Beautiful Boy (37 page)

Then he says what decides it for me. Forget theory, forget statistics, forget efficacy studies. What would he do if Nic were his son?

"If I had a child who was addicted to meth and I had done everything I could think of to get them help and they still were engaged in the dangerous, life threatening behavior of meth (or heroin, cocaine or alcohol) use, I would seriously consider using an interventionist. My thinking about this is the same as if I had a kid who had a relapsing chronic illness of other types, I would keep pushing them toward treatment to the extent I had resources to do it. All of my support would be linked to their entry into treatment."

It seems mad to try again—how can you help someone who doesn't want to be helped? But it doesn't matter. We will try again. His mother and stepfather and Karen and I will try again.

There's an AA saying that trying the same thing and expecting different results is the height of insanity. But a repeated message of rehab is that it may take multiple tries for someone to get and stay sober. I think of the children of the people who wrote to me—"my beautiful, lovely daughter, twenty years old, the gentlest soul on earth, overdosed last year and died," a father wrote—and I wonder how and when we should try one more time to get Nic into treatment. "If I had a child who was addicted to meth," Dr. Raw-son wrote. I do.

One morning, Nic calls and informs me that he has a new plan. Addicts always do. Again and again, they reframe the world to fit into their delusion that they are still in control. Nic tells me that he and his girlfriend finished off their stash of meth and that's it, it's over. He isn't going to succumb to my manipulation to go back into rehab. He promises that this time is different—"she won't let me use, I won't let her, we made a vow, we'll call the police on each other if we slip, she'll leave me if I slip"—more of what he has said the many times he promised that this time would be different.

He hangs up.

I call some interventionists recommended by Dr. Rawson and a counselor at Hazelden's 800 number. Then I receive another
phone call, this time from a friend who offers the counterargument. He has been in recovery from drugs and alcohol for nearly twenty-five years. He says that it's a mistake to intervene and a mistake to try rehab. "The rehab industry is like the auto repair industry," he says. "They want you to come back. And people always do. It's a thriving industry because no one gets well. They tell you, 'Keep coming back.' " He laughs grimly. "That's what they want. I had to hit bottom when there was no one and nothing and I had lost everything and everyone. That's what it takes. You have to be alone, broke, desolate, and desperate."

Yes, that might be what it takes. Yes, the odds are that neither intervention nor another try at rehab will work. But they may.

We will not keep coming back. We have neither the emotional nor the financial resources to keep coming back. My brain already burst once, and sometimes it seems as if it could do so again.

But here I am, making calls to interventionists as Nic leaves hardly coherent messages on our machines. And after everything we have been through I am still confused, in a familiar place between the opposing messages from outside me and inside me—leave him alone, let him suffer the consequences of his actions, try anything to save his life.

The first interventionist I reach claims that he has a 90 percent success rate, and I politely thank him for his time. He could be telling the truth, but I am doubtful. Another one is more modest. "There are no guarantees, but it is worth trying," he says. He proposes a scenario in which Nic's mother and I, along with Karen, his friends, and his girlfriend, if she is willing, confront Nic and offer him a chance to go to rehab. A bed would be waiting. Nic would be encouraged to get into a car and immediately go.

"I can't imagine that he would go," I say.

"It often works," he explains. "The psychology of intervention is that an addict feels overwhelmed and vulnerable in the presence of his family and friends. He may agree to go because of guilt or shame or because his loved ones break in enough so that he can glimpse the truth of his circumstance—the people who love him would not lie. They are motivated by one thing. To save him."

After a pause, he asks the usual question:

"What's his drug of choice?"

"He uses just about every drug on the streets, but he always gravitates back to methamphetamine."

The voice on the telephone lets out a deep sigh.

"I work with all drugs, but I hate to hear about meth. It's so destructive and unpredictable."

I tell him that I will consult with Nic's mother and call him back.

From
Addict in the Family:
"None of this is easy. Addicts' families walk an unhappy path that is strewn with many pitfalls and false starts. Mistakes are inevitable. Pain is inevitable. But so are growth and wisdom and serenity if families approach addiction with an open mind, a willingness to learn, and the acceptance that recovery, like addiction itself, is a long and complex process. Families should never give up hope for recovery—for recovery can and does happen every day. Nor should they stop living their own lives while they wait for that miracle of recovery to occur."

When will it occur? Will it occur?

In the meantime, seemingly miraculously, the sun rises each day and sets each evening. The globe does not stop spinning, and there are spelling tests to prepare for, swim team carpools to drive, math homework; there are dinners to be made and, afterward, dishes to wash. There is work—articles to be written before inflexible deadlines.

In a week Nic leaves another message.

"It has been eleven days now. I'm sober. Eleven days."

Is it real? Will it last to twelve days?

How many times have I promised myself never to do this again, never again live in a state of panic, waiting for Nic to show up or not show up, to check himself in or not check himself in. Doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. I will not do it again.

I am doing it again.

Up and down. Twisted and depressed. Distraught and then all right.

I keep the interventionist's number handy.

One Saturday, after swimming, Jasper leaves for a boy's birthday party, a sleepover. Karen is in the city hanging her paintings for tomorrow's opening, and so it is the two of us, Daisy and I, at home in Inverness. Brutus is breathing hard on the couch near the fireplace after his daily game of chase with a bevy of quail that have taken up permanent residence in the garden. He may be decrepit, but his shaky legs don't stop him from this exhausting sport. Now he is too tired to flee from Daisy; he's at her mercy. Using Klutz Press nail polish—nontoxic purples and pinks—she paints his claws. She has been making folded-paper cootie-catchers, a game of fortunetelling. Now she makes one for Brutus. Normally these contain colors and numbers and fortunes for humans, but Brutus makes his choices with a "yawn," "twitch," or "pant." "Come here, big brown fluff ball," she says. His fortunes: "You will have a nice day of sleeping and eating." "You will bump into a Great Dane and become friends." "You will steal a steak and get in trouble." Fog like steam and thick cotton has blocked out the sun, but a fire still palely burns.

In the evening, Daisy and I read together—the book is by one of our favorite children's authors, Eva Ibbotson. Daisy leans on my shoulder. She pushes her retainer out between her lips, sucks it back in, and clicks it into place. She dislodges it again, pushes it out, clicks it back.

"Stop playing with your retainer."

"It's entertaining." She clicks it again.

"The orthodontist said it's a bad idea. Stop."

"Fine." She clicks it again.

We close
The Star of Kazan
and I kiss Daisy on the forehead. She goes off to bed.

I am in my bed reading when the phone rings.

Nic.

He says that he is good and things are going well, but I can tell that he is high. I say so.

He insists that it's the medication for getting off meth and coke and heroin.

"I'm only using Klonopin, Seboxin, Strattera, Xanax."

"Only?"

He insists that a doctor prescribed them. If this is true, I cannot comprehend the difference between him and Nic's other drug dealers.

Nic says, "I know that on these drugs I'm not 'AA sober,' but that's bullshit anyway. I'm sober."

"Call me when you're AA sober," I say. "We'll talk then."

In the morning I check my email before leaving to pick up Jasper from the sleepover.

Nic's girlfriend has sent an urgent message.

"He left me at the market this morning to go to his moms said he'd be back in 15 minutes. Took my car, my purse is in it with my inhaler. He never came back to the market I waited for 4 hours until my friend sent a cab for me.

"Please call me at [her phone number]. Emergency."

It is November, but the morning is warm. A thin moon still hangs on the daylight. Staring at it earlier, Daisy called it a sideways smile. Karen has taken Daisy with her to the city, and I
AM
driving to pick up Jasper from the overnight, having arranged to collect him at the soccer field near the windmill at Golden Gate Park.

As my car crests Olema Hill, I call Z.'s number. She is out of breath, frenetic—angry and worried. In this state, she reveals more than she had in her email, explaining that Nic dropped her off at a market in the Palisades at 5:45 am. He took her car to his mother's. He was going to break in and steal Vicki's computer. She says it as if he were going over to borrow sugar. Nic had promised to be back in fifteen minutes, but he had not returned for four hours. Presuming that he'd been arrested, she called the police, but they had no record of him.

She is sobbing.

"What could have happened to him in five blocks from the market to his mother's house?"

I tell her what I know from my experience with Nic. Every time he disappeared I imagined every possible scenario—that he had been in a fatal accident or, absurdly, been kidnapped—but he had relapsed.

I ask, "Could he be driving to San Francisco?"

"He has no money."

"Then he probably went to a dealer in LA."

"And just left me on the street?"

"For drugs. What else can it be?"

I tell her that I'll check with Nic's mother and call back.

The phone awakens Vicki. When I explain, she says that Nic hasn't shown up. "There's no sign of him," she says.

In a half-hour, she calls back.

"He's here. He is in the garage. He broke in and was robbing us, piling things in shopping bags. He got confused and somehow managed to lock himself inside. He's panicked and crazed. He's ranting."

"Tweaking," I clarify.

By the time I call Z., she has heard from Nic, who called from a telephone in the garage. Enraged, she is packing up his clothes. "I've had it," she says. "If you talk to him, tell him his clothes will be outside on the front porch."

Vicki, after discussing it with her husband, tells Nic that he has a choice. The police will be called and he will be arrested or he can go back to rehab.

Driving to get Jasper in the city on the sunny morning, I reel.

He has broken into his mother's house. He is out of his mind. Meth again. Tweaking. Since he relapsed, I have known that something like this was coming, but now the dam bursts and I am flooded with emotion.

Please God heal Nic.

Is it too late?

Relapse is part of recovery. Please heal Nic.

There's Jasper with his friends on the soccer field. When he sees me, he waves and then runs to the car. He throws his bag of clothes and sports gear in the backseat and climbs in.

"We stayed up until midnight having a pillow fight."

"Are you exhausted?"

"I'm not even tired."

He is asleep in minutes.

With Jas sleeping beside me, I make more phone calls—calls to decide where to send Nic. If he agrees to go. I call Jace, the director
of Herbert House, who knows Nic and cares about him. Jace has helped many addicts. He knows the rehabs. He says that whatever we do, we should get Nic out of LA and in an inpatient program that lasts for a minimum of three or four months, preferably longer. He says, "Hazelden is expensive, but it's as good as they come." Hazelden has a four-month program, and so I call the 800 number. An intake counselor tells me that there is no bed in the Minnesota location, but there is one in Oregon. I am transferred to a counselor there.

He must speak to Nic, but it seems likely that Nic, if he is willing, can go there.

Karen's opening is in the city. Jack Hanley, the gallery in the Mission, is crowded. Daisy, wearing a wool knitted cap, and Jasper, in shorts in spite of a cold wind, play outside with other kids until they leave early with my brother and his family.

I take a break to get air. I walk around the block. When Karen first moved in with us, Nic and I lived a few blocks from here. We walked this and the neighboring streets for tortillas and mangoes at the Mexican markets. On weekends, we would go to Inverness.

I recall a school holiday in October of that year—1989—when we stopped at the corner market to stock up and then drove out for a night in the country. In the afternoon, we met up with a friend for a walk on miles-long Limantour Beach. We were hiking under a sapphire sky. Suddenly Nic pointed to the nose of a seal that had popped up through the choppy surf. Then there was another, then another. Soon ten or a dozen seals were peering at us with black eyes, their long necks jutting out of the water. Next it was as if someone grabbed the beach and shook it out like an old rug. The sand rolled, as wavy as the ocean, up and then down and up again before collapsing.

We steadied ourselves and tried to take in what had happened. An earthquake.

We headed back to the cabin, where we used a cell phone (the land lines were out) to call our friends and family, making sure that everyone was all right and assuring them that we were. The cabin had a generator that powered a few light bulbs and an old black
and-white television, on which we watched footage of the devastation in San Francisco, including flattened apartment buildings in the Marina District and cars squashed by a fallen ramp connecting to the Bay Bridge.