Before I Let You Go(57)

And when Daisy is resting, swaddled and held tight in Annie’s arms or mine as we rock in the rocking chair—the easy rhythm of her breathing is like music to my ears. In those moments, I’m reminded that although this is a traumatic and dramatic way to start life—it will pass. The NICU doctors are playing with her morphine dosage, trying to keep it high enough to stave off the symptoms but low enough that she’s alert. The process takes time, but it’s a well-established protocol and Daisy’s prognosis is excellent.

I do try not to think much beyond the looming moment when I’ll deliver my sister to the rehab center. I try not to think about how it will soon be me alone in the rocking chair, all day and as much of the night as I can manage. If I let myself think about it too much, it terrifies me. I’ve held human lives in my hands throughout my career, and when I cared for Annie.

But this is the first time I feel the weight of that responsibility.

This is the first time I wonder if I’m up to the challenge.

On Friday morning, I take a drive to the brand-new rehab center in Auburn. This will be Annie’s fourth stint in an inpatient rehab clinic, and I’ve brought the folder that has a record of all of my previous efforts to get her help.

I shake hands with Luke French, the director of the center. He is tall and strong, with piercing green eyes and a receding hairline. Luke seems fatherly, and I can’t tell if it’s because of his gentle mannerisms or because he’s a fiftysomething-year-old male who is entirely responsible for the lives of forty addicts.

“We have tried everything,” I tell him, “but if she doesn’t get clean this time, she will go to prison—she will lose her baby. She has to make this work.”

Luke links the fingers of his hands together on his desk as he stares at me. There is sadness and acceptance in his eyes; he is clearly someone who has been doing this for a long time. I’m not the first desperate family member to sit at his desk and plead with him for help, nor will I be the last.

“I suspect that you know as well as I do that Annie ‘needing’ to be sober will not guarantee her success here,” he says softly. “Rock bottom is not something you can predict or prescribe. My experience is that addiction is always related to some disconnection—perceived or real—often rooted deep in some historical trauma. It takes an almost superhuman strength to overcome a narcotics addiction, because it takes an almost superhuman strength to look honestly at your past and yourself and ask—how can I heal?”

“Our childhood was less than ideal,” I say. “I’ve tried to care for her in every way I knew how, but I don’t think it was enough. We lost our dad very young, and we grew up in a strict religious sect. She has so many issues with authority.”

“Many addicts do, and every patient who comes through those doors has a complex story to unpack—we are well equipped to help her. We have a good success rate here, Alexis. I’m confident that if Annie wants to do the work, we can help her.”

We review the folder together, and nothing he finds seems to shock Luke. He is steadfast and calm, and I’m reassured by that—right up until the time comes for me to walk out of his office and return to the hospital. We shake hands, and then I realize that the next time I see him, I’ll be handing Annie over into his care.

I don’t want her to be a number to this man. I want him to understand how special she is . . . how worthy she is of his best efforts. It’s silly, because I’m a professional, too, and I’m sure he’s going to do his best but . . . I stop in his doorway and I blurt, “Luke . . . I . . . she’s a good person. She deserves a better life.”

Luke offers me a weak smile.

“I honestly believe that about every single person who comes through the doors of my clinic, Alexis. I promise you, I’ll do everything I can for Annie.”





22


ANNIE


Dear Luke,

Lexie found us a rental a few blocks from her campus. It was a one-bedroom apartment—marginally larger than her dorm room but somehow much less comfortable. The taps leaked, the heat rarely worked and it was on the top floor of a four-floor walk-up, but it was all we could afford since I had cost Lexie both her dorm job and the subsidized room that came with it.

We moved into the new place a week before I started at community college. Lexie thought I might learn better in a more adult learning environment, so I was going to try to get a GED.

Community college was my first foray into the adult world, and it was not at all like I expected. No one seemed to care if I wasn’t doing the work, it was all up to me—but I found this motivating. My first semester’s results were better than I expected, but at the same time, Lexie’s ordinarily sky-high grades dipped a little. One night she came home from her second shift of the day at the nursing home, sat down at the dining room table where we both studied, and cleared her throat a few times.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her hesitantly. I could see that Lexie needed to give me bad news, which I dreaded—but worse still was the way that she looked at me.

She was scared of my reaction, and that made me scared, too. I was sure she was going to throw me out. I pictured her whispering miserably to me that she could no longer put up with me and my problems. Where would I go? Lexie was my whole world, but I could hardly blame her. I was the poison that tainted every good thing in her life.