Blood Sisters Page 7

  Patsy can hear the reluctance in those words, but she plunges ahead. “Mom will be here, at our house, in an attempt to get Ray into treatment. His boss will come, a friend or two, and anyone else who is worried about his alcoholism.”

  “Are you in charge?” Again, Eleanor’s words are cool, disinterested.

  “No. The counselors at Serenity Lane will run the meeting. That’s the way it works. If Ray agrees to treatment after the meeting, he will be taken to the rehab center and be interviewed, and a treatment plan will be established. My only role is to show him the bruises on my arm, tell him I am afraid of him, for myself and for Izzy.” Patsy tightens her lips, swallows. “I need your help, Eleanor. Not at the meeting, just to care for Izzy for however long this will last.”

  “Bruises?”

  “Yes.”

  Patsy hears a sigh, a softening. “Okay, tomorrow night I’ll enjoy your baby for whatever time you need. Bring over her stuff, and we’ll have a good evening. If you think it will be late, bring her stroller to sleep in.” Eleanor pauses. “I’m sorry to hear of your troubles, but I have to say, it is good for me to discover that even a social worker needs help sometimes.”

  “We all need help once in a while, friend. I’m here for you, too, when this is all over.”

  19

  “Izzy looks like Eddy at work. Brother?” Jim is sitting on the floor spreading blocks on the blanket they sit on, making a town. The little girl is propped up on a sofa cushion, waving her arms and laughing.

  “Eddy? I’ve seen him at the workshop. I think he was born with something called Down’s syndrome. Children who have it often have eyes that seem different than ours. That may be what you’re noticing.” I ask, “Is Eddy a friend?”

  “Yep. He likes me, and we laugh together. He reads pretty good, too. Better than me. Maybe he can teach me?”

  “I bet he can. And Janey, does she read?”

  “Uh huh. She just has trouble walking.”

  Jim and I are babysitting Izzy this evening. Patsy indicated her meeting might last a while, and Izzy is showing signs of being tired. She scatters the blocks across the rug and rubs her eyes. “Time for bed,” I say automatically. I have a habit of saying this every evening to Jim, whether he wants me to or not. Most of the time he knows what time it is, realizes that when his favorite programs are over, he is ready to go to bed. Why do I keep reminding him, as if he is as young as Izzy?

  At the moment, Jim is putting the blocks back into the toy basket. He picks up the little girl, his hands under her arms, and laughs. “She’s yours, Mom. Stinks.”

  And she does. I carry her to the bed and take out a diaper from the bag Patsy has brought. She begins to kick her legs and cry. I toss the dirty diaper into a plastic bag; wipe her bottom off with a handy wet tissue, wondering why we didn’t have them twenty years ago; rub in a little ointment; and fasten the next diaper. Then I realize that Jim is watching over my shoulder.

  “Izzy’s a girl,” he says. I realize that despite the several talks we’ve had about boys and girls, and in his classes at school, he probably has never seen a female body.

  “Yes, she certainly is. Girls are different than boys, aren’t they?” I wait to hear what he will say next.

  He is quiet for a moment. “I know. Rachel showed me.”

  “Rachel? Also a friend at the workshop?” My Jimmy has at least one secret.

  “No. A long time ago. When I was in school. She asked what my penis looked like. I said I’d show her. She had to show me hers. She didn’t have one. She said it was because she was a girl.”

  “That’s true.” Should I go on? “I don’t have a penis either. Girls and women are built differently than boys.”

  “So they can make babies.”

  Shit. “That’s the plan. When a man and a woman are married and want a baby, they can…” What shall I call it?

  “Fuck.”

  “Who told you that word?”

  “Eddy. His brother explained it to him.”

  “That word is not the real name, Jim. It’s not a word that most people use.”

  “Like shit?”

  Did I say it out loud? “Yes, like a swear word. You might say ‘having sex.’ Or ‘making love.’ These are not swear words. They are okay words to use if you want to talk with someone about it, which is a very private subject. Only very special friends will talk about having sex. You’ll find out when you love someone. When that time comes, you will know and you will figure it all out, the two of you.”

  “Or we can get a book.”

  “Right. We’ll need to work hard on your reading…or maybe a tutor would be better.”

  “Eddy?”

  God, no, not Eddy. He started this whole conversation. “No. I was thinking of William at your job. You like him, and I bet he’d like to earn a little money at lunch time helping you read. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, he’d be a good teacher. I’ll ask him.”

  Izzy is asleep. I refrain from telling Jim it is time for him to go to bed. “See you in the morning, Mom,” he calls as he leaves. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  An hour later, Patsy retrieves her sleeping daughter. My neighbor looks exhausted, says she’ll tell me about it over a cup of coffee in a day or so. I tell her that Izzy taught Jim a few things tonight, and that I’ll tell her all about it at the same time.

  Before I fall asleep, I spend a few moments thinking about that “thanks.” Don’t I talk to him? Maybe what I don’t do is really listen.

  20

  Ray opens the kitchen door and hears voices: his wife, his mother-in-law, someone else he doesn’t recognize. If there ever was a day he didn’t need people, it is today. His boss patted him on the shoulder, for some reason, after lunch, and it felt like he was being tagged in some kid’s game. He was “It,” but he didn’t know for what. Maybe Jack just felt sorry for him, after bawling him out. But a pat doesn’t make up for the unfairness of his reprimand, for his embarrassment.

  He shuts the door quietly, but Patsy hears him in the next room. “Come in the living room, Ray. Someone’s here to see you.”

  Fuck. He turns to go back out, but the next voice he hears is that of his boss, the shoulder-patter. “We need you, Ray.”

  Maybe…maybe the guy’s here to apologize, to tell him it was a mistake. Ray drops the newspaper he has brought in and hangs his jacket over a chair. His heart thumps in a familiar way, like he is waking up from a bad dream. Maybe he is. He pours himself a glass of water, thinks about taking a bottle with him into the other room. He hesitates and sees Patsy standing at the door, smiling at him. She holds out her hand, and he allows himself to be led into the circle of people gathered in his living room. People he works for, a golfing friend, a stranger, Sarah. His chair is empty. He goes to it. “What?”

  The man Ray doesn’t know leans forward, looks at him without a smile. “Your wife and your friends are here to talk with you, Ray. Because they care for you, have known you for years, respect your courage and support you in every way. They want you to listen for a few minutes, hear what they are concerned about. I will act as a facilitator to make sure you and your friends have a chance to say what is on your minds. I am Bill Reynolds, and I do this often as a social worker.”

  Ray stands up and points at Patsy. “You did this. Why?” He directs his next words to everyone in the room. “I am a decorated veteran, an experienced businessman, and, whether she knows it or not, a loving husband and father. I want you all to get out of here.”

  Patsy rolls up her sleeve. “Ray, you are also a man who has left bruises on my arm, who refuses to be near your daughter, who is drunk every evening.” Patsy’s voice is strong, and Ray finds himself sitting back down.

  “So I’m on trial now?”

  Bill Reynolds answers, “No. This is not a trial; this is an effort to allow your family and friends to tell you what they have observed in your behavior and what they are worried about. They are here because they care, Ray. Not to puni
sh you or belittle you.”

  In the silence that follows, Jack clears his throat. “You are one of the most talented men I’ve worked with. You figure out solutions to problems before anyone else has had a chance to even notice that something’s wrong. You have built our clientele with your earnest interest in their projects. But lately, in the past year or so, you have been making mistakes—with calculations, with careless errors in plans and responses, and in relationships in the office. Mildred came to me in tears after you accused her of losing a proposal. That proposal was on your desk and had been all along. Others are leery of asking you to help them because your response often has been, ‘What are you hired for, anyway? Do your own work.’”

  “Who told you that? I never said anything like that.”

  “Ray, I heard you say those words to your planning partner, Wilson, who remarked that this wasn’t the first time you had refused to cooperate. Something is going on with you, Ray, and I’m very concerned. I do not want to lose one of the best men I’ve ever worked with because of a problem he can do something about.”

  “What problem? You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know that you are drinking a lot, Ray. I’ve seen the bottle in your desk drawer. I’ve smelled the bourbon on you, even in the mornings sometimes. I’ve watched you nod off in meetings after lunch. I cannot continue to ignore these signs.”

  This cannot be happening. Ray doesn’t want to hear anymore. Whose life is it, anyway? He sees his mother-in-law shift, look at him. Her intense eyes force him to listen to her words.

  “I admire you in many ways, Ray. You have in the past worked hard, been good to my daughter, and are thoughtful with me. But I also know you pass out every night; you ignore your child, except when she is unhappy and then you lose it and yell at her; and when your wife lets you know you are out of control, that Izzy is a baby doing what is natural for a small child, you slam doors, shake your fist. ‘Can’t you shut her up?’ you yell. And you pour yourself another glass of bourbon. I know this because I have seen you in action—the last time when I was invited to dinner to celebrate your wife’s birthday. I suspect you don’t remember.” Sarah pauses, leans toward him. “I don’t think you like what you are hearing, Ray. You can do something about it.”

  “Is this the kind of lecture you give to the drunks you arrest out on the streets?”

  “If I can. However, I don’t have a personal stake in their decisions and lives. I do in yours. The two people I love most of all are being hurt by your addiction.”

  “Fuck you; fuck you all.” As Ray rises out of his chair, moves toward the door, a new voice calls to him. He looks back, sees a face he hasn’t seen for more than three years, Major Ronald Cheevers—“Cheevy”—his commanding officer the last year he was in Vietnam. He turns, disoriented. “What are you doing here?”

  “Because your wife knew how good our friendship has been in the past, and when she learned I was in Washington, she called me. We saved each other’s lives, didn’t we? In a lot of ways. I fell apart after one terrible day in the rice paddies, you remember? You held me like a baby until I got myself together.

  “Since then, I’ve been able to give up the idea of being tough, have been in counseling, which is one reason I haven’t contacted you in a while. Another reason is, I wanted to meet you again as a whole person, and your wife’s call will allow me to do that.

  “Your alcoholism began in the stress of war. It is not something to be ashamed of, the desire to seek comfort in alcohol. It is exactly what I did to escape the pain. Went bonkers for a while. Until I realized I was giving up my life by running away from it. What are you giving up, Ray?”

  Ray is barely able to force the words out. “I remember that day.”

  “And I’ll never forget you. You can get well, Ray. I’ve never felt better, and my family, like yours, helped me get to this place.”

  Ray wishes he could be held like he had once held his CO. He looks through tear-blurred eyes at his wife biting her lower lip, and anger drives the tears down his cheeks. He steps toward her, jabs a finger at her face. She flinches, brings her hand up against his anger. He growls, “Why have you done this to me?”

  No one moves. Then he feels the arm, the warmth of soft words. “You can get well, Ray,” Cheevy whispers, as his hands reach out to him. As Ray weeps into his CO’s shoulder, he knows he and the war have brought him to this place. Not Patsy. No one else. Ray steps out of Cheevy’s embrace, nods, says, “Okay.”

  Bill Reynolds picks up the bag packed with what Ray will need for the next few days. “Time to go, Ray.” He takes Ray’s elbow. “It will get better, I promise.” Ray feels a circle of eyes follow them down the walk to the car. Sweat drips down his spine just like it did on patrol in ’Nam. He understands he’s afraid, like back then.

  21

  The car slows down and parks in the lot in front of a white, one-story building. Ray can see movement in the lit windows of some of the rooms. The man sitting next to him had said his name when Ray first walked into the house, even reintroduced himself on the way to this place, but Ray still cannot remember his name.

  “Here we are, Ray. Get your bag and I’ll walk you in and give you the tour. I think you will be pleased with Serenity Lane. Most of our clients are.”

  “Clients? Not patients? Aren’t I sick?”

  “We do have doctors available when the need arises. This is not a hospital, though. You’ve never seen a hospital with food as good as Serenity. Come on in and meet our director, Barry Wilkes. You’ll like him.”

  A large, tweed-jacketed man hurries toward them. He holds out his hand, smiles big.

  Ray follows Barry Wilkes down the corridor. Some of the doors are open; he sees men reading and lying on beds, and one or two wave at him. “Women?” he asks for no real reason.

  “In the next building. You’ll meet a few of them at breakfast tomorrow.” Barry opens a door, ushers Ray in. “Here is your home away from home for the next month or two.”

  The room is small but has a desk, a comfortable-looking chair, and a bed covered with a quilt. It could be a motel room, except for the art on the walls, each picture different from the next, each a colorful scene, some with trees, one with a bridge, another with a small house surrounded by meadows, children in the yard.

  “The pictures have been created by former occupants of this room. One of the activities at some point during your stay will be to draw what you feel could be a safe place for you. Interesting what people come up with, isn’t it?” Barry points to the chair. “Sit down and I’ll explain how we do things here at Serenity Lane.”

  Ray tries to listen. Breakfast at 8:00. And after the first week, group sessions, therapy led by a psychologist, and individual counseling with a psychiatrist as needed. The list sounds like a Boy Scout camp. “What happens the first week?”

  “Beginning tomorrow, and the first week, you will be focusing on your detox. You will have help to make this process as painless as possible. Your body will overcome its addiction by undergoing a withdrawal process, and you will be helped through this with trained professionals at your side.” Barry nods at Ray as if to reassure him. He’s not reassured.

  “What will happen in detox?”

  “Everyone is different, but your body has become dependent on alcohol, and it may react in several ways as the alcohol withdraws. Maybe headaches, nausea, insomnia. You may find yourself very anxious. Or have what you probably know as DTs. Someone will be with you in any one of these situations. Your family will not be present this first week.”

  Ray squints, tries to imagine it. He’s not good with pain. Hasn’t been since Vietnam. “What if I don’t want to go through detox?”

  “Then you will return to where you just came from, to the same problems and unhappiness that brought you here.” Barry pauses. “Most clients do not want to do that. If you decide it is worth it to you and your family to go through detox, you may find the months following it to be the best months you�
�ve spent in a long time. All you have to do to begin this healing is to admit you have a problem and that you want to live addiction-free.” Barry stands up, points to the bed, and suggests that what Ray needs right then is a good night’s sleep. “After breakfast, Dr. Mitchell will talk to you about this first step.”

  The door closes. Ray reaches for his suitcase. He could just walk out and never return. Yet he sets the case down, opens it, finds his pajamas, begins to undress. He has never run away from any danger. In a weird way, this place is as frightening as climbing into that last plane leaving Saigon, not knowing what would happen next. Who will he be when he walks out, when this is all over? Who is the unknown person who has been hiding in a bourbon bottle?

  He crawls under the comforter, lays his head on the pillow, realizes that this is the first time in years he has gone to bed without alcohol putting him to sleep. He wonders whether he will sleep at all. “Goodnight, Patsy,” he whispers. He is beginning to forgive her.

  22

  The hedge is done, Patsy’s busy with Izzy, and I need information about a lot of things. I make a list; find a pad, a pen, and the library card I haven’t used in years; and map out my path to the county library a mile or so away. I walk two blocks farther than necessary, in order to avoid passing in front of Patsy’s house. I do not want to talk to her right now, nor does she want to talk to me. Later, she said, and that’s okay with me. Her intense, social-worker interest in what’s going on in my house still puts me off.

  I don’t do intimacy very well. It feels like pieces of me chip off when I share private weaknesses, moments, worries. The chips can’t be glued back like on a cake plate. And the secrets the other person shares don’t heal the holes left in me.

  A few years ago, I had a friend, Mary, who shared everything about her marriage, her children’s problems, her fear that her husband was unfaithful, her disappointment in her in-laws, her uncooperative ovaries. Everything. And for a year or so, I believed she was my best friend until I realized that our relationship was one-sided. Surrounded by chips of her life, her attention wandered when I tried to wade through them and give her pieces of mine.