Chapter 13

13

PORTER

I was angry. I thought she cared about me in the same way I cared about her; that she had fantasies about a more intimate relationship just like I had. The entire drive back to Singer's Ridge, I played the last three weeks out in my mind, looking for my mistake. She had never made any advances, never said anything to encourage me. But her eyes. Her eyes had told a different story, and the way she leaned into every conversation. She had sought me out whenever her shift was over and made sure to say good night. I had a hard time believing she went through the entire ward saying good night to everyone.

So I had been special, but apparently only as a patient. When I had been set free and we were able to establish a real connection, she had frozen up on me. She had denied me the ability to reach out, effectively ending our friendship before it began. And then she had waited for me to get dressed, so she could see me as I was, a normal guy with a job and a truck. Why had she waited? If she really wasn't interested, why did she stick around?

I was confused and frustrated, and my foot depressed the pedal further with every twisted memory. I tore into Singer's Ridge at eighty miles per hour before slamming on the brakes. I parked outside my building, sitting still for a moment. It was good to be back. And sober, I could really see my surroundings in a way I hadn't before.

The house was huge. I knew it was full of people, and dissected on the inside, but looking at it from the front, it was almost a mansion. A sidewalk led up to the front door, surrounded by a yard. Some of the residents had planted flowers along the walkway and in beds beside the door. It was stupid, but I felt like I was seeing it all for the first time.

The rain was dropping in sheets, making water splash from the gutters and drain into the flower beds. I hopped out and dashed to the front porch, my shoulders and my hair taking the brunt of the showers. On the porch, the deterioration of the house was more apparent. There were some rugs and a folded treadmill sitting off to one side where a porch swing might have gone. The main door was open, leading to a foyer with mailboxes and an overflowing trash can. My own box was stuffed full of advertisements and credit card offers. I pulled the mess into my hands and climbed the stairs to my attic room. I really needed to find myself a better place.

Fitting my key into the lock, I braced myself for a horrible smell. I wasn't disappointed. Without treading any further into no-man's-land, I tossed the junk mail on the floor and locked the door again. Back to my truck, I drove to the hardware store and bought out the cleaning aisle. Garbage bags, spray cleaner, sponges, gloves, you name it, I bought it. I shuttled the purchases back home and braved the room once again.

It was a trash heap. Empty beer bottles were strewn all over the place, clothes draped across every available surface. The trash in the trash can hadn't been taken out in three weeks, and the smell of rotting takeout permeated the room. Hidden deep within this mess were a bag of heroin and a bottle of pills. The first thing I did was wade through the garbage to the dresser, slide open the bottom drawer, and fumble around until I found what I was looking for.

Before I had time to think, I ripped open a new trash bag and stuffed them inside. Going through the room, I filled the bag to the brim and took it and all the other trash I could gather down to the dumpster. Throwing the drug-filled sack into the bin, I sent a silent prayer to God that I could last until trash day without dumpster diving for a hit.

Back upstairs, I gathered laundry and took it down to the basement. Filling the machine with quarters, I returned to my room, finally able to see the floors. I opened both windows to air it out, stripped the sheets from the mattress, and started a second laundry pile. I broke open the Swiffer mop I had bought and used it until all the grime disappeared. Now the smells of the rain and the spray cleaner overtook the smell of rotting food. A couple more trips to the basement to finish the laundry and the room was as good as new.

This entire time, I hadn't thought of Gina once. I put her out of my mind. She didn't want me, so it was time to get on with the rest of my life. I couldn't let the disappointment derail my sobriety, so there was no time to dwell.

It was still raining, but I hadn't had a thing to eat besides cereal. I was famished enough to brave the rain. I drove down to the diner on Main Street, parking and racing into the lobby. I shook my shoulders to loosen raindrops from their perch. One of the waitresses was new; I hadn't seen her before. She seated me and brought me real coffee and a cheeseburger, just like I'd dreamed of so many times in confinement. Biting into it was pure heaven. The grease and the meat, thicker than anything I had been served in the treatment center, went straight to my gut, satisfying me as no fragile sandwich could.

The coffee was dark and bitter. I drank it without cream or sugar, straight black as it was intended. The heat and the bite took me back to a better place, one where I stood on my own two feet and didn't have to ask for help. I finished up and left a big tip. My first stop was going to be the twelve-step meeting. I had to show my face again if I was going to stay clean. It would be painful, but people there knew exactly where I was coming from, and they wouldn't judge.

I knew where and when it was, my old Monday afternoon meeting at St. Mary's. I took my place in the ring of chairs in the church basement, saying hello to all my old friends.

"So you're back?" said the guy who had rented his garage to me six years ago.

"Yeah," I said, "Right outta Westview."

They all nodded knowingly. Westview was one of the few treatment centers around, and their graduates were frequent attendees of the recovery meetings. Some of the people in the room had been sober for twenty years, some only five. Some, like me, were newly sober, and we were the people given a chance to speak first. I said my piece about how I was reconnecting in hopes of a better life, and they all smiled.

"I gotta go have a talk with my buddy Mike," I said, reluctant to let the spotlight go. "I gotta tell him I can't come to his cookout because that's a trigger for me."

The room made empathetic sounds.

"It's just gonna be hard because he's my best friend. He's seen me at my worst, when I was kicked out, hungover, high as fuck—he's been there. And now I gotta tell him that his barbeques are triggering?" I sighed.

No one gave me any advice; twelve-step programs don't work that way. But I felt a little bit better having given voice to the problem. Now I just had to actually have the conversation. I stuck around after the meeting to shoot the breeze with some old friends. A few of the guys I remembered from my first time through the program were still there. They all said they were glad to see me back, and I had no reason to doubt them. Sober networks can be incredible incubators of friendship. It was like I went from being alone to being a part of a community in one hour. With a solid support network in place, I drove to my final stop: Mike's house.

I knocked on the door after splashing through a zillion muddy puddles that covered Mike's driveway like a minefield. Mike answered, and I stepped inside, streaming water onto their linoleum floor.

"It's really coming down out there," he said, handing me a dish towel.

I dried my face and my hands, pulling my shoes off and leaving them by the door. "Yeah, my first day of freedom."

"Really?" He seemed surprised. "You just got out?"

"Earlier today, yeah," I said.

"Have a seat." Mike gestured to the sofa.

"Where are Tammy and Elizabeth?" I asked.

"It's bath time," he said. "They'll be out all clean and dressed in pajamas soon."

I nodded, seizing my opportunity. "Listen, Mike. There's something I have to talk to you about."

"Yeah?" He took a seat on the recliner that was obviously his, right beside the television.

I sat down on the couch facing him. There was no easy way to say it, so I just put it out there. "I can't come to your cookout. I hope you can understand." His face fell, and I hurried on to get to the meat of the argument. "It's just that I feel like I'm not up to par with you guys. I mean, you're all functioning adults, and the cookouts just remind me of the differences between us. It makes me want to drink."

Mike opened his mouth to complain but closed it again. "I never thought about it from that angle. Just so you know, none of the rest of us think of you that way."

"I know," I said. "And it's not forever. Just until I can build up a little sobriety."

"Okay," Mike sighed. "Will you at least join us for dinner?"

"Sure, thanks." I smiled.

Elizabeth came bounding down the hallway, her hair damp and combed. "Porter!" she cried, leaping onto my lap.

I laughed, nuzzling her nose. Tammy emerged from the bathroom and stopped when she saw me. Her sour expression softened, and I could see I had elevated myself a notch in her estimation.

"Porter." She smiled. "It's good to see you."

We sat down to eat, the four of us, a child's menu of mac and cheese and corn on the cob. It was delicious. After weeks of bland food, the powdered cheese hit the spot, and the corn was fresh and sweet. I had weathered my first day of freedom, and it hadn't been all bad. I would show Nurse Gina I didn't need her support to stay clean.