said, "you have to have a sense of humor in here."

I smiled. It appeared that no one had noticed and if anyone had, they did not care.

"I passed Dr. David in the hallway."

"He's a peach," Debbie said sarcastically, her face turning serious.

"Anything wrong?"

She just looked at me perplexed.

"Sorry, anything else wrong? With Dr. David, I mean."

"I made him look bad and he was pissed. Suicide attempts go on his permanent record."

"His permanent record?" I asked.

"Whatever. His doctor record. A patient trying to off themselves isn't exactly a ringing endorsement for a shrink."

"So he takes it out on you? He shouldn't do that."

"He's a tough one," she said.

I made another mental note to see what else I could find out about Dr. David. Something seemed off about him.

* * *

"Nick," Dr. Barnett said gently, bringing me back to reality.

"It's been an hour?" I asked.

"It has, we can start here next time."

It was a good place to stop.

"The psych ward is a lonely place. Many times families just give up when a mental illness is diagnosed. It carries a stigma and often relatives, even close relatives, do not know how to handle it. Denial shows up and the patient is left alone, discarded."

"I guess I could identify. It is not that different with alcoholism."

"Deborah is lucky to have you," she said.

"Thanks," I said half-heartedly.

"Seriously, Nick, your support was critical in this situation. Deborah needed to know that you were there for her."

"Some folks in the fellowship would say that god doesn't give you more than you can handle."

"What do you think about that, Nick?"

"I think that some folks in the fellowship need a reality check. You just do what you can with the cards you are dealt. Sometimes you have pocket aces, other times you have deuce seven."

"It is odd that Deborah's doctor took her suicide attempt personally. It is not very professional."

"No, I didn't think so. He acted as if he did not recognize me in the hallway, either. I suppose he had a lot on his mind."

"Nonetheless, common courtesy goes a long way."

"At least he had taken her off of the Xanax."

"Xanax is usually prescribed for anxiety, panic attacks or sleep disorders. I do not understand exactly why he would have put her on it in the first place for bipolar disorder."

"At this point, I was just happy she was off of it. I was sure it was making it impossible for her to stop drinking. I really wanted us to both be sober."

"Of course you did. Getting sober is definitely something positive to focus on."

"It wasn't easy with me not drinking and watching Debbie go downhill."

"So maybe some good is going to come out of all of this?"

"I'm just getting started, Doc."

I stood up and shook her hand.

"Next time," I said.
SESSION FIVE

LIVE NUDE GIRLS

"How's the lithium?" I asked.

"Okay," I guess, "it actually takes a while to kick in."

"How long since you've been on it?"

"I don't know exactly, five or six years," Debbie answered.

I had been at my second twenty-eight day treatment program in a hospital in Florida. Debbie had come to a family session. We sat around in a circle and shared the typical touchy feely, psychobabble stuff that gets us in touch with our feelings. I thought, of course, that it was about me and my drinking, but afterward one of the counsellors took us aside and suggested that once I was out, maybe Debbie should see someone. She sometimes reversed her words or spoke quickly. She had always talked about her racing mind. So once my second twenty-eight day cure was over, we set out to fix Debbie.

That first psychiatrist asked Debbie some questions from a list.

"Do you ever shop uncontrollably? You bought six roles of gift-wrap for one small present? Manic!'

'Do you feel bad sometimes? You do? Aha, depressive!'

It had not taken long for the manic depressive or bipolar diagnosis to be attached to Debbie. Looking back, I think 'bipolar' was trendy at the time, like being from a dysfunctional family or being a spiritual, rather than a religious person. These things start out very real and meaningful, but quickly become diluted. Everyone catches on and starts using the terms. I can see why doctors liked bipolar. Talk about covering your ass. Who didn't get depressed or a little hyperactive at times?

The truth was that Debbie's mental problems had not manifested themselves at the time. I had stopped drinking again and that is why our lives got better. The minimal dose of lithium was doing Debbie no harm and it probably had some sort of placebo effect on her. Being bipolar gave her some sort of identity, a sense of being someone. I know that is how I first felt when it was suggested to me that I was an alcoholic.

When I was twenty-four and in my first rehab, the one where I did not want the spaghetti, they told me I was an alcoholic. I had been bouncing around from law school to law school over the years since graduating early from college; usually I just told people that I was in law school. But after about five years and only three semesters of accumulated law school credits, even I was not buying it. So when I was informed that I was an alcoholic, it opened a whole new world of opportunity to me.

I liked the label alcoholic. Instantly, I was somebody. I did not have to await graduation Being alcoholic defined me. Oddly, I have not run across many others who feel that way about it. I remember calling my friends from that rehab when I finally got phone privileges.

"I am an alcoholic," I would proudly tell them.

"That explains a lot," was their overwhelmingly response.

I think it was like that for Debbie. Being diagnosed bipolar gave her identity and it explained a lot. It was an explanation that she could live with.

"So, you will be okay on the lithium?" I asked as we sat there in the psych ward.

"I don't see why not."

I had never heard anyone call lithium a 'pill form of alcohol.' I was just pleased that she was off the Xanax.

"We had a group therapy session today. I talked about what happened. Sorry about that, by the way."

I suppose I could not expect much more from her.

When I had sat down with Harry Miller and the twelve steps, I had decided the only one that I owed an amend to, beside myself, was Debbie. Harry agreed.

One day in the car on the way to Walmart. I asked her if she remembered all of my blackouts, the dui in Florida and the twenty-eight day rehabs. She remembered.

"Well, sorry about that," I had said.

Step nine, check.

I suppose it had been a defense mechanism when I was so casual in saying, 'well sorry about that.' I thought that I was being funny. Humor, after all, had always been my default position when things got too real.

What I had meant to say was, 'I am truly sorry for the way I behaved when I drank. You deserved much better. Just saying, 'I'm sorry', will never be enough. One day at a time, I intend to stay sober and never behave like that again. I will amend my behavior and from this day forward strive to be a good friend and dependable husband. Please give me the opportunity to show you that I can change.'

But instead, I had said, "well, sorry about that."

So, I do not know whether or not it was intentional when Debbie had said those exact same words to me. Either way, it was okay. I could not exactly put on a holier than thou act. All that we could do was to pick up the pieces and just go on.

"You just get better," I said.

"I talked about my mother and sister today. Everyone told me to let that go."

"Sounds like a good idea."

"We talked about communication, too. You know, between you and me. We need to work on that."

I wanted to point out that I had majored in Journalism in college. I wanted to remind her that I had nicknamed my father, The Great Communicator.

Communication was practically my middle name. But, I refrained from stating the obvious; Debbie was the one who needed to work on communication, not me.

"Absolutely, we'll work on it," I said, not sounding at all condescending.

I noticed Debbie was distracted, looking over my shoulder when I answered her.

No eye contact. Not exactly conducive to good communication. She certainly did have a lot to work on, I thought.

I did not say anything. It would take some time for her to develop communication skills as finely tuned as mine. I faced the television area where the patients who had no visitors were sitting. Behind me was the nurses' station and the corridor where I had entered. Further down the hall, I had seen numbered doors when I came in, no doubt the patient rooms.

Debbie looked back at me before I could turn to see what she was looking at.

"There is something that I forgot to tell you," she said.

I turned, still seated, and looked over my shoulder. Emerging from the hallway where the numbered rooms were, was Charlie. He wore a larger, looser version of the flowing hospital gown issued to the patients who did not have their own clothes. He broke out in a big toothy smile of recognition as he approached.

He looked disheveled. Disheveled-'marked by disorder or disarray'. Yes, that is a good word to describe Charlie. One might presume that he looked this way because he was in the psych ward. One would be wrong. Charlie always looked like this. As a matter of fact, if you look up the word, disheveled, in the dictionary, you will find a picture of Charlie. Not really, don't bother getting out the Merriam- Webster.

His long dirty, greasy blonde hair had not seen the teeth of a comb in ages. And he had that look in his eye; he always had that look, an intense wild stare. It is I am sure, politically incorrect to say that Charlie looked crazy, especially on the psych ward. But that is the simplest description. He would look right at you, with a crazy look in his eyes, always seeming to be on the verge of something. The problem was that you never knew exactly what that something was. He might burst into tears, start laughing, give you a big hug or stand there smiling at you while he pooped his pants.

Oddly, my first thought when I saw Charlie, was that I must look away if he turned around. I knew him well enough from the fellowship meetings that I was certain the flowing gown he wore was not cinched in the back. I don't know why I thought that. I suppose I just did not want to see anymore of Charlie than was absolutely necessary.

The truth is that I got along better with Charlie than most of the others in our fellowship. I just talked to him like I would anyone else. Most people were intimidated, afraid of him. I am six feet tall, maybe five feet eleven and three quarters, but on a good day, six feet. The point is that I am a good three inches taller than Charlie is. He is not a big man, but his meaty arms, exposed by his usual tank top attire, and the protruding stomach, which I knew to be just fat from seeing him at the gym, made him appear formidable, a big man. But again, it was really that ever present, searing penetrating look in his eyes that give him a larger than life aura.

Most people looked away when Charlie looked at them. I just stared right back at him, not looking away from the wild uncertainty in his eyes. I saw the desperation, the loneliness and emptiness in his tortured soul. Most people missed that. Behind the mask, he was a lot like everybody else. Well, at least, that is, when he bothered to take his meds.

I always had the option of discussing sports with Charlie. At some point, he had lived in Florida, as well as New York, so we followed the same sports teams. I could always just say, 'How about those Bucs?' or 'How about those Rays?' depending on the season. If I really wanted to get Charlie talking I would bring up the '86 Mets, you know, the World Series where the grounder went through Buckner's legs. Charlie had an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball. Even when he was a little drunk or a little high at the meetings, I could talk to him when no one else could.

The last time that I had seen Charlie had been at a noon meeting about a month ago. He continued to come to our meetings even though he never stopped drinking. Charlie, like many people, had nowhere else to go. He walked in to the clubhouse about fifteen minutes late, wearing a heavy flannel bright red sports jacket, shiny blue leather platform shoes and a pair of plaid pants. I thought for a moment they were pajama bottoms, but then I noticed the bell-bottoms.

Obviously, he had just stepped out of a time machine travelling some forty years into the future. He had come from circa 1972.

He plodded in, the platform heels loudly clopping on the linoleum floor with each step. Unceremoniously, he slid one of the folding chairs out from the table and plopped down. He looked at me from across the room and grinned. I refrained from shaking my head disapprovingly, as some of the other members were doing. I just smiled back at him.

It turned out that Charlie had been to court that morning. I never bothered to ask him why. He always had charges of some sort pending. He had gotten 'dressed up' for the judge. The clothes had worked. Charlie was not behind bars. The judge, I suspected, probably felt some empathy for the already incarcerated inmates. Surely, to put Charlie in with the general population could be considered cruel and unusual punishment. With a little white greasepaint and a red bulbous nose, Charlie could have been Ronald McDonald gone wild. No one should have to share a cell with that.

Charlie seemed happy, comfortable, as he approached Debbie and me sitting at the table. After all, the psych ward was one of Charlie's homes away from home. I could only assume that being here was preferable to being in jail.

"Charlie," I said standing and facing him, my hand extended.

"Nick," he said ignoring my outstretched hand, stepping right up to me and wrapping me up in a big bear hug, "good to see you, good to see you, buddy."

What could I do? I hugged him back.

"Imagine running into you here. I had no idea you worked here. Are you an orderly or a counsellor?" I asked, trying for a look of mock confusion, as I stared at him.

Charlie relaxed his arms and stepped back, eyeing me now.

"I am an orderly, Nick, just an orderly."

We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Charlie broke out laughing first. I noticed a tooth missing as he laughed. 'That's new,' I thought, but decided not to ask.

"Good one, Nick, good one."

Charlie had a sense of humor.

Whenever he was not at the meetings, I knew where he was. He only went two places. If he was gone for a week, he was in the psych ward, more than a week and he was in jail. They say in our fellowship that continuing to drink will result in jails, institutions and death. Charlie had clearly proven the first two, if he continued to live the way he was living; the third was just a matter of time.

"Running into you, here, of all places. What are the odds?" I asked.

"The odds are pretty good, Nick. I'm in here a lot."

Charlie looked down, embarrassed, as if he were letting someone down.

"No, No, it's good that you are here, Charlie," I said, "you can look after my girl."

I looked at Debbie still sitting down, watching curiously as Charlie and I chatted. His face lit up with purpose.

"Oh, I'll do that, Nick. I'll watch out for Debbie. I can show her the ropes, but it will only be tonight and in the morning. I get out tomorrow. They usually let me go around noon, after I see Dr. David."

Dr. David, that name kept coming up.

"Good for you, Charlie."

"Yeah, I'm all better, again," he said with all the earnestness he could muster.

We stared at each other again. Charlie had turned the tables on me. He looked at me with a crazier than usual expression. I started laughing first.

"I can see that Charlie. You do seem to be all better."

I liked Charlie. I really did.

* * *

A few months ago, I had given Charlie a ride after one of our noon meetings. I thought I was just taking him home, but turned out that Charlie had some errands to run. First, we went to outpatient at behavioral services. It was five miles in the opposite direction of where I was going, but I decided not to protest. Helping others was part of the recovery process.

"Did I ever tell you I worked at a funeral home in Florida, Nick?" Charlie had asked as we sat in a long line of cars backed up at the traffic circle.

"No, you haven't."

Charlie had been the guy at the funeral home that dressed and prepared bodies for viewing. One day the widow of one of Charlie's clients had asked him to dress her ex-husband in the blue suit instead of the black one, she had requested the day before.

"I guess I looked at her funny," Charlie said, "it was going to be a hassle."

She had gone to his boss insisting on the blue suit. The next day when she returned and saw that the suit had been changed, she was pleased, approached Charlie and tried to give him a twenty.

Charlie had refused the money, insisting that it had been no problem at all.

"I had a 'John Doe' already wearing a blue suit," he told her, "all I had to do was switch the heads."

"Charlie, you didn't," I said as we made our way through the traffic circle and down the street toward behavioral services.

"Naw, of course not, I was trying to be funny, you know, cheer her up. How was I supposed to know she didn't have a sense of humor?"

The woman had fainted. Passed out right there in the viewing area of the chapel. Somehow, Charlie had managed to keep his job, but he was relegated to transporting bodies, never to have contact with the living customers again.

* * *

I had pulled into the parking lot at outpatient of Behavioral Services and waited for Charlie to conduct his business. I did not ask. He was back in only a few minutes, as promised.

"One more stop, Nick," he said getting in the car.

"Where to, boss?" I asked.

"The police station."

"You can't be serious. Shouldn't you stay as far away from there as possible?" I had asked.

"Naw, they're okay. Besides they have my car."

Now, I had a personal motive to continue assisting Charlie on his mission. I wanted this to be the only time that I needed to give him a ride. I did not intend to become a chauffeur. It always starts with just one ride.

"To the police station to get your car," I said, "but I am not going in with you."

I had my one, and so far only, run in with the police in Florida and I intended to keep that number at one. Charlie, most certainly, was on the ten most wanted or at least the ten most watched list of the local constabulary. I had no intention of becoming a known associate of Charlie.

It was another five miles to the police station. Everything is really spread out in the countryside where we live. Charlie had time to continue his story.

* * *

"Working transport at the funeral home was great," he began.

Charlie had enjoyed the solitude and freedom of his new position. He no longer dealt with the public and spent much of his day driving the meat wagon from morgue to funeral parlor, often to the Tampa morgue on the other side of the bay. The trip across the causeway usually took about half an hour each way. The only person he regularly dealt with was the guy at the morgue whom Charlie described as 'weird.' Coming from Charlie, I could not begin to imagine what the morgue guy was like.

Merriam- Webster, 'Weird,' picture of morgue guy?

"I had my first experience with the police when I was driving the meat wagon."

Charlie grinned and looked at me stupidly when he said, 'meat wagon.'

"One day it was hot, really hot," he continued, "I mean it was hot almost all of the time in St. Petersburg, but it was summer and you could've fried an egg on the hood of the meat wagon."

Charlie paused, again grinning stupidly, no doubt, as I kept my eyes forward on the road, not wanting to encourage him.

The refrigeration unit in the back of his transport vehicle had gone out. The AC in the front still worked, so Charlie did not notice the problem until he was across the bay, at the morgue in Tampa. When the weird guy and he opened up the back doors to load the body, they were hit with a blast of stifling hot air.

"He'll be baked by the time I get back," Charlie had said, "I'm already on thin ice because of that widow lady not having a sense of humor."

"I've got an idea," the weird guy had said.

Together they unzipped the body bag and lifted the stiffening corpse into the passenger seat in the front. There was just enough bend left, due to the partial rigormortus, to position the body in the seat and have it stay upright, secured by the seat belt. It was perfect.

"One more thing," the weird guy had said.

Reaching in through the open door, he hovered over the passenger's lap, fumbling around for a few minutes as he went through the pants and jacket pockets. Charlie looked around nervously, thinking that this might look pervy to a passerby. Finally, the weird guy found what he was looking for. He carefully hooked the earpieces of a pair of sunglasses in place over the ears of the corpse head.

Now it was perfect.

Charlie thanked his accomplice and began the drive back to the funeral home across the bridge. He had just gotten on the interstate when the traffic had come to a standstill. He called the delay in on his CB radio. It turned out his boss was still at the cemetery, so there was no reason to hurry. He couldn't hurry if he wanted. The causeway was the only route. Charlie decided the logical thing to do was to exit the interstate and wait out the traffic jam. It would be clear in an hour. Besides, Charlie had been getting thirsty.

"I exited off of the highway," Charlie continued.

He had pulled onto the local streets in search of a watering hole. The neighborhood was none too savory, but that had never deterred Charlie. He spotted a neon sign. Probably not lit, impossible to tell with the glare of the sun, but he could make out the words, 'Live Nude Girls, Cold Beer.'

"What do you think, partner, is this a good place?" Charlie asked his travelling companion.

He took the lack of response as an affirmative and pulled the meat wagon to the curb, getting a spot almost right in front of the joint.

We were stopped at a red light and Charlie gently punched me in the shoulder, I assume whenever he was at this part of the story he got some kind of a laugh. I looked straight ahead.

The light turned green.

He realized that he would have to leave the AC on for his friend, so he carefully slipped the remote clicker off the key ring and got out, leaving the engine and the AC running. He pushed the button on the remote, simultaneously the door locks all slid shut. Charlie headed inside, he'd just have a beer, maybe two, and by then the causeway would be clear.

Things were looking up. What could go wrong?

At this point, Charlie's memory became a bit hazy. I can relate. There was that first cold beer that tasted so good as Charlie sat at a little table, his eyes still adjusting to the dingy darkness of this fine establishment. Then there was another one, or three, loud music and, as promised, live nude girls. There were a few lap dances as well.

It wasn't until the doors opened wide and stayed open, allowing the bright Florida sunshine to change completely the ambience of the place, that Charlie's memory became clear again.

"Two big uniformed cops were just standing there in the doorway. They looked like Mel Gibson and Danny Glover, except bigger."

"Who's the owner of this van, the one with the engine running?" the African American cop asked. Mel Gibson just stood there looking pissed off.

"I thought of saying, 'that would be me, my brother,' you know, let him know that I was cool," Charlie said, "but I just stood up."

A live nude girl, who had been on Charlie's lap, went sprawling onto the floor. In the sunlight, Charlie got a good look at her and understood why they say the dayshift tries harder.

"We are almost there, Charlie," I said as I could see the police station ahead.

Charlie took the hint and wrapped up his story.

"My point is, Nick, I didn't get in any trouble with the cops. I mean it could've been quite a predicament, but I talked my way out of it. I mean, I lost my job, but they didn't arrest me. I am good with the police."

Nonetheless, I parked at the far end of the street and let Charlie walk a block to the station. He was back in about ten minutes.

"I get my car back tomorrow," he said beaming.

I was relieved. I was off the hook as Charlie's taxi service.

* * *

I had not seen Charlie since that afternoon when I had given him the ride and now here he was standing in front of me in the psych ward.

Small world.

"Don't worry, I'll look after Debbie, Nick,"

"I appreciate it, Charlie, I really do."

"Family Feud," Charlie said distracted by the theme song from the TV area. And just like that, Charlie was gone. Walking over to the TV to watch his show.

"Oh god," I said to Debbie, "I meant to look away. Why didn't I look away?"

The gown was wide open in the back. The string was not even tied loosely.

"I may be going blind," I said to Debbie rubbing my eyes with both hands, balled up.

"That's Charlie," she said smiling.

It was good to see Debbie smile. I sat back down to continue our visit, shaking my head from side to side, as if the vision of Charlie's exit could be erased from my memory like an etch-a-sketch image. I found that it could not. I was destined, perhaps, to carry the picture of Charlie's naked, white and pimply butt in my mind's eye for all eternity.

"Seriously," I said, "I think I am going blind."

Again, she smiled.

We kept the rest of the visit pretty simple talking about the dogs, our friends in the fellowship and even the weather. We discussed the food, typical hospital fare. Debbie's throat was a little sore, a tribute of sorts to the chalky goo.

The communication thing seemed to be going well.

A nurse entertained us for a while. She kept going to a nearby supply room, turning her key in the lock and then leaning in with her shoulder to push open the door. Each time she was stopped cold. Standing back, she would look at the door with some confusion, then pull. Shaking her head and smiling when the door opened, she would then enter and fetch what she needed.

After the third performance of what was becoming a ritual, I asked Debbie if she was sure that the woman worked here.

"She checked me in earlier today."

Maybe crazy is contagious if you work here long enough, I thought.

Instead, I just said, "Maybe they should put a sign on the door."

The hour finally drew to a close. I looked around. No one was rushing me off. It was still just Tom and me. But I was ready to go and I saw that Tom was also getting up, about to leave.

Debbie seemed secure in her new little world. She was safe here. Probably only for forty-eight hours, that is if Dr. David determined she was no longer a threat to herself or others.

"Sleep well," I said as I stood up and gave Debbie a big hug.

I nodded to the nurse as I walked back down the corridor to the locked door. Tom had left, just before me. Briefly, I waited by the door. I turned and looked back. Debbie stood there, a lone sad figure, at the other end of the hall by the nurse's station, she waved and I waved back forcing a smile. The buzzer for the door sounded.

I decided to go out the closest exit, by Page road. I could get my bearings for the next day, when I would park there, in order to save myself the walk. As I went outside, the fresh spring air smelled good and made me feel alive. It was a stark contrast to the antiseptic, recirculated dead air inside the building. I walked around, down the first line of parked cars and out into the parking lot where I could see the street sign. Once I was satisfied and had gotten my bearings, I turned around to go back inside. Tonight, I still had that long walk through the hospital, to get to my car on the other side of the building.

As I got to the end of the row, I had to stop and wait for a pick-up truck that was slowly exiting the lot. Inside the cab, behind the wheel, was my friend, Tom, from the waiting room. I put my hand up and waved. I started to shout that I was taking his advice, but he wasn't looking at me. He did not even know I was standing there. He just looked straight ahead, the somber expression that had been on his face when I first saw him, was back. I thought he would have been happier. His wife was getting out tomorrow and his ordeal would be over. But then I realized that his ordeal was not over, it was just beginning, as was mine.

* * *

"Sounds like things were starting to sink in," Dr. Barnett said, her gentle voice penetrating my trancelike state.

I slowly came to.

"The psych ward, Tom, and good old Charlie were only a memory, but it all seemed so real while I was talking," I said squinting as my eyes adjusted to the light.

"In a way, it was," Dr. Barnett said, "they are all very real memories. You can actually feel like you are reliving them in a good therapy session.

I sat up.

"Well, nice work then. It was like I was there."

"It seemed like Tom had his hands full, and Charlie, poor Charlie. They both had their problems."

"Yeah, I couldn't imagine dealing with Charlie's problems or even Tom's."

"It may sound heartless, but realizing that others have it as bad, maybe even worse than you do, can make it easier to accept your own problems."

"They say in the fellowship that if everyone put their problems in a bag and all the bags were placed in the middle of the room, we would all fight to get our own problems back."

"Perspective and familiarity, Nick."

I nodded in agreement.

"You know," Dr. Barnett said, "I only saw Deborah and you twice when you first moved here. I never had a chance to render a diagnosis."

"Oh, no, no, no. I get that, Doc. I was talking about the initial diagnosis in Florida. It seemed like Doctors just rubber stamped patients, Manic Depressive or Bipolar, back in the day. I know you never had a chance to really check her out."

"Well, I am sorry that I could not have done more for Deborah."

"Water under the bridge, Doc. She was just window-shopping when we came here. When she heard about the effect of Xanax and then found Dr. David, willing to prescribe, well, she wasn't coming back to see you. She even shut me out. I never went to a single session with Debbie and Dr. David."

"I just needed to clear the air before we continue. Make sure you did not hold me partially responsible," she said.

"I am here because you made a good impression, Doc. We are fine."

"Good to hear, Nick. We'll pick up here next time."
SESSION SIX

DR. LIU, I PRESUME

I went home that night and cooked two hamburger patties on the grill. I stood on the deck while the meat slowly sizzled. The dogs were running and barking in the yard. There was a squirrel in the trees on the other side of the privacy fence. It was not really for privacy. That is what the builder had called it; we had it put in for the dogs. Our neighbors always had three small dogs, but they let them run free, periodically one would end up a memory on the pavement in front of our house, sometime later a replacement dog would show up.

"Some people should not be allowed to have pets," Debbie would say. I usually had to calm her down, so she would not go over and make enemies of the neighbors.

Dogs chase cars, but even in the quiet country neighborhood where we lived, letting your dogs run free was a bad idea. Usually, we only assumed what had happened, the neighbor lady sometimes told us one of her dogs had been hit.

The closest I came to witnessing it firsthand was one morning, while sipping coffee, I looked out the small window in the top of our front door. In the street lay the latest casualty, a beautiful beagle puppy. I kept Debbie busy when she woke up, fortunately the road was clear by the time she left the house. She would figure it out later, and get pissed off. She did not need to see it, not up close and personal.

As the meat cooked, I thought about getting the camera to video tape the dogs, but decided against it. I had a lot of footage of the dogs just standing there looking at me. They were a bit camera shy. I did have one really good one of them playing and running in the snow. We do not get snow very often and they were too distracted to notice the camera.

After my patties were done, I took them inside and made a huge double cheeseburger with ketchup and mayo oozing out the sides of the bun. I sat and watched Sportscenter, with the volume muted. Usually, we would watch a movie or TV series on Netflix, something we both liked. Debbie didn't care for random sports. Tonight, I could have been watching a blank screen my mind was elsewhere. The action on the television screen was just a blur.

* * *

It had been about thirty years since Debbie had flown down to Florida and we had spent our first week together in Vero. Back then neither of us had a dog, we were both single and, oh yeah, I had just gotten out of my first rehab. I was twenty-five, Debbie a year and a half older. It was because of my mother that I reached out to Debbie. Dear old mom had kept in touch with Joyce, Debbie's mother, from the old neighborhood. Of course, I had yet to dub her, The Evil One. That would come later.

My mother had just taken a rare vacation, my parents took separate vacations later in life, but that is altogether another story, and she had visited her old stomping grounds in New York. Upon her return, she mentioned Joyce's daughter, Debbie, who had turned out to be a lovely young woman. I got her address and phone number and the dysfunctional long distance romance was on.

I actually could remember meeting Debbie once before when I was only six years old. My parents, before the separate vacations, had driven to New York with me in the back seat. We had visited Warren and Joyce in their new home in Westchester County, just a stone's throw from the city. Well, it was a little further than that. You'd have to have one hell of an arm.

I actually remember sitting on a couch by myself, downstairs in some sort of den or romper room, in their house. I was watching TV while the adults did whatever they did. Another kid, a girl, walks into the room, doesn't say a word to me, changes the channel and plunks down on the floor right in front of the screen to watch the Soupy Sales show. She never said anything and when the show was over, she just got up and left.

It was love at first sight.

Not really. I thought she was one weird little girl.

I did not remind her of our first encounter almost twenty years prior, but I was honest about just getting out of rehab and I told her the spaghetti story. She seemed to understand.

"If you aren't hungry, you aren't hungry," she had said.

Debbie was very involved in a family support group because of her father, Warren's, involvement in the fellowship. She thought my rehab and drinking and drugging stories were interesting, although she may have thought of me as a cause, of sorts, someone to help, a personal crusade. Whatever had piqued her interest, I really did not care. I was twenty-five and she was a girl.

"Come on down," I had said.

Her flight arrived on time. It was 7:45, not quite dark yet, when I picked her up at the airport. She had described herself to me. It was before the days of email and smart phones. She could not just take a selfie and instantly send it to me. The 1980's were a primitive time. She had told me she was five-foot three and a half, long brown hair, tanned from laying by her parents' pool all summer and she would be wearing her hippie dress.

I recognized her immediately when she came through the walkway from the plane. I thought she looked a little like Janis Joplin in the ankle length flowery dress. She had not mentioned the wire rimmed granny glasses, the final touch. She was better looking than Janis. She carried one piece of medium sized luggage that she held in front of her with both hands. She set it down as I approached her.

"Nick?"

"Debbie."

She held out her arms and gave me a big hug. She was not wearing a bra.

"Finally," she said as she stepped back.

I picked up her bag. It was heavy. Full of Southern Comfort bottles? Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz? But there was no clanking, self-help books and Bibles, maybe. She had not given me that vibe though, when we had talked.

"Anymore luggage?"

"No, I got everything in that one," she said, "let's get out of here. I'm horny."

There was a lot of noise in the concourse, maybe I had misheard. Probably wishful thinking, we had not discussed sex on the phone, I mean she was a good-looking Janis Joplin hippie-like chick, so I was ready. I was always ready. But being unsure, I did not know what to do next.

I felt my face turn warm and I guess I looked confused.

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

"Well, it's going to take about an hour to get to the condo. Can you wait?"

"Not really," she said.

"I am driving a Corolla. It's not very big," I mentioned this in case she was thinking we'd do it in the car.

"Very good, we should all be conserving gas. How about over there?"

She pointed across the building toward a sandwich shop.

"I know everything is more expensive in the terminal, but I really am hungry."

"Oh, hungry," I said, relieved and disappointed, "Food, you want something to eat."

"What did you think I wanted?"

I did not say anything, just took the suitcase and walked over to the sandwich shop.

After eating, we drove to the condo in Vero. Warren and Joyce had bought it a few years back for a winter getaway. But it mostly just sat, unoccupied, serving as some sort of tax break I imagined. This week it belonged to us, though, rent-free.

"Have a good night," I said as I put Debbie's bag down in the master bedroom and left quickly to sleep in the guest room.

In the morning, I was up first and got my first good look at the condo while the coffee was brewing. Everything was white, very bright, as I opened the drapes on the sliding glass doors of the second floor patio overlooking the tranquil Indian River. The white ceilings, wall and carpet, were in stark contrast to the old money, antique-looking, mahogany furniture that decorated the big apartment.

'Someday,' I thought.

I could hear Debbie moving around in her section of the condo. I sat in the rocker and got comfortable as I waited for her to come out.

"Coffee?" I asked as she finally made her entrance wearing just a white terry cloth robe.

"I've got it, Susie Homemaker," she said as she walked to the kitchen. She was familiar with, yet unimpressed by, the stainless steel, state of the art appliances.

"What's on the agenda for today?" I asked.

"Coffee first," she said blowing the top of a steaming mug.

"Sure," I said, "Are you hungry?"

"Horny."

"Excuse me. Say again."

"You heard me," she said, "just like you did last night. But you got that deer in the headlights look, so I decided to have a sandwich."

"Yeah, I thought that is what you said, but I didn't know what to do."

She walked over to where I sat, slowly bent down, her hair brushing my face, and placed the mug on an end table. She stood back up, while looking directly into my eyes and seductively untied her terrycloth belt, letting her robe fall into a rumpled heap around her ankles.

"Do you know what to do now?" she asked standing before me naked, her fun parts were a soft white, outlined by her smooth brown tan.

"Yeah," I said standing up, "now I know what to do."

I considered being spontaneous, doing it right there on the floor. But the patio furniture was stacked inside on a tarp, so as not to be blown away by a tropical storm. There was little space on the living room carpet. We adjourned to the bedroom where I refrained from telling her about the first time I saw her watching the Soupy Sales show and knew that someday I was destined to make love to that little girl. That sounded pervy, even to me. It would have been a real mood breaker. So silently, without words, our bodies joined together in passion for the first time.

When we were done, we just lay there, satisfied, in the quiet afterglow, for a few minutes. Debbie was the first to get up and put on her bathing suit, covering her white nakedness.

"Perfect," I said, "I could go for a swim."

As I got up, I noticed the open suitcase. It was full of clothes and shoes, several pairs of athletic outdoor shoes. And there was a portable radio. A big heavy twentieth century 'portable' radio. That explained the weight of the luggage, no bibles, books or Southern Comfort.

Whew!

We lounged around the pool the rest of the day, hopping in the clear water now and then, to cool off. There was no one else around. We came in once that afternoon, 'to have a sandwich' and to get something to eat. Finally, as the sun went down, we adjourned to the condo for the evening.

"Have you ever been to the dog track?" I asked tiptoeing gingerly on the hot pavement as we crossed over to the condos.

"No, I haven't," Debbie said walking comfortably in a pair of flip-flops and watching me with some amusement.

Note to self, buy a pair of flip-flops.

"We should go while we are here. It will be fun."

Finally, I reached the cool shaded sidewalk that encircled our building. We rode the elevator to the second floor and made it inside and then out onto the balcony, just in time to watch the sun, an orange fiery ball, sink, appearing to disappear into the Indian River.

That night we stayed in. The cable was not turned on, since hardly anyone ever used the condo and it would have been a waste of money to pay for it year round. We put a cassette in the VCR, a device used to play movies in the olden days. A cassette is where the movie was stored, on tape. It was all so primitive, but at least we had talkies.

We watched a movie called 'The Blue Lagoon' with Brooke Shields when she was a teenager. It was a coming of age type movie about two teenagers left alone, on a deserted island. About halfway through, we paused the tape and did it on the living room carpet. And no, we did not move the patio furniture. There was just enough room on the carpet beside the tarp, besides we would have just had to move the furniture back at the end of the week.

The next morning, I suggested we drive down to Ft. Lauderdale later and go to the dog track.

"Sure," Debbie had said.

My first recovery group had introduced me to the greyhound track. Initially I hadn't liked it, but I went back by myself, cashed a winning ticket, and became a regular. I did not quite qualify for Gambler's Anonymous, but let's just say my retirement plan, today, would not rely so heavily on trust funds and inheritance, if I had never been introduced to gambling.

After another leisurely day by the pool, we left about six o'clock for the eight o'clock post time. I estimated we would need only about an hour on I-95, so we had plenty of time. When Debbie wanted a bathroom break, I chose one of the large hotels off one of the exits.

"This should be better than a gas station," I told her as I parked the Corolla.

From the lobby of the hotel, we followed a restroom sign pointing down a large corridor. I finished first, washed my hands and waited outside the ladies' room for Debbie. Standing there, I noticed a lot of activity, at what appeared to be a large banquet hall, just a little bit further down the hallway. I walked down and checked it out, there was a manned table outside the doorway, a few nametags were left, but it looked as if most everyone who was coming was already inside. I could see through the open doorway a large high ceiling ballroom filled with tables, a buffet line and maybe a couple hundred people milling about.

The poster board sign mounted on an easel-like contraption beside the table told me this was a Nova University faculty mixer. I turned and looked back down the hallway, just in time to see Debbie come out of the restroom. The sergeant-at-arms staffing the table, stood, looked at his watch and strode away in the direction of the men's room.

Debbie saw me and I waved, signaling her to come to me by the banquet room.

"Dr. Gonzales or Dr. Liu?" I asked.

"What?"

"Which name do you prefer?" I asked nodding at the table.

She looked at me not yet understanding.

"My father paid a semester's non-refundable tuition for me to go to Nova University Law School. I never attended. They owe me," I said making the decision for her and pinning the Dr. Liu nametag to her blouse.

"Follow my lead," I said affixing Gonzales's nametag to my shirt.

We walked inside smiling and nodding, looking in the direction of people, but above their heads avoiding eye contact, waving occasionally across the room to no one in particular. We loaded up plates with an assortment of appetizers, cheeses and cold sliced roast beef. I took a bottled water and we found a small table where we could sit alone.

"Do this often?" Debbie asked as we gorged.

"No, but you inspire me, my dear," I said cautiously looking over her shoulder as we ate.

When done eating, we headed back past the table where we had picked up the nametags. The man was back at his post in an animated discussion with a distinguished looking Asian gentleman.

"Dr. Liu, I presume," I whispered to Debbie. She casually scratched her shoulder, covering her nametag as we passed by.

We made our way back to the car and thirty minutes later, we were parking at the Greyhound track. I did not cash a single winning ticket that night. Between races, we would walk down to the paddock area and look at the dogs. My system was to bet on the dogs who took a big poop before the race. It was not a very good system.

"You lost a hundred dollars?" Debbie asked on the ride back.

"Yeah, but it was fun, right?"

She said nothing. I am pretty sure she did not like the dog track. We rode the rest of the way without talking.

I remembered a book I had read, The Prophet. Kahil Gibran had said, 'Let there be spaces in your togetherness.'

Whatever.

* * *

Finally that night, I fell asleep, Marley and Samie beside me on the bed.

Reminiscing about that first week together in Vero occupied my mind. It was a trick I used to help me get to sleep, focusing on something other than the immediate problems of the day. I was secure knowing that Debbie was safely tucked away in the psych ward, protected by Charlie.

Sometimes I said the Lord's Prayer at night. I usually found the monotonous drone of the rote prayer to have a sedative like effect as I lay there. It was a bit hypocritical, since I had decided that I do not believe in god, at least not that anthropomorphic version, who is bandied about in discussions in the rooms. Had god created man in his own image? I found it far more likely that man had created god in his own image.

Why is god a father? Why does god have a will? Why does he have hands for me to put things in? Why does 'he' have a gender?

Oddly, most people came to believe when they stopped drinking, attended meetings and worked the steps. It all had quite the opposite effect on me. When I came back in over seven years ago, I would have told you I believed in god, church god, just did not think about it much, didn't really have anything to do with me. But after listening to all of the stories, all of the versions of 'god as I understand him,' I decided I was out when it came to the god thing. Enough is enough.

God is doing for me what I can't do for myself?

What exactly can't I do for myself?

If I don't drink, I don't get drunk. It is that simple. I do not ever recall god knocking a drink out of my hand. Although once a fellow who had been drinking in San Francisco, told how he had been sober for a few years, but was having a rough patch. He sat at the bar, raised a drink to his lips when the room began to shake. The shot glass flew from his hand.

It had been a 6.2 on the Richter scale, pretty severe. I find it hard to believe that god would decimate an entire city, just so this guy would not drink. But then again, they say that god works in mysterious ways. That explains it.

Light was creeping in around the edges of the bedroom windows. I rolled over and opened my eyes. Marley's butt was in my face. I got up and went through my morning routine, let the dogs out, 'no barking', coffee, let them back in, off to the gym. Life went on, I noticed, even though the bottom had fallen out.

At noon, I went to my regular meeting. I had decided it was time to say something, not everything, but something. Debbie was usually at all of the noon meetings, even though we took separate cars and even though she had not stopped drinking. Drinking and going to meetings still does not make sense to me. But I have learned, at the very least, that it is different for everybody.

I sat in my usual chair, at the end of one of the long tables. When the chairperson asked if we should send a card to anyone, I spoke up. I just said that Debbie was in the hospital for some tests, nothing too serious, but I am sure she would appreciate a card. One was passed around and I collected it after the meeting.

I was driving the Corolla today, not the same one I had in Vero. I mean they are reliable cars, but not thirty years.

I had noticed the warning light for low tire pressure on the dashboard of the van. It was also a Toyota, over the years, I had enough flats to be familiar with the Japanese symbol for an underinflated tire. I no longer reached for the owner's manual whenever it lit up. After the meeting, I could see the van listing to one side as I pulled the Corolla into my driveway. The front driver's side tire was completely flat. Now I had something to keep me occupied for the rest of the day.

Thank goodness, someone in Japan had invented a warning light for an impending flat; I had already had enough surprises this week. Getting stranded somewhere in the van would have been too much.

After taking care of the dogs, I came back outside and dug through the storage space behind where the third row of seats folded down in the van. I found the jack. Since we have three cars, I only had to take off the flat, leave the van jacked up and take the tire to Smith Brothers for repair using the Corolla. After I had loaded the tire into the trunk of the car, I slid a cement block under the elevated wheel of the van. I did not want it to slip and embed in the ground while I was gone. That would be a problem.

As I backed out of the driveway with the airless tire in the trunk of the Corolla, I surveyed my front yard. There was Debbie's dinged up subcompact, Yaris, parked beside the house, hobbled by the tiny spare tire. In the center of the yard, parked on the pine straw, was the disabled van appearing to rest on the preemptively placed cement block. I could see myself sitting on the front porch in a rocker, backward baseball cap on my head, corncob pipe hanging from my teeth and a shotgun resting in my lap. Add some wind chimes made out of Debbie's beer bottles hanging from the roof, my dogs milling about, helping me protect the premises from intruders, and I truly could see myself being in redneck heaven.

I shook my head vigorously from side to side. Things seemed to be going in the wrong direction. Something good was going to come out of this, I reminded myself. I hurried to Smith Brother's, anxious to get the tire repaired and at the very least return some normalcy to the front yard.

By the time I returned home and tightened the lug nuts on the wheel, successfully mounting the repaired tire on the van and moving the cement block away, it was about time to return to the hospital to visit Debbie. I let the dogs out and sat quietly in my chair for a few minutes, breathing deeply and slowly, counting my breaths, regrouping. Centered, I let the dogs into the house and then went outside and got in the van. At least the front yard looked pretty normal again, as I backed out.

Gary was just setting up his little table and chair as I got off the elevator, holding only the card from the group in my hand. I was the only visitor tonight. I waited patiently for him to open up his little wooden case with the visitor badges.

He finally was done and looked up at me and smiled.

"Next," he said. A bit of psych ward humor I presumed.

"Seven zero two," I said smiling in acknowledgement of his little joke. I guess Debbie was right, a sense of humor helped if you worked here.

"Just a card tonight?" Gary asked eyeing the envelope.

Suicide by paper cut, I thought, but just nodded as I held it up for inspection.

Gary handed me my badge and pressed the intercom button notifying the nurses' station. The buzzer sounded, I pushed the door open.

"I'm back," I said to no one in particular as I walked down the corridor.

Debbie was seated at our table when I got to the end of the hallway. She stood up and approached when she saw me. She grabbed on and gave me a big hug, holding on hard for a full minute.

Finally, she let go and stepped back.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I am just really glad to see you."

"Or is that a banana in your pocket?" I asked.

Somehow, she managed not to laugh. She did smile though.

I looked around. Everything was pretty much the same as the night before, except for the table where Tom and his wife had been sitting. It was empty now. The same group of patients was gathered around the television set on the other side of the room. Remembering the encounter from yesterday, I turned my head, looking expectantly behind me. No one was there,

"Charlie?" I asked.

"Discharged around noon. He stayed close, looking after me right up until he left."

"He is not a bad guy," I said.

I sat across from Debbie and handed her the envelope.

"From the group."

"Did you tell them?"

"Just that you were in the hospital for some tests."

"I'll tell them when I am ready."

"Last night I was thinking of the first time we were together in Vero."

"I remember," she said.

"You did not like the dog track the first time we went.'

"You lost."

"I know. Winning is better. Winning changes everything."

"Do you remember going fishing?" she asked.

"Now that you mention it," I said smiling fondly.

The next morning, after the greyhounds, I had made a donut run. I stopped at a flea market and bought two secondhand fishing rods and reels. Somehow, I thought that would make up for the dog track. I knew it had been a bust.

"You showed me how to cast," she said.

"You caught on quick."

"We used the bag of frozen shrimp for bait."

"I really did not expect to catch anything. I thought it would be romantic to stand on the dock casting our lines into the river as the sun went down."

"It was romantic, until Toby," she said.

"I still don't think, Toby, is a good name for a fish."

"It's cute, like Moby, you know, the whale?"

"But Toby was just a little catfish."

"Yeah, a little catfish with a hook almost stuck through his eye."

When Debbie had finally reeled Toby in, we saw the hook had come out above his lip, almost lodging in his eye. Debbie had been in tears as she held him steady with both hands, his body wrapped in a towel. I stood there gently working the barbed hook out of Toby's face as she held him steady.

"You did a good job, getting the hook out."

"We both did," I said.

"He was pretty happy when we put him back in the water."

"I remember."

We spent the rest of the time on the dock tossing the frozen shrimp into the water and watching fish shoot up to the surface, devouring them before they could sink.

"Fishing was not any better than the dog track," I said.

"It was worse," Debbie said, "we did not almost blind any dogs."

I looked at the plate of food Debbie had shoved to the side of the table. It was not very appetizing. A piece of meat loaf, a bite taken out, a pile of mashed potatoes and some congealed brown gravy.

"Do you remember going out for dinner that last night in Vero?"

"Of course, we had lobster."

"And you proposed," I said.

She propped a spoonful of gravy covered mash potatoes on the edge of her plate and held her hand above the spoon handle threatening to catapult the soft mush in my direction.

"You win," I said, "I proposed and I am damn lucky you would have me."

"You got that part right," she said standing down and shoving the spoon back on the plate in a non-threatening position.

"You were gone about a month, after that, back to New York," I continued reminiscing, "and then you drove back down in your little Volkswagen rabbit. You got a speeding ticket going through Virginia and tore it up and threw it out the window as soon as the trooper drove away."

"You always remind me when we take a vacation."

Debbie's privilege of driving in the state of Virginia had been permanently revoked those many years ago, so on the infrequent occasions when we had driven through Virginia I always took the wheel.

"Do you really think they are still out to get me?" she would ask.

"Without a doubt," I said.

A young woman approached the table where we were sitting.

"Hi," she said meekly," I don't mean to interrupt."

"You aren't," Debbie said and turned to me, "this is Leslie."

I stood and smiled.

"Your name tag says, 'Diana.'"

Debbie and Leslie just laughed. I did not get the joke.

"I told Leslie we would take her to a meeting this weekend."

"Sure, no problem," I said. "There is a softball game after the noon meeting on Saturday."

"That sounds like fun," Debbie said.

"It does," Leslie agreed.

"I'll see you later then," she added as she walked away.

"She seems nice."

"She is," Debbie said, "there is something I need to tell you."

She had lowered her voice and sounded serious now. Usually an indication that she thought she was about to say something that I was not going to like.

"Dr. David was here again today," she continued, "he is still angry with me."

"That doesn't make sense," I said.

"Anyway, he wants you to talk to Helen tomorrow morning, before I get out."

Helen was Debbie's counselor. She reported to Dr. David.

"Why do I need to see her?"

"I don't know. I am supposed to tell you, though."

She pulled an appointment card out of the floppy pocket on her gown and pushed it across the table in my direction.

Nick Jimbanis, May 16, Thursday, 9:30 am, it read.

I knew who Helen was. She came to noon meetings on Saturday. I did not like her, too opinionated, very old school. She knew everything. Just ask her.

Once I had called her a few years ago, the only time I could remember talking with her. I had told her what I had learned about the Xanax and that Debbie should not be on it. Dr. David knows what he is doing she had said. Besides, Debbie seems happy with her medication.

I wanted to scream. Of course she is happy with her medication, you idiot, Xanax is a pill form of alcohol. Have you heard a word that I have said? But I simply hung up the phone, another dead end.

"I don't think so, Debbie," I said looking down at the card, "I'll just pick you up at noon."

"That's just it, Nick, it's not optional. Dr. David has made it a condition of my discharge."

I could see by the lone clock, hung high on the wall over the nurse's station that visiting hour was almost over.

"Alright then, I'll talk to good old Helen tomorrow morning."

"Thanks, she's really not that bad."

It was time for me to go. I stood and Debbie walked me to the other side of the room where I stopped and gave her a big hug.

"See you tomorrow," I said and walked to the end of the hallway. The buzzer sounded as I approached the door. I didn't even need to turn around to signal the nurse. She had been watching.

* * *

Another session ended, as I opened my eyes, to Dr. Barnett's voice.

It had been a pleasant session.

"That was good," I said.

"You and Deborah had quite the courtship. It seems like you really got to know each other in just a week."

"Yeah, love at first sight," I said smiling as I sat up.

"It is good to remember what brought you together. It helps you get through the rough times."

"Is that what we're calling it? The rough times?"

"What would you like to call it?"

"That works, I suppose, just seems a bit understated."

"Well, the point is you have some good memories to fall back on when it seems like your world is falling down around you."

"It is like having a goal, trying to get back to the good times, knowing that it will all be worth it."

"You won't get back to normal," she said. "Things will never be exactly the same, but you know you can get to a good place because you have been there before. You can create new memories. You can have good times again."

"I put Debbie through it as well, you know, during my drinking days. I have been through two of my rehabs since we were married. She stood by me. I wasn't going to desert her."

"You are a good man, Nick,"

"Aw shucks, Doc," I said with the proper amount of self-deprecating sarcasm, looking down at the floor as I stood up.

Dr. Barnett smiled and shook her head a little.

"We can start with Deborah's counsellor next time. You did meet with her the next morning?"

"Oh yeah," I said, "We had a humdinger of a meeting. It was a real eye opener."

"I look forward to hearing about it."

"You bet," I said, "to be continued."
SESSION SEVEN

'HELLO, NICK'

Helen was old, wheelchair bound, still working and supposedly sober for thirty-three years. She always reminded us of the thirty-three years at the Saturday meetings where she tended to ramble on and on. Usually she repeated the same things she had said the previous Saturday, often letting us all know just how good looking she had been back in the day. It was when she referred to her bouncy bosoms that I stopped listening. Whatever sagging mushy remnants, of glory days past, lay beneath those oversized loose fitting old lady blouses that Helen wore nowadays, it was far beyond my ability to conjure up an attractive visual of any sorts.

I would simply look out the window while Helen described the sexual exploits of her younger self and think about baseball. Here's the wind up and the pitch. A swing, a miss. Strike three! And that's the game folks. I had listened to her story almost every Saturday for the past seven years.

It was unseemly, to me anyway, that a wrinkled woman who appeared to be well into her seventies with her short unkept red coif would speak of her former sex life as if it were still relevant. Helen wore large unattractive dark framed glasses held in the back by a chain, should her memory fail when she put them down. Her clothes were always a little baggy. Mercifully, she always wore pants, showing as little skin as possible. Leaving the image of her uncovered body to the imagination. Somebody else's imagination.

She was a counsellor, therapist, or something, probably sleeping her erotic self into a position, no pun intended, at behavioral services many years ago.

"The job is yours. You can put whatever letters you like behind your name," I could imagine the sexually satisfied administrator telling Helen as the job interview had concluded.

'Helen Barnes, S.H.K., F.S.', should have been on the placard attached to her door. Helen's experience had certainly been obtained in the School of Hard Knocks and no one would ever dispute the fact that she was, most definitely, Full of Shit.

I did not have long to wait in reception. I think I was the first person to see Helen that morning.

The door that separated waiting room from offices opened. I was seated on the opposite side of the room, behind some people whose body's partially obstructed my view of the lower half of the open door.

"Nick, Nick Jimbanis."

I recognized Helen's deep old lady voice, the same one she used at meetings.

I put down my magazine and stood up, able to see over the people in the middle of the room, I looked toward the doorway. There sat Helen, her wheelchair expertly wedged between door and doorframe. She saw me now, and gave me a look of recognition. I would not have called it a smile.

She never talked about how she had ended up in the chair. But it most definitely was not a handicap. If anything, it was more of a weapon, a bit of camouflage really, putting people off, making them think Helen was weak. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Bitter, angry, merciless, yes. Weak, no.

"Good to see you, Nick," she said as I approached, pushing back from the doorway, almost popping a wheelie, and turning in one simultaneously engineered move, resulting in her chair facing down the hallway toward her office. I caught the door, as it was swinging closed.

"This way," she said and quickly rolled down the hallway, as I took longer than normal strides just to keep up.

When Dr. David was not strutting officiously through the hallways of the hospital, he also had his office here, behind the waiting room door, where he saw patients.

"Have a seat, Nick," she said indicating two straight back chairs in front of her desk. She rolled around to the open spot where normally a desk chair would have been.

The wheelchair gave Helen an upper hand, especially with someone new. Typically, one would see a little old lady, defenseless, confined to the chair. But once you got to know her, as I had by listening to her at the Saturday meeting, you understood why she was known as 'the bitch on wheels.'

"Seems we have a problem with Debbie," she said.

You think? I thought, but remained silent, looking at her, waiting for her to continue.

She usually spoke slowly at the meetings, as if every one of her words carried more importance than the last. But she was choosing her words extra carefully today, talking really slowly.

"I told Dr. David that I wasn't surprised that something like this happened."

Before I could respond, 'why didn't you say something?' she droned on.

"I did not really expect a suicide attempt, but Debbie was not happy."

"She is doing better," I said, "I pick her up in a couple hours and she is finally off of the Xanax."

"Yes, Nick, I told Dr. David that maybe Xanax was not good for someone like Debbie, you know, an alcoholic."

Ass covering, bitch, I thought, you told me that Debbie was happy with her medication that time I called you.

But, again, I said nothing.

"I am glad that she is off of the Xanax," I said.

"She lied to Dr. David and to me about her drinking. We thought she was sober."

"I told you she was still drinking, that Xanax was not good for her."

"What? When was this?" she asked.

"A few years ago. I called you when Debbie first started to see you."

"Oh Nick," she said dismissively, "even if you did, we can't listen to every angry, disgruntled spouse. We have to focus on our clients."

I remembered the phone conversation like it was yesterday.

"You don't even remember talking with me?"

Helen just looked at me and shook her head slightly from side to side, typing on the laptop in front of her.

It was a distraction, the typing, unprofessional, I thought. She must have seen my frustration.

"I am typing notes for Dr. David. It is how we do things, now, I'm still listening," she said while her fingers kept working the keyboard.

"How do you plan on handling things, once Debbie is home?"

"Well," I said thinking aloud, "I guess things will get back to normal. Now that she is off the Xanax. I am sure she will stop drinking."

"And you'll live happily ever after, right?"

I didn't care for the sarcasm.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it will be something like that. Ever since I stood in the emergency room the other night, I've had the thought that something good is going to come out of this."

"Well then, I guess you don't need me or Dr. David. You seem to have a handle on everything," she paused for effect, "Nick, you don't even have your own health insurance. I have to put this on Debbie's Medicare, as a family visit."

I sat there feeling uncomfortable now, not sure what to say. The part about the insurance was true. I had not realized the Blue Cross that I had jumped through hoops to get when I left my job in Florida was state by state. It lapsed when I moved to North Carolina. By the time I figured it out, it was too late.

"Your wife swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, Nick," she said slowly, pausing slightly between each word for emphasis.

"But she is okay, now," I said, not so sure anymore.

"Oh, she is just fine," Helen said, "everything is going to be all better now."

This wasn't what I had expected at all.

"Attempted suicide is a big deal. Do you understand that, Nick?"

I just nodded. Any exuberance and hope that I had felt earlier in the morning, anticipating Debbie's homecoming, was gone now.

"Most manic depressives never reach the suicide stage. Something is seriously wrong with your wife. She needs the right medication and therapy, lots of therapy. And what about the house? Have you done anything there? Put the knives away? Dumped the sleeping pills? Or guns? God, I hope you don't have guns, but you need to lock them up if you do."

"I flushed the Xanax last night."

"That's a start."

"Things are going to be better now."

"I don't know if you can handle this, Nick. I have heard you at the meetings. You don't seem to believe in God or the steps, you're not even a good recovering alcoholic."

I had completely forgotten that Helen was a little old wheelchair bound lady. The chair, the decoy, had camouflaged this attack perfectly. I had been blindsided.

"You'd better wake up, Nick. You hang around with Harry Miller. He's no good. He's never even worked the steps himself and he's not going to be any help to you. You had better get with the program."

I had not had a drink in more than seven years. I thought I was doing just fine, but maybe I was kidding myself. She was right about the steps; I really never put much stock in them. And Harry Miller, well, he was different.

"Good Orderly Direction," Helen said.

I looked at her with disbelief.

"G. O. D. – Good orderly direction, Nick."

You have got to be kidding me. She was using one of the acronyms usually reserved for newcomers.

"Group Of Drunks – G. O. D."

'S. Y. S. – Seven Years Sober,' I wanted to tell her, but I was shaken now, confused. What if I was in complete denial? What if Helen was right? What if I wasn't good enough to handle all of this?

"We are about out of time, Nick. Think about what I have said. Today is Thursday. You and Debbie have a follow up with Dr. David on Monday."

Helen nodded toward the door and started typing again. I had been dismissed. She was not even going to roll out with me to reception. I got up quietly and left, not bothering to stop at the front desk on my way to the parking lot, after all, I wasn't even good enough to get my own insurance.

It was a very short drive to the hospital. I pulled into a space under a shade tree. Leaving the car running for the AC, I looked at the digital in dash clock, I was about an hour early. I sat there in the silence comforted by the steady monotonous hum of the engine.

I tilted my seat back, stretched out and closed my eyes. Whatever I had done, throughout my life, it had never been good enough. Maybe Helen was right. I was not ready for this. I could not handle it. Maybe all of this had been my fault. If I had been a better husband and provider, if only, I had not complained about the house Joyce bought for Debbie's sister, if I had not been a drunk to begin with, if I had never been intrigued by the little girl watching The Soupy Sales Show, maybe none of this would be happening.

A drink would make all of this go away, at least for a while. Wow. Where did that come from? I closed my eyes. Next thing I knew, I was opening them. It was twelve o'clock. Time to go in. I did not want to go up to the psych ward. Was something good, really going to come out of this? I wasn't so sure.

I sat up, cut off the engine and got out of the car.

One Day at a Time, I thought as I walked toward the entryway. That worn old saying, while a classic, did not seem to be helping much right now. Then I remembered a line from one of my favorite sitcoms, a mother told her son, 'Buck up, sissy pants.' Oddly, that made me feel better. Maybe that could be one of the new slogans hanging on the wall at the clubhouse. I put on my brave face, went inside and got aboard the elevator.

I pushed the intercom button when I arrived at the locked psych ward door. I was the only one there at this time of day. The voice coming through the speaker told me to wait. Debbie would be out shortly.

After a few minutes standing, waiting and resolving to be strong for Debbie, I finally saw her through the wire-meshed glass, carrying her Walmart bag, wearing the assortment of clothing I had brought her and flopping along the hallway from the nurses' station in her lace less athletic shoes. The nurse who had been baffled by the supply closet door just two nights ago accompanied her.

An odd choice. Possibly some in house, remedial training on opening doors. The buzzer sounded, as they got close. The nurse pulled on the handle and it swung open. On the job training successful. Debbie stepped out, free at last, free at last.

"Run," she said and made a quick move toward the elevators. She stopped short, smiled, looked back toward the nurse for approval, but she was already gone. Then she shrugged and gave me a hug.

"Let's blow this joint," she said.

"Yeah, splits Ville, baby," I said.

She was clearly in a good mood and I was determined to be supportive.

"I wonder if we are going to have to pay for all of this." I said as I pushed the elevator button. I waved my arm around indicating the whole stint in the hospital, but thinking more specifically about the psych ward. It was a statutory mandated stay due to the suicide attempt. I reasoned that maybe the state paid for everything.

"Before Charlie left, he told me that he never pays," Debbie said.

"That does not really answer my question," I said.

The elevator doors opened and we got on.

"Sorry, I brought it up," I said, "the important thing is that you are coming home."

Everything went smoothly the rest of that day, only the morning had been rocky and that was just for me. I decided to keep the details of my meeting with Helen to myself. No need to involve Debbie.

"The meeting was good," I said when she asked, "just standard, so your wife is getting out of the looney bin stuff."

That got a smile and seemed to satisfy her.

We stopped at the pharmacy on the way home to pick up Debbie's new prescription for lithium, three hundred milligrams daily. Along with the Xanax, I had also flushed the Prozac and Thorazine the night before. There had been a lot of pills. She got them through a mail order pharmacy and always ordered them early, as soon as they would allow for a refill. She had managed to build up quite the reserve.

I considered just putting them in the trash bag in the kitchen, but I knew Debbie was coming home and she might busy herself with chores and hear them rattling around if she took out the plastic cinch sack. I had done a little dumpster diving in my pain pill days, putting pills in the trash was just keeping them somewhere else in the house. They were not gone.

Having some concerns for our pipes, I took my time flushing them a handful at a time, not risking backing up the commode. Fortunately, none of the pills were a temptation for me, non-narcotic. I had taken my time disposing of them.

Everything went smoothly the rest of the afternoon. I showed Debbie her car. She was pleased that there was very little irreparable damage, just a ding or two. She winced when I opened the hatchback showing her the mangled wheel and ripped tire. There was still a strong pungent smell of beer, cigarettes and spoiled milk now mixed with what my discerning olfactory sense recognized as mold.

"We'll worry about your car later," I told her.

I refrained from telling her my master plan to sell the car, handcuff her to her easy chair and never to allow her out of the house again without supervision.

We went inside and the dogs greeted her with the usual barking, jumping, tail wagging and drool. They were happy to see her. Marley would figure out later that this was a good news, bad news sort of thing. Mommy was home, but he had lost his spot on the bed. For now, he was just focused on the good news. Dogs tend to live in the present.

I usually went to the gym in the afternoon, I could have skipped it, but I had already missed my morning session and I was pretty stiff. I had some vertebrae fused in my neck, C-5 and C-6, when we lived in Florida before I lost my health insurance. Early onset arthritis, the doctor had called it. I thought that was rude since I was only about forty years old, so he changed it to degenerative disc disease. I liked that better. The surgery did not really help, but it did lead to the two years that I refer to as my pain pill phase. I did learn that regular daily exercise lessened the constant pain and made me feel better.

"Do you want to go to the gym?" I asked Debbie around five o'clock.

"Seriously?"

It was worth a shot. I could work out and keep an eye on her at the same time. Debbie liked having a membership. It only seemed fair since I had one. I actually used mine though.

"You go ahead," she said, "I'll be fine here with the dogs."

I nodded. I would have to leave her alone sometime; at least I knew she wasn't going anywhere. I had taken her car keys, along with the spare sets, and hidden them in the storage shed in the back yard. I had put them in a small Tupperware container and jammed them into the slipcover of the ironing board, propped up against the wall of the shed. I had bought the ironing board in Florida while high on Vicodin. Debbie had never used it. I am not even sure that we own an iron. She would never find the keys.

I changed into my shorts and t-shirt, said I'd be back no later than seven, gave her a hug, crossed my fingers and headed for the gym. I had a quick workout on the arc trainer, then sat in the whirlpool and ended in the dry sauna spending an extra five minutes in there. Breaking a good sweat really loosened me up.

By six o'clock, I was back out in the parking lot sitting in the van. I decided to give Sylvia a call on the cell phone before heading home. I could use some moral support and I thought she might have some insight into my visit with Helen that morning.

Sylvia had been married to a psychiatrist when she lived in New York City. He had been killed on nine eleven. At least that is what I had discerned from her shares at meetings. One time she said she had a boyfriend who had died in the attacks and another time she had said she lost her husband on that tragic day. I never questioned her on that under the theory that it was really none of my business. What was I going to say? Who died in the attacks? Was it your husband or your boyfriend? Besides, it was entirely possible that she had both a husband and a boyfriend.

She also shared that during that time in the city she had not had a drink in eighteen years. She did 'smoke a little weed' though she admitted. People would laugh whenever she said that. I am not sure if it was because smoking weed was not considered to be a part of the recovery process or because the thought of this soft-spoken tiny sixty something widow lady hitting a doobie was just too funny.

I dialed Sylvia's number. Our conversations always started the same way.

"Hello," she would answer in her usual demure voice, childlike and full of caution and curiosity.

"Sylvia, it's Nick," I would say loudly just in case she was not wearing her hearing aid.

Being hard of hearing was not necessarily a bad thing in our fellowship. Often someone at a meeting would be going on and on retelling an old war story or perhaps speaking in a loud and irritating manner. Sylvia had admitted that on occasion she would just turn the hearing aid off. Sit there looking pleasantly at the offensive speaker without being distracted by anything they were saying. When it would be my turn to begin succumbing to the disabling subtleties of old age I think it would be okay to become a little hard of hearing.

"Hello, Nick," she would reply with relief and a genuine surprise after I identified myself even though I am pretty sure I was about the only person who ever called her.

This night the conversation was different. Well there really was no conversation, at least not the first time I called. Apparently, Sylvia had purchased an answering machine and after the fourth ring, it picked up.

'You have reached nine one zero,' the recorded voice began, just as she picked up and began to speak over the recording.

"Hello," she said in her soft high-pitched voice.

The recording continued its standard playback message as Sylvia again said, "Hello." I hesitated for an instant thrown off by the confusion and then started to say my usual, 'Hello, Sylvia, it's Nick.' But before I could say anything, the pounding began.

Whack, whack, whack, came through the receiver, loud and clear. It was the sound of what must have been Sylvia viciously beating her phone on what I presumed to be the kitchen counter where the base of the unit was mounted on the wall.

Then I heard her speaking slowly, becoming louder and louder, in a deep guttural voice that reminded me of the possessed Linda Blair in the old Exorcist movie.

"Fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell," she said in this low other, worldly voice.

Obviously, she did not know that I could hear her on the other end of the line.

Again I heard, whack, whack, whack, followed by the out of body demonic crescendoing voice, "fucking hell, fucking hell, fucking hell."

Not wanting to upset her any further, the new-fangled answering machine had already done a good job of that, and not wishing to embarrass her by letting her know that I had heard her outbursts; I did the only thing I could think of. I pushed the 'off' button on my phone, quietly hanging up on her.

I sat there in silence for a few minutes not certain of what I should do next. There were other people I could call for a chat, but I was a bit worried now. I decided that I would call Sylvia back. I slowly redialed the number and listened with anticipation. After only the first ring, I heard the usual demure inquisitive voice.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Sylvia, it's Nick," I said.

"Hello, Nick," she said in her sweetest welcoming voice.

It was as if nothing had happened. The demon had apparently been expelled. I certainly did not, nor have I ever, mentioned to her that I had overheard the answering machine malfunction incident as I chose to call it.

We had a brief and final conversation.

* * *

I remembered that once Sylvia had told me about an argument that she had with her husband, the psychiatrist. They had lived in what I could only imagine was a very nice apartment in Manhattan near where he had his practice. Sylvia was on a new antidepressant that was not working on her anxiety and she decided to stay indoors all day. She never fully explained what she had done, but it involved taking her husband's toy poodle for a walk, not outside in the park, but through the apartment encouraging him to relieve himself on the carpet and hardwood flooring. When her husband came home from the office Sylvia, dressed in only her birthday suit, greeted him at the door.

"He pooped," she said proudly pointing to the closest pile of excrement, encircled by a slowly expanding and quickly setting brown stain, on the plush white carpet.

"And peed, of course," she added walking to the imported decorative Oriental, enhancing the hardwood floor of the den. She stood there smiling and stomping on the wet spot, until liquid rose beside her barefoot for her husband to see.

"Good boy. Good boy," she remembered saying to the poodle.

"You're crazy," her husband said, "you absolutely bat shit crazy."

Sylvia laughed when she told this part of the story.

"He was an Ivy League educated psychiatrist and that was his best diagnoses," she said, "I was crazy, bat shit crazy. That was all that he could come up with."

After his impromptu diagnosis, he left the apartment and returned to his office in the south tower of the World Trade Center to sleep on the couch.

"That was September tenth," she would say quietly. "It was the last thing he said to me."

I do not know what was true in Sylvia's story and what was not. I am sure some of it, even most of it, may have been the absolute truth. Between the weed, antidepressants and later on the wine, I am certain Sylvia must have had some memory lapses, as we all do. But even if her husband's diagnoses were one hundred percent accurate, Sylvia had gone to court after his death and won an estate battle with his daughter. After a lengthy court proceeding, lasting longer than her two-year marriage, she had walked away with a huge chunk of money. She never said exactly how much, but Sylvia lived well.

"Who is crazy now?" she would ask when she got to this part of the story.

That night listening to the phone being banged into the counter top followed by her instantaneous rage and guttural satanic utterances, I had a definitive answer for her.

"It is you, Sylvia. You are the crazy one."

I agreed completely with her deceased husband's considered opinion. Sylvia was a sweet, but troubled woman. After our short talk that night, I knew I should not and would not ever phone Sylvia again. Debbie was home now and she would require all of my attention.

Then it occurred to me. When it came to women, I apparently had a type. My perfect woman was mentally unstable, depressive and a substance abuser.

'How about that,' I thought, 'what an odd combination to be attracted to.'

Then I remembered my mother, a little tipsy, being led away from grandmother's casket by my father, as she waved the diamond ring in the air for all to see. Mother had been mentally unstable, depressed and a substance abuser.

"Oh my god," I said out loud, "maybe one of the Rorschach ink blots had been my mother's reproductive system."

* * *

I filed my newest insight away into the deep recesses of my mind along with the image of Sylvia pounding her phone into the countertop. I deleted her number from my phone, before backing out of my parking space and driving back to the house. It was the last time that I ever called her and I kept my distance whenever I saw her at a meeting.

Things seemed pretty normal that evening. Debbie was relieved to be home. We cooked what we refer to as 'bag of shit,' for dinner. It is very easy to prepare, just open the bag, pour it in a large pan and heat it up. It is usually some combination of chicken, noodles or rice and assorted vegetables that you season to taste. It is found in the frozen food section of your local grocery. It is distributed by several different companies. Easier to just call it 'bag of shit,' than to remember the specifics.

Debbie must have been exhausted. She went to bed around nine thirty. I sat up later and finally turned off the television around midnight. I put my car keys on the top of the highest shelf in my bathroom, out of sight and out of reach. I crawled into bed.

"Marley, move," I whispered.

He complied, jumping down on the floor. I thought he took the bad news, about losing his spot on the bed, rather well.

The next day, life began to return to normal. Gym, noon meeting, home and then gym, again. Debbie was glad to see people at the meeting, although she did not announce the suicide attempt or her mandatory stay in psych. A few people knew, generally in our fellowship that meant that everyone knew.

Same routine that evening, different 'bag of shit.' The next day was Saturday and we were going to the softball game that the fellowship was having. Maybe all of the drama with my meeting with Helen had been just that, drama. I was quite comfortable with my newly sober wife and my newfound denial.

* * *

"We'll stop there, Nick."

I opened my eyes and stretched, not sitting up right away.

"Helen, the counselor, uses," Dr. Barnett paused as she considered how to say, "an unusual method."

"That's a generous description of Helen's technique. I just thought she was an incompetent hack."

"The whole personalization of the situation with Dr. David being angry with Deborah and now Helen sitting there belittling you, is completely unprofessional."

"Stepping back and looking at it is one thing, but when I was sitting there, well, I felt horrible. She really made me feel about that big," I said, holding up my hand, thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

"Did you actually consider taking a drink?"

"I wouldn't say that I considered it, but the thought popped out of nowhere, right into my mind. A deep dark default position when put under a lot of guilt and pressure, I suppose."

"Well you got through it, Nick. You had to see her in order to spring Deborah."

"Yeah, it felt good to get out of there and great to pick up Debbie, later. I was glad she was home."

"What happened to Sylvia?"

"Sylvia's doing better, now."

"She had been a friend and you had given each other support."

"That's true, but it was over. Debbie was going to need all of my attention. I could not deal with Sylvia. Turns out she finally got the help she needed, once she changed doctors."

"Let me guess? Dr. David?"

"He had been overmedicating her, but I hear she is doing well now."

"You have really run into some characters in this ordeal. Not the least of them is your wife's doctor and counsellor."

"The thing is I've realized that I can learn as much from the, characters as you put it, you know, Harry Miller, Charlie and Sylvia, as anyone else. Sometimes recognizing a bad example is as beneficial as emulating a good one."

"Indeed." Dr. Barnett said raising an eyebrow, impressed with my insight.

I sat up and put on my shoes.

"Things were not back to normal, though," I said, "not by a long shot. We had only just begun to deal with everything."

"Life goes on. There are no time outs where everything just stops, so you can take care of the important things."

"No. Our trials and tribulations were just beginning."
SESSION EIGHT

GOING, GOING, GONE

Saturday we were going to the softball game after the noon meeting. It was to be held at a place called, 'Pool Park.' I had gotten directions off the bulletin board at the club. It was sort of the low rent section of town, but apparently, there was a park with a ball field and from the name, I gathered there was a swimming pool as well. No worries, it was put on by the fellowship, my people. Besides a bunch of reformed drunks and addicts throwing balls at each other and running around with bats. What could go wrong?

We had planned on going to the game and we were going to meet up with Debbie's new friend, Diana, from the psych ward. She had been discharged on Friday. They had both looked forward to going to the game as soon as I had mentioned it to them.

It turned out Diana only lived a couple of miles north of us. She knew where the clubhouse was and she could get a ride from her sister to the noon meeting. So we would meet her there and take her with us to Pool Park when the meeting was over. Then after the softball, Debbie and I would take Diana home.

Diana's name was actually, Leslie. The nurse at the psych ward had taken the name from her driver's license while she was still passed out and had put it on her nametag when she was admitted.

"I go by Leslie," she had told them later when she came to in the unit.

"Only one name tag per patient, Diana," she had been told.

It was fortuitous that the softball game just happened to be scheduled the first weekend they were both out of the psych ward. Taking Diana/Leslie seemed like a good idea. Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve... blah, blah, blah. Helping her acclimate at the meeting and giving her a ride was the right thing to do. She too had a drinking problem and both Debbie and I were old pros in the fellowship. We could help her feel welcome. Since no act is ever one hundred percent altruistic, we could also keep the focus off ourselves by introducing her to people.

"Funny story, Debbie walks up to Leslie in the hospital last week, takes a look at her name tag and says, 'Hi Diana, I'm Debbie.' Leslie turns and looks behind her and then back at Debbie.

'Who is Diana?' she asks."

It was hilarious or maybe you had to be there. Some people just don't get psych ward humor.

Anyway, it was a conversation starter and Debbie did not mind mentioning the psych ward or what had happened. The fellowship was not exactly a hotbed of mental health. Everyone had skeletons in their closet. Funny, I would not have been surprised if my old friend, Charlie, literally did have a skeleton in his closet.

We drove the van that day. It may have smelled a little doggy, but it was a lot bigger and a more comfortable ride with three people. Diana slash Leslie sat in the back as we drove to Pool Park. She said she had enjoyed the meeting, but other than that, the fifteen-minute drive was mostly in silence. It was comfortable though. I think we were all a little relieved just to be doing something normal after the past week's events.

"Not as many people as I expected," I said as we arrived and I surveyed the ball field and sets of old wooden bleachers located along the first and third base lines. I parked on the grass just off the side of the road behind a row of cars that had gotten there before us.

"Hey, Freddie," I hollered to the short African American man standing on the pitcher's mound, "where is everybody?"

Freddie looked in my direction and just shrugged.

"Grab a glove," he said pointing at a pile of equipment, bats, extra softballs and leather mitts, located behind the tall chain link fencing that was used as a backstop behind home plate.

I looked at Debbie who was still standing by the van with Leslie.

"Go ahead, we'll be over there," she said indicating the bleachers alongside the first base side of the field.

I trotted over to the pile of equipment and found a suitable fielder's glove that fit my left hand. The cowhide was soft and pliable. Somebody had done a good job of breaking it in. I had not played any ball since little league many, many years ago.

* * *

I remembered the first game I ever played. My greatest success and greatest disappointment at little league baseball, oddly enough, had come in that one game. I guess we were all about ten years old. I stood at the plate facing the pitcher. He was my friend, Joe Connor. He was a year older than I was but because he had been left behind to repeat the fourth grade, we were classmates. I guess we had hit it off because he had felt out of place doing fourth grade over with a bunch of younger kids. I was the fat kid back then and always felt out of place, so it was pretty easy for us to start talking.

That day when I stood in the batters' box to face Joe; I knew from the look in his eye that we were not friends right now. We were opponents and the game would take precedence over our friendship. Joe was good. The first two pitches blew by me for strikes. He was eleven after all. I had dug in for the next pitch knowing full well that my father had promised to be at the game that evening. I had yet to spot him in the crowd before I stepped up to the plate, I was determined at least to take a good swing at the next pitch. Joe wound up and delivered.

'Eye on the ball, eye on the ball,' I told myself as the pitch approached.

I took my swing. Everything seemed quiet and slow, for just an instant. I could see the ball, hanging there in the air, in front of me and then I heard the sharp 'crack' as ball met bat. I pivoted fully around finishing my swing. Everything returned to normal speed. The ball soared high in the air toward right field.

"Run. Run." I heard my coach screaming above the noise of the spectators.

But I didn't run. Fortunately, I did not need to as the ball reached the top of its arc and then continued its downward flight landing just over the fence behind the right fielder as I stood by home plate admiring it.

I began my trot around the bases looking hopefully into the crowd for my father's face, but he was nowhere to be seen. He did not show up until about the third inning. I saw some of the other parents talking animatedly with him and slapping him on the back. Obviously, they were recounting the legendary tale of my first inning blast.

I got up to bat three more times that night. Each time I tried desperately to repeat my earlier heroics, but each time I struck out without even a foul ball.

Nothing I did was ever good enough. We won the game that night, but I felt shame and embarrassment as I rode home in silence with my father. I had helped my team win, but I had let my father down. Not surprisingly, the 'Great Communicator' did not have anything to say. I assumed he was disappointed as well.

* * *

After putting on the glove, I picked up an extra softball and looked around. I spotted old Frank standing nearby in front of the bleachers on the third base side.

"Hey, Frank," I hollered.

He looked over and I held up the ball.

"Warm me up?" I asked.

"Sure," he said stepping away from the seats and holding up his glove.

I flicked my wrist overhanded and sent the ball through the air and right into his glove.

Still got it, I thought even though Frank was only about ten yards away.

We tossed the softball around for a while. The term softball was a misnomer in my humble opinion. It was just a big baseball. There was nothing soft about it. The harder the ball, the further one could hit it, I reasoned.

Frank was a great guy. He was about ten years older than I was. But when we were done tossing the ball around, he did not hesitate to run out on the field and situate himself at the shortstop position. There were not a lot of people in the bleachers and even less on the field. I had thought there would have been a bigger turnout. I could see that Debbie and Leslie had found a group of women to sit with so that was good.

"Hey, Freddie," I hollered to my black Muslim friend who continued to pitch batting practice, "is there going to be a game?"

"Not enough players, Nick. We'll just keep taking batting practice for now. It's all good."

I nodded and gave Freddie the thumbs up.

"How about a little help?" he yelled over at me while pointing to an empty left field behind Frank.

"I'll just watch for now," I said. It reminded me of my father-in-law at the video arcade as he disappeared behind the dingy curtain with two hands full of quarters. He liked to watch.

Freddie arched a pitch toward the kid in the batter's box. He was one of the teenagers that I had never seen before, probably from Freddie's youth group. Freddie had really turned his life around and had given back to the community.

The kid took a big swing and topped the ball on the ground toward the shortstop.

Frank went after the grounder, stumbled as he reached his gloved hand down and then, blam. He went down hard, sprawled out, face first in the dirt. A hushed silence fell on the small crowd. Players and spectators just gawked hopefully, in Frank's direction. But then he simply hopped back up, smiled, brushed himself off and continued playing.

I would never have taken the field if not for Frank. I had too much pride, or probably, I was just too self-conscious to embarrass myself in front of anyone. But I believed that I could certainly remain on my feet. So, still wearing the oversized glove I ran out to left field to back up Frank.

I had not been out there for a minute when I watched a sharply hit grounder go through Frank's legs and head out toward me. It was about twenty yards to my right and travelling at a good clip. If I did not cut it off, it would roll past and all the way to the parking lot behind me.

I took off running at an angle where I estimated a point that I would arrive at the same time as the ball. As I got closer, I bent over and reached down with my gloved hand. Immediately I realized this was a mistake. I was not a kid playing little league anymore. Not only was that forty years ago, but also it was technically a different century.

As I thundered along, half bent over I had completely lost track of the ball. All I was aware of was the ground moving quickly and coming closer as my legs kept moving. I tried righting myself, now I was consumed only, with the challenge of staying on my feet. Somehow, mercifully I regained my balance and was able to come to a stop. Both feet were planted firmly beneath me. The ground had stopped moving. I was inwardly feeling proud of myself. I had made a great effort and had not fallen. Surely, no one had noticed my awkwardness and near disastrous swan dive into the outfield dirt.

"Hey, Freddie," I heard the third baseman shout to the pitcher, "We should have the ambulance on standby for some of these guys."

I guess someone had noticed.

In my embarrassment, I looked away. Remembering the ball, the original object of my attention, I saw that it had indeed reached the pavement of the parking lot and had begun picking up speed, rolling further away on the hard downhill surface. I began to trot after it. Maybe I would toss it in the lake on the other side of the parking area, when I finally retrieved it.

That's right, blame the ball, I thought.

No, I decided. I would be dignified like Frank and just retrieve the ball and smile. My wife was back from the brink and sitting in the bleachers with friends. Life was returning to normal. Still the thought of that oversized baseball floating in the lake, until it absorbed enough water to sink to a watery grave, gave me some satisfaction. But I needed to focus on the big picture and the future. We were going to be happy, life would be good from now on.

We continued fooling around on the field. I even took a turn at bat and made good contact a couple of times. Eventually we broke it up. There never were enough players for two full teams. I helped Freddie load the equipment into his station wagon and then sat for a while with Debbie and Leslie. Soon after, we decide to go. It had been a long day and it was time to take Leslie home. I waved at Freddie as we got into the van, but he was too busy with the teenagers to notice us as we drove away.

* * *

The first time I encountered Freddie Biggs was, where else, but at a recovery meeting. He was a former addict, felon and alcoholic, many years removed from his homeless life on the streets of D.C. Our nation's capital represented the land of the free and the home of the brave, but it also represented some of the most desperate and impoverished Americans, living in some of the most destitute of neighborhoods. That is where Freddie Biggs had paid his dues.

Nowadays, Freddie sported a greyish white beard, not a long one, but neatly trimmed. I could tell he put some effort into shaping his facial hair, establishing just the right amount of that unkept look of a rebel, but keeping the sporty look of a showman. He wore one of those little hats as well, you know, a skullcap, the religious Muslim cap.

The first time I heard him share at a meeting, I noticed he spoke from experience, projecting his voice powerfully, but not overly loud like those who just like to hear themselves talk. Everyone in the room listened attentively to the rhythmic cadence of Freddie's soft, yet powerful voice.

After that meeting, I approached him. He had mentioned caddying at Congressional, a world-class golf course in the Washington D.C. area. Being a golfer, I was intrigued.

"I'm Nick," I had said extending my hand, "I really liked what you said at the meeting."

"Thank you, my brother," Freddie said reaching out to grasp my hand as he stood.

"I thought you'd be taller," I blurted, surprised that I towered a good six inches above Freddie.

"A man that speaks his mind. I like that," he had said looking me directly in the eyes.

We sat out back on the concrete slab that passed for a patio at the clubhouse. When he removed his skullcap, his dark baldhead reflected the sunlight, alternating from bright and shiny to dark and black, as the torn canopy overhead flapped back and forth in the wind, exposing and then blocking the rays of sunlight onto the taught smooth skin of his skull.

Freddie and I became friends that day. Occasionally, we even played a little golf at a little nine hole layout, a far cry from Congressional. Freddie was more of a Zen golfer than I was. When he got tired of a hole, he would simply pick up his ball and walk to the next tee box, patiently waiting for me to finish.

He was a good man, a bit of a role model, going to more meetings than anyone else I knew. He not only talked the talk, he walked the walk. He was a very positive influence.

* * *

I turned onto the dirt road that led to Leslie's trailer. Actually, it was her sister's trailer and they preferred you call it a mobile home. Diana/Leslie was only staying here on a temporary basis until she could find a place of her own.

"When I find my own place, it might not be this nice," she said, "but at least it will be mine."

Wow, I thought to myself as I stopped in front of the trailer, I mean mobile home, one man's beat up old trailer is another man's castle.

I looked ahead for a place to turn the van around, trying not to make eye contact with the neighbors who were seated on lawn chairs beside their castle about twenty feet away. The toothless woman trying to breastfeed her crying baby made it hard not to look, her shirtless husband, or baby daddy, or whoever he was, stared intently at our van. I averted my gaze, peripherally only seeing the movement of a wobbly satellite dish bouncing in the wind over the neighbors' heads. Past their trailer, I saw enough room to make a turnaround on the dirt road.

I stopped by the sister's mobile home and let Debbie and Leslie get out. My wife had not lost her manners as she walked her friend to the door. I instinctively pushed the button locking the doors of the van as I headed for the turnaround ahead, keeping my eyes fixed on the dirt road before me.

After making the U-turn and coming back, I let Debbie in. She was standing there by herself waiting for me.

"Leslie seems nice," I said, "Will we be taking her to meetings for a while?"

"No," Debbie said as we turned on to the paved highway, "I told her I had my own problems to deal with."

Good for you, I thought as we headed home.

I did not really know what was coming next. Who does? A few years ago, a man in the fellowship had told me that if I wanted something badly enough I needed to get down on my knees for two-weeks and pray for whatever it was.

'Aha! Two-weeks.' That was new. No one had ever put a time frame on it. I did not really pray, but this two-week thing might just be the secret ingredient, like rubbing the magic lamp for the genie to come out. If you don't rub it, you just have a common ordinary run-of-the-mill magic lamp. So now, that I had been given the secret to this prayer thing, I had gotten down on my knees every day for two weeks and prayed that Debbie would stop drinking.

At the end of the two-week period, nothing had changed. Debbie still had Heineken bottles in her car and insisted on taking separate cars to the clubhouse. To me it will always be weird that she got a little buzz on and went to a recovery meeting, but then again it is different for everyone. I could see that the two-week prayer ritual had not done any good, so I never prayed or got down on my knees again. The man had been conning me, trying to help I am sure, but conning me with his personal voodoo, nonetheless.

But now, I wondered.

Could this be the answer to those kneeling prayers from two years ago?

Had my genie simply taken its time and finally found a way to make things right?

I thought about this for a few minutes as we approached the house and pulled in to our driveway, parking the van in the usual spot.

'Nah, don't be stupid.'

We locked up the van and went inside. Things were finally changing and I was pretty certain that life was going to be better now that we were both serious about sobriety. I did not realize at the time that there were going to be many more detours along the way as we trudged the road of happy destiny. For now, all we could do was just to take things one-step at a time.

The next day, Sunday, we took it easy. I made my routine trip to the gym, but other than that, we stayed home. Debbie had not slept well, tossed and turned a bit. I heard her get up in the middle of the night and go into the living room to sit in her easy chair. At least the car keys were hidden. I fell back to sleep.

I did some research on the internet Sunday afternoon. I had spoken to Calvin, the guy who first warned me about Xanax, at the softball game. I had told him that Debbie was off of the stuff and back on lithium. He was impressed because he had a hard time with the withdrawal symptoms.

Turns out, I found a lot of people online who were suffering from Xanax withdrawal. There was even an entire manual, The Ashton Manual, recommending various schedules of tapering off and documenting a myriad of withdrawal symptoms. I even ran across a class action lawsuit in the works in

Great Britain, patients and their lawyers were out to sue the doctors for prescribing it.

A lot of information, but then again it was the internet, not exactly the Holy Grail of accuracy and truth. I decided I would say nothing to Debbie who was sitting next to me in her easy chair, wearing prescription sunglasses. I would just observe for now.

The golf tournament on the flat screen was muted. Johnny Miller is an asshole. No one needs to hear him.

That night was the same. We got the dogs settled and went to bed around eleven. Sometime later, I heard Debbie get up and after using the bathroom, she went into the living room for the rest of the night. Marley, at least, quickly adjusted to the new routine, hopping up and keeping the sheets warm.

The next morning we had our ten o'clock appointment with Dr. David. I was cautiously optimistic, maybe he could provide some insight and encouragement, at least offer us some guidelines now that things were going to get better. I am sure he had been through this with other patients. This appointment would certainly be better than my encounter with Helen.

At ten forty five, a nurse called Debbie's name and we were ushered from the waiting room down the hallway, past Helen's office and into another corridor where Dr. David had his office.

He did not look up from his computer screen when the nurse brought us in. We sat in the cushioned chairs in front of his desk and waited while he finished reviewing his notes. I assumed he also had Helen's comments from our meeting on Thursday. I hoped I wasn't in any trouble.

"Any thoughts of hurting yourself?" he asked glancing up for the first time at Debbie.

"No, none."

He began typing furiously on his keyboard.

"Adjusting to being home?" he continued typing, not looking up.

"Yes, it is good to be home."

"And you," I could see him scrolling up the page to find my name, "Nick? Any problems?"

"Fine," I said wondering if he was any relation to Johnny Miller.

"And the lithium how's that?"

"Well, I'm having some trouble sleeping," Debbie answered, "and lights and noises seem really intense sometimes."

"That's not unusual. It will take some time for it to kick in, for your system to adjust to the new medicine."

"Okay."

"Tell you what," he said typing furiously again, "what pharmacy do you use."

"Walmart," she said.

He gave me a derogatory look as if to say, where else?

"I'll send in a new prescription. You're on," he paused searching the screen, "three hundred milligrams? Let's try nine hundred. The pharmacy should have it ready by the time you drive down there."

They had always checked Debbie's lithium level when she was on it in Florida. They would draw blood and monitor the level very closely. Apparently, Dr. David lived in a brave new world, flying by the seat of his pants, a little loose with the prescription pad, the trial and error method.

I could see that this visit was quickly coming to a close. He had stopped typing and was about to dismiss us.

"Do you think there could be any withdrawal symptoms, you know, from the Xanax?" I asked.

"Of course not," he said, "she was on a small dose."

The website had said the amount of the dosage was not the only factor. The length of time she was on it was just as important in determining the severity of withdrawal symptoms. As nearly as we could figure, she had been on it about five years.

"Besides," he continued, "Xanax has a very short half-life. It has been a week. It's completely out of her system by now."

Isn't that when withdrawal starts? I thought. But I said nothing. Dr. David was glaring at me now, a 'How dare you?' look.

"I'll see you in six weeks. You have a follow up with Helen in two weeks," he said, focused, once again, on the computer screen.

"Check with the front desk before you leave," he said not bothering to look up.

We had been dismissed. Our audience with Dr. David was over and he had not even offered us his ring to kiss. We just got up and left. It was ten forty-eight.

* * *

"Seems like you have a good friend in Freddie," Dr. Barnett said.

"He is someone to look up to," I said, "Helen was wrong, I know some good positive people. They are there if you look for them."

"Agreed."

"I have to find my own way in the fellowship. It is different for everybody."

"Speaking of different, Dr. David seems to do it his own way."

"Is it strange talking about him to you? I mean, he's a psychiatrist, too. Is it like a conflict of interest or some ethical violation to talk about another doctor?"

"We simply are in the same profession, Nick. We are not colleagues. You are my patient, my priority. I have no allegiances with him and frankly, so far I am appalled at his behavior."

"I appreciate that, Doc."

"Speak freely during our sessions, Nick. It is the only way I can be of any help to you."

"That's good to hear. I mean, I figured that, but it is still good to hear."

"Deborah seemed to realize there was work to do. I was glad she did not form an attachment with Diana. It sometimes happens that way when people meet under those conditions."

"Yeah, same in rehab, some sort of common bond, an attachment."

"But not necessarily a healthy one. Deborah seemed to sense that when she said good-bye to Diana."

"Yeah, we had something new to deal with. Debbie did not seem to be responding to the lithium. But Dr. David did not want to discuss it, just increase the dosage."

"Not exactly my profession's proudest moment," Dr. Barnett said.

"And how does that make you feel, doctor?" I asked, trying to sound serious, as I stood and held my hand out, palm upward, to indicate she might want to try the magic couch.

Dr. Barnett smiled.

"So we'll pick it up here next time, Nick," she said.

"Sounds good. See you then."
SESSION NINE

WE KEEP OUR OWN TIME

Over the next week, we quickly settled into a new routine. It was not that much different from before. We basically continued doing the same things, except now we did everything together. What she had done to herself was serious. If I had needed to I could have used it as leverage against her, but it was not necessary. For the first time in years, we seemed to be on the same page. Debbie was not ready to drive yet and she seemed content with me chauffeuring her around. We went to daily meetings, the gym and the store.

Each night when we were in for the evening, I took my car keys and hid them on the top shelf in my bathroom. This was new, quickly becoming a habit, and I suppose a symbol of my uncertainty. It was not a lack of trust in the process; at least I don't think it was. I had initially believed that if I did not drink and continued to do the next right thing that everything would get better.

Helen had certainly given me a few doubts. Maybe I was not up to the task of helping Debbie. I didn't know anymore. I suppose, I never did. I naively thought that if I played nicely with others that all would be well, life would be fair.

Even though I had been certain that something good was going to come out of all of this, I was not going to tempt fate. I had not really explored my feelings, but I was aware that all of this had freaked me out a little. Hiding the keys seemed like a prudent thing to do and it served as a reminder. It also assured me I would be able to sleep, no late night phone calls from Officer Martin.

Debbie had been home for about a week when we returned from the gym one morning and had a message on our answering machine. It was from a fellow, Rich, who we both knew from the meetings. The message was rambling and Rich was clearly drunk. I just wanted to delete it, but helping others is part of the process.

"Call him back," Debbie said, "see what he wants."

I checked the caller ID and jotted down the number. Rich had gotten my number at one of the meetings. When someone is new or coming back in, after a binge, we often pass around a small pamphlet with some encouraging slogans on it. It also has a page on the back with just lines, designed for us to put our first name and a phone number where we can be reached. That way the new person will have someone to call if he is in crisis.

'Never alone, never again', is one of the phrases that gives people encouragement. The problem is that we tell them to call before they pick up a drink, but rarely does that happen.

I dialed Rich's number. It rang four times and I felt some relief as I was sure I was about to get an answering machine, but before any recorded message began to play, he picked up.

"Hello," Rich bellowed.

And then before I could respond he followed up with another loud slurred, "Hello, who is this?"

"Rich, this is Nick," I said, "returning your call."

"Nick!" Rich shouted with enthusiasm.

He paused and then excitedly said, "You're the only one that called me back."

Son of a bitch, I'll bet I am the only one putting my real phone number on those tiny pamphlets.

"So what's new, Rich?" I asked casually.

"Nick, I must have called ten people and you are the only one to call me back."

Yeah, I got that the first time you said it.

"I've messed up, Nick. I took a drink."

No shit, I thought, but instead I said, "It happens to the best of us, Rich. The question is what are you going to do about it now?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. The question may have been too difficult, given Rich's condition. So I decided to rephrase.

"What do you want, Rich?" I asked.

"Can you take me to the noon meeting, Nick?"

"Sure," I said slowly, not really wanting to deal with this, "where do you live, Rich?"

There was more silence.

"What's your address, Rich?"

"My address?" he repeated slowly.

"Hold on, Rich," I said and retrieved the phone book from under the counter. Fortunately, the caller ID had also displayed Rich's last name.

"Six fifty-two Kingsley Way?" I asked looking at the open phone book.

"What?" he said.

"Your address, Rich, is it six fifty-two Kingsley Way?"

"Yeah, that's where I live, Nick, Kingsley Way."

There was another pause.

"Nick," he said using a lowered voice as if someone might be listening, "do you realize you are the only one to call me back?"

"Listen to me, Rich. After we get off the phone, I want you to go in the bathroom and throw some cold water on your face. Clean yourself up. When you are done go outside and stand by your mailbox. Take deep breaths while you are waiting. Breathe in the fresh air. We'll be there in half an hour," I said as I hung up the phone.

As we left the house a few minutes later, Debbie started to get into the Corolla. The Corolla was still fairly new and only had about ten thousand miles on it.

"No," I said, "we'll take the van."

The van had been around for a few years. I picked up a bucket as we walked through the garage.

"Just in case Rich feels as bad as he sounds," I said to Debbie.

"Smart, no use christening the new car."

All but one of the seats was stowed away in the back of the van. We kept it that way so there was plenty of room for the dogs. I also had cut and fitted a piece of rug over the factory-installed carpet on the floor of the van. It was a lesson we had learned when we got our Great Pyrenees, Stoney.

* * *

We had just moved to North Carolina and had scheduled a vacation in Tennessee. We had started renting a cabin in the mountains and driving up for a week with our dogs while we were still living in Florida. It was fun and a real change of scenery from the season less climate in Florida. So out of habit our first autumn in North Carolina, we booked a cabin in neighboring Tennessee. It was the last time we did that, since spending a week in Tennessee was not that much different from staying in our new home in North Carolina. But if we hadn't taken that final trip to the mountains, we never would have gotten Stoney.

Debbie and I had taken a guided horseback ride one morning while on that last vacation in Tennessee and the woman leading us on the trail told us about the six-month-old puppy that she had at home. He was a Great Pyrenees, a beautiful purebred healthy dog with an all-white coat.

"He's getting bigger and bigger," she told Debbie as our fiery headstrong steeds carried us along the trail. Actually, our guide had sized us up as 'city slickers' and given us the oldest slowest horses that she had available.

"I had a Pyrenees when I was a teenager," Debbie said.

"I don't know if I can keep him," our guide continued, "my mother lives with me and there is just not that much room, even though we live in a double wide. I am afraid she is going to fall over him one of these days."

By the end of our ride, it had been decided that we would try Stoney around our dogs. I had not heard the entire conversation since Debbie and the guide rode side by side. I was behind them just trying to keep within earshot. Apparently, I had been adjudged the lesser rider and given the older more gentle horse. Clearly, our guide did not recognize an athlete when she saw one.

We had a large fenced in backyard at home and if the Pyrenees got along with Ginger and Samie, we would be happy to add Stoney to our family. We followed her back to her place and coaxed the oversized pup into the back of the van. He was timid for such a big fellow, but finally he settled in for the short ride back to our cabin rental.

"Careful with him. He gets car sick sometimes," our friendly guide told us as we had loaded him up.

We returned to the cabin without incident and introduced him to Samie and our older dog at the time, Ginger. They seemed to get along all right, even though Ginger seemed to eye him with a bit of distrust. She was the boss dog and I suppose his size was a bit intimidating.

We kept Stoney for the rest of the week and called the woman the day before we were supposed to go home. We told her that we would be taking him with us. He was our dog now.

That afternoon I had already packed the van and decided to take a test drive with the dogs through the mountains before leaving the next morning. I just wanted to see how everyone would travel together. The next day we would have about a six-hour ride back to our house.

As I drove along the dogs seemed to be doing fine. Debbie had stayed at the cabin while I took them out on the test run. I turned off the main drag and onto a winding two-lane road that made its way up into the mountains. Shortly after making the turn on to the mountain road, I heard some shuffling around in the back. Through the rear view mirror, I could see Samie, our lab, boxer mix, perched on top of the suitcases. Then I noticed the smell.

Pulling over at the next available rest area, fortunately there were many such areas on most of the mountain roads, I put the van in park and turned to see poor Stoney, ungraciously spitting up bile and whatever else was in his stomach as a stream of doggie diarrhea shot out on the carpet. Samie still atop the suitcases and staying safely out of harm's way looked on in canine horror.

Ginger, my older Shepherd mix, just looked at me knowingly as if to say I knew this big dog was going to be trouble.

I couldn't really do anything sitting there on the side of the road.

"Hold on, guys," I said as I put the van in gear, turned it around carefully and headed back to the cabin driving slowly especially on the winding road. It didn't really matter much because the damage had already been done.

I spent the rest of the day cleaning out the back of the van once back at the cabin. I just threw away the fitted piece of carpet and used plenty of aerosol spray. I went into town later to the local Walmart and bought another carpet and box cutter to shape it for the floor in the back of the van and a bottle of Dramamine for Stoney.

The next day we headed home and Stoney handled it like a champ. We had him skip breakfast, walked him several times before leaving and gave him an adult dosage of the motion sickness medicine. We made it home without incident.

* * *

Debbie and I headed out to six fifty-two Kingsley way hoping that Rich would be up for the drive to the meeting. I called Freddie on the way.

"Hello," he answered.

"Freddie, its Nick. I am bringing that guy, Rich, to the noon meeting. He sounded pretty drunk when I talked to him. It's okay to bring him right?"

"Of course, my brother, bring him to the meeting," Freddie said.

I liked it when Freddie called me 'his brother.' Freddie was well respected and I guess it made me feel important.

"I am really not sure what to say or do with him," I admitted.

"You just get him to the meeting and I'll take him home after."

"Thanks, Freddie, we'll be there soon," I said feeling some relief as I put down the phone.

I did not have a lot of experience with active, as in really drunk, alcoholics, but I was pleased to see Rich waiting by the mailbox in front of his house when we turned on to Kingsley Way. I pulled the van to a stop with the sliding side door right in front of him. He just stood there smiling. Then he stared with a look of great confusion at the door handle in front of him. Then he looked back at

Debbie and me seated in the front of the idling van. This went on for a minute, before I got out and helped him in.

Once he was secure in the back of the van, I got back into the driver's seat and pulled away.

"The bucket?" Debbie whispered to me referring to the receptacle in the back beside Rich.

"Don't mention it," I said quietly, "best not to give him any ideas."

"Nick," Rich said, "you were the only one to call me back."

We had both actually known Rich for about seven years. He had been at the meeting when I had first come back to the rooms. He was part of what I call the 'churn rate.' The twenty five percent of the fellowship that are always in their first year of sobriety. The statistics are available on line, but nobody ever wants to talk about the numbers. Rich would get in trouble, lose a job or get a dui, come back to meetings and stop drinking. When things got better, he would stop coming, start drinking, get in trouble again and then repeat the sobering up process. It was like shampooing your hair to some people-lather, rinse, repeat. Sober, drunk, return - it was a vicious cycle for many in the fellowship, an unending ride on the hamster wheel of sobriety.

There wasn't much more conversation on the drive to the clubhouse. I intentionally let the radio play to discourage talking. Fortunately, Rich weathered the ride much like Stoney had when we brought him home from Tennessee and we did not need the makeshift vomitorium. It was good that we had been prepared though. As we pulled into the parking lot at the clubhouse, I turned off the radio.

"Rich, Freddie is going to give you a ride home today," I said looking at the front of the building where Freddie's station wagon was parked in one of the handicapped spaces. I never asked Freddie why he had a handicap permit. He appeared perfectly healthy. I thought it best not to ask.

"Freddie?" Rich said, "I love that guy."

I parked in my usual spot under the shade tree. I got out and opened the door from the outside for Rich. If getting in had been difficult I knew the handle and locking mechanism on the inside of the door would be impenetrable.

Rich got out and staggered toward Freddie's car.

"Freddie," he said as he walked unevenly away, "I love that guy."

At the meeting, Rich spoke up. He was in tears when he spoke.

"It's real, people," he said loudly, "it's real."

I think everyone was at the meeting because it was 'real' as Rich attested. We all knew that. But Rich was drunk and nobody stopped him from talking. If nothing else when something like this happened at a meeting, it could serve as a reminder to all present of what life had been like before the fellowship.

Rich gave us the long version of his story. He had sobered up just enough to make some sense. His Jersey accent was very pronounced when he was tipsy. He had been out of work for about six months. That I presumed, explained the weight gain, his belly protruding over his belt, at least an extra thirty pounds from last time.

It turned out that Rich was facing jail time. He had gotten his third DUI. With it came a mandatory jail sentence. He had been appointed one of the most prominent attorneys in town. He made a point of letting us know that, only the best for Rich. Even under these circumstances, Rich thought himself to be a little better than everyone else. But even with Van Buren as his lawyer, Rich was still going to jail.

His court date kept getting pushed back he told us. It was reminiscent of my DUI in Florida, so I could identify. It looked like Rich was going to be with us for a while. At least until his next court date scheduled six weeks from now.

"I wasn't even driving. I was pushing my moped up my street, Kingsley Way," he shared. He said 'Kingsley Way" proudly, impressed with himself for remembering where he lived. He looked in my direction and smiled.

Rich, a married middle-aged man, living in a nice house in a golfing community had been reduced to getting himself around on a moped. No operator's license was required for a moped in the state of North Carolina. But he had been drunk when his vehicle had broken down and he was pushing it home when the police picked him up. He was considered to be in full control of the vehicle just like I had been, laying on the floor of the parking garage in Florida when I was arrested for 'driving' under the influence. I could relate to Rich. The police had impounded his moped.

After the meeting, Freddie walked Rich out to the parking lot. I looked in Freddie's direction and nodded my head in appreciation. Freddie nodded back, but in a cooler way. He just tilted his head back one time. It was as if he was saying 'my brother' with his body language. Freddie was one cool customer. I watched as Rich struggled with the station wagon door. He pulled at the handle over and over. I could hear it snap back loudly each time he let it go. Finally, Freddie got out of the driver's seat, walked around his car and opened the door for Rich.

We went home to our dogs and then later we went to the gym. Debbie had started to go with me and I liked being able to keep an eye on her. She would walk the track with oversized headphones atop her head listening to music while I worked up a sweat on the stair master. Then after the whirlpool and sauna, we would head to the house, get something to eat and then watch television until bedtime. The next morning we would begin the daily ritual again, our version of lather, rinse, repeat.

Debbie continued to have trouble sleeping. If she did dose off in her easy chair, around eleven o'clock I would turn the volume down on the television and quietly go off to the bedroom, leaving her to sleep in the chair. I thought it best not to wake her up because she might not get back to sleep. And I could sleep easily knowing that the car keys were secure and she was not going anywhere during the night.

Different noises were beginning to bother her as well. The dryer and microwave had to be used sparingly. The exhaust fan in the bathroom next to the bedroom had to be shut off altogether. I was in the habit of running it all night. I liked to sleep to the soothing hum of the fan running. It was most likely because I had a window-unit air conditioner in my room in Florida, where I had grown up. The complete quiet freaked me out at first, but not nearly as much as the noise aggravated Debbie. I got used to the quiet.

For the next several days, we took Rich to the noon meeting. After the morning workout, I would return home to change and relax for an hour. Debbie usually just stayed home in the mornings, taking her time waking up. Rich began calling around eleven, just as 'The Price Is Right' was starting.

"Pick you up about eleven-thirty," I would tell him. We would leave for his house, right after the contestant's spun the big wheel the first time. It was my favorite part of the show, except for Plinko.

Rich seemed to be doing well. He was alert, made sense at the meetings and, even with a jail sentence looming in his future, he was apparently staying sober, one day at a time.

It was a Monday, almost two weeks since Rich's first drunken message, when as usual Rich called that morning. I told him we would pick him up at 11:30. He knew the drill by now and was standing outside in front of his house by the mailbox when we drove up. He opened the sliding side door of the van without difficulty, but then he stood there puzzled by the back seat that I had left folded over in the stowed position from the day before, when I had taken the dogs for a ride.

"The lever, Rich," I said to him as I turned around facing him from the driver's seat.

It was right in front of him, a small plastic handle on the side of the seat. All one did was push it down and the seat back would pop up into its functional position. Rich stared at it for a few more seconds then smiled, as if the light bulb over his head had suddenly come on. He pushed the lever and the seat back popped up. Proud of himself Rich looked at me, maintaining his big toothy grin.

"Got it," he said as he climbed in and slid the door shut behind him.

Not again? I thought, but I decided to give Rich the benefit of the doubt. To the best of my recollection, it was the first time he had encountered the seat folded down.

With Debbie in the passenger seat next to me, I began the twenty-minute drive to the clubhouse. On the way, Rich told us that Freddie had taken him to the Sunday meeting the day before. Debbie and I do not go to the Sunday meeting. It always seemed a bit more like a church service than a meeting. It was even held at 11 a.m. instead of noon. I think it was more for those misfits who no longer attended church, but still wanted to talk about god. They could have their Sunday meeting.

Rich had been asked to lead the meeting, quite the honor. He had talked about being the last man on earth. What would god want him to do? Rich continued talking almost the entire drive, telling us about the meeting. He thought what he was saying was all very deep. I guess it was to him. To me it sounded like nonsense, but at least I did not have to make small talk with him. Oh yeah, he kept calling me 'dude'.

After parking in my usual spot at the clubhouse, Rich got out and wandered over to a group of smokers to join in the discussion of the day.

I looked at Debbie, "was he..."

"Drinking?" she finished my question, "most definitely."

"Crap," I said, "I thought I smelled something too."

"Yeah, under the aftershave and breath mints. Vodka, I think," she added.

Debbie and I went in and took our seats at the table. Rich sat at another table. There was no hierarchy it's just where we sat. Rich held it together during the meeting. The topic was 'being returned to sanity.' Rich shared a popular view that he did not know if he would ever be completely sane. He talked for about five minutes and I only heard him slur words once. Rich could talk the talk. I shared briefly, going against the grain a bit, I said I was a pretty sane person when I did not drink.

After the meeting, I got Freddie alone for a minute. It was at the closing prayer. Freddie, being Muslim, did not participate in the lord's prayer for religious reasons. I simply did not participate.

"Freddie," I said as we stood outside, alone in the foyer, "I think Rich has been drinking. What should I do?"

"Let it be, Nick. We keep our own time," he said.

"Not my business?" I said.

Freddie nodded. People were starting to come out. The meeting and the prayer were over. Debbie had gone out the other side of the building and was talking with Nancy and a couple other women. She put on a brave face when she came to the meetings. She still had the anxiety and sensitivity, but around friends and people in the fellowship she managed to act as if she was all right. The meetings were a good way to keep her mind off her problems.

I decided that Freddie's advice was good. So when I walked around and found Debbie and we met Rich at the van, I had decided not to say anything to him about his drinking. We all got in, buckled up and I pulled out onto the street.

Every time I drove out on to the street, I briefly thought of what Harry Miller liked to say. The clubhouse was located about a block and a half up the street from an intersection. It was on the top of a little hill.

"I am putting my life in God's hands," someone would invariably say at a meeting.

"You want to put your life in God's hands?" Harry would usually respond, "get in your car and head right out here on top of the hill facing the stop sign at the bottom. Take your hands off the wheel and put it in God's hands. See what happens."

I had decided to leave things alone with Rich. We had gotten all the way to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill when Rich, still on topic from the meeting, pipes up in his most arrogant and sarcastic voice. The Italian, Jersey mobster voice that revealed his arrogance a little too much.

"So Nick," he asked, "you think you are sane?"

That pissed me off.

The idea that this ungrateful smart ass to whom I had been giving rides dared to challenge me when I was helping him while dealing with my own family crisis, well, it was just too much.

Idling at the stop sign, I turned and looked back at him.

"Have you been drinking?" I barked.

So much for Freddie's good advice.

That stopped him cold. His facial expression changed. His forehead, eyes, ears, nose and mouth all drooped simultaneously. He had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar or more aptly with his hand around the vodka bottle. His arrogance quickly turned to guilt.

"What?" he stammered, "no, I have not been drinking."

"Rich," I said, "you couldn't even put the seat up when you got in the van."

"Oh please," he snorted, arrogance returning. It was his default demeanor.

"I am just not used to the seats in your vehicle."

He was engaging his 'fight response' to the situation. Being enclosed in the van, the 'flight response' was not an option. Despite the denial in his words, his facial expression did not change. The look of guilt told me everything that I needed to know. I looked both ways for traffic and seeing none I pulled away from the stop sign. There were a few awkward moments of silence.

"I am not drinking, Nick," he finally spoke again.

"I can smell it, Rich," I said even though it had really been Debbie, with her heightened senses, who had identified the smell. I wasn't about to get her involved as she sat there quietly in the passenger seat, watching the road ahead.

"Whatever you think you smell it is not me. I have not been drinking."

"Rich, you've been slurring your words."

More awkward silence followed.

"Dude," he finally said, "where is this coming from? Is something bothering you? Do you need to talk?"

"Listen." I had been calming down, but now I was pissed off again. "You are an arrogant loser and I am not your 'dude.' I certainly do not want to talk with you. You are not my friend or my buddy. You are just a drunk to whom I have been giving rides to meetings."

More really awkward silence and finally, mercifully, twenty minutes later, we arrived in front of Rich's house. I pulled to a stop on the side of the street by his mailbox.

"Nick," he said making no move to open the door to get the hell out of my van, "I don't understand what I have done to make you think I am drinking. I cannot afford any more trouble. I just need to get to meetings to stay sober."

Get the hell out of my van, I wanted to say.

But instead, I turned to look at him as he sat there his face still covered in a mask of guilt. His words were very good. I was sure he had plenty of practice trying to convince people he was not drinking.

I extended my hand to him as he took it and we did a perfunctory handshake. I simply said, "I am sorry that I thought you were drinking, Rich."

I was just trying to get rid of him.

That did seem to satisfy him. He tightened his grip a bit and I thought I saw the look in his eyes intensify, in smug satisfaction, as if he had really convinced me of his innocence. Before he released my hand fully he looked right me in the eye and said, "I am sorry that I have been such a burden."

Drumroll, please, and the Oscar goes to... Rich of six fifty two Kingsley Way.

Finally, he got out and closed the door behind him. I put the idling van in drive and got out of there.

"Do me a favor," Debbie said, "the next time you want to tell someone off, please wait until we are at their house."

"Yeah, point taken," I said, "the twenty minute ride was a bit much."

"My anxiety is through the roof," she added.

"Sorry about that," I said as we turned onto the highway and headed home.

Debbie did not have a good night. She spent it in the easy chair restlessly dozing in and out of consciousness. At 5a.m., she woke me up and wanted to go for a ride. She said it would calm her. All of the noise in the house was driving her crazy. I could hear the dogs breathing and a wall clock ticking and I suppose I had been snoring before being awakened. The refrigerator hummed steadily. But honestly, to me, there really was not any noise. Debbie's sensitivity was getting worse.

* * *

"Another, unstable influence, just what you and Deborah needed," Dr. Barnett said.

"Yeah, I didn't handle things particularly well."

"It wasn't your fault, Nick. There is sometimes no good way to handle a situation like that."

"It did not help my self-confidence. I can tell you that."

"You followed your instincts. You did your best."

"Again, I learned something from a negative influence. I cannot help anyone who has been drinking. Maybe some people can, but I can't."

"It is difficult, more like impossible, to reason with a drunk," she said.

"The third tradition of the fellowship states, the only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. Most people think that only means everyone is welcome. No matter who you are if you want to stop drinking, this is the place."

"What does it mean to you?"

"It means that if I do not have a desire to stop drinking, I am not going to stop. Nothing, the steps, the fellowship, god himself are not going to stop me from drinking if I do not want to stop."

"Good common sense, Nick."

"I cannot give Rich a desire to stop drinking. He has to find that for himself. The funny thing is that I was so surprised, you know, running into a drunk at a meeting."

"That's because you take being sober seriously."

"I have never picked up a drink when I regularly attend meetings."

"That's how it works for you."

"Yeah, that's my experience. It's not the same for everybody."

"How did Deborah take all of this?"

"I think the incident set Debbie back. It certainly didn't help her. I was trying to help another alcoholic, but sometimes it really does seem like whatever I do, it is never good enough, like Helen said."

"Helen should never have talked to you like that."

I just looked at her and nodded.

"Debbie's sensitivity to sound and light was getting worse. The weight loss was becoming noticeable, too. She said her anxiety was through the roof. There was no relief in sight. We really were living one day at a time."

"I'll let you in on a secret, Nick, it is the only way you can live. One day at a time, is not just a saying."

I smiled.

"See you Thursday," I said.
SESSION TEN

FUCK YOU WHERE YOU BREATHE

We had an appointment with Helen a couple of days after dropping Rich off for the last time.

Seated in the waiting area at Behavioral Services, I saw a person from the fellowship flipping through a magazine. I had forgotten his name, but when he looked up and over in our direction, I nodded and smiled. He returned the acknowledgement and buried his head back in the magazine. Anonymity can be convenient.

"Oh pooh," I heard a woman's voice say from the entrance to the waiting room. Debbie and I were seated facing the counter where you checked in with one of the receptionists. The door where people entered was behind us. I turned to see who had come in. It was Cassidy, a woman from the fellowship. She was animatedly speaking with someone on her phone. When she looked ahead and saw most of the people in the waiting room staring at her, she quickly ended her call.

"I've got to go," she said into her device.

A young woman, new to our fellowship, was accompanying her. It was a safe bet the new girl was being checked out and Cassidy was driving her around and lending support. All I remembered about the young woman was that she was a single mom just coming off drugs and booze. It was not an unfamiliar story.

"Hey, Nick. Hey, Deb," Cassidy said as she stood there sticking her phone into her oversized purse then nodding at her friend, "you remember Laurie Crumpton?"

So much for anonymity.

We acknowledged them without saying anything. Cassidy and the girl found two seats that fortunately, for us, were on the other side of the waiting room.

Don't get me wrong. I liked Cassidy. I really did. She had picked up a thirty-year medallion recently. So at the very least people respected her sobriety. Today her hair was purple. Usually it was blonde. Cassidy was a sixty something divorcee who usually bleached her short cropped hair blonde, very blonde.

"Blondes have more fun," she would say.

But this week, Cassidy's hair was purple. She had shared at a meeting that her father had died. She was sad, but he had been old and his death was not unexpected.

Her family, who had all basically disowned her years ago, was going to be at the funeral in Charleston later in the week. The purple hair was her way of telling the rest of her family to go screw themselves.

I could see it now. A warm South Carolina afternoon, a cooling breeze gently blowing through the graveyard as the moss covered branches of the shade trees swayed back and forth while Cassidy's family stood graveside with bowed heads. A cloud of dust appears down the tiny road leading to the cemetery as a bright red sports car emerges. Flamboyant Cassidy, dressed in her colorful and often sequined tight fitting clothes steps from the car. The family gasps as they see the purple hair.

"Thought you could have this shindig without me?" she asks as one of the aunts faints away being caught by a dark suited pallbearer.

'Poor Cassidy,' I thought.

There are a lot of lonely people in the fellowship. Not only had she been disowned by the family, but also a few years ago Cassidy had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Upon hearing her diagnosis, she had set out to complete her 'bucket list' that primarily involved a first class trip around the world financed by the good folks at MasterCard, Visa and American Express. A short time after returning from Europe, the Far East and Australia the doctors had declared Cassidy cancer free.

'Oops.'

I suppose it was a miracle of sorts, if you believe in that sort of thing, but the real miracle would be if any of the credit card people were ever fully paid off. So on Cassidy went, living her flamboyant life to the fullest. There was talk in the rooms, as there often is, that with a cancer diagnosis, remission or not, come the pain pill prescriptions. That might have explained Cassidy's lifestyle, her attention seeking behavior, but I have learned not to speculate and more to the point, some things are simply not my concern.

"Deborah, Deborah Jimbanis," Helen called out from the half opened door leading into the doctor's offices.

We got up and walked over to where she waited, doing her patented spin move in her chair as we got close. It was an act of faith, if I hadn't grabbed the door as it began to swing closed, it would have smacked Helen's wheelchair pretty hard. It was a heavy door. I suppose Helen figured that no one wanted to let the door hit her, pissing her off right before a session. After the session, I had noticed, Helen was not so confident, staying in her office allowing clients, most likely pissed off themselves by now, to find their own way out.

As we went through the doorway, I looked back and recalled a passage in one of our books that reads, 'those of us who have recovered from the serious drink problem are miracles of mental health.'

Miracles of mental health, my ass, we could have a meeting right here in the waiting room of behavioral services.

Helen rolled behind her desk, putting on the parking brake. Debbie and I sat, front and center, in the two chairs on the other side of the desk. Debbie was all smiles. She liked Helen, and was ready for a lively session. I, on the other hand, looked across the desk with caution, ready to be chastised again, although I was pretty sure that Helen would not come out, with both barrels blazing in front of Debbie.

I was wrong.

"How are you feeling, today?" she said, clearly directing her attention toward Debbie.

"I am good, Helen," Debbie lied.

She was happy, at least right now. For about a year, Debbie had been attending a support group that Helen led on Thursday afternoons. She really seemed to enjoy it, often telling me afterward that she was Helen's favorite.

"That was some stunt you pulled."

I assumed that, stunt, must be a new medical term referring to Debbie's almost tragic suicide attempt. Helen, always, was the consummate professional.

"I'm sorry, Helen," Debbie responded, looking at the floor with the not unexpected guilt elicited by Helen.

"You really threw us a curve, Dr. David and me."

A curve? Seemed much more like a wild pitch to me. One that flies at ninety-eight miles an hour behind the batter's head, clangs into one of the metal poles holding up the backstop and ricochets back, scattering the umpire, catcher and batter on its second time around. A curve? Curves are routine.

"It doesn't look good," she continued, "you were in my care. How could you do this to me?"

"I don't know Helen, I didn't mean to."

Debbie still looked at the floor, her exuberance completely gone. Helen looked over at me for the first time, acknowledging finally, that I was there. She just shook her head.

"You should've come talked to me, after Mother's day," she said, her attention back on Debbie, "we could've talked it out."

Helen had all of the notes from the psych ward and knew about the incident with her sister.

"I know, I am sorry, Helen," Debbie said almost in tears.

"Well, all we can do is pick up the pieces," I suppose, "if I still have a job after what you did."

Jesus, really? Worried about your job?

"How's the lithium working?"

"Alright," Debbie lied, good and scared by now.

I just sat there. Every man for himself. I felt bad, not saying anything. It was as if I had jumped on the lifeboat first and was paddling to safety. I look back at Debbie, on the sinking deck of the Titanic, as Helen padlocks a chain attached to an anchor around her ankle.

"I see Dr. David increased you to nine hundred milligrams. Make sure you take it," she said giving me a stern look as if I could probably at least help with the medication.

I nodded.

"I see you questioned Dr. David on the Xanax," she said while I was still in her sights, "You think you know all about it because you have internet access?"

"She's having symptoms," I stammered, "anxiety, sensitive to light and sound, can't sleep. It all fits the Xanax withdrawal."

"Just make sure she takes her lithium," Helen said sternly, "Stop at reception on the way out. Verify your next appointment with Dr. David. You're lucky he is still willing to see you."

And that was that.

I took Debbie's hand, shell shocked, we stood and left quickly, not looking back, lest we turn into pillars of salt or something like that.

We checked with the receptionist. Debbie's next appointment with Dr. David was in a month. She would see Helen in group on Thursday, well, maybe.

I noticed that the purple coiffed Cassidy was no longer sitting there. If nothing else, behavioral services certainly kept the que moving. With people from the fellowship, Medicare and Medicaid patients, the indigent and nut cases in general, Behavioral Services was a happening place.

We had missed our noon meeting, so we just went home, took it easy, spent some quality time with the dogs and later went to the gym before settling in for the evening.

Debbie was hardly eating anything for the last couple of days. She just sat in her easy chair, sunglasses on, staring ahead at the television set. She wore a pair of wireless headphones that I had rigged up so that she could listen at her own volume or mute the sound altogether if she chose to. I settled in, a reheated bowl of left over bag of shit in my lap.

As we were about to begin another rerun of 'House' on Netflix, the phone rang. The ringer was set to its lowest setting, barely audible, as it made the first ring, Rich's name from six fifty two Kingsley Way popped up on the screen in the upper left hand corner. It was our cable company's caller id, for the discriminating viewers, too lazy to pick up the handset next to them or god forbid, actually have to get up and walk to the phone.

"What does he want?" Debbie asked.

"I can only imagine," I said. Being one of the more communication impaired, I usually left the phone mounted on the charger in the kitchen where it belonged. I started to get up to answer the call.

"Let the machine get it," Debbie said.

I heard the muffled outgoing message playing on the answering machine from the back room that we called the office. There was a desktop computer, a table where I left my checkbook and calculator and a bookshelf full of various, mostly unread, volumes that had been collected over the years. And of course, there was the answering machine. I am not sure why I had put it in there. Often we missed messages because no one went in there for days at a time. But that is where it was. Maybe it was a statement about how I valued my privacy.

Regardless, I got up and walked back to the office. I was curious.

'Was Rich calling to apologize?' I wondered. If he was, certainly, I would be forgiving and magnanimous with my understanding.

I would say something like, 'We all needed a wakeup call every now and then, you are not alone, Rich. Glad I could help.'

"Fuck you. Fuck you where you breathe, Nick." Rich's voice was coming through, loud and clear, as I opened the door to the office. Quickly I shut it behind me, so Debbie would not hear.

I stood in the dark office, illuminated only by the red digital lines on the recording machine, as Rich continued.

"You give me a resentment? Well I am giving it back. You call me arrogant? You are the arrogant asshole, Nick. Fuck you and your ugly little wife who tried to kill herself. Fuck you where you breathe."

Fortunately, I had only left sixty seconds for incoming messages and the beep ending this message made its shrill high-pitched sound. First thing I thought was, no good deed goes unpunished. The second thing I thought was, 'fuck me where I breathe?' I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, but I breathe through my nose. Surely, Rich did not intend to stick his pencil-thin little dick up one of my nostrils. No. I knew what he meant. He really said it with feeling too. It must have been a Jersey thing. Rich could be a nasty fuck, but he was no Tony Soprano.

The phone rang again. The machine kicked in and shortly afterward, the tirade began, again. I opened the door, stepped out and closed it quickly behind me. I walked to the kitchen.

"What's going on?" Deb asked as I passed through, headphones off now.

"Rich is having a rough night," I said as I continued to the kitchen and picked up the phone.

"where you breathe, Nick." The first words I heard when I held the receiver to my ear. At least when Rich found a theme that he liked, he stuck with it, whether it made sense or not.

"Have you been drinking, Rich?" I asked sternly, but without raising my voice, so as not to alarm Deborah. Stupid question, I immediately thought.

"Nick!" Rich said with some surprise, apparently delighted that I had answered the phone. The beep sounded just then ending the recording, but now Rich had the real thing.

"No." He said angrily. "Who do you think you are, Nick? You are the arrogant asshole. Is this how you work your program?"

Rich knew all of the talk. The fellowship had its own culture if you will. I wonder if that is where the word, cult, comes from? Rich had learned all of the sayings and he could even talk the god talk when necessary. The only part he could not get was the not drinking and not using drugs aspect of our fellowship. Staying clean and sober is a pretty big part, an important aspect, of what we do.

"You are a loser, Rich," I said angrily. I knew already that it had been a mistake to pick up the phone. I suppose I was learning a lot from Rich.

"Fuck you," Rich said as I hung up.

Yeah, fuck me where I breathe, I thought, and went back into the living room.

Deb had heard most of my side of the short conversation. I sat back down in my chair and was going to explain it away as nothing to worry about, when on the television screen the name Rich of six fifty two Kingsley Way appeared. The barely audible ringer on the phone sounded.

"Oh God," Debbie said.

"No, it's Rich," I said trying to be funny.

"He's drunk and not very happy," I added perhaps stating the obvious as I got up and slowly went back to the office, waiting until I heard the beep before going in and unplugging the answering machine.

During the next ten minutes, we watched Rich's name pop up in the corner of the television screen twelve more times.

"Enough," Deb finally said. She had been sitting there with her eyes closed, but she would open them at the quiet gentle ring of the phone in the kitchen.

"Make it stop," she said.

I had an idea. I got my cell phone and called Clay.

Clay was a good-natured soul from the fellowship. He was a gentle giant who had some good quality sobriety. Thank goodness for people like Clay. I thought that Rich would probably listen to him so I was pleased when Clay answered his phone. I explained what had happened and he agreed to give Rich a call.

Five minutes later, Clay's number appeared on the caller id and I answered.

"I told him that whatever his beef was that he was not helping himself. I reminded him of his court date. I don't think he will be bothering you anymore, Nick," Clay said.

"Thank you. Thank you, so much," I said.

"No problem. We look out for each other. See you at the meeting," he said as he hung up.

"It's over," I told Debbie, as I sat down and started streaming an episode of House. We were right in the middle of an episode from the night before.

She had put her headphones back on and was sitting there staring at Dr. House on the television. I put the phone down and pushed back in my recliner. I picked up the remote and turned the volume up a bit, so I could hear the show.

House was swallowing a handful of Vicodin. Maybe this was not the best show for a recovering alcoholic with a predilection for pain pills to be watching. But I didn't care. House did not take crap from anyone and he was a brilliant doctor. I liked Gregory House.

The next day I approached Clay before the meeting and thanked him for calling Rich off the night before. I had recorded the phone messages on my tablet. The device was new and I had not found the voice recorder on it so I had used the video camera. I had a picture of my answering machine on the screen.

Clay and I sat outside in my van listening to three minutes of Rich, returning the resentment. Clay shook his head in spots.

Once he looked at me quizzically.

"Fuck you where you breathe?" he asked.

I just shrugged.

After the recording finished I turned off the tablet and we just sat there watching the cars come up the hill and turn into the clubhouse parking lot. It was almost noon.

"How's Debbie?" Clay asked.

"She was pretty upset."

"I'll bet," he said, "I don't think it will happen again."

"Thanks for talking to him."

"I'll have to withdraw my letter."

"Your letter?" I asked.

"I wrote him a recommendation, you know, to the judge."

"That's what Rich does," I said, "gets in trouble, comes in here, plays the game and gets help from people. When the trouble is behind him, he disappears until next time."

"It's sad," Clay said, "but better him than me."

I agreed.

"You need to erase that," Clay said nodding at the tablet on the center console in the van.

"I will," I promised. And six months later, I did just that.

We got out of the van and went into the clubhouse. Debbie was already seated inside. Today was an important day for her. She was picking up her thirty day chip. We use a chip system to keep track of our time in the fellowship. Debbie had thirty days and nights of continuous sobriety. In the beginning that is a long time to go without a drink. Thirty days since that night in the emergency room. It seemed longer to me, a distant memory. Everyone clapped at the end of the meeting when Debbie got up and walked to the front to get her red poker chip.

Life went on. Most days we went to the meetings together. We did not get any more phone calls from Rich. To be sure, I had figured out how to block his cell phone and home number from our home phone. Sometimes technology comes in handy.

On occasion Debbie would just stay home. Some days, it was too much for her. The abdominal pain continued to worsen, even though they had found nothing physically wrong while in the ER. There was her anxiety, the noises and the light, sometimes she was just exhausted, spending the entire day in the easy chair, never leaving the house.

Debbie had a follow up visit scheduled with Dr. Peacock, our family medical doctor. We had both used him occasionally for cuts, bruises, the sniffles and such, after moving to North Carolina. The appointment had been scheduled by the hospital. It was routine to see your family doctor after being in the ER.

I was glad that we were seeing him. Even though I was sure that Xanax withdrawal explained everything, I knew it was possible that the doctors had missed something. In the back of my mind, I thought it could be the gall bladder incident all over again.

* * *

About five years ago, Debbie had experienced excruciating pain in her stomach.

"Is it above or below her waist?" the 911 operator had asked the first time I called.

"What?" I had asked in a panic, "It's around her waist. In her abdomen."

"Above or below her waist?" the operator had asked again.

I did not respond. I did not know how to answer.

"I have to know if it is her heart, sir," the operator explained, "Is the pain above or below the waist?"

"It is not her heart," I hollered into the phone, "she has terrible pain in her abdomen. Will you just send someone?"

"An ambulance has been dispatched, sir."

That was the first time we went to the ER on that occasion. There were two other visits within a month. I drove her there myself the next two times. It seemed just as quick as calling 911. None of the doctors had been able to figure out what was wrong. Finally, after a colonoscopy and a diagnosis of diverticulitis, a surgeon had decided to remove a portion of Debbie's large intestine.

"Do it," Debbie had said. She just wanted the pain to stop.

"Excuse me, doctor, could it be her gall bladder?" I asked having done some of my own research and having discussed the situation with anyone who would listen.

"It's possible," the surgeon said slowly, as he considered this novel idea, "let me order two more tests."

Debbie sighed, just wanting the pain to stop. She shot me a look as if I had intentionally prolonged her agony for my own edification. But after just one more test, the technician called the doctor and no further testing was needed. They scheduled the surgery for the following morning when Debbie's gall bladder was removed arthroscopically. No muss, no fuss. The pain had stopped in spite of the doctors.

* * *

We went in together, on a Thursday morning, for the eleven o'clock follow up appointment. We were called into the inner office at 11:40. Par for the course.

There would be no noon meeting for us this day. I don't think that doctor visits have always been like they are now. Nowadays, it seems that the forty minutes in the reception area is just a pre-waiting period. The exam room is also furnished with a couple of chairs and magazines, scattered about.

After answering a few of the nurse's questions, another prolonged period of waiting begins, as she closes the door behind her. You sit there, listening to footsteps and muffled voices just outside the exam room, trying to anticipate when the doctor will open the door. Invariably after waiting for several minutes, I will sometimes decide that it is healthier to pass gas than to sit there holding it in.

It is usually just at the moment that I am letting one go that the doctor appears. Fortunately, for all, it was not the case that day. Dr. Peacock finally came in. It was 12:06.

"You are lucky to be alive," Dr. Peacock told Debbie after hearing the story of the ER and the cocktail of pills, wine cooler and milk that Debbie had swallowed. He stood there, looking down at the computer, as he reviewed her hospital records.

"Any more thoughts of hurting yourself?" he asked.

Thanks, I thought, but we already have a bad psychiatrist. We are just here for a physical tune-up.

"No," Debbie answered, "I am okay."

I gave her a sharp look.

"I mean to say that I began a process in 3 west, code for the psych ward, for coping and I have a counselor and a shrink, I mean a psychiatrist, Dr. David, to help me with that."

"Good. Good." Dr. Peacock said. He was another fast talker. I was hoping Debbie would get to the point. Dr. Peacock was a young man and not only did he stream his words together, but it always seemed like he was in a hurry. I was afraid that after waiting for so long to see him that he might disappear at any second. It happens.

Debbie seemed to be reading my mind.

"Other things are bothering me," she said.

"I see you've lost eighteen pounds since the emergency room," he said looking at the chart.

"I have pain in my stomach and sometimes I am afraid to eat."

"What kind of pain?" he asked.

"All over," Debbie said making a circular hand motion over her stomach.

"Doc, she hasn't slept, noises are bothering her, she's sensitive to light and she says she has anxiety, terrible anxiety," I said, having sat there silently long enough.

"The noise is more of a ringing in my ears. Certain noises make it get louder and louder."

"I can order a CAT scan of your abdomen. Probably get you in this afternoon. I don't know about the sensitivity or anxiety. You probably need to talk to Dr. David about that. I could give you some pills to help you sleep."

Seriously, have you been paying attention? Swallowed a bottle of pills along with some Xanax. Enough with the pills.

Fortunately, Debbie spoke up first.

"No. No more pills, Doc," she said, "I will try the CAT scan though."

Doctor Peacock nodded in agreement

"My nurse will make your appointment," he said and he was out the door. Gone.

I looked at the wall clock. It was 12:09.

We were able to get the CAT scan scheduled that afternoon. Debbie wanted it done as soon as possible. I was feeling a sense of 'Deja vue'. Had the mysterious gall bladder regenerated? After a drive down to the imaging clinic by the hospital, we had another wait. This time it was nearly two hours. But when Deb finally went in by herself, she was done and back out in about fifteen minutes. It would have been even quicker, if they had not stopped her at the business desk to collect four hundred and twenty dollars for her portion of the bill, not covered by Medicare. At least some medical facilities were becoming efficient in the business end of patient care. Good for them.

We were told it would be two days before there would be any results. So we went home. We had spent the entire day at two medical offices. For approximately eighteen minutes combined, Deb had received treatment, and now for all of our efforts we were heading home four hundred and twenty dollars poorer, plus whatever Dr. Peacock would bill us later. Other than our net worth, nothing, absolutely nothing had changed.

Later that afternoon, I went to the gym. Debbie stayed home. She was sitting in front of the muted flat screen, wearing the prescription sunglasses, when I left.

"I'll be back," I said, nailing the Arnold Schwarzenegger voice as usual.

No response from Debbie.

"Good-bye."

"Bye."

* * *

"Let's stop there," Dr. Barnett said.

I opened my eyes.

"Your friend Rich had impeccable timing."

"It was a little traumatizing when it happened."

"A little?"

"Okay, it was a lot traumatizing. We got through it, though. Rich is in jail now," I said unable to contain a smile.

"And that makes you feel?" Dr. Barnett asked with sarcasm in her voice.

"Good, Doc. It makes me feel good."

"I'd say that is a perfectly normal feeling."

She gave me a smile.

"I wanted to buy him 'Soap on a Rope' for a going away present, but Debbie said, no."

"Soap on a Rope?"

"You know, don't drop the soap. Don't bend over in the shower."

"Disturbing," she said, making a notation on her legal pad, but still smiling.

I had put on my shoes while we were talking.

"Debbie's symptoms just kept getting worse. Dr. Peacock was at least willing to look, but he couldn't find anything. Helen was next to useless, especially after turning on Debbie. The fellowship was all that I had. I just had to trust the process."

"Even with people like Rich?"

"Well, I don't give my home number out anymore. I refuse to deal with a drunk. But yeah, I had to trust the process of being sober in the fellowship, even with people like Rich"

"Good thing you knew to call that fellow, Clay."

"Yeah, he was a big help that night. Fortunately, there are good people like him; I just had to pay attention and figure out who was who."

"We will talk more about your doctors and counsellor next time," she said.

"Oh we will, Doc," I said.
SESSION ELEVEN

JUST BE YOURSELF

I ran in to Sharon at the gym that afternoon. She began doing her exercise on the arc trainer next to me. She was a pretty woman, a tall skinny blonde that looked a lot like Meryl Streep. I had first met Sharon at a small meeting at a church about two years ago. She had been in pretty bad shape.

* * *

"I am Sharon. I am an alcoholic," she had started just like everyone else, but the story she told that day was dark, very dark. You could hear a pin drop on the carpeted floor as she spoke. Well not really, the noise a pin would make dropping onto a carpet would be inaudible. But it was quiet.

"I have not had a drink in two weeks," she began.

I figured that was a lie. But it really did not matter. Her using two weeks as a point of reference for a long period of abstinence, pretty much told the sobriety side of her story. One woman sitting in the room had not had a drink in thirty-five years. That was a long period of abstinence.

"My husband died three months ago," she continued, "he was a doctor. I had worked with him for four years and we were married for eighteen."

Sharon was well dressed, articulate and obviously well educated.

"I buried my only sister three weeks ago. That's when I started drinking again. At first just two glasses of wine, but pretty soon it was a bottle each night. They told me at Betty Ford that this is how it would happen."

The pride, self-importance and arrogance that we are all capable of astound me. She has had to deal with unbelievable loss and pain, yet manages to get the Betty Ford Clinic, a world famous facility into the conversation as if to give herself some alcoholic street cred, she was a big time drunk with some status.

"I am still packing my husband's things and closing his office. I am moving into a new house. I was dealing with his death when my sister died. My two best friends are gone. I will be a millionaire when all of this is over, but that doesn't mean much," she said.

Wow, a millionaire, I thought, will you be buying the Betty Ford clinic so you can get a discount next time?

I guess I was a little cynical, but I still felt her pain.

"I don't want to drink anymore," she continued, "he made me promise. It was the last thing he said to me, 'don't drink when I am gone.' Take care of yourself', I have let him down, but now it is time to honor his memory."

The small meeting consisted of six other women and me. They were quite supportive and touched, as was I, by Sharon's story. They offered to help her with the move, gave her phone numbers and suggested lunch afterwards.

I suppose I understand their reaction now, but at the time, I was appalled. This is a recovery meeting. Sharon is here to stop drinking, I had thought.

But being outnumbered and only a few years sober, I said nothing. I did not see Sharon again for several months when she showed up one day at a noon meeting and picked up a white chip. The white one symbolizes surrender. She was starting over again and when she shared, she basically said the same things she had said several months before, alcoholic, Betty Ford, millionaire, dead husband, dead sister.

* * *

When I ran into her at the gym, she was doing much better. She was working on a year, clean and sober, and getting on with her life. That's what happens in recovery when you stick around.

"Hey," I said that Thursday as Sharon began the gliding step motion on her arc trainer. I had been there about twenty minutes and already had a good sweat going.

"Nick, good to see you," she said.

"Listen, you were a nurse, right?" I started right in.

"I was," she said.

"My wife, Debbie is having some problems and the doctors at First Regional don't seem to know what's wrong."

"I'm not surprised," she said, "most of them have gotten their medical degrees off of matchbook covers."

"So you have had some experience with this hospital?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she said as she kicked her pace on the machine up a level.

I described Debbie's symptoms and gave her a synopsis of what we had been through.

"You know," I said, "I hate to play amateur doctor, "but I am talking to people and looking things up on line. Withdrawal from the Xanax seems to explain everything."

"There is a well-documented procedure for getting someone off of that medication," she said, "no one should be taken off so abruptly."

"I know, right?" I said thrilled to have found someone who supported what I was thinking, even if it was only this fragile, still slightly broken, newly sober widow now sweating on the arc trainer beside me.

"Don't be afraid to challenge them, Nick, keep doing your own research," she said as I got off the machine.

"Thanks for the talk," I said, "see you later."

The following week was more of the usual pattern, what had become normal daily living for us. Reruns on Netflix, Debbie in her chair with the dark glasses and headphones. Me, sitting there beside her, feeling alone, confused and inadequate. I always went to the noon meetings. For Debbie, it was day to day. Finally, we had the appointment with Dr. David, something different that day, but hardly anything to look forward to, maybe there was a little hope there.

We were in the Corolla waiting for the traffic light at the intersection of Page Road and Memorial.

"Make it stop," she said.

I looked over at her, sitting beside me staring straight ahead, wearing her Mets cap and the prescription shades.

"Make what stop?" I asked, not knowing what she had meant. Make this bad dream that has become our lives stop? Calling Jim Jones, time to drink the Kool aid.

"The blinker. I can't listen to it anymore. Make it stop."

I looked behind me. There was a car, but I turned off my signal anyway. I was pretty sure he had figured out that I was turning right. Debbie's sensitivity to light and sound was getting worse.

"Thank you," she said.

We did not have to wait long to see Dr. David and I only saw one other person from the fellowship in the waiting room, still technically enough people for a meeting.

We took our seats in the chairs in front of his desk, as Dr. David remained fixated on the computer screen. Finally, he broke free, averting his gaze from the monitor, although his fingers remained poised over the keyboard.

"How's the lithium working? It has been long enough for it to have kicked in by now."

"I've stopped taking it," Debbie said.

That was news to me.

"You can't just stop taking it," he said, as he shot me a dirty look, as if to say 'nice job, asshole.' I really don't know if Dr. David would have ever called me an asshole, that is more my style. For a small man, he had a real gift though, when it came to being condescending. With just a look, he could make me feel like something disgusting and sticky that he had just scraped off his shoe.

"The pills make it worse," she said, "my anxiety just gets worse and my stomach hurts."

"You need to talk to her," he said to me, "Helen told me you might be a problem."

I really did not know what to say. I just sat there thinking, I like red. I hope the Kool aid is red. I could savor it, swish it around in my mouth enjoying the taste, then swallow and just go to sleep. No more bad dreams. No more bad life.

"I can give you something else for the anxiety, but you must take your lithium," he said looking back at the computer screen, "here's one on the four dollar list at Walmart."

Could you be anymore condescending?

I didn't care for that. Talking to us as if we could only afford the cheap meds. It was true, but I still did not like it.

"No. No more pills," Debbie said, "any pill will make it worse."

"Well there is nothing I can do for you, if you won't take what I prescribe. I strongly suggest you talk to Helen. I see you have not been going to her Thursday group."

I was completely on Debbie's side with this one. I thought she needed some kind of medicine, but Helen and her group were completely dispensable as far as I was concerned.

"Make an appointment to see her on the way out," he said shaking his head with obvious disdain as we got up and left his office.

We did as ordered, making an appointment to see Helen on the way out. We also had to sign some papers and verify insurance information. Thank goodness for the Medicare. None of this bad medical treatment or the useless counselling would be possible without it. Seriously though, it was good Debbie had the coverage.

The drive home was quiet, no conversation, no turn signals. I thought about how we had been fortunate to get Debbie on Medicare.

* * *

After her first diagnoses as 'bipolar' someone had suggested Social Security Disability Income. At first, I thought it a scam. I suppose I was in denial over the whole, mentally ill wife, thing, but Debbie was intrigued and I went along with it.

We were still living in Florida at the time so I contacted my old friend, James Johnson. Let me clarify, James was my black friend. He acted pissed off when I called him that, but he would smile at the same time. I had known James since we were teenagers.

We had been altar boys together, although James went to Catholic school and I went to the public High School.

'Women, whiskey, sex and glue we are the class of eighty-two.'

Well I was the class of eighty-two; James was two years younger than I was. We both played golf and got to know each other on the golf course. James had aspirations to be a lawyer as did my father, so after college when I had done well on my LSAT's and had been accepted to University of Florida Law School, I had given James a call and told him to meet me for a drink and help me to celebrate. I was twenty-one and James nineteen, but the drinking age was eighteen then, so we were both legal.

"Where?" he had asked.

"Why not the Club?" I said, "I am sure my Dad won't mind if we have a few on his dime. I can just charge it."

"The Country Club across from the eighteenth hole at the golf course?" James asked.

"Where else?"

It had not occurred to me that I had never seen James at the Country Club. It was an odd small town set up. The Country Club was not affiliated with the public golf course. The Club just happened to be right there by number eighteen, but the city owned the golf course and the Club was privately owned. Looking back on it now, I can see that was all probably by design.

"Sure," James said, "I'll meet you in the parking lot and we'll go in together."

"Yeah, whatever," I said, "fifteen minutes?"

"Right on, brother" he said as he hung up. James was gangster cool, before there was gangster. He could have been a rapper.

We walked in together. We used the side entrance that opened directly into the smoky smelling bar. It was just after sunset so there wasn't any light coming in from the big bay window overlooking eighteen fairway. We pulled out a couple of the tall bar chairs and cozied up to the counter. There were some tables behind us against the wall. A couple was seated at one of them.

"The usual, barkeep," I said to the middle-aged woman tending bar. She stared blankly at me. Apparently, I had overestimated my ability to make an impression when I had come in with my parents.

"You know, Southern Comfort, straight up," I added quickly and then looked in James' direction.

"Just a beer," he said, "whatever is on tap."

"Sure," the barkeep said slowly, "I'll be right back."

Just like that, she disappeared.

"I wonder, what is going on?" I said looking at my friend.

"You really don't know?"

Just then the woman returned with Marvin Flowers, the overweight middle-aged Caucasian manager of the all-white, Country Club.

"May I speak to you for a minute, Nick," he asked almost whispering, "in private?"

I followed him to the end of the bar closer to the window. He kept his voice low, there was music playing from a jukebox. It was just loud enough to drown out our conversation. It was still only James, the bartender and the couple quietly sitting at their table. But Marvin insisted that no one should overhear.

"Listen, Nick, I respect your Daddy, so if you and your friend want a drink, maybe we could put you in a private room. No one is in the cardroom around back. How 'bout you boys take your drinks and go back there?"

All of a sudden, I understood.

"Seriously?" I asked, "it's nineteen eighty-six."

"This is a private establishment, son," he said reaching out and squeezing my shoulder gently, as if to punctuate his point.

"James, let's go somewhere else," I said loudly.

We stopped and got a bottle on the way back to the house. We certainly had things to talk about that night. James was pretty drunk when he pulled his momma's green station wagon out of the driveway. I remember he peeled out on the pavement. Fortunately, he made it home safely. He did not live that far away, just a little across town on the other side of the railroad tracks, literally and figuratively, I suppose.

Years later, after James had successfully gotten his Bachelor's Degree from Notre Dame and his law degree from Florida State, he had moved back home with his widowed mother. He hung his shingle downtown and opened a one-man law practice.

Sometime, while James was completing his education, Marvin Flowers had been disgraced and let go from his position as Country Club manager. He had brought back several cases of untaxed cigarettes from a trip to the Carolina's and he had been caught selling them at the Club. Knowing, by now, how things were done in my small southern hometown, I could only presume the disgrace was in having been caught, not in the cheating of the taxman.

Anyway, Marvin, always the entrepreneur, had started up a little lawn service business. James had hired him to prune and mow his mother's lawn. It was karma, at the very least good irony.

One day I had asked James how Marvin Flowers was working out.

"It's a shame," James said seriously, "but his work just wasn't up to par. I had to let old Marvin go."

He managed to keep a straight face when he told me, but the laughter and satisfaction in his eyes was priceless.

* * *

Many years later, after having lost track of James, I had called him when Debbie and I decided to pursue the Social Security benefits. Everyone we talked with agreed, we were going to get nowhere fast if we tried taking on the government bureaucracy without an attorney.

After introducing Debbie and James and rehashing some old war stories, we got down to business. James helped Debbie fill out the appropriate forms, got access to medical records and assured us his fee was straight contingency. If Debbie did not win her claim and receive money, James would not get paid. We shook hands when everything was done and James told us it would probably take about six weeks before we heard anything. The next step would be a hearing.

"You've got a nice set up here," I said to James as we were leaving.

"It should be you sitting here," he said waving his hand to indicate the chair behind the big mahogany desk.

"No, James, you've earned this. It was never what I wanted."

True to his word, James called us almost exactly six weeks later.

"We have a hearing with the administrative law judge next week," he said on the phone, "it's in Tampa at the federal building. I'll have my secretary send you the details."

When the day of the hearing arrived, I waited outside while Debbie and James met with the judge.

"Just be yourself," was the last thing I heard James say to Debbie as they went into the courtroom.

About a month later, James called and asked for Debbie.

"Congratulations," he told her, "you won."

"We did not get the five years retroactive that we were asking for, but the judge found that you are entitled to a year and you will be getting a monthly check from now on."

It still had not dawned on me that Debbie might really be a little off. I suppose I could see her as a bit eccentric, but mental disability? No, I was still of the opinion that we had scammed them.

Denial ain't just a river in Egypt.

The Medicare benefit had been almost an afterthought, but it had proved invaluable, especially after I quit my job and my health insurance benefits had gotten lost in the sauce. Debbie's Medicare coverage made many things possible.

We got home after our appointment with Dr. David and did our thing with the dogs and the Netflix. I had dinner while Debbie just nibbled. She was down about thirty pounds now. She slept in the chair at night, as usual, while Marley and I took the bed.

We had made the appointment with Helen for the following week. The next Friday afternoon, we sat in the waiting room of Behavioral Services. It was not nearly as long a wait as at the family practice doctor's office. At least it did not seem that long. The environment and people were very entertaining that day. I watched one fellow who stared intently at the ceiling while quietly moving his lips, as if having a private conversation with himself or perhaps with someone that only he could see. Maybe he was just counting the tiny holes punched in the white ceiling tiles. Whatever he was doing, I found it entertaining.

"Deborah," I heard my wife's name gently called out and looked over to see bespectacled Helen, red hair in its usual disarray, as she sat at the open door to the inner rectum, I mean sanctum.

We got up and approached her. Debbie had a big smile on her face. She still liked Helen, even though she had made her feel so guilty the last time. Whenever Debbie got out of the house and around people, she seemed to do better than when she stayed home. Maybe it was a coping mechanism, a false front that we all put on, no matter what is bothering us.

I followed Debbie apprehensively.

"Hi, Helen, it's been a while," I said as she led us back to her office. We sat in our chairs in front of Helen's desk as she wheeled herself around to her side.

"According to Dr. David's notes," Helen began as she read off the computer monitor, "you have stopped taking the lithium."

She said the words slowly, accusingly, all the while looking at me.

"It did not seem to be doing her any good," I said.

"She needs to be on medication."

I nodded. We finally agreed on something.

"So how are you today, Debbie?" Helen asked turning her attention to my wife.

"The same," Debbie said.

"Still not sleeping? Stomach pains and hearing noises?" Helen asked.

"She's not hearing noises," I said, "she is extremely sensitive to sound."

Helen gave me an icy stare. Things were getting back to normal.

"Yeah, and the anxiety," Debbie continued, "My anxiety drives me up the wall."

To this day, I do not understand the anxiety. At least not on the level that Debbie described it. I haven't experienced it, so I cannot claim actually to understand it. But I know it is real.

Helen went through a series of questions with Debbie about the anxiety. Rapid heartbeat? Impending doom? Claustrophobia? She was trying to determine if Debbie was having panic attacks or anxiety. I was in the dark. She finally determined that Debbie was having anxiety, not panic attacks.

That must be good I reasoned. But really, I still did not have a clue.

"Look," I broke in, "all of this, every symptom she is experiencing can be explained by Xanax withdrawal. I've talked to people. I've researched it. Xanax is a benzo. There are websites and studies on the horrible withdrawal symptoms. Post-acute withdrawal symptoms can last up to a year."

"We've been through this before. Have you earned a medical degree since last time, Nick?" Helen asked slowly.

"No. Have you, Helen?" I asked with equal deliberation and condescension.

Oops. Communication over. Debbie shot me a look as Helen turned her attention away from me and back to Debbie.

"Did I tell you what happened to Mitchell," she asked speaking only to Debbie, her tone more pleasant now, conversational.

Mitchell was Helen's forty something, single, still living at home with mommy, son. We had seen him at our gym. He spent a lot of time in the swimming pool doing laps, socializing while treading water and a variety of other aquatic type exercises. Helen always referred to Mitchell as 'mildly retarded.' He walked slowly and one of his arms was crooked, like it just didn't work properly. It sort of hung there, but it was always bent upward in the same position.

I am pretty sure that calling someone 'mildly retarded' is not politically correct, and I am certain that there are better ways to refer to someone, especially if you are a counsellor at behavioral services. And the truth of the matter was that while I had never really talked to Mitchell, I had overheard him having conversations with other people in the locker room and around the pool. He did not seem all that retarded to me. He seemed like a pretty articulate fellow with a funny arm. Maybe all of those years living with Helen had driven him retarded, at least that is, when he was around her.

"He has been banned from the fitness center," Helen continued speaking only to Debbie.

"Oh no, what happened?" Debbie asked.

Helen launched into a rather long oratory about how Mitchell was doing his exercises on one of the ladders that hangs into the pool, so people can climb out of the deep end. He was doing pull ups. Holding onto the metal bars of the ladder with his feet on the underwater rung, Mitchell could pull himself up, mainly with his good arm, using the crooked arm for guidance, and then lower himself back down into the water.

At least his funny arm was somewhat functional.

Apparently, the children were there that day, taking their swim lessons, and they had needed to use the ladder. Mitchell would not move. The lifeguard asked him repeatedly, to get off the ladder.

"He's hard headed that way," Helen said, "he just refused to move. He had as much right to use the ladder as anyone else is what he figured."

Well afterward, he had been called in to the front office to talk to the club manager and his fitness membership was rescinded.

"I am not going to fight it," Helen said, "it's a shame though, Mitchell loved that pool and talking to his friends."

Our hour was up.

Debbie walked around Helen's desk and bent over to give her a hug. She was Helen's favorite again.

"Think about what I said," Helen said, looking at me, disdain back in her voice. She had remembered that I was there.

What? No hug for me?

I extended my hand over the desk for a quick handshake and a nod.

"Make an appointment for your next session at the front desk," she said to Debbie, "I can probably talk Dr. David into seeing you again, if you take your lithium. You can't just waste his time though."

On that up-beat note, we showed ourselves out.

After Debbie had made her next appointment, apparently she was going to see Helen again. We left and got in the van to drive home.

"You weren't very nice to Helen," Debbie said.

"I just want to figure out what is happening to you," I said.

"I know."

"What was all that about her son," I asked, "it did not seem very professional?"

"That's how she works. You know, talk about herself, to get someone to open up."

"I guess," I said.

We stopped at the traffic light.

"Your blinker. Turn off your blinker."

"Sorry, I forgot."

Later that afternoon I went to the gym by myself. Debbie stayed home to rest. After my workout, I went back to the pool area for the whirlpool and sauna. I asked my buddy, the lifeguard, what the story was with Mitchell, Helen's son.

It turns out Mitchell had been doing his pull ups on the pool ladder located directly in front of the little girls' changing room. Every time one of the little girls or one of the mothers opened the changing room door, Mitchell would pull himself up and hold himself at the top of the ladder until the door slowly swung closed.

Apparently, that funny arm worked real good, better than one might think. At least it worked when there were naked little girls in the changing area.

One of the fathers watching from the other side of the pool noticed the pattern. Door open, pull up, hold. Door closed, relax and lower. Then repeat. The father complained to the lifeguard who watched and saw what was going on for himself. When he told Mitchell to move, he had refused. The manager was called and long story short, Mitchell is no longer allowed in the gym.

Pervert.

So Helen had spent half of Debbie and my family session, laying a cover story to explain her weirdo son's behavior. I wouldn't say anything to Debbie, but I definitely would not be going to anymore family therapy sessions, either. Not very reassuring when the counsellor's family needs as much therapy as the patient.

We had given up on Dr. David for now. Debbie refused to take any more lithium and stopped taking any pills whatsoever. No vitamins, no Nexium, no aspirin, nothing. She had developed some sort of pill phobia. She was convinced that any type of pill would increase her anxiety and cause her severe abdominal pain.

Debbie did start seeing Helen again at group every Thursday afternoon. She would have an individual session about once every two weeks. I would drop her off and come back to pick her up in about an hour.

And life went on, just like that, week after week after week. I can honestly say that I never thought of taking a drink other than my initial meeting with Helen. Something good was supposed to come out of this, but I was not sure what I was supposed to do next. I did not know whether I could go on like this, but that is exactly what I did. I just went on, one foot in front of the other.

Most of the time I felt alone, desperate, confused and disappointed. It was tempting to create a higher power and pretend it was real, I appreciated having that option, but it was just not my style. Thank goodness for the people in the fellowship, the good, the bad and the ugly. I learned from each and every one of them.

* * *

"Nick, I am so sorry for your experience with that counsellor," Dr. Barnett broke in.

"Not your fault," I said as I sat up on the couch.

"No, of course not, but that behavior is unwarranted and an embarrassment to the profession."

"Well, it was an eye opener."

"Dr. David is just as bad, worse even," she said.

"How so? He didn't have a pervy son. At least he did not talk about him, if he did have one."

"He's a doctor, Nick, held to a higher standard. His attitude is appalling."

"Yeah, he could certainly be intimidating, though, for a little guy."

"I think that maybe you should give yourself some credit. You have been looking out for Deborah for some time. You obviously helped her get the Medicare coverage."

"I was just doing it for the disability check. I really did not think it was going to work."

"Regardless, you were the one who contacted your old friend and saw things through. You were there for her then and you are here for her now."

"I guess," I said.

"Guess nothing. It is you who has been taking good care of Deborah."

"Okay," I said unconvinced.

"Just say, thank you, Nick. When someone pays you a compliment, it is customary to say, thank you."

"Thank you, Dr. Barnett," I said in an overly childlike voice, pronouncing each word slowly, in cadence, moving my head side to side.

"You are most welcome, Mr. Jimbanis. Remember, no one will ever do a better job of looking out for your interests and Deborah's, than you will."

"Got it," I said earnestly, "See you next time, Doc."
SESSION TWELVE

HOW MANY NUTS CAN YOU FIT IN ONE BOWL?

Everything seemed all too familiar. I sat alone in the Corolla, outside in the parking lot by the ambulance bay. Debbie was inside the hospital being admitted through the ER, Deja fucking Vue. It had been about a month, maybe longer, since the family therapy session with Helen.

"Do something," Debbie had said that afternoon at the house.

I had sat down to relax and watch 'Let's Make a Deal.' I thought I was doing something.

"What is it?" I asked.

"My stomach. It won't stop hurting."

"Really? How bad is it?"

If looks could kill.

"All I can do is take you to the emergency room," I had said.

"Get the car."

We had gone to the meeting together at noon earlier in the day. It was a special day for Debbie. It had been ninety days since Mother's Day, her last drink. She was due to pick up a chip at the end of the meeting. It was something positive to focus on with all of the uncertainty surrounding her condition. Ninety days and one thousand nights without a drink. It was a milestone that we could celebrate.

Before the meeting started I was standing outside the building when I saw, fuck you where you breathe, Rich get out of Freddie's car. I had not seen him since before the phone call and ensuing messages.

Good old Freddie, always willing to help.

Rich saw me standing there and immediately headed my way. I wanted to disappear inside, maybe go into the bathroom and not come out until the meeting was over and everyone had left. But I stood my ground. Might as well get, whatever was coming, over with. Debbie was inside already talking with some of the other women. Whatever this prick, Rich, had on his mind I would deal with him now. He was not going to spoil Debbie's day.

"Nick," Rich said now standing right in front of me, "I was over the line. Way over the line."

Over the line? You were so far over the line, you can't even see the line. The line is a dot to you. It was a line from one of my favorite sitcoms, popping into my head. It seemed appropriate.

It appeared he was about to say something else. Quickly, I stuck out my hand.

"Neither one of us handled it well. I never should have accused you of drinking in the first place. Let's put it behind us," I said.

Rich grasped my hand and we shook. It was not a strong handshake. He looked disappointed, as if he had an elaborate statement prepared. He was considering whether he should deliver the rest of it, now.

"Forget it, Rich," I said.

"I am sorry, Nick," he said before releasing my hand and walking inside.

Idiot, I thought as he walked off, just don't do it again, asshole.

I did not say anything of course. I know why they use the word, amends, instead of apology, though. His apology did nothing for me except make me feel uncomfortable and creepy. An amends would mean that he changes his behavior and does not call me – ever again. Only time would tell. I went inside, glad it was over, and glad that Rich was not going to ruin Debbie's big day.

It was about a week before that I had my run-in with Harry Miller. You know, I went to the Buddhist day of mindfulness, couldn't tell Harry how many people were on the Ark and then he never returned my phone calls. Just like that, Rich and more importantly Harry Miller were out of my personal circle of support. I was beginning to wonder if maybe it was me.

So, I suppose to feel good about myself, I sat with Clay, old man Frank from the softball game and some other old timers. Debbie was seated across the room with some of her female friends. We purposely tried to mingle. Recovery was an individual thing. Even though we were married and could have hung together at the meetings, like some of the other couples, we chose not to. It seemed like a way of isolating or protecting ourselves if we presented as a couple. We also never spoke immediately after each other or, especially, at each other during a meeting. We never wanted it to become the 'Nick and Debbie' show. I think it was the right thing to do.

The meeting started on time, as the floor was about to be opened up for discussion, the chairperson asked the usual question.

"Before we begin, does anyone have a problem that is affecting their sobriety that they would like to bring before the group?" he said.

"Hey y'all, I'm Marcia and I'm an alcoholic."

It was a familiar voice.

The all too familiar, all too loud and all too twangy southern accent of Big Titties Magee resounded throughout the room. I had not given her the nickname. But honestly, the more I saw her, the less I liked her. She was about forty now and a little overweight. She is the one with the ginormous (pronounced 'ji-nor-mus') tits, who showed up at the coffee shop when I was interviewing my twenty-four hour sponsor, Pat. My opinion of Marcia had changed considerably over the years. It may have seemed cruel to call her Big Titties Magee, behind her back, well to be honest, I am sure that it was both cruel and mean spirited, but I used the nickname anyway. We claim only progress not perfection, right? Total cop out, I know, but I do not care. We are not saints.

Big Titties, I mean Marcia, often referred to herself as beautiful. She said that her looks were her burden to bear. Why, she sometimes wondered aloud as she spoke, had god made her so beautiful? I just wanted to tell her to shut up.

You are not beautiful. You just have ginormous titties! I wanted to shout at her. But of course, I never did.

We are a patient bunch as a rule, Marcia was one of us, but her superficial shares, and self-absorbed attitude had not changed one iota since she walked in to the rooms five years ago. Her obvious lack of progress was hard to watch. But she afforded me at least an opportunity for growth. I could at the very least, learn patience and tolerance from Big Titties Magee.

My disdain for her was mostly about the history of pain pill abuse that we both shared and the different ways we had both handled it.

After I had picked up my white chip eight years ago, I really did not take the whole twelve steps, fellowship and meetings too seriously. I had after all done this before. I simply stopped drinking at the time, attended one or two meetings a week and played a lot of golf back then. I never have understood why many people say how miserable they were when they first stopped drinking. Not drinking, going to a couple of meetings each week and playing golf everyday did not suck. As a matter of fact, I highly recommend it.

It wasn't until about five years later when I had begun sharing, listening and being a part of the fellowship that I remembered that just a few months after picking up that white chip, I had been at Joyce's, my mother-in-law's, house when we were still on speaking terms. I needed a bathroom and the guest bathroom was occupado. So into the master bath, I went. After taking care of my business, I naturally performed a thorough search of the medicine cabinet, as was my habit.

I was delighted to find an old prescription bottle with one unused 10-milligram hydrocodone pain pill. I swallowed it using my hand to scoop water from the faucet to wash it down. I had a nice euphoric buzz for about two hours that afternoon. I never thought anything of it, you know, as far as the white chip or sobriety or anything like that was concerned. I had not taken a drink after all.

It was much later when I heard someone sharing about complete sobriety-no mind or mood altering substances, whatsoever, that I recalled what I had done. I respected the person and realized that I needed to be honest with myself. After talking it over with several people, I did the only thing I could do. It may not seem like a big deal to anyone else besides me, but I slashed six months off my sobriety date. I could proceed with a clear conscious. My date of sobriety was now an estimated date, since I really could not remember exactly when I had taken the narcotic pain pill. The important thing was that I knew it was an honest date and I had not let myself get away with anything. I kept the same white chip. I figured it was cleaner now, than it had been.

So when Big Titties Magee had picked up another white chip two years ago for taking pain pills without a prescription, I respected her for her honesty.

She had said her back always hurt. MMS, Massive Mammary Syndrome, I presume. It occurs to me that I may watch too many sitcoms on television.

A week later, she acted as if nothing had happened. She had forgotten about the excessive pain meds she had taken to get high, the white chip and her newfound honesty. Someone, her old school sponsor no doubt, had told her that she did not need to start over for taking a pill-only a drink of alcohol mattered. So just like that, Big Titties Magee had her original sobriety date back. I suppose I was jealous. She got to keep the original date of her stopping drinking and I had lost six months.

'Waa! Waa! Waa! It's not fair,' I had wanted to cry out. But instead of being childish, I simply adopted an air of righteous indignation. And maintained an attitude of superiority by calling Marcia, Big Titties Magee, behind her back. It was the mature thing to do.

Worked for me.

I was sure I had done the right thing by changing my sobriety date. And Harry Miller had always told me that 'time didn't mean nothing'. He was right. It was one day at a time. Only the present was supposed to matter. So why did we place so much emphasis on chips and yearly medallions?

Once at a meeting I had said, "For a one day at a time fellowship it seems strange to me that we spend so much time patting ourselves on the back for how many days or years we have been sober."

I was soundly rebuked by an old timer.

"We pick up chips for our time to show the newcomer that it works. The chips and medallions are evidence of that," she had said.

Bull crap, I had thought, newcomers aren't paying attention. They are still trying to figure out what they are doing here and evidence is stuff like DNA and fingerprints. We aren't supposed to talk at each other during meetings either, by the way, bitch.

But I said nothing. Sometimes in the fellowship, the simplest of things get confusing.

Anyway, that is why I started calling Marcia Magee, Big Titties.

Today at the meeting, she was babbling about a job she had just started.

I looked across the room. Debbie looked fine. We both knew that we had to sit through the entire meeting to get to the handing out of the chips. Debbie would be okay, besides it was I who had the special resentment against Big Titties, not Debbie.

"I needed that job and last week I prayed," Marcia said, "I asked god to get me that job. And yesterday I got it."

Oh please, I thought, mention the fact that you looked at the want ads, typed a resume, filled out an application and went on a job interview taking your big tits with you. If you don't mention the legwork, all of the unemployed losers in the room will just stay home praying and never find work.

No, it was all god, according to Marcia.

"Coincidence?" she asked, "I don't think so. Prayer works."

Usually, I only saw Big Titties Magee at a 2pm Sunday meeting that I had been attending for about three years. It was as if I had forced myself to attend that meeting when I was throwing myself into the fellowship to make up for the time I felt that I had lost while just not drinking and sitting quietly on the sidelines for five years.

When I first attended the 2 o'clock Sunday afternoon meeting, the same four women always dominated the room. They were loud, opinionated and overbearing. It was not lost on me that my mother had been loud, opinionated and overbearing. So back then, it was a challenge not only to attend that meeting, but also to participate and speak.

Once I shared at that meeting, just how difficult it was for me to open up and share, to speak from the heart and be vulnerable about my feelings. I was being honest and telling people where I was at in my sobriety and my emotional growth.

"It is difficult for me to share in front of everyone. I haven't had a drink in five years, but I only started to talk at meetings a couple of weeks ago. " I had said, "I am not used to opening up with people."

"This isn't group therapy," one of the women, an old timer, shared back at me.

Damn, bitch, I thought, again with the cross talking? Did you even hear what I said? This is exactly why I have been afraid to talk.

But I just sat there quietly, not saying anything, wanting to slide out of my chair and slither out of the room when no one was looking. I will say, however, that while I continue to have to prod myself a bit to go to the Sunday 2pm meeting, that things have changed. The same four loud, overbearing women are still there most Sunday's, but now they do not bother me so much.

The Sunday afternoon meeting was the lesser of three evils. Should it be the lessest? The 11am eleventh step meeting was excessively 'churchy' and it would never do. The 7:30 am meeting was well too early, first of all, and from what I saw the one and only time that I went was how can I say it? Oh, I know how to say it, it was a cult. Seriously, it was a fucking cult. Excuse my language, but it pisses me off.

There was a big middle aged, weight lifting looking dude, named Randy who sat at the head of one of the three long tables. He had come in about ten minutes late the one morning that I was there at the Early Risers group. When he had come in, the dozen or so boys and men seated in their folding chairs at either side of the table, seemed to nod in unison in his direction in acknowledgment of his presence. It reminded me of my upbringing in the church. Whenever the priest said, 'Jesus' or 'Christ', everyone in the sanctuary would bow their head.

Jesus Christ, I thought, without bowing my head, what is up with this Randy?

It did not take him long to get into the flow. As soon as the person sharing, when he had arrived, was done talking, Randy spoke up.

"I am Randy," he said slowly, I expectantly listened for a choir of melodic angel voices singing in unison, but there was none, "and I am an alcoholic."

"I am sorry that I was late."

"Don't ever apologize for being late," my old friend, Harry Miller, had told me, "No one gives a crap whether you are late or not. That's just your ego talking. You're not that danged important and nobody cares about you being late."

Randy, not knowing and apparently not caring what topic was being discussed, launched into a ten-minute oratory.

"Steps, god, program, good sponsorship, big book," and on and on and on. The usual diatribe, the litany of words some of us referred to as, program speak, the mundane drivel that actually kept some people sober for the time being. I still liked thinking for myself. I guess I am funny that way.

I thought I knew why Randy had been late. He had probably been rehearsing his 'spontaneous' share, standing in front of his bathroom mirror in his tighty whities, when he had lost track of the time.

"And I got down on my knees in that kitchen right back there," Randy said pointing at the room behind the podium, "with another man..."

I had heard this phrase, on my knees with another man, used by Randy's disciples when they would occasionally stumble into one of our noon meetings. It was another one of the catch phrases by which you could recognize one of the, Branch Randivians, or whatever they called themselves.

I always thought that getting down on your knees in the kitchen with another man sounded, well, a bit alternative lifestyle.

'Were they both on their knees? Was clothing optional? Did anyone have to bend over?' I wondered.

One of my golfing buddies, Mark, had hung out with Randy and the boys his first couple of years sober. Since then he had found a fiancée, stayed sober and managed to break away from the 'Randivians', not a simple task. Usually, one only got out of the cult by drinking. It happened that way a lot.

One fellow actually came back in and told us this story. Right before he drank the beer he had bought and put right in front of himself, he got down on his knees and asked god to help him, to stop him from taking a drink. Then before he had completely stood back up, he popped the top on one of the tall boys and took a huge swig.

I suppose picking up a phone was out of the question.

My friend Mark, who was doing just fine without Randy and the boys, really had no ill will toward them. He had simply found his own way. Once when we were playing golf, I asked him about the retreats.

"Randy's group is going on a spiritual retreat to the mountains, again. It's on the bulletin board at the club," I said, "Have you ever gone on one?"

"A few years ago I did," Mark had answered.

"I was wondering," I asked, "do you have to be gay to go on that spiritual retreat?"

"No," Mark said, "but you will be when you get back."

I thought that was a pretty good joke. I am making the assumption that my friend Mark was joking. I mean we both laughed when he said it.

The fact was Randy and his boys had helped many people. But they had hurt others as well. The way they got and stayed sober worked for some of them. The trouble was it did not work for everyone and Randy's group did not allow for that. It was their way or the highway. It is like that with most cults.

So I guess going to the Sunday afternoon meeting at 2PM was not that bad. But today Marcia had shown up at our noon meeting to talk about prayer, god and the miracle of getting a job. I guess I should not have cared. No two meetings are actually alike. Maybe secretly I had wanted today's meeting to be quiet, drama free and mostly about Debbie getting her ninety day chip. She was having a really hard time with the withdrawal and the anxiety and we were making no progress at all with the doctors. Debbie just needed a win. She deserved it.

First Rich had shown up today, then Big Titties Magee and I could not believe it, but 'nutty as a fruitcake' Joy had chosen today to return from her summer in New York. She had grown up in New York and her family had always summered in the Hamptons. Joy was richer, better, smarter and soberer than everyone.

I looked, again, across the room. Debbie still had on her public face. I could not really tell if she was okay. She appeared attentive and happy. But we are pretty good at putting on masks. My wife was a trooper. I suspected that her insides were churning. While I did not understand all that she was going through, I knew that it was real. She managed to maintain a calm outward appearance, even when Nutty as a Fruitcake followed Big Titties Magee.

In a former life Nutty as a Fruitcake had been some kind of public speaker. It may have been for a big company where she spoke to groups at corporate outings, I had never really asked, but it was something like that, because now she fancied herself a message carrier of sorts. Whereas, Randy had taken on the role of cult leader, Nutty as a Fruitcake seemed to see herself as a motivational speaker. Again people, we are supposed to share our experiences, not tell others what to do.

"What a wonderful message, Marcia," Nutty as a Fruitcake began. She was next to speak. Immediately, she had cross-talked, breaking the unspoken rule of sharing. We are not having a conversation when we speak at a meeting. We are sharing our experiences, so that anyone present may identify and benefit. Sometimes I think that I am the only one to get that.

And on and on she went. In a way, I suppose Nutty as a Fruitcake helped some people. Admittedly, a few people liked her motivational talks and the rest of us learned patience and tolerance as we endured the amplified grating high- pitched voice. It also helped me, to frequently remind myself that Joy was indeed, as her nickname strongly implied, as nutty as a fruitcake.

The actual sad thing that I noticed with Joy, sober some twenty-five years, was that there was never anything new. Every year she would return from the

Hamptons and launch into an oratory. It was always the same stories. No matter what the topic, she had a story, a message if you will, but it was always the same. Word for word she would say the same thing she had said three months ago, three years ago. I could not imagine being like that. I was not here to spin my wheels. I was here to go forward.

I guess that Nutty as a Fruitcake was motivational to me. Just not in the way that she presumed herself to be. I certainly did not want to be anything like her. I was glad she was sober, though. If she was this bad not drinking, what would she be like drunk?

When the meeting finally ended, the chips were handed out.

"We have a chip system in this part of the country," the chip hander-outer began.

"Has anyone heard something today and would like to start a new way of living?" he asked, holding up a white chip.

No takers.

"I'll leave it up here, in case anyone changes their mind."

He put the white chip on the podium, if anyone wanted to pick it up later, on the down low.

"Thirty days?"

Nothing.

"Ninety days?"

Debbie raised her hand and quietly got up and walked to the front of the room. She took her blue chip and gave the volunteer a hug.

"How did you do it?" Nutty as a Fruitcake bellowed loudly in Debbie's direction.

Oh, shut the fuck up, I thought.

Debbie just smiled and held her chip up for all to see. People applauded, as usual, and Debbie quietly returned to her seat.

On the ride home, I told her I was proud. And I meant it.

"You've really earned your ninety day chip," I said.

We had been home for about an hour when I sat down to watch 'Let's Make a Deal'. An hour later, I was sitting in the Corolla in the emergency room parking lot while Debbie was inside being admitted. Maybe the meeting had been too dramatic with all of the characters that showed up today.

I had waited inside in the waiting room with her and then taken a break when the doctor decided to get her a bed. It was August a slow time, I guess, at the hospital. It was not cold and flu season, anyway, and beds were available. Even though no one really knew what was wrong, they could afford to err on the side of caution. Debbie was being taken to a private room.

I went out to the parking lot and sat in the Corolla, turning on the engine for the cool of the air conditioner. I sat there thinking. I picked up my cell phone and as much as I did not want to, I called Helen.

There were three rings on the end of the line and I became hopeful. Then she answered.

"This is Helen," she said slowly.

Damn, I was hoping just to leave a message.

"Helen, Nick Jimbanis," I said.

"Nick."

"Debbie is being admitted to the hospital. I thought you would like to know."

"Oh no," she said, "What's wrong this time? She didn't try anything, did she? That won't look good."

Clearly, Helen had her priorities and covering her own wheelchair bound ass was numero uno.

"No, nothing like that," I said, just letting her comment go, "She is having abdominal pain."

"She needs to be on her meds."

I ignored that one, as well. I wasn't going to get into with her.

"She really likes you, Helen." Although, I have no idea why. "I thought you might look in on her."

"I will, Nick. I will."

"Thanks. I better get going," I said quickly and ended the call.

Then I just sat there in the car. It was quiet except for the humming of the air conditioner and the soothing purr of the engine.

Should I call Joyce, Debbie's mother?

I had a conversation with one of Debbie's cousins about a year ago. She was one of the few family members who kept in touch and that was only rarely, very rarely. She usually flew down from New England to visit Joyce. When that part of the trip was over, she needed a ride to Asheville, to see one of her sisters, another of Debbie's cousins, that is when she would call.

One day when she was down, I managed to get her alone. She liked hiking and Debbie did not, so I asked Sara if she'd like to take the dogs for a walk at Reservoir Park. She jumped at the idea as I knew she would, Debbie, of course, had declined.

On the walk, I prodded, a bit, for information. She told me that Debbie's mom regretted the way things had turned out and would like to rekindle the relationship with her estranged daughter. Joyce was in her seventies now, seventy-two or seventy-three, I had lost track.

The trouble had all started with that damn house. When Joyce had bought the big house next door, for sister, Rebecca, that is when things began to deteriorate. I understood why she had done it though. Joyce, even though I had dubbed her, 'The Evil One', had gotten old and she was alone.

I sat in the Corolla as I watched an ambulance screech into the unloading bay next to the emergency room. The paramedics quickly and efficiently unloaded a body atop a stretcher and rolled it through the automatic doors.

I stared down at my old-fashioned flip phone. I had a smart phone once. It did everything. I had GPS, I could watch a movie, surf the internet and of course take pictures, etcetera, etcetera. It had done everything except make a phone call, so I had gone back to the old reliable flip phone.

Would Debbie want me to call her mother? Would she be angry, if I called? Would Joyce even care? If I spoke to her, I could not let her know about the suicide attempt three months ago. Is this the next right thing for me to do?

Joyce's name was on the tiny screen. I stared at it. Her rarely used phone number was on my contact list. I had it highlighted.

* * *

"Let's stop there, Nick," Dr. Barnett said.

I opened my eyes slowly. I had really been into my story.

"The meeting and my feelings all seemed very real today," I said.

"That's not surprising, Nick, it was a very stressful situation."

"I suppose I was becoming desperate, not really knowing what to do next."

"You really have a diverse group of people in your group."

"I guess that's one way of putting it. When I first came in, an older gentleman used to always end his talk saying, don't drink, go to meetings and it is different for everybody." I said.

"That sounds appropriate and simple."

"Yeah, I particularly like the, it is different for everybody part. I get that now."

"Deborah, at least, got her ninety days. That's a positive," Dr. Barnett said.

"I think she was afraid to drink with all of the other unexplained symptoms. She was being really brave, though. I know it was scary for her."

"And now she ends up back in the emergency room."

"We were getting to be regulars. I actually still talk to one of the doctors to this day. She goes to my gym."

"You are both handling everything the best way you can."

"What else could we do? We just had to go on. One day at a time."

"There are always options, Nick. You are considering reaching out, calling your mother in law."

"Yeah, that was something to really think about."

"We'll start there next time."

"Thanks, Doc. See you then."
SESSION THIRTEEN

BRALESS BREASTS, GREEN POOP AND BLACK FRIENDS

I could not decide whether to call. I considered the situation with The Evil One, my mother-in-law. Prior to buying Debbie's older sister, Rebecca, the house, I had just called her Joyce. The gift house had changed everything. But had we taken it too personally? It may not have just been favoritism, one sister over the other. Shortly after building their dream house in North Carolina, everything changed for Warren and Joyce.

* * *

Warren had taken a fall and was wheelchair bound. His eccentricity was quickly becoming dementia. Joyce had to deal with all of this by herself. Debbie and I were still in Florida and Rebecca lived up north. About that time, Joyce had nearly lost everything when Henley came to town.

"Let me help you with that," Henley said loudly as she bent forward, grabbing the front of the armrests next to Warren's bony old knees.

"We are fine," Joyce had said firmly, as she pushed down hard on the wheelchair handles from behind.

The back left wheel was lodged long ways into the groove in the hardwood floor. Occasionally the Country Club would slide a partition through the dining room to accommodate separate parties. When the partition was drawn back there was a small trench exposed in the floor that served as a guide. Usually there was not a problem. Most people simply stepped over the groove.

Sometime ago, Mrs. Lott, a long time club member, had lodged her stiletto heel into the entrapment and had made quite the scene, threatening to sue the Country Club for their gross negligence. It was not until her husband reminded her that the members collectively owned the Country Club and one couldn't sue oneself that she was willing to let the matter go.

She had managed to offend both staff and club members with her talk of a lawsuit. So on occasion when someone whispered behind Mrs. Lott's back, "Hey, why don't you go sue yourself?" people would just smile. The incident had actually brought everyone closer together at the small club. Well, everyone that is except for Mrs. Lott.

This time the wheel of Warren's chair was not going to be the cause of a lawsuit, but from the looks of the veins popping out on Joyce's head there might indeed, be a 911 call in the offing.

"That's quite alright," Joyce had said, blocking Henley out, so she could not take the handles away from her as she pushed down hard. But she only succeeded in lodging the wheel deeper into the opening in the hardwood floor where the temporary partition had been. The chair was now officially stuck.

"I'll pull," Henley said as she got in front and bent down in front of Warren and grabbed onto the armrests on either side. His tired old eyes came to life as Henley pulled with all her might. Her low cut blouse exposed much of her perky bosoms. It was the best Sunday dinner that Warren had been to in some time and he had not even made it to the table, yet.

Joyce continued to strain from behind the chair. She pushed down, first left, then right, pulling up on one handle while pushing down on the other. Henley, in the front, grasped the armrests rocking them back and forth.

Below her tan line, the exposed white skin of her free-swinging braless breasts moved tantalizingly back and forth before Warren's eyes. It was the most sex that he had since the trip to the peep show at the adult arcade in Florida.

Unnoticed in all of this was the big smile on his face as he was jostled about. Warren still liked to watch. He had not smiled for a long time. Finally, as Joyce's and Henley's efforts came together and the pushing and pulling was in unison on the armrests and on the handles, the wheel popped free and with a slight turn it came to rest on the floor.

"There you go, Hun," Henley said, standing upright and smiling at Warren.

His smile disappeared. The show was over. The other patrons at the Club got back to the business of Sunday dinner.

Move along folks, nothing to see here.

"Yes, thank you, so much," Joyce, regaining her composure, said dismissively.

"Oh no problem, Hun," Henley said. Apparently, 'Hun' was a non-gendered pronoun, applicable to anyone.

"Join us," Warren said.

Joyce looked down in disbelief. Warren hardly ever spoke since being confined to the chair. And he never spoke to strangers. At least, not until Henley.

"Oh, I couldn't impose, Hun," Henley said looking down at Warren and then up at Joyce, "I just stopped by to get a bite at the bar. I heard it is open to the public, but I'm not dressed for the dining room."

Against her better judgment, but still in shock at Warren's elaborate vocalization, all two words, Joyce acquiesced.

"You are with us. You are dressed just fine," she said to Henley as she signaled the waiter that there would be three for dinner.

It did not take Henley long to run her con on Joyce. She claimed to be a nurse on her way north to take a position as a private caretaker. Her forged credentials were all in order.

Warren was obviously smitten with her. She managed to charm Joyce, as well, but it took a little more effort than simply bending over, with her.

About ten days later, Joyce had convinced Henley to stay in North Carolina and to be Warren's caretaker. She moved her meager belongings into the house, the guest room, next to Warren's room on the first floor. Henley was a grifter, a good one. Joyce had thought that moving Henley into the house was all her idea.

Henley continued to live at the house for nearly a year. Joyce had put her name on one of the checking accounts, as a signatory, for convenience. Henley was taking on more and more responsibility. One afternoon, Joyce was looking over a power of attorney document that her lawyer had prepared for her to give Henley more control, when someone rang the doorbell. Henley and Warren were out for a roll around the block, so Joyce answered the door.

Things happened very quickly. The men were law enforcement serving an extradition warrant from Florida. The name on the warrant read, Betty Whitestone.

"There must be some mistake," Joyce had said, "There is no one here by that name."

"Also known as, Henley Radcliff," the tall officer read from the warrant.

"Henley?" Joyce asked, "Why would you be looking for Henley?"

Just then, Henley and Warren came into view turning on the circular stone drive in front of the house. The officers executed the warrant. Henley's stepchildren from the sunshine state had finally agreed to have their father's body exhumed and traces of arsenic had been found in the remains.

The officers searched Henley's room. They only needed Joyce's permission, which she gave reluctantly. They found a bottle with a white powder in the bottom bureau drawer. And just like that, Henley, the bottle of white powder and the BMW that Joyce had given her were whisked away and taken back to Florida. Henley would be standing trial for murder.

Joyce wheeled Warren into his room. Everything had changed very quickly. He went downhill from there. He apparently just gave up. No more sponge baths, nothing to look forward to, he was dead six months later.

Joyce had been duped. She was fortunate to have avoided losing much more. We never really knew what Henley's final intentions were. Why did she have the white powder in her room? Was it the arsenic? Did she have plans to use it on Warren? On Joyce?

When I stepped back and looked at things objectively, it had been perfectly understandable that Joyce had purchased the house on the lot next to hers. She wanted Rebecca close by. She had always been able to control her older daughter more than she could Debbie. Joyce was alone and scared. Warren was dead and Henley had almost taken her for everything. I did not know why Joyce had lied to us about the house. But I did know she was old, lonely and afraid.

* * *

I pushed the button under the word 'call' and waited while Joyce's phone rang on the other end.

"Hello," she finally said.

"This is Nick," I said, 'Nick Jimbanis, your son in law."

"I know who you are, Nick," she replied not altogether unpleasantly.

"Debbie is being admitted to the hospital."

Joyce was there about forty-five minutes later. I sat with her outside of Debbie's room before going in. I was honest. I told her everything except for the overdose on Mother's Day.

I told her about the withdrawal from the Xanax, the anxiety, abdominal pain, sensitivity to light and sound. And of course the doctors, the horrible clueless doctors. It was a lot for her to take in. But she listened quietly and then we went in. She smiled when she first saw her younger daughter and then she began crying as she walked quickly over to her bed, bending over to hug her as best she could.

Maybe Joyce did love both of her daughters equally.

Joyce appeared to be still healthy and vital. She had driven herself over and gotten to the hospital rather quickly. She seemed to have understood everything when I filled her in. And she had asked a few good questions.

She stood bedside with Debbie, consoling her like a concerned mother. Looking at the two of them, one would never have taken them for mother and daughter. Debbie had her father's nose and ruddy complexion. Her Janis Joplin hair was shorter now, but still brown. Joyce had black hair with only a few strands of grey. She was slight of build. She had lost weight as she aged, as people often do, and her complexion was powdery white. About the only physical similarity was their height. They both stood about five foot three.

I sat in the desk chair. I had moved it to the farthest corner of the room, out of the way, and away from the bed. It wasn't that I was giving them privacy. I just needed a break. I put my head back against the wall, straightening my back as I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and felt the tension pour out of me. I was relieved that Joyce was here. I had often heard people at the meetings refer to the fellowship as their family.

One poor fellow always began his share with, "Hello family, my name is Richard..."

I understood being alone. The loneliness, isolation and despair were demoralizing. Then to feel as if I were a part of something bigger was truly something special.

But I also had seen quite a few of the older members die in the seven plus years that I had been attending meetings. I thought it important to note that none of them had left me anything in their wills when they died. And I had known some of them quite well.

Even my distant uncle Aaron, whom I had met only once as a child, had left me sixteen point six percent of his small estate when he died. I barely even knew him or the five other cousins who had been bequeathed an equal share. But they had all been and were family. While I loved the fellowship and had many good friends there, that is what they were, just good friends.

I was relieved that Joyce had come to the hospital. She was family. It did not matter that she had lied about the house. It did not matter that I had nicknamed her, The Evil One, or that she had been my estranged mother-in-law for the past five or so years, she was family. I was glad that I had called her and pleased that she was here, giving Debbie and me comfort just by her presence, her familiar, old, evil, estranged presence. It was good to have family.

Joyce stayed by Debbie's hospital bed for nearly an hour. I remained in my chair in the corner, eyes closed. My mind drifted.

Something good is going to come out of this, I thought. Maybe this is all there is. Debbie reconciles with her mother. Everything else has turned to shit and stays that way, but at least mother and daughter are together.

I knew there was a story of the prodigal son. Maybe Debbie was the prodigal daughter. I think the younger son left home and went out on his own. He lost touch with his family and then returned years later. His father welcomed him back with open arms, but his brother who had never left now became jealous. That was about all that I could remember. Maybe later, the older brother had killed the returning brother. Although that may have been another story, altogether. I would have to brush up on all of that sometime before making any comparisons.

There had to be more than a mother and daughter reunion. I simply needed for there to be more.

* * *

When we had moved up to North Carolina six or seven years ago, we had stayed with Joyce at her house on the lake. We had two dogs at the time, before Stoney, Samie and Ginger. I'll give Joyce credit for letting them stay with us in her house while we were in transition. She wasn't exactly a dog person.

One morning I had let them out in her back yard. It was fenced in right down to the lake. It was a big space for them to run in and do their business. I had promised Joyce that I would pick up after them, but I only pretended. I would carry a plastic bag with me when I was out there, but I just kicked pine straw over the little piles of poop when Joyce was not looking.

On this particular morning, I left them outside by themselves while I returned to the kitchen still dressed in pajamas. When I had my coffee ready, I looked out through the huge plate glass window just in time to see my dogs making a break for it. They had found an opening below the stairs leading up to the deck. The wire fence, I suppose, was mostly there for aesthetic purposes. It had not been put there to confine livestock or canine explorers.

I went quickly out on the deck. It was still pretty early. Joyce had complained just the night before when someone had cranked up a lawn mower after five o'clock. Apparently, the little lakeside community had noise ordinances. It seemed prudent not to yell. I whistled instead. I know the dogs heard me, but they just kept going down by the water toward the yard next door. Their tails were wagging, noses to the ground as they ignored me and continued on their trek.

"Damn,' I thought as they were about to disappear from sight around the curve of the shoreline.

I poured the remainder of my coffee out and rinsed my cup at the sink leaving it there in the strainer. I went up the stairs to get dressed. It took me a few minutes. I used the bathroom first. Then went into the bedroom where

Debbie lay, snoring peacefully. Slowly I tippy toed around in the dusky morning light, dressing myself quietly and feeling around on the end table for the keys to the van. Stealthily, I closed the bedroom door behind me when I was done.

Before descending the stairs I looked through the second story hallway window, to my surprise and delight, I saw my two dogs heading back to the house. They were out on the quiet paved street now. Tongues hanging way out and tails still wagging back and forth, they sauntered side by side, appearing to be quite pleased with themselves after their big adventure.

I could not be mad at them. They were coming back to Debbie and me. They were good dogs. Returning home, as they should. I know it sounds stupid, but I suppose I was a little proud of them. I was thrilled they were back. On the rare occasions, that something like this happened. Whenever they broke free and got away by themselves, I feared that maybe I would never see them again.

I knew it was not the same thing, but it was a point of reference for me to use in order to understand this mother/daughter situation. Maybe Joyce sitting beside Debbie on the bed felt a little like I had felt that day when the dogs came back.

* * *

I felt a slight pressure. I opened my eyes. Joyce stood beside me pressing her fingers gently on my shoulder.

"She's asleep," she whispered.

"Okay," I said quietly as I opened my eyes.

I stood up and stepped into the hospital corridor just outside Debbie's room with Joyce.

"The doctors have not found anything?" she asked.

"No, they have put her on intravenous fluids and antibiotics as a precaution," I said.

"But no diagnosis?"

"No. Nothing. Well, she did tell me that her poop is green."

"That's disturbing. Does it mean anything?"

"No one said anything about it."

"Bile is green," Joyce said, "but we know it's not her gall bladder."

I was impressed. Joyce remembered.

"She drinks a lot of Gatorade," I said, "It has a green tint to it."

"How much is a lot?"

"Five, six bottles a day. Sometimes it is all she has. She is scared to eat because of the pain."

"What have the doctors said?"

"Nothing"

"That's not very reassuring," she said.

"It's probably the Gatorade. And like I said earlier, everything else is explained by Xanax withdrawal, but no one will listen to me."

She just shook her head. It was a lot to take in. Then she looked back into the room at Debbie.

"Poor girl," she said. She then turned her attention back to me. "I am going to go home now," she said, "I will talk to some people. We'll figure this out."

Joyce did like to fix things. Shortly after Warren had been confined to the wheelchair and had begun showing signs of dementia, Joyce had taken matters into her own hands. She had found a doctor, a specialist, in New York who had some success in operating on dementia patients and restoring some of their cognitive functions.

"New York has the best doctors," Joyce always claimed.

That statement may have been based on the pragmatic fact that doctors in New York City make the most money. If you charge more than anyone else does, you must be the best. There is some logic to that.

Joyce had refused to accept Warren's deteriorating mental state and the unpromising diagnosis of rapidly progressive dementia that the local North Carolina doctors had given. She made an appointment with the doctor in New York City, hired a private care nurse and rented an ambulance and crew from a local company. She accompanied Warren and staff on the five hundred or so mile ambulance ride to New York. The doctor in the city performed surgery on

Warren. A shunt was implanted in his brain to increase blood flow to certain areas.

I will be the first to admit that I could see a difference afterward. Warren was not exactly his old self, but he was better. He could communicate and appeared to know what was going on. At least, that is, for a short time.

So when Joyce offered to talk to some people about Debbie's predicament, I was pleased. She clearly enjoyed a challenge and would go to any lengths 'to fix' a loved one. I welcomed her help. I was at my wit's end.

"I'll forward you the information that I have on Xanax withdrawal," I said.

Joyce nodded.

"Your email is still the same?" I asked.

"It is. Send me everything. And for God's sake keep me updated, Nick. I expect to hear from you every day. I expect to hear from you tonight."

I reached over and leaned in putting my arms around Joyce for a hug. It was something I had learned in the fellowship. It did not come naturally to me and Joyce was not exactly a touchy feely person, but she gave me a little squeeze in return, before gently pushing away.

"Thank you," I whispered as I pulled back.

She nodded, turned, and toddled down the hallway toward the elevators. She used a cane and walked with a slight limp. It was a bit odd that she had refused hip replacement surgery. But someone she knew had the operation and it had been botched miserably. Statistically there was a twenty percent chance her operation might not be successful, so she chose the cane. Joyce did her own research and made her own decisions. It was good to have her on our side.

I sat a while longer with Debbie. They had given her something to help her rest. It was good to see her sleep.

After I was home and had taken care of the dogs, I got on the computer and sent Joyce an email, being certain to thank her again for coming to the hospital. I attached a file with a copy of the 'Ashton Manual', the definitive work on Xanax withdrawal. Apparently, it was not available to doctors in North Carolina; I put that in parenthesis for Joyce's benefit. I reread what I had written and checked for typos. Satisfied, I hit send and finally, exhausted, I collapsed on the bed. Marley lay beside me unaware of anything, other than getting to sleep on the bed tonight.

The next day I visited Debbie after my morning workout. She was still doing well although the doctors had still not found anything the matter. They were going to keep her one more night for observation, whatever that meant.

I went to my noon meeting and announced at the beginning that Debbie was back in the hospital and maybe we could send a card around. I said that it did not appear to be too serious, but I did remember to tell everyone that her poop was green.

Later, when I visited Debbie that evening and gave her the card she acted as if she were shocked when she read the various comments. The people, we did not know that well, had put the usual 'get well soon', 'hope you feel better' comments, but the people we really knew, the ones with the twisted senses of humor, had all made some sort of reference to her green poop.

"You told everyone that my poop was green?" Debbie said feigning disbelief.

"Of course, it is a program of rigorous honesty," I replied in earnest.

"Whatever," she said with a little smile as she continued reading her card.

"I am glad you called, Mom, yesterday," she said.

"I wasn't sure. But I think it was the right thing to do."

"Did she suggest brain surgery or a shunt?"

"Neither, yet," I smiled, "Was that a joke?"

Debbie was in good spirits. She brightened even more when her best friend from the fellowship, Charlene, came by.

There was a quiet knock on the door behind me. I stood and turned. Charlene stood there worried look on her face, but managing a smile.

"Hey, you two," she whispered.

"Charlene, come in. Have a seat," I said, standing and pointing to the cushioned recliner I had been sitting in.

"This is for you," she said walking over and handing Debbie a tiny stuffed bear.

"Thank you."

Debbie smiled. She had called Charlene while I was at the gym.

"Sit," she said.

Charlene was African American. I had started to call her our black friend, but realized that was wrong. Counting my attorney, James, from Florida and Freddie from the fellowship, Charlene was actually black friend number three. I sometimes called her, three, for short.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I was hurting again in my stomach, but I am feeling better now. Oh, my poop, it is green. The doctors don't know why."

"Well, that is certainly more than I needed to know," Charlene said, "but you are feeling better?"

"Yes, especially now that you are here."

"Why don't I get something from the cafeteria," I interrupted, "a sandwich or a dessert?"

"Something salty. French fries." Charlene said looking at Debbie.

"And something to drink. A Coke would be nice."

"Diet," Charlene added.

"You've got it," I said and headed out to locate the cafeteria.

I left them alone to talk and began following the familiar signs and multicolored directional lines on the ceiling, finally ending up on the second floor.

Unfortunately, the cafeteria had closed at 7 o'clock and it was ten after when I got there.

I looked around and found some vending machines just down the hall.

I fed two fives into the slot and started punching buttons. I got two diet colas and a bag of regular chips and a bag of peanuts. I couldn't resist getting a grape soda and some barbecue chips as well.

When I returned to the room, I explained that the cafeteria had been closed and apologized for missing out on the French fries. I piled my bounty of cold aluminum cans and snack filled plastic bags on the rolling hospital table that fit over Debbie's bed.

Charlene took the grape soda and the barbecue chips.

I knew Charlene could not resist the barbecue chips and grape soda. I could not wait to tell my friend, Les, who worked at the gym. He was black friend number four.

I would see him in the morning and disclose the results of my social ethnicity food experiment. Sometimes I don't know what is wrong with me. I don't know why these people are even my friends. By, these people, I of course specifically mean James, Freddie, Charlene and Les. I do not mean to refer to all

African Americans as 'these people', that would be racist. I, of course, am not racist. I have black friends. Oh my God. Stop. Just stop thinking about it.

The thought police would have a field day with me.

"I am going to get going," I said to Debbie, "I should get home and take care of the dogs."

"Yeah, take care of my babies," she said as I bent down to give her a hug.

"You are in good hands," I said as I smiled at Charlene and discretely mouthed the words, thank you, in her direction as I left the room.

Later, Debbie told me what Charlene had said as soon as I had left the room.

"Your husband is such a dumb ass. Grape soda and barbecue chips?" Charlene had said while shaking her head.

"But she was smiling," Debbie had told me.

"He doesn't mean any harm, Charlene," Debbie had told her, "He's trying to be funny. It is what he does."

"Oh I know," Charlene said, "He uses humor as his defense mechanism. At least he thinks it is humor and I do enjoy messing with him."

Charlene had pushed the untouched purple can toward Debbie.

"Do you want this?" she asked, "I hate grape soda. Pass me the diet Coke."

She kept the barbecue chips, though.

Interesting.

Later that night, I phoned Joyce.

"Hello," Joyce answered on the fourth ring.

"This is Nick," I said, "Nick Jimbanis, your son-in-law," I said trying to mimic the first somewhat uncomfortable phone call from the day before.

"Really?" Joyce responded, "I don't recall having a son-in-law named Nick."

Joyce is kidding around with me, I thought, the Evil One has mellowed in her old age.

"Well you do," I said, "I just wanted to let you know that Debbie will be discharged in the morning."

"Good. Is she doing okay?"

"She is for now," I said hopefully.

"That Xanax is some bad stuff," Joyce said, "the withdrawal symptoms can last up to a year."

"You read the Ashton Manual that I emailed?"

"Of course. We need to figure this out, Nick, for Debbie."

"Absolutely," I said.

"I've started looking into Dr. David," she continued, "Something is not quite right. He has a good pedigree, Harvard Medical, an honorable discharge from the Army, then six years at First Regional as head of psychiatry, but there is a gap after graduation."

"A gap?" I asked.

"Three years unaccounted for between medical school and joining the Army. Nothing. Like he just disappeared. I'm going to have my people look into it."

I smiled. Joyce had people. I knew she meant Jonathan, the caregiver, who had been with Warren at the end. He worked at the hospital now. I did not like him. I thought he was a bit of a kiss ass, but he was harmless, and I would take whatever help I could get.

"I'll call you tomorrow, once she is home," I said, relieved that she was on our side. I had intended to find out more about the good doctor, but simply had not gotten around to it.

After saying good-bye, I realized that if my mother-in-law kept this up, I would never be able to call Joyce, The Evil One, again.

My bad.

I was tired. I turned on the exhaust fan in the bath next to the bedroom and was comforted by the low steady hum as I dozed off. Tomorrow Debbie would be home and the fan would stay silent. But tonight I took advantage of the white noise and slept well.

The next day I picked Debbie up from the hospital. She had a follow up scheduled with Dr. David. Since they had found nothing physically wrong, she was being sent to the head doctor. We had managed to put the appointment off for nearly a month. In the meantime, she would continue going to group with Helen.

They wheeled her to the curb and I drove us home, without turn signals, letting the other drivers guess. Debbie was in good spirits, glad to see the dogs and to be in her own house. The dogs greeted her as if she had been gone for a year.

Once she was settled in things returned to normal. And by normal, I mean the increasingly uncertain, day-to-day, symptomatic, unpredictable behavior that had become our way of life over the past three months. Restlessly spending her nights in her easy chair, hardly eating, unnerved by sound and light, sporadic abdominal pain and the anxiety. The thing that I just did not understand was the anxiety. I could do nothing to help her with that, the panicky feeling she tried to describe. I could only imagine it, since I had never experienced it.

We just went on. Some days were better than others. Whenever Debbie managed to get herself out, letting me at least take her to a noon meeting, she seemed better. Even if she sat outside and smoked during the meeting, it was better than staying at home. It must have been difficult, but she would always put on that brave face around other people.

* * *

"You have found an ally," Dr. Barnett said.

I opened my eyes. She had noticed the one positive from the second trip to the hospital, ignoring the fact that once again the doctors had provided nothing more than a temporary placebo effect.

"Looking back, I think this was a turning point," I said.

"Your mother in law is giving you some much needed support. You can't do everything alone."

"It was really unexpected. Joyce, I mean, reading the Ashton Manual, looking into Dr. David. "

"She is your family, Deborah's mother."

"I felt a little inadequate, you know, whatever I was doing it wasn't good enough to actually help Debbie, but with Joyce's help maybe we would get somewhere."

"Nick, you are the one getting Joyce involved. You are doing everything you can."

I looked at her expectantly as I was sitting, bent over tying my shoes.

"You knew enough to reach out. That took real courage considering how things had gotten with Deborah and the family."

"It felt good to have someone involved."

"I am sure it did, so far you've been alone, you and Deborah. By the way, at some point in the future, we may want to discuss your relationship with African Americans. For now though, we'll table that discussion."

"Nothing to discuss, Doc."

Dr. Barnett wrote something down in her notebook.

"We'll pick it up here, next time."
SESSION FOURTEEN

ACUPUNCTURE, BALTIMORE AND A PLAN

The one thing new, in our routine, was the contact with Joyce. For me it was a big deal. I emailed her daily to let her know what was going on, even if it was just to say, nothing new. Her support meant a lot to me and I am pretty sure it made Debbie feel better, even though she rarely mentioned her mother. Joyce brought a fresh perspective and some new ideas. Maybe she gave us hope.

We were all operating under the theory that Debbie was experiencing protracted acute withdrawal symptoms, PAWS, from the abrupt discontinuance of the Xanax. We figured eventually that she would get better. In the meantime, Joyce suggested Debbie go see her acupuncturist for treatment.

Holy crap, I thought, rereading the email, Joyce sees an acupuncturist.

I immediately thought of Henley, the grifter. Joyce had been duped before.

Sticking needles in Debbie to alter the flow of her chi? How scientific. Why not Voodoo?

When can she go? Is what I actually typed in my reply email.

Joyce made the arrangements the next day and Debbie had an appointment two days later. Before the first appointment, I asked around. To my surprise everyone told me the same thing, acupuncture works. Apparently, I was the doubting Thomas.

Joyce was paying, so I figured it couldn't hurt.

When we arrived at the office, I sat alone in the small waiting area while Debbie was led back to one of the treatment rooms. The young man, Doctor? Witch doctor? Sensei? I settled on calling him a practitioner, had introduced himself as Vance. He seemed pleasant enough.

There were two diplomas on the wall from an acupuncture school in New Mexico. The second diploma belonged to his wife. That's convenient, I thought, as I examined the framed documents, noting that I could have easily made them on my laptop.

There was piped in Oriental music playing, little Buddha statues on the tables and parchments hanging on the wall with Chinese, I presumed, caricatures scrawled on them. I could smell incense burning. At least I hoped it was incense. There was a brass gong hanging on a stand at the reception area. I assumed it was functional and to be used in lieu of a bell or buzzer, in order to get someone's attention. We had not needed to bang it. Vance had been standing there, apparently in between sticking patients, when we arrived.

The pamphlets lying about on the bamboo tables were all alternative types of treatments, yoga, meditation, hot stone therapy and so on. I managed to find a current Golf Digest among the magazines on the center table. It was buried in the pile, but nonetheless, I was impressed. At least someone who worked here was practical and somewhat westernized. Although, I did not think that it was the sixty- something, hippie chick, secretary who had been beside her desk on the floor sitting in the lotus position with her eyes closed ever since Debbie and I had arrived.

The hour passed slowly. I had only found the one magazine to my liking. Since I don't play much golf any more, I skipped over the instructional articles and that was half the magazine. I soon became bored and I started staring at the hippie chick when I was done reading.

She had not moved in the thirty minutes or so I had been sitting there. I could see that she was breathing, her torso moved gently up and down with each breath. I was actually being slowly absorbed into the environment. Methodically the music relaxed me. The tenseness had gone out of my body as my own breath slowed. Maybe there was something to this Eastern philosophy after all.

The old hippie chick was not all that bad looking. Her hair was red, long and flowing. A pair of faded blue jeans fell loosely about her crisscrossed folded legs. I couldn't tell for sure, but there was a lot of loose material piled around her ankles above her bare feet. Bell-bottoms? Probably. Her Thai dyed pull over and beads had been taken from the same time capsule. She was slim, probably from an alternative diet. More than one of the magazine offerings had been on nutrition and eating vegan.

From what I could see, beneath the loose fitting shirt, there was a pair of nice breasts. Not Big Titties Magee caliber, by any means, but proportionate and ample nonetheless.

I was calm and relaxed, rocking to the music and just staring at her, letting myself go with the flow. Every day was stressful. Debbie had been out of the hospital for a few weeks now and nothing had really improved. I had to take my moments of peace whenever I could find them. My eyes naturally wandered and came to focus on the gently rising and falling breasts. Braless? I thought I could discern nipples. Nice.

Then, Bam! The old hippie chick opened her eyes.

What the fuck!

I blinked, looked quickly away from her chest and then back up at her face. Eyes wide open now, she just sat there expressionless, staring at me.

"I'm waiting," I stammered nodding in the direction of the treatment room.

She said nothing. Her eyes were empty; she did not blink, just sat there trancelike.

How pervy is this? I'm just sitting here staring at this woman. Did she notice where I was staring? Does she even know I am here?

Just then, Vance came out and gently closed the door behind him.

Apparently, once the practitioner's needles are in place, he can leave the patient alone in a quiet environment, to experience the altered flow of their chi. It was then, I suspected, that the spirits did their work.

"I see you've met Kalinda," he said to me.

Kalinda? Not a bad name, but surely this woman was deserving of a name like, Moonbeam, Rose Blossom, or Lotus Petal. It just seemed more fitting.

"Well not formally," I said as I stood up, the long since forgotten golf magazine sliding off my lap, unceremoniously landing on the floor.

"Relax," Vance said, "she is still under. It will be a few more moments before she comes out of her meditative state."

"Right," I said.

An odd way to spend one's lunch hour.

"How goes it with Debbie?" I asked getting back to the reason we were here.

"She is doing very well," he said as he disappeared into another one of the treatment rooms.

The chi was strong in Vance.

I sat back down and looked directly into Kalinda's empty eyes.

"Whazzz up?" I asked aloud.

Nothing. Nothing was up with Kalinda.

"May the chi be with you," I said.

She just sat there.

A little later, Vance appeared and then went back into Debbie's room. Soon after, they both emerged.

"I am going back next week," she said later on the drive home.

"So, it was helpful?" I asked.

"It was relaxing," she said, "and Vance is nice."

"Good," I said, "We should let your mother know."

From then on, every Wednesday afternoon, I drove Debbie to acupuncture. On Thursdays, she went to Helen's group therapy session. She liked the people in her group. They could all identify with her. She had taken Helen off the pedestal, but she could still deal with her, just not one on one, anymore.

"We discussed Xanax withdrawal," she told me one Wednesday afternoon when I picked her up from group, "Helen admitted it might be a real thing."

"That was big of her," I said.

"Some of the others in group knew about it. She was getting some pressure from them."

"So she was just going along?"

"Probably, but one thing made some sense. Even if I am in withdrawal," she said, "I probably still need medication, you know, like the lithium. Most of the people in group agreed."

"That's what they have been saying," I said.

"Yeah, but no one has ever admitted that Xanax withdrawal might be real."

"A small step," I said, "Do you want to get back on your lithium?"

"No. It makes things worse."

Oh well.

Off and on, Debbie attended noon meetings with me. But nothing was changing. The restless nights, hypersensitivity, abdominal pain and anxiety were not getting better. Actually, they may have all been getting worse.

It had been almost a month since the two-night stay in the hospital. It was time for Debbie's appointment with Dr. David. Things had not ended well the last time we saw him.

I called Joyce the night before the appointment.

"This is Nick, Nick Jimbanis, your son in law," I said when Joyce answered the phone.

"I don't have a son in law named Nick," Joyce played along.

As promised Joyce had 'her people,' Jonathan, the kiss ass caregiver, look into Dr. David's past. As she had told me, there was indeed a gap, three years, between graduation from Harvard medical and induction into the army.

Jonathan had been diligent in his research. While there was an undocumented gap, he had found enough pieces of the puzzle to make a pretty strong case that something was indeed being covered up.

In 1998, Dr. David had graduated from Harvard medical, specializing in psychiatry. That we knew, and it had been easy enough to find. In the fall of 2001, his name turns up, again, when he joins the army as a Captain and he stays there for eight years. In 2010, he showed up at First Regional, as the head of Behavioral Services, where he has remained until this day. From 1998 to 2001, there were no records.

Jonathan had run one of those on-line, background checks on the good doctor. No doubt, Joyce had paid the $19.95, plus a little extra for Jonathan's time. There was only one thing in the gap, but it turned out to be quite the clue. It was a speeding ticket, the only entry in the criminal background check, from 1999. Dr. David had been clocked going 62 miles per hour in a 45 zone. The citation had been issued in the city of Baltimore, Maryland. It was hardly a smoking gun, but it gave Joyce's little private eye, Jonathan, a place to start.

He focused his research on Baltimore for the years 1998 through 2001. While finding no other records of Dr. David, newspaper articles revealed a high number of overdoses and suicides among patients at the Henry Phipps Psychiatric clinic at John Hopkins University. The number of incidents rose dramatically, climbing steadily, during those three years from a norm of three in 1997, to six, then ten and finally spiking at sixteen in 2000. The following year, Dr. David's records resurface when he joins the Army, coincidentally, the overdoses and suicides leveled out, back down to three in 2002.

So while there was nothing concrete. No malpractice suits, no criminal record other than the speeding ticket, not even an employment record, there was enough to suggest that the good doctor had been in Baltimore, and most likely worked at the psychiatric clinic, at the time of all the patient overdoses and suicides.

Debbie and I sat in the waiting room for only about fifteen minutes. We saw Helen as she called in one of her patients. She nodded our way. There were two other people waiting whom I had seen at the fellowship meetings. One of them acknowledged us, the other didn't. Par for the course.

"Debbie, Deborah Jimbanis," the nurse called out. We were ushered back to Dr. David's office.

We sat in the chairs facing his desk. As usual, he was affixed to his computer screen, ignoring us.

"Close the door," he said abruptly, without looking up. His nurse closed the door behind her as she left the room.

He continued looking at the monitor, refusing to acknowledge us, moving the mouse around with his right hand, his eyes darting back and forth.

"Doctor," I finally said having had enough of this little game.

Another moment of silence followed.

"I don't know what to do with the two of you," he said looking at Debbie with frustration and then eyeing me with contempt.

"The hospital is not your personal Bed and Breakfast, young lady."

Debbie is in her fifties. Young lady could have been a compliment, but that is not how it was used. It was used to humiliate. Debbie tilted her head down, looking at the floor through the prescription sunglasses that seemed to be permanently affixed to her face these days.

"If you don't take your medicine, how do you expect me to help you?"

I had enough of his condescension. Debbie already felt bad. A doctor is supposed to make his patient feel better, not worse.

"Maybe I should just put you back in the psych ward. I could throw you in a padded cell and force the meds down your throat."

"Is that what you did in Baltimore?" I asked, surprising even myself with the forceful defiant accusation that came out of nowhere.

He shot me a look. His black little eyes full of contempt, maybe some fear, as a vein throbbed, clearly visible, on the side of his temple. A bead of sweat rolled from below the few greasy strands of hair combed over the top of his balding head.

"How dare you?" he barked, his anger clearly directed at me, and only me.

I finally realized that it was time for me to take charge. This angry little man was just making everything worse. Debbie needed an advocate. Debbie needed me.

In the fellowship, some would have said god was doing for me what I could not do for myself. But, I was finally doing for myself, the way I stayed sober worked for me and I had finally realized that I was indeed good enough to handle what life had thrown at us. In fact, I was the only one who could. The strength had been in me all along.

I took Debbie's hand and stood up.

"Let's go," I said glaring at the little man as we stormed out of his office, "this is a waste of our time. All of this has been a huge waste of time."

That evening I went into the bedroom for privacy, leaving Debbie in her easy chair in front of the television. I phoned Joyce.

"This is Nick Jimbanis, your son-in-law," I said when Joyce answered the phone.

"Nick," Joyce said, "how are things going? Did you make any progress with Dr. David today?"

"I am afraid that everything is still the same. Maybe worse. Well, definitely worse, as far as Dr. David goes."

I explained to her what had happened during our appointment.

"Sounds like you struck a nerve when you mentioned Baltimore," she said.

"Without a doubt," I said, "there is definitely something fishy, with Dr. David."

"What now?" she asked.

There was a pause in the conversation, an extended silence.

"Listen," I finally continued, "her counsellor said something that makes sense. She finally allowed that it might be a long-term Xanax withdrawal, but suggested that there might be something more. You know, in addition to the withdrawal. Whatever it is she needs to be on medication for it."

"But she has no idea what else is wrong?"

"No, they are still operating on the bipolar diagnosis from twenty years ago. And we are officially done with Dr. David. Debbie refuses to go back and I can't say that I blame her."

There was more silence. Then Joyce spoke.

"The Mayo clinic," she said.

"What?"

"A friend of mine took her daughter to the Mayo clinic. She had been completely misdiagnosed. She was suffering and none of her local doctors were of any help. They went to Mayo and they figured it out. She is better now."

"Where is the Mayo clinic? I mean, I have heard of it, but how would we do this?" I asked.

"Just come over tomorrow and we will make some phone calls," she said.

"Okay, we'll be there around one thirty, after the meeting."

"Perfect," Joyce said.

The next afternoon we were in the huge, high ceiling room just off the double door entry to Joyce's house. We sat on antique, cushioned chairs atop Oriental carpets, amongst the bronze Remington figures and other artwork strategically scattered about the room. The commissioned family portraits hung on the wall above the shiny black polished grand piano where Warren used to play a rousing rendition of chopsticks. Debbie and Warren's likenesses hung together on one side of the room while Joyce and Rebecca's hung on the other.

I had not seen any cars in the driveway next door at the house that Rebecca had 'bought'. Joyce had told me they were in New York. That would make things easier.

I had walked through this big room before, but had always thought of it more as a museum than an actual living space. This was truly a serious occasion. In all the times that I had been at Joyce's house, in what seemed like a previous life, I had never been, nor ever seen anyone for that matter, seated in this living area.

Joyce handed me the phone and a phone number. She insisted that I do the talking. Even though she would never admit it, she knew that she was hard of hearing and she was aware of her age. I thought it not only prudent, but also somewhat humble of her to give me the phone. Debbie paced nervously back and forth on the plush carpet as I dialed.

The psychiatric unit at the Mayo clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, was taking new patients, I was told. That was a good start. They only admitted residents of Minnesota or neighboring states to the unit as inpatients for logistical reasons. However, they would be able to assess Debbie on an outpatient basis.

Furthermore, they informed me that while they could and would make recommendations for medications, they would not actually prescribe anything. They would provide a complete report for Debbie's local doctors.

A red flag popped up in my mind when the woman on the other end of the line mentioned 'local doctors'. Debbie no longer had a local doctor, even Dr. Peacock was out, after he had suggested sleeping pills, all that was left was the emergency room doctors and they did not count.

I continued to gather information. I was given several numbers. One for travel services, a concierge and a fax number for medical records. Holding the phone in one hand and a pen in the other, I scribbled everything onto a lined, yellow legal pad.

My right hand served the dual purpose of plugging my ear when I was not writing. For someone who did not want to make the call, Joyce certainly had a number of questions and comments. She didn't mind offering them up while I was trying to have a productive conversation with the good people at Mayo. Eventually, I was satisfied with the information that I had obtained, thanked the woman in Minnesota and hung up the phone.

So it was set. Good news was that we were going to Rochester, Minnesota. Bad news was we had to wait another two months. We were going right after Thanksgiving. Debbie had an appointment for December second, early on a Tuesday morning at the Generose building, whatever that was.

During the following weeks, I kept a journal of Debbie's daily symptoms and also typed a history of the past several months. I had been asked to fax her medical records to Mayo. There were the trips to the family doctor, Behavioral Services and First Regional. I also accessed the pharmacy records on line from the mail order pharmacy and faxed those records as well. The woman I talked to at Mayo had said to limit the faxes to about forty pages. At the time, I thought that was a lot of pages, but when I was done faxing, I am sure that we sent over one hundred pages.

Debbie was hopeful now, but continued to struggle. Each day was difficult. On November 12, at the end of the meeting, she dutifully walked to the front of the room and picked up her green six-month sobriety chip. It was a shame that she could not show much enthusiasm for her accomplishment.

When Nutty as a Fruitcake hollered, her usual, "How'd you do it?", Debbie just shuddered visibly at the sound of the high pitched irritating voice, said nothing and simply returned to her seat.

I wanted to punch Nutty as a Fruitcake in the face, but I just gave Debbie a hug and ignored everything else.

On the days when she did attend meetings with me, she would often tell people that we were going to the Mayo clinic in Rochester to figure out what was wrong with her.

'I'll be okay, if I make it until then,' she would say anticipating the increasing difficulty of each passing day.

"Of course, you will make it. Why wouldn't you?" our British friend, Lloyd, had told her, "Mayo is the best in the world."

Lloyd came to North Carolina for the golf, six weeks in the fall and six weeks in the spring. He had stumbled into the clubhouse about two years ago and we had become friends. He was upper class, very well educated and a successful retired businessman and world traveler. He had probably never owned a dog in his life. We are people who normally do not mix. His soft-spoken pragmatism was a calming influence on Debbie. He and I had similar views on the whole 'god thing.'

Another friend of ours, Andrew, turned out to be a real wanker. I can't even think about Lloyd without using a few of his expressions and mimicking his British dialect. Tea and scones anyone?

After one of our noon meetings where Debbie had shared about the Mayo trip, she was pacing nervously just outside the clubhouse. She was wearing her ever-present sunglasses even though it was a cloudy day. She smoked erratically as she walked, lighting one up, taking a couple of drags, tossing it down and stomping it out. She would stop walking briefly, immediately light another butt, turn and continue her pacing.

"Have you tried the steps, Debbie?" Andrew asked as he approached her.

I had just arrived and overheard. Not saying anything, I led Debbie away.

Have you tried the steps? I thought, Asshole.

Some of the people in the fellowship think that the twelve steps will cure anything. Honestly, I am not so sure that they are even effective with alcoholism, but that is just me. Recovery is different for everybody.

I put Debbie in the car and went back to talk to Andrew.

"If you saw someone laying on the ground, gasping for breath with a collapsed lung, would you ask them if they had tried the steps?" I asked him not even trying to mask my anger.

He looked at me bewildered with that fake look of god induced peace and contentment that some people wear for the sixty minutes or so that they are at a meeting. Then they leave, only to resume their roles as dickheads in the real world.

"Stay away from Debbie and stay away from me," I said as I left him standing there and returned to the car.

The only eventful thing we did while awaiting our departure for Mayo was to try hypnosis. Debbie still was not sleeping and she continued to lose weight. Desperate to find her some peace, I called Joyce and told her about a hypnotist who used to work for behavioral services. I had hear of him through Helen and thought that maybe hypnosis would help, at least until we were able to get to Mayo. Joyce agreed to pay the two hundred dollars and I made the appointment.

Later we drove by Joyce's house to pick up the check.

When we arrived for the hypnosis session, we told him that we just wanted Debbie to get a good night's sleep. He assured us he could help. I left her alone with him and came back ninety minutes later. I took Debbie home. She seemed calmer than before more peaceful. That night she slept more soundly than she had in months. But that was it. The next day she was anxious, hypersensitive and experiencing the abdominal pain. The following night, she hardly slept at all.

Nothing had changed.

I called the hypnotist and asked him if he could give us a prompt, like clapping my hands twice and making her cluck like a chicken. But in Debbie's case she would become sleepy and restful. Apparently, he did not like being compared to a Vegas act. He told me there was nothing more that he could do for us.

Enjoy the two hundred bucks, I thought as I hung up the phone.

So for the next few weeks, we continued living, 'One day at a time.' It was not just a slogan hanging on the wall of the clubhouse anymore. We endured the long days and even longer nights until finally December first arrived.

In the morning, I drove the van to our kennel. We had a good one with nice people that treated our dogs like their own, whenever we were away. The dogs didn't mind going. They were excited and dutifully walked back to the large cages together, wagging their tails as they sauntered along. I would miss them, but they would be fine.

Later, we drove the Corolla over to Joyce's house. Yes, I had asked her to come with us. It was not just that she had the credit cards and her checkbook, but Joyce could, on occasion, come up with some good ideas. Debbie could also use the added support. At times, Joyce appeared to drive her daughter crazy with her questions and attention to inconsequential details, but in the big picture Debbie needed her mother.

We loaded Joyce's belongings into the trunk and Joyce into the back seat and made the hour long drive to Raleigh. We parked in long-term parking at the airport, using Joyce's handicap placard to get a spot near the shuttle stop. I did not know if the placard was one of Warren's old ones or if Joyce had gotten her own because of her limp. It did not matter.

The small shuttle bus finally arrived and we made our way to the terminal. There was a man already seated up front, close to the driver, when we got on. He was the only other passenger. He smiled at us as we sat down. I was across from Debbie and Joyce, just behind the driver. We each held our carryon bags upright between our knees holding on to the long extended handles.

"May I help you stow your bags?" the man asked. He was looking at me.

I looked to my side. There was a large empty metal storage bin beside me and one across the aisle by Joyce. A sign 'Secure All Luggage' hung on the back wall of the compartment. Not being a frequent flyer, I looked at Joyce who still took several trips each year.

"We are fine," she said dismissively, as the bus pulled away from the curb.

The man just smiled. Then he turned to Debbie seated closest to him.

"Where are you headed?" he asked.

"We are going to the Mayo clinic in Minnesota," she said. We had learned that engaging in conversation helped Debbie to focus, get out of herself and not be overwhelmed by her anxiety. So I didn't mind this nosy interloper asking questions.

"I am sick," she added, "they are going to fix me."

"My niece went there," he said, "it's a great place. I'm headed to Atlanta on business."

We soon pulled into the terminal. No one else had gotten on. It had been an express trip.

"Take this," the man said as he got up and handed Debbie a small pamphlet, "I hope you get better and find what you are looking for."

He nodded as he worked his way between Joyce, our carryon bags in the aisle and me. Just like that, he was gone. He did not have any luggage.

"What did he give you?" I asked Debbie as I stood, picking up my bag and Joyce's.

"It's from his church," I think she said looking at the pamphlet, "it says John 3:16."

Jesus Christ, I thought.

Instead, I smiled at her and gently said, "Maybe he was an angel."

"Are you alright?" she asked with a look of concern on her face.

When we boarded the big commercial jet, it was seventy degrees in Raleigh. Our flight went smoothly. I had been concerned that the noise of the engines might set Debbie off, but she maintained. She was determined to get to Mayo and to get better.

We had a short layover in Detroit and then got on a smaller plane. My mother used to call them, puddle jumpers, although I am not sure why. On the flight, it occurred to me that the thirty or forty people on the plane were all going to Rochester, Minnesota, for the same reason that we were. There was really only one reason people went to Rochester.

It was about ten pm when we disembarked at the small Rochester airport. The temperature was seven degrees. A cab was waiting for us. Mayo travel services had arranged everything. They were wonderful, even though Joyce had called them back before we left. She had received an email confirmation and she let them know they had misspelled her name, Joce. If she had cheesed them off, you would never have known it. The people at travel services were courteous and professional throughout.

By ten thirty, we were warm and toasty in our suite. We were directly across the street from St. Mary's hospital. The Generose building was located at the far side of the hospital. Generose was the building housing the psychiatric unit. Debbie's appointment was at nine the following morning and we had been asked to arrive an hour early. With little fanfare, Joyce went to her room and Debbie and I went into ours. We could check out the kitchen and the sitting room later.

We had two double beds in our room. After changing and cleaning up, I set the alarm and put in for a wake-up call, as well. I do not know if Debbie slept that night or not. But as soon as I lay down, I was out. It had been a long day. The next thing I knew I was picking up the phone at six thirty the following morning.

* * *

"I am very proud of you, Nick," Dr. Barnett's voice gently brought me back from my story.

I opened my eyes. She was smiling at me. I smiled back.

"I am so glad you stood up to the doctor."

"I had to. We were getting nowhere fast. Debbie needed me."

"From what you found out about Baltimore, I would say your, Dr. David, may very well have been on the pharmaceutical company's payroll. I've had my suspicions, but now I am certain. Very often drug companies find prominent physicians with questionable ethical standards and pay them, quite handsomely, to prescribe their drugs. Those doctors become little more than pushers."

"Well, at that point, I couldn't really worry about the little doctor. I'd get back to him later. The acupuncture had seemed helpful and the hypnosis was an interesting diversion, but now we were making some real progress, getting Debbie help."

"Things really started to happen once you realized it was up to you."

"Yeah," I said as I tied my athletic shoes, "Joyce was bankrolling everything, but I had to make the decisions."

"I knew you were capable," Dr. Barnett said.

"I am just glad that I finally realized it," I said as I stood up.

Dr. Barnett smiled as I walked toward the office door.

"This is getting good," she said.

"See you next time, Doc."
SESSION FIFTEEN

GOOD DOCTOR, BAD DRUG

Bundled in our long johns, winter coats, gloves and ski masks, Debbie and I walked out of the lobby and into the frigid Minnesota morning. Joyce had stayed at the suite, warm and toasty. I pushed the button for the walkway, waited for the light to change and then we proceeded to cross the street and go up the steps of the entrance to St. Mary's Hospital. Inside the lobby at the information desk, we got directions and began our trek through the corridors to the Generose building.

The hospital was busy with people, both staff and patients scurrying about, but when we finally turned down the corridor to the Generose building, the foot traffic thinned considerably. After we arrived, the receptionist showed us where to hang our coats and gave us paperwork to fill out. We were the only ones there, filling out forms and questionnaires for about half an hour, until a couple of other patients got off the elevator. We were on the second floor and could see out the windowed area overlooking the rear entrance to the building. The occasional cab pulled up letting someone off. It was beginning to get light outside and it had started to snow, just a flurry or two, to remind us of where we were.

"Deborah Jimbanis." The female receptionist smiled at us as she called Debbie's name, perfect pronunciation.

Showtime.

We were ushered into an office and sat at a table. The woman left us alone. I had my Android tablet with all of the info about Xanax withdrawal and I had my folder with the journal and my typed description of Debbie's symptoms and activities for the last six months. I had faxed them all of that information, but I had brought it with me just in case.

Elizabeth was the first to enter the room. We had been there only about two minutes. They did things differently here, I was quickly learning. Elizabeth was maybe thirty years old, very pleasant and very professional. She was Dr. Roberts' assistant. She spent about thirty minutes thoroughly reviewing all of Debbie's information. I could even tell, by some of her comments, she had read the journal and history that I had written.

"I'll see if Dr. Robert's is ready," she said, once she was satisfied with the interview, "I'll review your file with him and we will be back soon."

Elizabeth and Dr. Roberts entered the room about ten minutes later. He was about forty years old, personable and he had an energy about him. Dr. Roberts sat next to Debbie and began talking to her. Looking her straight in the eyes, he was completely engaged in their verbal exchange. Speaking slowly and with a purpose, he immediately connected with her. I had never seen a counsellor or doctor that was this good. He was sincere and kept going until he had an answer.

"Yeah, I guess that's how I feel," Debbie answered one of his questions.

"I'm sensing some hesitancy," he said, "explain it to me in your own words."

Gently he prodded until Debbie had satisfactorily described what was going on. Elizabeth sat across from me taking notes. They were quite a team.

Finally, after about forty-five amazing minutes, his questioning was over. He sat back in his chair and began talking to the both of us.

"It is possible the protracted withdrawal from the Xanax is still having some effect on the gaba receptors in the GI tract," he said.

I nodded in agreement. I knew exactly what he was talking about from my research.

"But there is more going on here than Xanax withdrawal. Although, that is definitely a factor. Great job figuring that out," he said to me, "here at Mayo clinic we do not even prescribe Xanax for any reason. We consider it a bad drug."

I felt a rush of relief surge through me. We were getting somewhere.

"You are not bipolar. I can tell you that," he said speaking directly to Debbie, "In fact, you are unipolar, you have major depressive disorder. As far as what caused your anxiety, withdrawal from the Xanax? Maybe. You could have simply developed the anxiety and the drug has been masking it for some time now. We may never know for sure, but we know your anxiety is real and we need to deal with it."

For an instant, I had a sinking feeling. I thought he already had made a complete diagnosis and was going to send us home. We had booked the suite for a week. What were we going to do in Rochester until Friday? Just like that, it was over? One interview, a great interview, a long thorough and comprehensive interview I'll concede, but that was all?

"We are going to run you ragged," he continued smiling at Debbie, "first we'll order an EKG later today."

Oh, okay, this is more like it.

"Then I want to send you to the GI department."

Elizabeth had begun writing more quickly.

"I already have some ideas for medication, but I'll need to see the results of your other tests. I see from your records that you have early onset glaucoma. Do you know whether it is opened or closed ended? It will make a difference as to what medications are appropriate."

Debbie and I just looked at each other and shook our heads.

"No," I said, "we don't know."

"Elizabeth," Dr. Roberts said looking at his assistant.

"I'm on it," she said without looking up.

Dr. Roberts stood.

"We'll get this figured out," he said extending his hand to Debbie, looking her straight in the eye.

"We need help in finding a local doctor for when we go back home," I quickly said as I stood up. I did not want to forget that. Following up on everything was going to be important, critical in fact, and I certainly did not want to go back to the 'doctors' whose 'care' had landed us here.

"I saw that you need a referral from the journal you wrote. Nice job on that by the way," Dr. Roberts said.

Dr. Roberts extended his hand toward me.

"Elizabeth can help you with finding a local doctor."

The thing that I quickly learned about the Mayo clinic was that they were thorough and efficient. They even had a well-oiled transportation system in place. While we could walk to St. Mary's, most of Debbie's tests were going to be at the

Gonda building and the Mayo building. I suppose you could call that Mayo clinic central or Mayo clinic proper. They were two newer tall buildings each a fully staffed clinic of almost every medical specialty department known to man. The buildings were connected by an underground walkway, called a subway system, and above ground, there were enclosed walkways stretching above the street each floor. They were also connected to the Methodist campus of the Mayo clinic, another full size hospital. All of this was located about a mile down the main drag from St. Mary's and our hotel. Shuttles ran every half hour. Different ones stopped at different places and there were also two cab companies available, for quicker trips.

We took our first trip to the Gonda building later that morning. Elizabeth had made the appointment for Debbie, along with two others. She gave me the printed schedule. We had a follow up with a cardiologist that afternoon and a GI consult the next morning. She also handed me a thick white closable expanding file, as we had left Generose. It must have weighed at least five pounds.

"Take this with you to all of your appointments," she had said.

The file contained all of the records that I had faxed. They had also been scanned into their system, but just in case, I would be responsible for lugging around the paper copies of the medical records. I wondered if this was the proverbial bitch known as, payback, for my having exceeded the recommended number of fax pages. But I assumed we were just covering our bases by carrying the file around with us. Dutifully, I did carry it with me everywhere we went that week. We were, after all, all in.

We made a pit stop at our suite before boarding the shuttle that stopped right in front of our hotel. It was really our first opportunity to inspect our new digs. The rooms were nice. Each room had its' own adjoining bathroom, there was a flat screen TV in each bedroom, as well as in the living area. The kitchenette seemed adequate for our purposes.

It was almost eleven o'clock when we got back to the room. I filled Joyce in.

"Do you want to go with us on the shuttle for the EKG at the Gonda building?" I asked her.

Please say no. Please say no.

On the walk back from Generose, Debbie and I had discussed whether to ask Joyce to go with us.

Debbie had simply said, "No."

"We have to at least ask," I had said.

"I'll stay here," she finally answered, after giving it some consideration, "I would just slow you down."

Thank you.

Debbie sat in one of the chairs at the counter that divided the kitchenette and the living areas. Her wool ski cap was still covering her head. Sunglasses were in place. She had kept her gloves on, as well as the full-length fake fur coat that I had given her years ago when we lived in New York. We only had about thirty minutes until the next shuttle was due to arrive at the lobby.

"Are you ready," I asked after a short respite.

She stood up and we left the room. As we waited in the lobby. Debbie was in and out, into the cold, smoking. She would only take two puffs, crush the lit ember on the sidewalk, then come back inside. She paced nervously back and forth in the warm lobby, often coming too close to the sensor for the automatic sliding doors. They would open and a blast of frigid air would blow in causing the desk clerk to look up. But the clerk said nothing. People in Minnesota are very polite.

After the shuttle arrived and we were on our way, I sat, folder in my lap staring out the window. Our first stop was at a smaller motel. A man in a wheelchair was waiting. The driver lowered the lift gate in the rear of the shuttle and helped him on, more cold air. The man's wife got on in the front the same way that Debbie and I had come aboard. She went by us, quickly nodding, and then found a seat by her husband in the back. I noticed he carried a cardboard box in his lap. It was full, with several of the white expandable folders, just like the one I held in my lap.

Damn, poor guy. I wondered what he had done to be forced to carry such a load.

The bus pulled away from the motel and we were on our way. The flurries had stopped. There was some dirty snow along the side of the road, but no real accumulation. The road was fine. I continued staring out, taking in Rochester, on my first of many shuttle rides down the main drag.

We passed a church; I noticed a digital sign out front. It was a neon flat screen housed in a permanent brick structure. The blue-lighted background highlighted white letters, moving slowly from right to left.

'Be still and know that I am God,' it read.

In a previous life, I would not have noticed the church or the sign. Well that might not be true. I suppose I may have noticed and thought something like, stupid church. But just a week before I had been at a meeting and we were reading from one of the books, in the story the man quoted, 'Be still and know that I am god.' The quote had gotten my attention. 'I am god.' Not being big on the deity idea, the anthropomorphic being sitting on his throne, constantly micromanaging my life, I liked the part, '... I am god'. To me it was saying that this god thing comes from within us all. That was an idea that I might be able to get behind. The thought of some unidentifiable spirit within, connecting us all, had a certain mysterious appeal.

As I had been contemplating the reading at the meeting, Linda had spoken up and given us her take on it.

"Be still and know that I am god," she repeated, "that is so beautiful. Well he is god, of course, not I, but it is a very calming saying anyway,"

Way to ruin the first decent, god statement, I have heard. Nothing like living in the bible belt.

I could not have really expected Linda to think outside of the box. She had ten children at home and she came to meetings 'to get her oxygen' she would often say. I never really understood that until one day I saw her grocery shopping at the Walmart supercenter. She had four of her kids with her. Two of them were runners picking up items and returning them to one of the overflowing carts. Another child pushed the second cart, while Linda navigated the first one, managed the shopping list in her hand, while she somehow comforted the impatient toddler in the baby seat of her cart.

I did not say, hello. But from then on, I knew why Linda needed to get her oxygen at the meetings. And perhaps even more importantly why she needed to believe in a deity that was separate and apart from her, one who was watching over her and taking care of her. The reason that Linda could not think outside of the box, I figured, was that by definition Linda lived inside of the box.

There was an old woman who lived in a box.

I was starting to understand. It is different for everybody. That's okay.

After two more stops, Debbie and I arrived at the Gonda building. We easily found the elevators and rode up to the cardiology department. After checking in, I took a seat while Debbie paced about in her fur coat and cap. It was not long until her name was called and she was led back by one of the nurses to have her EKG.

While I sat there waiting I took it all in. There were people from around the world. They had all come here to the Mayo clinic. We were lucky indeed to be here. I considered the angel on the airport shuttle in Raleigh and then the sign I had just seen as we passed the church.

Was god trying to tell me something? Did he send the angel on the shuttle? Did he give me a sign, by showing me, well, an actual sign, with a message meant for me and for me alone?

No, of course he didn't.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," the great and powerful Oz had said, when Dorothy discovered him.

There was no one pushing buttons and sending me angels and signs. Things like this had always been happening around me. Now, I noticed them is all. It was simply my attitude and my perceptions that had changed.

"Let's go," Debbie said.

She had come out while I was pondering these great and meaningful questions. I had closed my eyes and had not noticed her.

"Right," I said opening my eyes and standing up.

"We come back in two hours to talk to a doctor," she said thrusting an updated printout of her schedule at me.

"Fine," I said taking the new paperwork from her, "I suppose we should go back to the room and rest for a while."

We did just that.

The next day was Wednesday. It brought with it more shuttle rides to the Gonda building, a GI consult, a CAT scan and then another consult later to discuss the results of the CAT scan. The doctors were double checking everything and finding nothing wrong, physically at least.

I could see that Debbie was frustrated, as we returned to the room Wednesday evening, after the GI consult. They had scheduled a colonoscopy for Friday. She would need a day to prep for that and then we were scheduled to return home on Saturday. We had been here two full days and no one had offered her any relief.

Back at the suite, I had filled Joyce in on the findings of the day. She had pretty much stayed in the room making phone calls, working crosswords and watching television. It was how she spent her days at home and she was comfortable with that. Thank goodness. It would have been a bit much had she gone with us on all of the shuttle rides and appointments.

As I left Joyce in the living area, going into our room to shower and change for the evening, I saw Debbie stretched out sitting on her double bed. She wasn't crying, but I could tell she was unhappy, scared and disappointed.

"They'll figure this out," I said.

"Why won't they give me something?" she said desperately, "Nothing is any better."

"They do not prescribe for you. It was the first thing they told me when I called."

"So I am not going to get better?" she said angrily.

Just then, I heard, beep, beep, beep, the high-pitched tone of the microwave being started as Joyce had decided to cook a bag of the complimentary popcorn. The steady humming noise of the oven followed as the cook time began.

"No," Debbie screamed as she got up.

The noise was too much for her.

She grabbed her fur coat that was in a heap on the floor and ran from our room through the living area and kitchenette where the offending appliance continued its' whirring noise. Joyce looked shocked and sad knowing that she was responsible for the normally innocent and inconsequential sound of the microwave that was torturing her child.

"It'll be done in a minute," she offered as Debbie flew by slinging open the door of the suite and running into the hallway fur coat in one hand dragging it behind her.

"Welcome to my world," I said to Joyce as I passed her, quickly following Debbie out into the corridor and down the stairway to the lobby.

After Debbie had gone outside and smoked, then spent some time sitting quietly with me in the lobby, we returned to our room.

Joyce quickly muted the television in the sitting room when she heard us unlocking the door. It was a good thing. I had noticed that she had the volume on level fifty when we were not there. By comparison, when I had the set in our room turned on, I listened to it at volume level fifteen. However, I certainly wasn't going to be the one recommending a hearing aid to Joyce.

After the microwave popcorn incident, the rest of the evening was uneventful. A short time later Joyce and I put on our warm clothes and went out to pick up something for dinner. Debbie did not go. The busy pace of the restaurant next door to the hotel with the usual piped in music, clanging of dishes and utensils and the waiters and waitresses scurrying about would have been too much.

I accompanied Joyce to the bar. She enjoyed her evening toddy and sitting at a bar having a sparkling water certainly did not bother me. I had never been a bar drinker. If I were alone in a car with a case of cold beer or alone in my room with a quart of vodka, then I might have experienced a flashback. But being seated at a restaurant bar with actual real people had never been my thing. Social drinking, for me, had been a solitary endeavor.

I watched as Joyce sipped her Dewar's on the rocks with a twist. Drinking only top shelf brand names was an interesting take on alcohol consumption. I supposed it was a form of denial mixed with a bit of snobbery, 'I drink this brand because it is so much better than the others. I don't drink to get fucked up. I like the taste.'

Regardless, while we waited for our take-out dinners, I sat there watching a college basketball game, that I had no interest in, while Joyce nursed her drink. One of the teams was from North Carolina. Joyce cheered when they scored a basket and loudly protested when they missed. She even managed to strike up a conversation with a gentlemen sitting nearby at the bar. I understood that she needed this outlet. This momentary escape was most assuredly the bright spot of her day.

"If you want to be alone with him," I whispered to Joyce, nodding at the gent who had sidled into the tall bar chair beside her, "I can disappear."

Joyce looked at me with an expression of feigned shock and amusement.

"Nick," she exclaimed in a hushed voice so that he would not overhear. She smiled and slapped my arm gently in reprimand, then turned back to her new friend.

His wife was in the hospital. It was their fourth time at Mayo.

"The doctors were wonderful," he said, "it was like she did not even have cancer."

On that somber note, our food arrived and it was back to reality. Joyce paid with her credit card. I picked up the bag of food and offered Joyce my arm for support, as we made the short frigid trip back to the hotel.

That night I lay in my double bed with Debbie laying quietly in the bed beside me. I did not hear any snoring and assumed she was laying there awake.

For the first time, the thought occurred to me, 'What if nothing changes?'

I had trusted the process - the sobriety, the meetings, doing the next right thing, having the support of friends in the fellowship who had been calling me every day for updates. And now, here we were halfway through our planned stay at the best medical facility in the world and nothing had changed.

Would everything be the same when we returned home? I wondered. Up until now, I had just assumed that everything was going to work out. Finally, I fell asleep.

I heard the phone. I was groggy, as I opened my eyes from a deep sleep, looking toward the offending noise. The red digital numbers on the clock next to the phone told me it was 3:32 as well as offering illumination into the unfamiliar room. I was in a hotel room in Rochester, Minnesota. It was all coming back to me now, as I got my bearings.

'Mayo,' I thought, as I stretched over and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" I said in a barely audible whisper. My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"Hello," I said, this time, with feeling.

"Come down here."

It was Debbie.

"Where are you?"

"In the lobby. Just come down here."

"Okay, let me get dressed," I said and hung up the phone.

Quietly I slipped on some sweats and put on my athletic shoes. I made sure I had my copy of the room key in my pocket. I held on to the door, as it closed slowly and soundlessly behind me, I went into the lighted hallway. I am pretty sure that with Joyce's hearing, I should say lack of hearing, I could have slammed the door and made as much racket as I would have liked, but going slowly and silently seemed to be automatic at three thirty in the morning.

I got off the elevator on the main floor of the three-story hotel. Everything was brightly lighted in the lobby. The only thing missing was the people. That is, of course, with the exception of the night desk clerk seated in an office behind the registration counter. His head buried in a book, he did not even look up as the elevator dinged. And there was Debbie, of course, pacing back and forth by the big couch in front of the fireplace where gas logs were still giving off their warming glow throughout the night. The breakfast nook to the right was dark as I entered the main room. The hotel guests ate and socialized here during normal hours. The large flat screen television hanging on the wall was dark.

"I can't take this anymore," Debbie said to me, as I got close.

She continued her pacing wearing her big oversized fur coat and the heavy cap with the earflaps. She looked a bit like a college student from the 1950's dressed for a fall football game or Amelia Earhart with the mock flight cap. Although, I do not know why Amelia Earhart would be wearing a fur coat. I always pictured her in slacks and a leather fight jacket. It had to be the hat and the earflaps.

I noticed an added sense of despair and urgency in Debbie's voice, but I said nothing. She had usually waited until at least five a.m. to wake me. I was still in a state of semi consciousness, very sluggish, at this hour, usually reserved for serious sleep.

"My anxiety is through the roof," she said, "I am having hallucinations."

That was new.

"No, you aren't," I countered automatically.

"I am," she said, "I can't take this anymore."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know."

"There is an Emergency room right across the street," I said.

That gave her pause, as she considered it.

"These are the best doctors and hospitals in the world. If it's really that bad, just walk across the street."

"Maybe," she said stopping the walking back and forth, to look at me.

"I'm sorry I woke you, but it's Thursday, already, and I am not any better."

"I can call them tomorrow. I mean today. You know, later this morning, when normal people are awake."

"Who?"

"You know, Dr. Roberts and Elizabeth, from the first appointment."

"Okay," she said abruptly dismissing me, "go back to bed."

"You are alright?"

"No, I am not alright. Go back to bed."

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I know it's not fair."

"I'll call in the morning, you know, later, when it's light out."

"I love you," she said.

"Me too. Are you coming up?"

"No, I'll stay here awhile longer."

I got back on the elevator and went back to the third floor leaving Debbie to her pacing. I entered our room quietly and went inside. I slipped off my shoes and crawled under the covers.

I tried to conjure up a plan of action for the next day, but the lure of sleep was too great.

'Fiddle, Dee, Dee....,' I thought. Then I was out.

The light came through the curtains as I rolled over and squinted at the clock on the nightstand. It was seven forty-five. Still dressed in my sweats from the night before, I went out to the kitchenette for the timed coffee that had begun to brew at seven a.m.

Debbie sat on the couch still in her cold weather get up. She stared at the blank screen of the television set. We acknowledged each other with a brief meeting of the eyes. At least I thought we did. It was difficult to tell with Debbie's sunglasses. I went about the business of getting my morning coffee. We were always silent in the mornings. It is just the way we were. I took my cup back into the bedroom with me. I showered and dressed in preparation for the day.

By the time that Joyce was up, I had already called the Generose building and spoken to one of the women that I had met on the first day. I had explained that Debbie was not doing very well and we would like another meeting with Dr. Roberts or Elizabeth.

I also told her that my mother in law was threatening to come over and speak to the head of the department. Even though she was a little old lady, they certainly did not want that I told her. That made her laugh. I had managed to convey our desperation and passive aggressively sent an indirect threat in the form of a little old lady throwing a fit and waving her cane at the head of the department. She promised to call us back later that morning.

As we waited for the call back, I went down to the breakfast bar and returned with juice, donuts and muffins. Joyce and Debbie were seated together on the couch in the living area, as I balanced the breakfast tray on one hand and forearm, I slid the card key and pushed open the door to the suite.

"Don't get up. I've got it." I said.

Joyce smiled when she saw me come in. I am pretty sure she had not heard me. Debbie just sat there in her fur coat, the hat and her sunglasses. In retrospect, it was pretty weird. The seventy something, Joyce, almost deaf, sitting there in her nightgown by her daughter, almost hallucinating, wearing her winter get up and sunglasses. It was sad, pathetic, odd, this mother and daughter reunion, but it was normal to me. It was my dysfunctional world, my reality.

"We are waiting for a call back from Generose," I said loudly so that Joyce could hear.

"You called them?" Joyce asked.

"Yes," I said as I put the juice and pastry down on the coffee table in front of the couch.

"Good," Joyce said, "I've wanted you to do that."

It was true. Joyce had been suggesting they should do more and that I should call them. When I had told the woman on the phone that Joyce might come over to speak with the head of the department, it was not entirely untrue. Joyce had mentioned it. That was why I had wanted Joyce to be there, with us. I may not have been aggressive enough on my own.

"They should give her something. There must be a medication," Joyce added.

I just let it go, this time. I had told both, Debbie and Joyce, from the first time I had called that it was Mayo policy not to administer medication to a psychiatric outpatient. They had been quite clear about that, as had I, each time I had repeated the policy to my travelling companions.

The phone rang.

"That was quick," I said standing there looking at it.

It rang again.

"Answer it," Debbie said from somewhere behind the dark lenses.

I picked up the receiver, "hello".

They had scheduled a follow up meeting for Debbie, with Elizabeth, at ten thirty at the Generose building. That gave us about an hour to get ready and get over there.

"We'll all go," I said to Joyce. I needed the support.

"I'll get ready," she said standing and scurrying off to her room as fast as an old lady can scurry, with her juice in one hand and a half eaten muffin in the other. She closed her door behind her.

"I like Elizabeth," Debbie said.

"Me too," I said and picked up the phone. I asked for a cab to be waiting at the lobby at ten o'clock. With Joyce it would be at least a thirty-minute walk across the street and through the hospital. The cab would take five minutes.

* * *

"You are really making some progress," Dr. Barnett said.

"Shoot, Doc, are we out of time already?"

"I am afraid so."

"Okay," I said as I sat up, "It's not an entirely bad place to stop, finally, things seemed to be heading in the right direction."

"We'll start here on Thursday. I am pleased that you have found good doctors, particularly Dr. Roberts. It's about time Deborah gets the help she needs."

"It helped me a lot when he said Xanax was a bad drug."

"You had been on the right track all along. It must have given you some satisfaction."

"It did. We were in the right place. The Mayo clinic was amazing, if you have to get sick," I said, "go to Mayo."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I was learning though, that even at Mayo, it is essential to be your own advocate. Doctors are not mind readers. We had to keep pushing."

"Absolutely," Dr. Barnett agreed.

"I think I was also finding some kind of faith. But it was more of a faith in myself, doing the next right thing and trusting the entire process of sobriety."

Dr. Barnett looked at me and smiled.

"See you next time, Nick."
SESSION SIXTEEN

BALLISTIC, THE ARROGANT LITTLE BASTARD, AND NAMI

We arrived at Generose at ten fifteen. Joyce and Debbie sat in the waiting area, while I told the secretary that we had arrived. It was the woman I had spoken with earlier.

"Thank you," I said.

At precisely ten thirty, we were called and ushered into a room in the back. There was a round white table surrounded by cushioned chairs. We sat.

"I think Debbie should do the talking," I had said to Joyce.

She nodded in agreement.

"Just be yourself," I said to Debbie, remembering when my black friend, James, had told her that before the Social Security hearing.

The door opened and Elizabeth came in, closing it behind her.

"Good morning," she said smiling as she seated herself across from Debbie.

"This is Joyce, Debbie's mother," I said by way of introduction.

"Nice to meet you," she said to Joyce.

People in Minnesota are very nice. They really are.

"Now, what's going on with you?" she asked, fully focusing on Debbie.

"Nothing is better," Debbie said not attempting to mask her agitation.

She got up from her chair and began pacing. It was just a few steps from one side of the office to the other. I could not have come up with a better get up for Debbie to wear, if I had tried. We were trying to get her much needed help and psychiatric attention. Nothing I could think of conveyed, crazy, like the fur coat, cap complete with earflaps, and the dark glasses. Perhaps if she had been wearing a strait jacket, but no, she was dressed perfectly. The strait jacket would have been overkill. Besides, where were we going to get a strait jacket? Actually, we were probably in the right place, if we were looking for one.

"My anxiety is through the roof," she said as she turned, walking the short distance back to where she started, then turning and doing it again, "I'm about to go ballistic."

"Okay," Elizabeth asked calmly, "when you say, ballistic, what exactly do you mean?"

"I don't know. I don't want to deal with this anymore. It's too much."

"Are you thinking of hurting yourself or hurting anyone else?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just want it to stop."

"Okay," Elizabeth said, "just be careful. We try to avoid words like, ballistic, understand?"

"I do."

"We were up at three thirty this morning," I jumped into the conversation, "I don't know what to do either."

Joyce shot me a little look, as if to say, 'What happened to letting Debbie do the talking?'

"I called up to the Mood Disorders Unit before our meeting," Elizabeth said, "We do have a room available for you."

"Holy crap," I said, "just like that? You are going to admit her?"

"We will admit a patient from out of the area, when we feel it is in this patient's best interests."

"I can stay here?" Debbie asked.

"We have rooms upstairs. You would be an inpatient. Would you be interested in that? We could start you on the meds that Dr. Roberts recommended."

"Please," Debbie pleaded, "let's do it."

Within an hour, we had filled out some additional paperwork, taken the elevator to the third floor and followed Elizabeth down the corridor to the Mood Disorders Unit. Once we were inside the locked door, Debbie was admitted and shown to her private room.

"This is nice," I said.

"Finally," Debbie said. She had taken off the fur coat and hung it in her closet. The cap and glasses remained on her head and face.

She appeared to be feeling better already.

"Finally, indeed," I said.

One of Debbie's nurses was going over the schedule with her while another had some follow up questions for me.

When they had left and we were alone, just the three of us, Joyce had remained quiet through all of this, she may not have been able to hear everything that was going on. I turned to Debbie.

"Bad news," I said loudly, "They've postponed your colonoscopy."

"Oh shoot, I was looking forward to that," she said.

"Was that a joke?" I asked.

Debbie smiled. I turned and looked at Joyce who smiled as well.

"Well, don't worry," I added, "it's been postponed, not cancelled."

"We should let you get settled in," Joyce said looking at the schedule they had given Debbie at check in, "you have a class in an hour."

We left Debbie in her room and headed back down the hallway to the locked door. We were buzzed out and retrieved our personal items, phones and keys and the like, from one of the lockers, just outside of the unit.

As we walked down the hospital corridor toward the elevators, I envisioned myself jumping three feet in the air and clicking my heels.

Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty, I am free at last!

I felt a bit of guilt because of my overwhelming relief. I wondered what Joyce was thinking.

"Debbie's in the right place," I said

"It was good to see her smile," Joyce said.

"It was."

I pushed the down button for the elevator.

I came back that evening between five and six. I took Debbie extra clothes, slip on shoes, and some basic toiletries. I used the sturdy brown paper bag with handles that we had carried our food in from the restaurant. I was buzzed in. I noticed the door closed slowly behind me not quickly like at the psych ward where Debbie had been six months ago.

I liked the sign on the door, 'Mood Disorders Unit'.

Classy.

There had been nothing on the door at First Regional, although I suppose, 'Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here,' would have been appropriate.

I walked the corridor and set the bag on the counter at the nurses' station for inspection.

"Dinner's here," one of the nurses said.

I didn't get it. At least not at first.

She was grinning and looking at my bag. On the side of it in big letters were the words 'Canadian Honkers', the name of the restaurant, located next to our hotel.

I smiled at her. It felt good. There was hope here. I could see Debbie sitting on a couch over by the television. She was talking animatedly with another female patient.

I went over and sat with her in the common area. Her new friend nodded politely, in a paranoid sort of way, got up and walked away.

"Dr. Cane started me on the pills," she said excitedly.

"And you are already feeling better?"

"I am. I know it's not the pills. It takes a little time for them to work. But finally, there is light at the end of the tunnel."

"I'm sorry it took so long," I said.

"Don't be. You are the one who got me here."

"Thanks. Don't forget about your mother. If not for her we would not be here at all."

"I know. Where is she by the way?"

"I left her in the room, television volume to the max."

"She needs a hearing aid."

"You should tell her."

"Yeah, I'll put that on my, to do list," Debbie said.

"She'll come with me tomorrow and visit once you are settled in."

A man in a white outfit, pushing a tall-enclosed metal box on wheels came down the hall from the entrance.

"Looks like dinner," I said.

People sitting around the common room started moving as others began emerging from the rooms to get their dinner trays. Debbie curiously looked over my shoulder. The man opened up the metal door on the cart.

"I'll let you have your dinner, with your new friends," I said.

"You can stay," Debbie said.

"I know, but I am going. Technically, visiting hours are over."

Debbie walked with me to the hallway just past the dinner cart. She gave me a big hug.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.

That evening I sat in the Canadian Honkers dining room with Joyce.

"Your man friend is not here tonight," I hollered looking at the empty seats at the bar where we had sat just a few nights ago.

Joyce smiled and shook her head. It was difficult to converse with the singer musician, a local, playing a guitar. He was situated just a few yards away from us. Thursday through Saturday, Canadian Honkers provided live, and loud, entertainment.

Debbie would have run out of the room by now, I thought.

Some people clapped when he finished a song, others ignored him as if he was just a part of the decorum and one young mother and father sent their little girl up with a dollar to put in his tip jar. I supposed that was cute, so I nodded at the little girl as she passed. I winked at Joyce who turned to watch the girl shyly approach the crooner and drop the dollar in with the other bills, probably put there from his own pocket for seed money. He smiled at the little girl and then she quickly returned to her seat.

Joyce and I ordered. Then we ate our meals in silence, mostly, only exchanging a few words here and there between songs. When the dinner bill came, I took it from the server and fished out my credit card.

"A token gesture," I yelled to Joyce.

She smiled. Joyce appreciated token gestures.

The following day I was up early and at the Mood Disorders Unit just in time for doctor's rounds. Dr. Cane had started Debbie on the medication yesterday, per Dr. Roberts' recommendation. He explained there were two different medicines. One pill was to be taken three times a day for anxiety and the other at bedtime. The latter was an antidepressant that would help her to sleep.

"Sometimes just being in a safe and controlled environment helps you to feel better," he said, "it will take some time for the meds to have full effect."

Debbie sat on the side of the bed in her room. She looked relaxed, much better than she had been yesterday. She was not wearing her fur coat or the dark glasses. The cap was on her head, though. The infernal, ear flapping, Amelia Earhart cap seemed to be here to stay, at least for a while.

I sat in the chair beside the single bed listening as Dr. Cane explained the schedule of medications. The anxiety meds would start to work almost immediately, but the antidepressant could take up to a month to have a therapeutic effect. The dosage of both was to be increased gradually over the next few weeks. I paid close attention, knowing that this would be my responsibility.

"Any questions?" the doctor asked.

We both sat silent, looking at him.

"Okay, then. I will not be here the next couple of days, but you are in luck. Dr. Roberts is covering the unit this weekend."

"Oh, I like Dr. Roberts," Debbie said.

It was good fortune indeed to have Dr. Roberts, the doctor most familiar with Debbie, covering the Mood Disorders Unit on Saturday and Sunday.

"Very good, then," Dr. Cane said, "See you on Monday."

The doctor took the time to shake both of our hands and then exited quickly, a note taking, male nurse on his heels.

"Mom is not here?" Debbie said looking at the doorway.

"No, too early. She'll come over this evening."

Debbie just shrugged.

"I noticed there is a family session this afternoon, right before visiting hours. Any idea what that is?" I asked.

"Not a clue."

Debbie had lectures and classes, as well as group therapy, scheduled for most of the day. After talking for another few minutes, I decide it was time for me to go.

"I'll be back," I said in my Schwarzenegger voice as I stood up.

"Never gets old," Debbie said, referring to my Terminator impersonation.

We hugged and I left her in her room to get ready for her first full day. I had some medicines to research on my tablet and there was a small exercise room at the hotel that I had been meaning to use. This afternoon I would do just that.

After a quiet day at the hotel on the internet, on the treadmill and on the bed, resting, I returned to the Generose building and rode the elevator to the Mood Disorders Unit on the third floor. I arrived in time for the family session. Joyce and I had discussed it. We had decided that only I would attend. She would come over an hour later, for visiting hours. She promised to take a cab and not to try the long walk all by herself.

To be sure that she did not try the walk by herself and end up lost in St. Mary's, I handed her a five-dollar bill.

"Cab's on me," I said.

After being buzzed in, I went to the lecture room where the classes were held. A young woman was setting up. There were handouts and informational pamphlets on the tables. She was adjusting the volume of a DVD offering on the television, as I walked in.

"Welcome," she said as I entered.

"Hello, am I early?" I asked, not seeing anyone else in the room.

"We have a few minutes," she said.

I took a seat at one of the tables and began leafing through a pamphlet.

"Who are you with?" she asked having finished with the volume.

"Debbie, Debbie Jimbanis is my wife."

Just then, a younger man walked in. He was fortyish. An older woman was right behind him. They did not appear to be together.

"Welcome," our counselor said looking at her watch, "have a seat and we'll get started."

It seemed like a sparse turnout. I recalled the visits at the psych ward at First Regional. It seemed wrong, so few family members were here.

Our group leader took us through the literature. It was mainly resources for help, local and national hotlines, organizations and support networks. She then transitioned into an open discussion where we each told our story. The older woman was here for her college-aged granddaughter. The younger man was here for his wife.

When I told my story and mentioned the inadequate doctors, counselors, the hypnotist and acupuncturist, he sat across from me nodding.

"We've tried all of that too," he said when I was done talking.

He had two children. One was in the sixth grade and the other a high school freshman. His wife had problems before, but she had managed to work through them. Their lives were based on two incomes. Everything had been going well, then his wife had broken her leg, skiing.

"Her mental health was directly related to her physical activity," he explained, "once she was laid up and could not exercise or work she spiraled downhill."

I could identify with his pain. We made a connection.

I had been so caught up in my own personal version of hell, that I had never considered that things could have been much worse. Not only did this young man have a sick wife, but he also had children to take care of, bills to pay and a full time job to work. I actually felt fortunate after hearing his story.

We never got to the DVD. The counselor was impressed with our little group. We all shared our stories and commiserated with each other. If it had not been for my experience with the fellowship, I do not think I would have been as open to the communication.

"The patients who have the best chances of recovery are the ones who have the support of family members like yourselves," she told us as the hour drew to a close, "recovery is a process, there is no magic pill."

She had told us about an organization called NAMI, National Alliance on Mental Illness. There was a pamphlet. There were locations all over the country she had said. They could offer support when we got home. I thought that sounded good, we would need support. I made a note on the pamphlet, to look them up later.

Afterward I visited with Debbie. Joyce had arrived promptly at five o'clock. We sat and talked for an hour and then left as the dinner cart arrived. On the way down the corridor, Joyce and I passed the young man from the family therapy session. He was standing in the doorway to his wife's room, about to leave, I presumed.

He saw me as we walked past. Our eyes met briefly, in recognition. I nodded. After that, I never saw him again.

In the hotel room that night, I got on the internet using my tablet. Having Wi-Fi and my tablet, had really come in handy. I discovered that we did have a local affiliate of NAMI very close to where we live in North Carolina. They had a meeting scheduled for January 13, about five weeks from now, when we would be home.

I read the announcement on the webpage. The hospital administrator from First Regional was going to be in attendance along with several doctors and counsellors from Behavioral Services. It appeared that the first NAMI meeting of the year was sort of a meet and greet. It introduced members of the community, dealing with mental health issues in the family, to the doctors from First Regional, the largest provider in the area. The scheduled guest speaker for the meeting was none other, than Dr. Leonard David, head of Behavioral Services.

"I'll be damned," I said aloud, as I sat there alone on the hotel room bed. The wheels started churning.

That night I slept well in the comfy double bed, sprawled out in the middle. The steady hum of the exhaust fan in the adjacent bathroom provided the comforting familiar noise that I had known since I was a child. For the first time since all of this began, I again had the strong felt that something good was finally, present tense, coming out of all of this. I felt as if we had turned the corner.

Debbie spent three more nights on the unit. We met with the social worker before she was discharged on Tuesday morning. We made an appointment with a PHD, nurse practitioner in North Carolina, very close to where we live. We would not be able to see her until the end of January, but that was okay. The doctors at Mayo would supply the meds between now and then. It was decided she was our best option for follow up. She would be the most likely to simply implement the recommendations from Dr. Roberts. She would provide medication management. She was independent, not affiliated with First Regional, and she worked with other private therapists, who, most importantly, were not Helen.

Perfect.

On Thursday of our second week, as promised, Debbie had her colonoscopy. She was given a clean bill of health. We stayed an extra day, so she could recuperate from the procedure. On Saturday, with our proper diagnosis, a month's supply of meds, and some much needed hope, we left Rochester, Minnesota, almost two full weeks after we had arrived.

Once we were home, it took some time to get rested and for Debbie's meds to fully kick in. It was great to have our dogs back and to be sleeping in our own bed. Yes, Debbie was sleeping in the bed now, not the chair. Sorry, Marley.

We got back to the meetings at the clubhouse, but they seemed different, now. We soon started to go to smaller meetings around town, leaving the clubhouse meetings behind. I guess it was just time for a change.

Christmas came and went. No big deal. Rebecca was down for the holidays and staying at 'the infamous house' next to Joyce. We just stayed home, not needing any drama. Debbie continued to improve, that is, for the most part.

I think during the period of a month or so after returning that hope propelled Debbie as much as the new meds. Shortly after the first of the New Year, I called Mayo. I had been slowly increasing the anti-anxiety med as instructed and it seemed to be helping, but Debbie was impatient, wanting to feel better now. I wanted that as well, so I phoned them. As usual, the people at Mayo went above and beyond. After leaving a message, Dr. Roberts called back personally, later that same day. He wanted to talk to Debbie first, that made her very happy. After he had exchanged pleasantries, he quizzed her, then asked me a few questions and gave me the okay to increase the antidepressant from 15 to 30 milligrams.

"The initial dosage is just starting to have a therapeutic effect, the increased dosage will not take effect for another three to four weeks," he told me.

After the phone call, things were better for a few days. Don't get me wrong, overall things were much better than before, but not yet as good as we were expecting. It is difficult to describe the situation. It was one of transition.

I had wanted to go over to Joyce's house ever since Christmas. It had long been a family tradition that Joyce, as her mother before her, gave Christmas checks to everyone. It may have been a cold, too practical and impersonal way of gift giving, but I could overlook that. I was on board with the Christmas check tradition, especially since Joyce adjusted for inflation over the years and each of us had received a two thousand dollar check last year. Along with the check that Debbie received on her birthday, the gift checks took care of about twenty percent of our annual expenses.

Joyce had made it clear on the phone that our gifts were waiting for us at her house. The money she had spent on the trip to Minnesota was something entirely separate from Christmas checks. I knew she wanted to see Debbie and was trying to entice us to travel the eight point six miles to her house.

Debbie was grateful for what her mother had done for her.

"But she still drives me crazy," she said.

Finally, it was nearly three full weeks after Christmas, when I mentioned driving over to her mother's again.

"You just want the money! You don't care about me," Debbie screamed, "fine let's just go. Let's go right now!"

"Calm down," I said.

If looks could kill, I would not have made it out of there alive.

'Calm down,' was the wrong thing to say. I was still learning, despite all of the information from Mayo. Dealing with Debbie's depression and anxiety was a challenge. One minute she seemed fine and the next she was not.

I did not understand at the time that Debbie could not control her panic and anxiety. Even when the meds were finally at full therapeutic levels, Debbie would at times still suffer.

I left the house that day and just drove around for several hours. I did not answer my phone and Debbie left me several voicemails. I stopped at the clubhouse and just sat in the car for a while, deleting the voicemails without listening to them. I imagined the messages were similar to the ones Rich had left on the home answering machine.

Finally, I drove home and we talked. We both felt bad, really bad, neither one of us wanted to fight. We had been through too much.

A few days later, at Debbie's suggestion we went over to Joyce's, visited for about an hour and returned to our house with four thousand dollars.

We began spending a good portion of our days at the gym. In only four weeks, Debbie had gained about fifteen pounds. It was good that she had her appetite back, proof positive that the meds were having some effect. But she decided to keep the weight off that she had lost. Positive daily activities had been strongly suggested at Mayo. We were lucky to have such a good workout facility nearby.

On the morning of January 13, I casually mentioned to Debbie that there was a NAMI meeting at seven that evening.

"It's the National Alliance on Mental Illness, we should go," I said, "They told me about it at Mayo. I think you might like NAMI."

"Maybe," she said, not sounding too certain, then added, "we can go."

There was one more thing that I needed to do, before I could fully commit to our future, to rebuilding our lives. I needed just a little more closure before moving on and I thought Debbie might enjoy what I had planned as well.

That night we left the house at six thirty. It was dark out. Debbie said nothing about the oncoming headlights or the turn signal. That was certainly a good sign.

There was a large conference room in the basement of the local police station. Sort of an odd place to meet, but why not? There were about fifty or sixty people filling all of the folding chairs around a large rectangle, made up of several long tables, set up together, end to end.

At the front of the room were a half dozen or so men in suits and women dressed in business attire, the panel of doctors, no doubt. And there he was, the little big man, Dr. David himself, smoozing his boss who I recognized from the First Regional website, and dazzling the little people with his brilliance.

This was going to be fun. Although, I really had no idea how it would all turn out.

A middle-aged woman, standing at the podium, called the meeting to order. She was the president of the local NAMI and we were going to have a very special evening.

"Let's get started," she said.

Let's.

After a long introduction, Dr. Leonard David stepped to the microphone, amidst a smattering of applause. He appeared to step up on something, his head barely above the podium at first. Perhaps he had stashed a small platform, to appear taller. He tilted the mike down and began with his qualifications. He was eloquent, frequently looking to his audience, feigning eye contact, most likely he appeared knowledgeable and compassionate to those not personally familiar with his work. He smiled, often looking to his boss, seated on the panel, to gauge his performance.

Bravo.

Finally, he opened the floor for questions.

I did not hesitate.

"Dr. David," I said loudly as I raised my hand, not waiting to be called upon, "what is the proper medication for a bipolar patient?"

He looked my way.

There was not the slightest hint of recognition. Patients, and their inconsequential family members, most likely, all looked alike to him.

"Lithium is still the standard, although there are new medications on the market," he answered.

Then he paused, "Mister...?"

"Jimbanis," I said, "Nick Jimbanis."

"Yes, Mr. Jimbanis," he said pleasantly, a look of some recognition at the name, but he showed no concern.

"You treated my wife for a bipolar diagnosis for five years and never had her on lithium until she showed up in the ER, a suicide attempt. It was an overdose of over-the-counter sleeping pills and the Xanax that you had prescribed."

"I am not really at liberty to discuss your wife's treatment," he said, a slight stammer now, a little irritation in his voice, "this is not the forum for that."

"We got back from the Mayo clinic about a month ago," I said loudly without hesitation, "would you be surprised if I told you that the Mayo clinic considers Xanax a bad drug? They don't prescribe it to anyone."

"Mr. Jimbanis, Nick," he said using my first name to appear amicable, "doctors have to make judgment calls all of the time. And like I said there are HIPA regulations and, of course, doctor patient confidentiality. Maybe we can discuss all this at your wife's next appointment."

"There won't be a next appointment," I said as I stood.

"Would it also surprise you if I told you my wife, her name is Debbie by the way, is not bipolar? She is in fact unipolar. It is all right here," I said holding up the sixteen-page report from Mayo, waving it over my head.

He looked at his boss who was not smiling.

"Did you even try to diagnose her?" I continued, "or did you simply take her word for it when she first came to you?"

"I see a lot of patients, Mr. Jimbanis," he said squirming now.

He regained his composure and tried taking the offensive, again.

"This really is not the time or the place. Who else has a question?"

"Baltimore," I countered, quickly and loudly, "Let's discuss Baltimore."

That stopped him cold. I could actually see him shake from where I stood holding on tightly to the top of the podium with both hands. Then he retrieved a white handkerchief from his inner breast pocket and dabbed at the glistening beads of sweat on his forehead.

"I know all about it," I lied, "I made some phone calls."

I had not had the time to make any phone calls. I was just operating on the information that Jonathan had found out, the speeding ticket placing the doctor in

Baltimore at the same time of the incidents at the Henry Phipps clinic. Dr. David had not reacted well the last time I mentioned Baltimore in his office.

He did not react well to my bluff this time, either.

"Those records have been expunged," he blurted. A vein in his temple visibly throbbing.

He looked toward his boss who sat there shaking his head, slowly, from side to side, in apparent disgust and embarrassment.

"I wasn't convicted of anything," Dr. David protested, looking directly at the hospital administrator, "the records were expunged."

His boss, the administrator, stood up.

"Enough, Leonard," he said, "I gave you a second chance and apparently, you have not learned from your mistakes. We'll discuss this later."

"There's really nothing to discuss," Dr. David said.

The administrator held up his hand, quieting Dr. David, as he approached the podium.

"Just because you paid your lawyers to make everything go away, doesn't mean nothing happened. We'll discuss it later," his boss said lowering his voice, but the microphone had caught everything.

The administrator took over behind the podium as Dr. David about disappeared from sight behind the lectern, hopping off the platform he had rigged.

"I won't quit my job," he said, as he made one final protest, still within range of the microphone.

"Leonard, just go. This is obviously not the time or place."

I had sat back down by this time and watched as Dr. David emerged from behind the podium and exited through the side door.

"Sorry about the distraction," the administrator, Dr. Richards, began as he smiled out at the crowd.

It was far more than I had ever expected. I thought I could maybe embarrass Dr. David, but this was priceless. I may have brought down the arrogant little bastard. With any luck, he would not be destroying any more lives.

After Dr. Richards had restored some decorum to the meeting, there were more questions and some discussion. Other people had problems, too. I remained quiet, seated with Debbie, for the remainder of the meeting. Finally, it broke up a little early, just before nine o'clock.

I felt great, as if I were floating, as we left. I noticed a little more pep in Debbie's step, as well, on the walk to the car. We didn't discuss what had just happened. I suppose we were both savoring the moment, letting it sink in.

On the ride home, we were quiet. Then she looked at me and finally spoke.

"You were right," she said, "I do like NAMI."

Two weeks later, we saw Dr. Hansen, the nurse practitioner, for the first time. Debbie had continued to make improvements. She was sleeping better, having less noticeable periods of anxiety, although I would hear her sighing and talking to herself in the mornings. I think the mornings were the hardest on her. She dealt with noises better, the turn signal was okay, but I was reasonably sure I had lost the steady hum of the bathroom exhaust fan forever. It was a small sacrifice.

Debbie and Dr. Hansen hit it off. She was young and personable. I could tell Debbie felt comfortable with her. She had read all of the medical records we had sent her from Mayo. Best of all, we left with a ninety-day prescription for the recommended meds. We also made an appointment with Susan, one of the therapists that worked with Dr. Hansen. Her office was just down the hallway.

On February twelfth, we went back to the clubhouse for a noon meeting. We had really cut back on the fellowship meetings, just going to two meetings a week at one of the churches downtown. But it was nine months of sobriety for Debbie and out of habit, we went so she could pick up a chip.

It felt good and it felt strange at the same time to walk into the clubhouse, seeing all of the familiar faces along with a couple of new ones. It had not been that long, a couple of months only, since we had been there. But it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Debbie walked up to the front of the room, after the meeting, to pick up her nine month chip. It was a purple one; some of the more sophisticated members like to call it fuchsia, a familiar voice hollered, "How'd you do it?"

Jesus F, ing Christ, I thought, the more things change the more they stay the same.

* * *

I opened my eyes.

"That's my story, Dr. Barnett. A few weeks after that I decided that, I needed to talk. I had been carrying most of this around, like excess baggage. That is when I first came to see you."

"Wow, Nick," Dr. Barnett broke in, "this has all been quite an experience."

"At times, well, I just didn't know. I mean, I had a trust in the process and that feeling that something good was coming out of all of this. But I had my doubts, too. "

"But what you accomplished with that doctor at the NAMI meeting, that was awesome."

"Awesome? Is that your professional opinion?" I countered, smiling as I sat up.

"As a matter of fact, it is."

"Dr. David was eventually fired," I said. "It was in the local paper about a month later. They made it out to be budget cuts, a shake-up of sorts, layoffs at the corporate level. Helen also was 'retired' in the corporate restructuring. I don't know if she got her retirement benefits. But there was a complete overhaul at Behavioral Services."

"It's amazing, all that you have done."

"The important thing is Debbie is doing much better."

"Yes, of course, Deborah."

"Mayo and the NAMI meeting were months ago," I said.

"And Debbie has adjusted?"

"It's a process, as you know, but she is used to her meds and doing much better now. I've learned, like they said at Mayo, there is no magic pill. Debbie will always have depression and anxiety. The proper meds allow her to cope, to deal with her symptoms."

"Very true, Nick."

"She's going all out to get better. She goes to the gym each day, regular AA meetings and she has taken a mindfulness course at the college. She sees her new doctor for medication management, her new therapist to talk and she still goes for acupuncture once a week."

"Sounds like you both are staying busy."

"We are, but it is a good busy."

"Indeed," she said, "how are things with her mother?"

"They are good, better than last year. Next Sunday is Mother's Day, you know."

"I do know."

"We are having brunch with Joyce. It was Debbie's idea."

"So, it sounds like we are up to date, Nick."

"We are," I said, "I just needed to tell someone everything that has happened."

"Of course, talking is great therapy. But, how are you doing? You know, with your sobriety and all that has happened."

"I am finding my way," I said taking my key chain out of my pocket and holding up my sobriety medallion.

Dr. Barnett looked at it, "Seven years," she said.

"No not that, well, not just that," I said smiling proudly. I pointed to the inscription on the back.

To thine own self be true, it read.

"It really is different for everyone. I am finding what works for me."

"You are on the right path."

"Thanks, Doc. Many paths, one destination, right?"

Doctor Barnett just nodded and smiled at me.

"When will I be seeing you again?" she asked.

"I am not sure. I won't be on a regular basis anymore, but more like, as needed. Life goes on."

"Indeed it does, Nick. Call me when you want to talk. Anytime. Deborah is, of course, welcome as well. "

"I'll be back," I said as I stood up.

She smiled and shook my hand firmly.

I have always liked Dr. Barnett.
CHAPTER TWO

BOOK WRITTEN.  
CHECK.

It was over thirty years ago that I told my father I was changing my major to Journalism because I liked to write. I do not know whether I am just incredibly lazy, have had nothing to write about for all of that time or most likely, I suspect, that I never considered anything I wrote would ever be good enough.

I am over it.

I suppose a real author would have just ended his book with a neat little summation in the final session with Dr. Barnett. All questions would have been answered, loose ends tied up and, with the evil doctor defeated, Nick and Debbie would live happily ever after. But, I have not written a fairy tale. I have simply told what happened to me, after my wife did what she did, that night, the early morning, on the Monday after Mother's Day.

Religiously, in the morning, the afternoon and at bedtime, Debbie takes her medications prescribed by Dr. Roberts, now supplied by Dr. Hansen. We bought a pill reminder. It looks like a small battery operated alarm clock. It sounds a loud beep, beep, beep and tells you to take your pills four times a day. It is too noisy and the recorded voice irritating. I called the manufacturer and told them we are forgetful, not deaf. But there is no volume control, so we live with it.

I stay involved in reminding Debbie to take the pills, sorting them out for the next dose and keeping up with the refills. The support of family is essential to the recovery process. But the healing activities, other than the medication, that has all been Debbie.

With the gym and maintaining her weight loss, seeing her therapist regularly, keeping up with the acupuncture and going to fellowship meetings she is learning how to cope with the depression and anxiety.

The two of us did have a family meeting about her little car. A vote was taken and the result was a one to one tie. Apparently, Debbie has the tie-breaking vote, a clause in the family meeting bylaws of which I was unaware. She is driving herself around town again and I am learning to trust her. It is not easy, but I will say that on the few occasions that I have checked up on her, she is always exactly where she says she is going to be.

Debbie took an eight-week mindfulness meditation class at the college starting in February. She had bought a yoga mat and some small pillows. She started meditating every day, putting on her headphones in the afternoon and sitting quietly for about forty-five minutes listening to a guided meditation CD. I would sit quietly in my easy chair, close my eyes, and start slowly to count my breaths. Usually I would fall asleep, but would awaken refreshed and peaceful when she was done.

When the eight-week class was over, we transitioned into the Buddhist mindfulness practice that I had heard about. Imagine that, a Buddhist mindfulness practice right in our own backyard in North Carolina. It is held once a week on Sunday afternoons for two hours. Debbie and I both really enjoy it. It is a nice change and a welcome addition to our fellowship attendance.

I also began reading about Buddhism. It helped clear up the god issue for me. Or perhaps, I should say the 'no god' issue. I did not have to focus on an abstract anthropomorphic being. I could experience 'god' if you will in the present moment. I could feel it within.

As I once told old Harry Miller, "a billion Buddhists can't be wrong." And by the way, Harry Miller, wherever you are, the answer is eight. I looked it up. There were supposedly eight people on Noah's ark.

However, I still do not see what that has to do with anything.

We keep in touch with Freddie, Clay, our British friend, Lloyd, and a few others who always seemed to have a calm attitude and positive influence. But in general, we have moved on, putting a new cast of zany, yet slightly more stable, characters into our lives at the meetings we attend downtown. We had enough of the daily drama at the clubhouse.

Ego has lead me to put my story in a book form. Journalism, bestseller, talk show circuit, money - all very real in the dream world part of my mind.

Journalism degree, indeed.

"Who is laughing now, Daddy?"

Well, Daddy is dead, so he's not laughing, so I guess the answer would be that nobody is laughing because I am not laughing either. My parents were good people, doing the best they could with what they had. I see that now.

Realistically, I know that I have written this for myself. Like talking to Dr. Barnett, I needed to do it. Writing everything down has been cathartic.

Some time ago, I gave the first draft of my tome, to my British pal, Lloyd. He is well educated and well read, objective and honest. I felt like I was having a professional editor reviewing my project for free.

I found it very interesting, eye opening, in fact, when he returned the draft and gave me his opinion. The copy I had presented him was rough with barely an ending. I was just looking for a little feedback. What he said that really got my attention, after a few well received laudatory comments – a unique perspective on recovery, a terse style, an interesting format - was about the, not as yet completed, ending.

"The ending," he said, "must, of course, be bleak given the nature of addiction."

I had a completely different take on the ending. I was upbeat, positive and confidently happy. I thought, I, Nick, had grown and changed, I considered Debbie a real winner, a survivor and a fighter. I knew that there was no fairy tale ending, but I was certainly optimistic. I thought my story pointed toward a happy ending.

Was I a terrible writer? Was I a naïve fool?

Had Lloyd given me the gift of seeing myself, my story, as others saw it?

Seriously, bleak?

I had written a story, the ending of which would be desolate, dreary and grim, in a word, bleak. At least that is the way my very intelligent, well-read friend, Lloyd, had interpreted everything.

Then I thought that maybe my story had touched something in Lloyd, unexpectedly. Maybe the story was good. Maybe it would affect people in different ways. That is, of course, if anyone, other than Lloyd and I, ever read it. He also told me that in that first draft, my use of commas was niggardly. After looking the word, niggardly, up, and reading the definition, I breathed a sigh of relief, and then I started to use more commas. I used ten commas in this paragraph. Too much?

What I took from Lloyd's comment is that addiction and mental wellness issues are damn serious. I should not get too cocky about our progress. I had really learned to live one day at a time, through Debbie's ordeal. I needed to remember that. To survive, we both would need to maintain a constant vigilance.

I do, however, want to be clear in this, the final chapter. I do see the story as having a happy ending. I stayed sober throughout. I came to believe in the process of sobriety and finding my own way. While I could not get on board with the religiosity of the twelve steps, I found the support of the fellowship sufficient for me to stay sober and learn to live a better way.

I had personal growth and positive change in dealing with Debbie's suicide attempt. I finally was able to let go of the notion that whatever I did it was not good enough. I was able to be there for my wife and not be intimidated by the nasty little doctor. In fact, he had been put out of business and countless other unsuspecting patients may have been saved the consequences of his malpractice.

I had helped to reunite Debbie and her mother, as well. While Joyce still drives Debbie crazy, it is good that they are back in touch with each other. They are family.

It was not all positive, rainbows, roses and unicorn farts, we fought at times, especially at first. I was still learning that Debbie's symptoms were not directed at me. They were actions that at times, she could not control. Her anxiety, her frustration and her anger were not her fault.

We did enjoy our quiet time at home with the three dogs. Debbie was doing everything right and as time went on, it showed. There were still some struggles with the anxiety, but we both were learning to cope and to live more in the moment.

We also had found a NAMI support group in Raleigh. The local affiliate where we were located had no support groups. Besides, after the first impression that I had made at the January meeting, it was probably just as well that we took the sixty-mile drive to Raleigh on Friday afternoons for the group support session. It was the final piece of the puzzle for Debbie. She now had people to talk to that had and understood the depression, panic and anxiety.

Our lives had changed forever. It all began at 1:12 AM, the night that Officer Martin had called.

After my final session with Dr. Barnett, on the following Sunday, Mother's Day, we met Joyce at her club for brunch. It was just the three of us. Debbie has not yet, and may never reconcile with her sister, Rebecca. That remains to be seen.

Mother's day brunch was good. Debbie was doing so well that I sometimes would forget that she had ever been sick. Joyce still treated her with kid gloves, but we figured that, maybe, that was a good thing. After brunch, we went to the gym and then later to our Buddhist mindfulness practice.

No one had mentioned Mother's day from the year before.

That night I slept straight through until morning. Usually, I still get up at least once for delicious ice cold carbonated water or I get up to tinkle. But that night I slept peacefully. There was no phone call and Debbie was there beside me when I finally did get up.

Mother's day was on May 11, the year before. This year it was on May 10. I mention that because May 12, technically, is Debbie's sobriety date. So it was two days after the Mother's day brunch that Debbie had a full year of sobriety

We decide to return to our old stomping ground, the fellowship clubhouse, for the noon meeting that day. It felt odd walking into the building. Everything looked the same. There were some new faces, many of the old faces that I knew, so well, and there were a few faces missing.

Notably absent was Fuck You Where You Breathe, Rich. He had begun his mandatory year in prison for the three DUI's.

Crazy Charlie was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he only went one of two places when he was not here. He was safe at least.

My twenty-four hour sponsor, Pat was here, along with Big Titties Magee, Nutty as a Fruitcake, and cult leader, Randy. I was pleased they were all still here, still sober.

Debbie and I acknowledged a few people, Freddie, Clay and Lloyd. We walked in and sat in the chairs against the wall, opting not to sit at the tables.

It was twelve o'clock on a Tuesday the regular crowd wandered in. There was an old man sitting next to me, reeking of tonic and gin.

Not much had changed in our absence, over the past several months. We sat quietly as the meeting began. We listened, not hearing a whole lot new, people love saying the same things over and over again. We opted not to share, not to get involved in the discussion today. It was a special day and we were here for only one reason.

As the meeting drew to a close, a man volunteered to give out the tokens. He stood at the front of the room, handing out sobriety chips and medallions.

"Does anyone have one year sober?" the man eventually asked.

Debbie raised her hand.

"I do," she said as she stood and began the walk to the front of the room to get her bronze one-year medallion.

People began applauding. Over it all, I heard a familiar, shrill, irritating voice.

"How did you do it?" Nutty as a Fruitcake hollered, right on cue, as Debbie took her one-year token.

I just had to laugh. Oddly, Joy did not really bother me anymore. Something had changed. It must have been me. Because she was still nutty as a fruitcake, after all these years.

Debbie faced the crowd and proudly held up her medallion.

"One day at a time," she said, "I did it one day at a time."

Classic.

THE END
AFTERWORD

Debbie and I continue to this day to attend two twelve step fellowship meetings a week. We attend our mental wellness group and our Buddhist community of mindful living group.

It has taken an effort and continues to take effort, but things are still improving. The emphasis of our lives today has shifted away from the twelve step fellowship of recovery.

I enjoy our non-theist Buddhist Sangha, our community of mindful living. Debbie gets the most from our mental wellness support group and is talking about taking the NAMI courses to become a facilitator this year.

I am very proud of her for continuing her efforts to get better and to go forward.

Today, our lives are about being a part of something bigger than ourselves. We cannot be sure exactly where we are going. But we know where we have been.

Were it not for our connection to the fellowship, none of the good things happening today would be possible. We are forever indebted to our fellow travelers in the twelve step fellowship. While the characters in this book have been fictionalized, each and every person we have had the honor of meeting in the rooms of recovery had something special and unique to offer us.

"Don't drink, go to meetings and it is different for everybody."

The relationship between Debbie and her mother is a work in progress, but at least there is a relationship today.

Our beloved dogs, Samie and Stoney, are no longer with us physically. But they live on in our hearts. There is no coming, there is no going.

We adopted a puppy, Happy. At this time, he is nine months old. Marley who is seven has really stepped up and become a wonderful mentor to him.

No matter what happens, as always, 'Dogs Rule!'
AUTHOR BIO

Nick Jimbanis has been an alcoholic, mostly sober, for nearly forty years. Graduating from Florida Southern College in 1975, a BS in Journalism, Nick has lived in Florida, New York and has retired to North Carolina with his wife Debbie and their two current dogs, Marley and Happy.

