Before I Let You Go(62)
There is a fourteen-day period at the rehab clinic where Annie is not supposed to have any contact with the outside world. Given how young Daisy is, Luke has agreed that she can call the NICU once a day to get a status on her daughter—but in keeping with the rehab clinic’s policy of an initial period without family contact, she can’t speak to me directly. When a week passes, I ask the NICU’s ward clerk if she’s been calling.
“Well, no. I mean, Bill Weston calls morning and night, and the CPS lady has called a few times, too. And Luke French has called a few times, as well. But there’ve been no calls from Annie herself. Should there have been?”
I leave the NICU and call Luke on my cell phone. I know that Annie has given him permission to discuss her treatment with me.
“Annie refused to take Suboxone from her second morning here,” he tells me cautiously. “She’s trying to do a straight detox, and she’s been pretty sick.”
“That’s insane. She was on a huge dose of methadone! Stopping like that—”
“It’s difficult—yes.” He interrupts me impatiently. “We did advise her against it, but she was adamant this was how she wanted to go about it. So she’s still in our detox unit—I visited her this morning and she’s still quite unwell. I’m not sure she can cope with any negative updates on Daisy at this stage, but she’s been asking after her every day, so I decided to call myself so I can filter what she’s told.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why would I call you?” Luke asks me. He is calm, but the question is pointed—and I’m not sure what he’s getting at until he adds, “This was Annie’s decision. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Some might call this progress.”
“Progress?” I gasp, and I’m spitting with outrage and suddenly terrified that I have left my sister in the hands of a crackpot. “She’s still so sick after a week that she can’t even pick up a phone to see how her newborn baby is, and you’re calling that progress?”
“Alexis, you’re looking at this the wrong way—your sister has opted to take her recovery into her own hands. She’s taken full responsibility for this decision and for the consequences of it. It’s not pleasant—but getting to sobriety never is. Annie has chosen to walk a difficult but shorter path for her withdrawal, but she’s sticking to it. If that changes, then I’ll call you. You need to trust me, and you need to trust her.”
“Are you kidding me, Luke? Trust her? Look where trusting her has got me.”
“Alexis, I’m going to say something to you now, and it’s going to be very hard for you to hear. Okay?”
I scowl and groan, “I’m not the patient, you know.”
“I know. But you are a part of Annie’s problem, Alexis.” I gasp, and I’m completely outraged—but before I even have a chance to come up with a retort, Luke slays me with calm, quiet logic. “She has relied on you to bail her out again and again and again . . . and if she wants to get better, she needs to stand on her own two feet. That means you need to stop propping her up—and frankly, I think you’ve developed a habit of propping her up even before she starts to fall sometimes. You need to trust her, and you need to let her deal with the consequences when she messes up. I know she’s hurt you, and I know she’s made a mess of both her life and yours several times over. I’m not telling you to stop loving your sister—you’re the most important thing in her life other than the baby. I’m telling you that she’s an adult now, and if she opts for a more difficult path to sobriety, you need to let her take it because her suffering is not your problem. Focus your energies on that baby for now—Annie is fine.”
By the time he finishes, I’m a mess—silently sobbing in the hall of the hospital, and I can barely manage to squeak out a farewell before I hang up the phone. I rush into a bathroom and splash my face with cold water and then I stare into the mirror. I’m mortified at Luke’s take on the situation.
You are a part of Annie’s problem, Alexis.
It’s not the first time someone has accused me of enabling Annie, and I’ve worried about that possibility myself. But this is definitely the first time someone has spelled it out for me in such brutally honest terms, and the first time that I’ve followed that thought all the way to its logical conclusion.
Perhaps by “propping Annie up,” I’ve made things worse for her.
The thought is simply unbearable. I’ve taken such pride in my role in her life. I’ve had such a deep satisfaction that I have followed Dad’s instructions to me to the letter, that he would be proud of me for taking care of my baby sister, just as he always wanted me to.
You are a part of Annie’s problem, Alexis.
No. I splash my face again, and my nostrils flare. I have simply tried to help her. I tell myself that Luke is arrogant, and that I have a right to be angry. What would he know, anyway? He’s been working with Annie for one week—does he really think he can psychoanalyze us both and untangle the web of our thoughts and emotions, just like that?
I try to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind that points out that I’d be much angrier and far less embarrassed if everything he said wasn’t absolutely accurate.
I’m still worried about Annie, and the urge to intervene and to rescue her is so strong that I feel it physically pulling on my chest. It’s like she’s calling me from the rehab clinic to get myself all the way out there and talk some sense into her. I could convince her to take a maintenance drug. I’ve done it before, haven’t I? Just recently, in fact.