Before I Let You Go(83)

“She lost her temper, right?” I sigh, and I shake my head. “She always does this . . .”

“It was fairly ugly.”

“So, what happens now?”

“I had to issue her a caution. I’m hoping that will encourage her to comply with the basic community rules here.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll give her a day to think about it. If she’s not at the community meeting on Wednesday, I’ll issue her another caution.”

“How many ‘cautions’ can she get?”

“Three. Then we ask her to leave.”

I’ve been calm up until now, but as Luke says those words, my heart starts to race.

“Oh, shit.”

“This isn’t a disaster. It’s just a minor stumbling block.”

“So I was actually calling to see if I could visit . . . maybe with Daisy,” I whisper, and I think he’s going to laugh at the very idea, but Luke surprises me.

“You know what, Alexis? I think we might just dangle that carrot in front of her nose and see if it encourages her to move in the right direction. I’ve got a session with her this afternoon—I’ll let you know how it goes.”





36


ANNIE


Luke,

When I realized I was pregnant, I thought I’d found The Answer. You’ve probably heard other patients talk about the same idea—every addict knows about The Answer. It’s the silver bullet that you think you need to fix your life—usually something that will cure the addiction—or even better, some way to solve your problems but allow you to keep right on using, which is what you really want to do.

I’ve sometimes thought the right rehab would be The Answer, or the right boyfriend, or for Lexie to be more supportive in some magical way or for Dad to come back somehow or for Mom to stop being so . . . disinterested. When I found out about Daisy I was both terrified and delighted—because if anything was going to fix me, surely it would be a baby.

All that I knew of getting high and being pregnant was that the two things did not go together, and so I decided I’d detox at home. I tried and failed a few times, and that made me despise myself even more. I’d be cursing aloud as I put the needle into my arm, then sobbing with guilt until the drug kicked in and I no longer cared.

Later, I’d promise her that was the very last time.

I hadn’t spoken to Mom much over the years since she reconnected with Lexie . . . only on occasions where Lexie had called her and Mom was on the line when I took the phone so I knew I wouldn’t have to speak to Robert. But when I realized I was pregnant, I needed Mom. It’s crazy because since Dad died, she’s hardly been mother-of-the-year material, but I thought somehow she could offer me some wisdom that would help me to be a good mom. I’d brace myself—I’d shoot up in the morning, and while I was still high enough to feel at peace, I’d dial her number on my cell. That way, even if Robert answered, the sound of his voice wouldn’t send me into a tailspin that persisted for days.

To help survive those calls with Mom, I imagined that I was living a different life. I was living in a beautiful apartment in Montgomery and working at a small, independent literary magazine. My boss’s name was Hector, and his secretary was Irma, and I was mostly reviewing and editing submissions. The money wasn’t great, but I was getting by and doing well. I had a wide circle of friends but no boyfriend—I was concentrating on my writing on the side.

In reality, I was living in the baby’s father’s trailer, which was empty because he was in jail. Dale told me that he’d prepaid the rent for twelve months because he kept blowing his money and at least this way he knew he had somewhere to live for a year, and once he got locked up, it seemed a shame to let a comfortable, warm space like that go to waste. I’d been in a few god-awful crack dens since I left Lexie, and for a while I stayed with another dealer I knew—but then he started expecting sex every time he hooked me up with a fix, and that got old pretty quick. So Dale’s shitty trailer was a marked improvement, but it was still a far cry from the beautiful home I lived in when I spoke with Mom.

Mom was also telling me lies of her own every time we talked because whenever I chatted with her, she was about to do something she was excited about. But I knew that in reality, Mom’s role was to keep Robert happy and cared for. She wasn’t there to live a full life. She was there to facilitate one for Robert.

And so, during those semifrequent conversations between Mom and me, we simply swapped lies—but at least we were connecting. I was hopeful that one day one of us would say something vulnerable or true and when we did, all of the walls would come down around us. But in those few months between my initiating those calls and my realizing I was just desperate enough to call Lexie, neither Mom nor I ever had the courage to be ourselves—and so, at the end of the day, all of the effort I’d put into trying to rebuild that bridge was wasted.

I still wound up alone, and I’m still a failure as a mom.

I know exactly what I was looking for by trying to connect with her again. It was her method of parenting. She’d been an amazing mother before Dad died—the perfect role model for who I know I need to be. One day, I’m going to get Daisy a beautiful big house like we used to have. I’m going to have a job—a career—maybe I’ll get back on my feet and start writing again, maybe I’ll even marry someone who can be a proper father to her. We’ll have enough money for her to have opportunities and go to a good school and get a decent education.