Before I Let You Go(86)

I’m not sure what he hoped to achieve by having me here. I’m only making things worse, because as I watch Annie block all of Luke’s attempts to get her to open up, I interject again and again, imploring her to drop the attitude or to just try—and every time I do, Luke patiently asks me to save my comments for engaging in the session myself, rather than trying to facilitate it. Right on cue when the hour is up, Daisy starts to cry. Luke asks for a few minutes alone with Annie, so I take the baby to a small kitchenette and prepare her formula.

Then I take the bottle back to Luke’s office so that Annie can feed her daughter.

“If you’re comfortable with this, Lexie, perhaps Annie could take Daisy into the dining hall to feed her, so you and I can chat alone?” Luke asks. Annie immediately stiffens.

“Why wouldn’t she be comfortable with it?” she snaps, and Luke shrugs.

“Lexie is Daisy’s legal guardian at the moment.”

“I’m her mother.”

“Of course I’m comfortable,” I say hastily, and I push the stroller toward Annie and point to the bottle. “She will probably only drink half of that, and then if you sit her up for a while so she can burp . . .”

“Fine.”

Annie pushes Daisy from the room, and Luke quietly closes the door behind her.

“That was actually a very productive session,” he says as he returns to his desk. I stare at him in disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Let me tell you what some of our other therapy sessions have looked like. Annie sits and stares out the window. Annie writes in her journal but refuses to look at me. Annie throws insults at me and tries to hook me personally. Annie just doesn’t show up. Annie shows up, but turns her chair to face the other way.”

My heart sinks.

“So, we’re doomed, then?” I whisper, and he shakes his head.

“None of this is atypical with court-mandated patients. Sobriety isn’t actually something a court can force onto a person.”

“What’s the plan from here?”

“I didn’t ask you to stay back to talk about the plan. I wanted to ask you how you felt about what just happened, and to check in with how you’re coping.”

“I found that session to be frustrating and bewildering, but I’m coping just fine.”

“You and your sister have a very special bond, don’t you?”

“We do.”

“What’s the best outcome from all of this for you, Alexis?”

“Annie graduates your program and is well again.”

“Be more specific. What does that look like?”

“She . . .” I hesitate. “She can resume life the way it was before the addiction. She can write, get a job, have a healthy relationship. Get a house. Care for Daisy.”

“What about your relationship with her, Lexie? What would that look like?”

“We’d be friends again,” I whisper, then out of nowhere, I’m crying and I can’t stop myself.

“How long has it been since you and Annie were friends? Your relationship seems almost parental to me.”

“Well—yes. It has been, but not always. When she lived with me, I got glimpses of friendship all the time. My best memories of her were when she’d write some brilliant little vignette and she’d let me read it, and then we could talk about it like two scholars . . . I’d comment on how great the premise was, she’d tell me about something she was trying to achieve . . . or she’d write a poem, and there’d be this incredible depth to it, and she’d explain it to me and I’d be in awe of her mind and the way she could just see something magnificent in the ordinariness of life. Or we’d go out for coffee on a Saturday morning and we’d talk about politics, or the weather—or some cute guy sitting near us or what boots we wanted to buy for the winter. She probably doesn’t even remember those moments, but . . .” I choke on a sob and admit, “I’m living for them. I grieve them. I miss the Annie that I shared those things with. She’s still in there—behind the wall the substance abuse has put between us. And I’d give anything to get her back.”

“Sometimes to draw something out of a person, we have to approach them differently. Do you know how you were approaching Annie in those moments of friendship, Lexie?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Our parents see a very different side of us than our friends do.” Luke shrugs. “I know you’ve needed to parent Annie, and after watching you two interact today and speaking to you over the last few weeks, I think it’s become a habit to you. Do you know what I’d like to suggest? Try being her friend.”

I stare at Luke, and I try to figure out how I could implement his advice. What is the difference between my parenting Annie, and being her friend?

Then it hits me: the difference is responsibility. A friend can offer support, even advice . . . but a friendship is a two-way street, and friends hold none of the responsibility for each other’s actions. Being Annie’s friend means letting go of my ownership of her outcomes.

“I’ll try,” I whisper, and Luke gives me a satisfied nod.

I find Annie in the dining hall, sitting in a corner. She’s angled the stroller in front of herself, so that it creates a barrier from the rest of the room. She has Daisy resting on the table, but she’s supporting her head and shoulders with her palms.