Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife (32 page)

“They want you there every week unless you’re sick or out of town,” Derek said.

“Yeah? Well that’s not going to happen.”

“They’d like to make Doreen the refreshment chair because she and Gwen both wanted to chair the decorating committee and Gwen got it and there were some hard feelings.”

“Good,” I said. “Give the position to Doreen. And tell Laura not to call me.”

“That wasn’t the reason I called,” Derek said. “It really wasn’t.”

It really was, but I like Derek. And I’m thrilled to be off the hook.

[Thursday, October 30]

I hosted my first alcohol-free book club. Earlier in the week, I called my friends to remind them I was making crème brulee and serving tea instead of wine and appetizers. I set the ramekins of crème brulee on my kitchen table, sprinkled them with sugar, and pulled out my blow torch. The doorbell rang and my friends began filtering in.

“I love that little torch,” Margaret said as she watched me melt the sugar into sheets of caramelized glass. “Can I try it?”

“Sure,” I said, handing over the torch.

Tina and Nosey Rosy had a turn at the torch, then the six of us sat at my dining room table, ate crème brulee with fresh raspberries on top, and drank tea from three different pots: black tea, green tea, and fruity rooibos.

“This is fabulous,” Margaret said.

“Yeah,” Tina agreed. “I love this. Cloth napkins, silver, china—you outdid yourself, Brenda.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling pretty happy. It had been less work and less expensive than serving appetizers and wine.

We began discussing
The Liars Club
by Mary Carr, a memoir about Carr’s rocky whacked-out childhood.

“I remember chasing the mosquito abatement truck with my friends as it sprayed insecticide everywhere,” Margaret said. “No adults stopped us. They just watched us. Unbelievable.”

“I grew up in Levittown, Pennsylvania,” Tina began, “and I remember going to the dump for school picnics. What was that?”

Nosey Rosy grew up in a Catholic orphanage and said, “The nuns scared us to death. They told us ghost stories at night so we wouldn’t get out of bed. I used to lie under my covers petrified, afraid to move.”

“Our children are so fortunate,” Tina said.

“But you know we’re screwing them up somehow,” I said. “Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing or saying that they’ll wind up discussing with a therapist.”

We drank tea and talked until eleven o’clock. It was one of the better book clubs we’ve had, I think.

[Friday, October 31]

I met Sara for dinner before picking up Van at my parents’ house. My mother had attended Max’s Halloween Poem Recitation at school yesterday. Max stood in front of his classroom with a silver garbage can over his head and recited the Shel Silverstein poem, “The Man in the Iron Pail Mask.” Then my mom took Van home with her for a sleepover because she wanted to take him trick-or-treating.

“Is Max out trick-or-treating?” Sara asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. “He’s out with a big group of friends. It’s his first year trick-or-treating without me. I’m kind of sad about it.”

“They grow up,” Sara said.

“He’s probably having more fun without me.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I went to the Spooky Stroll at his school today,” I said. “The kids walk around the block in their costumes. It’s really cute.”

“What’s Max dressed up as?”

“A SWAT guy. My mom’s probably trick-or-treating with Van right now, but maybe they’re done. He’s only good for a handful of houses.”

“How old is Van?”

“He turned three on the fifteenth. Hey,” I said, changing the subject. “I had the weirdest conversation last night.”

I told Sara about Derek’s call and filled her in on the horrid party-planning meeting I’d gone to. A while back, Sara mentioned she was looking for a receptionist and that Laura applied because Laura wanted to become a therapist. This supports my theory that psychology draws messed-up people who want to fix their own heads.

“Laura was practically frothing at the mouth, grilling me about my commitment to her meeting,” I said. “Look at her face. She’s totally nuts.”

Sara, looking thoughtful, nodded her head. I hope for Sara’s sake she didn’t hire the loon.

[Saturday, November 8]

I’ve been practicing yoga for six years, and let me tell you, it’s a beautiful thing to practice without a hangover. Lately, I’ve been practicing with my new friend, Vivian, whom I met at a recovery meeting. Vivian’s yoga teacher recently moved, and I invited her to come to class with me. Now we’re yoga buddies. The thing that concerns me about Vivian, though, is she’s bipolar. I’ve kind of made a point of steering clear of women who say they’re bipolar—which seems to be a quarter of the women I’ve met at recovery meetings. Sara is bipolar, too, but so far she’s been a good sponsor. Vivian, unlike Sara, is intensely loud, opinionated, funny, and sharp as a tack, so I’m pretty sure she’s not taking the fog-inducing meds Sara does. I’m kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A few days ago, Vivian invited me to walk a labyrinth with her.

“I’ll pick you up at six o’clock on the eighth,” she said. “There’s going to be a lunar eclipse at seven fifteen. Let’s get Indian food and start walking the labyrinth when the moon is being eclipsed.”

Vivian said six planets were going to be in some hexagonal alignment, and this alignment would increase communication with God.

“Why don’t we ask Darcy to come with?” I asked. “She really needs to get out.”

When Vivian showed up at my door, Darcy wasn’t with her.

“Darcy bailed,” Vivian said. “She said she was feeling under the weather.”

“She’s depressed,” I said. “I bet she doesn’t want to spend money on dinner either. Want to split the bill and treat her?” Vivian agreed and I called Darcy. After some minor arm-twisting, Darcy said she’d go out with us. Vivian and I hopped in her car and picked up Darcy. At the restaurant, we ordered food and Vivian looked at her watch.

“It’s seven fifteen,” she said. “The eclipse is happening right now.”

“Shoot,” I said.

“That’s okay,” Vivian said. “Let’s hold hands and chant ‘Om.’ Thousands of people are doing it all over the world.”

We held hands in the restaurant and chanted “Om” three times.

After dinner, Vivian drove us to a labyrinth in the backyard of a Catholic church. We pulled into the parking lot and looked at the dark clouds floating across the eclipsed moon.

“This is going to be perfect,” Vivian said. “Here.” Vivian pulled out a little brown vial that looked like the kind of glass container I snorted cocaine out of. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed it. “Mmmm. Give me your wrists.”

Darcy and I offered up our wrists and Vivian rubbed essential oils on them. The oil smelled good.

“Okay now, close your eyes and relax,” Vivian said. Darcy and I closed our eyes. “Imagine you are sitting by a stream and the stream is crystal clear.” Vivian then asked us to pick our favorite tree and picture ourselves sitting under it.

“What kind of tree did you picture?” Vivian asked when our creative visualization was over.

“I pictured an oak,” Darcy said.

“Yeah, that’s what I pictured, too,” Vivian said. “What did you picture, Brenda?”

“A weeping willow.”

“Really,” Vivian said, looking at me with interest. “I actually almost picked that.”

The three of us got out of the car. It was freezing. Vivian, who was the only one to have walked a labyrinth before (Charlie and I didn’t know what to do with the one in Budapest), told us to watch the ground in front of our feet as we slowly snaked our way to the center. We began walking and she told us to clear our minds, be silent, and observe our thoughts. When we got to the center, we were to pause and wait to feel something before walking back out.

As I walked the labyrinth, I quieted myself and waited for profound thoughts. What came was an overwhelming sense of gratitude, and I found myself meditating on the words “thank you.” It was incredibly spiritual.

The three of us arrived at the center and Vivian held out her hands, one palm up, one palm down. “Let’s stand in a circle around this rose quartz rock here,” she said. “Put your hands out so your palms hover below or above the next person’s.” We stood around the rose quartz with our palms hovering inches away from each other’s. “Do you feel the energy?” Vivian asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Darcy and I nodded. My palms tickled.

“Now take off your rings, place them on the rose quartz, and ask for healing,” Vivian said.

We did that, put our rings back on, and silently began walking out of the labyrinth. Vivian unlocked her car and we got in.

“Well?” Vivian asked.

“That was incredible,” I said. “I feel so peaceful and happy right now. Thank you, Vivian.”

“I feel cold,” Darcy complained. “Can you start the car and get the heat going?”

Vivian started her car.

“You want to go somewhere and get something hot to drink?” I asked.

“I don’t have any money,” Darcy said.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” I said. “Let’s get some tea.”

“Let’s go to Whole Foods,” Vivian said. “They have really great tea there.”

I bought Darcy tea, and she didn’t say thank you. She didn’t thank Vivian and me for dinner either, and she didn’t thank Vivian for driving out of her way to pick her up. Darcy sat in a chair sipping tea looking sorry-assed and self-absorbed. I know she’s going through tough times, but I don’t want to be around Darcy right now.

[Monday, November 10]

There’s a gourmet kitchen boutique in town that offers cooking classes, and Kelly and I attended one this evening. The chef du jour showed us how to make cassoulet and pumpkin crème brulee. Kelly and I were getting hungrier by the minute as we watched him cook. When he finished, we were handed bite-size cups of the cassoulet and a tiny aluminum foil tin of pumpkin crème brulee. It was dinnertime. Kelly and I looked at each other and started laughing.

“I can’t believe this,” I said looking at the paltry amounts. “How can they charge us thirty bucks, host the class at dinnertime, and not feed us? I’ve taken other cooking classes and eaten fabulous meals at the end of them.”

“We should go to McDonald’s,” Kelly snickered. She picked up the comment card we got when we walked in and nodded toward the chic-looking woman who owned the shop. “She’s going to hear from me,” she said. “By the way, how’s your dad?”

“It looks like he’s got cancer on his lungs,” I said.

My father had started seeing an oncologist at Evanston Hospital after he found out he was terminal this summer. I wanted my dad to see Dr. Benton at Northwestern because he wanted to start my dad on hormone therapy and get him CT and bone scans right away. But my dad hated Benton because he gave him an honest answer when my dad asked how much time he had left.

“Your father won’t see Dr. Benton,” my mother said after I asked her to convince my dad to switch doctors. “Chevron wasn’t doing anything, so we went back to Dr. Barren at Swedish. He’s the reason we found out your father has lung cancer. He did a CT and bone scan.”

“Why’d you go to Barren?” I shouted.

“What does your father have to lose?” my mother asked.

When my dad was first diagnosed with prostate cancer, a woman from my mother’s church recommended Dr. Barren. Barren told my father he could cure him. He told my father he was the only doctor who could. He told my father not to have his prostate removed or have radiation—which every other oncologist and urologist was recommending.

“You’re going to Svengali,” I shouted. “The guy is bad news.”

“He’s the only one who thinks he can cure your father,” my mother snapped. “At least he has your dad on hormone therapy and did those scans.”

“Dr. Benton would have scanned Dad and had him on hormone therapy months ago.”

“Your father didn’t like him, and he doesn’t want to go to Northwestern,” my mother said irritably. “He doesn’t want to go that far.”

“You don’t pick the doctor who’s closest,” I said. “You pick the doctor who’s best.”

“One of your father’s friends from the harbor told him to see Dr. Barren, too,” my mother said defensively. “His wife is a nurse and she worked with Dr. Barren for years and thinks very highly of him.”

“Put Dad on the phone,” I said. When my father picked up, I said, “I’m worried about your choice of doctors. When a doctor says he’s the only one who can cure you, that’s bullshit.”

“Dr. Barren told me I did the worst things for myself,” my dad said, his voice shaking. “He told me, ‘You had surgery. You never should have had surgery. You had radiation. I told you not to have radiation. Radiation feeds cancer, makes it grow. That’s the bad news. The good news is you’re back with me and I’m going to get you going on these hormone pills and hormone shots.’ Real nice, huh? I did the worst things for myself.”

“That guy is a quack,” I said. “He’s full of shit. Why don’t you go back to Dr. Benton?”

“Because that guy told me if he saw cancer on the bone or CT scans, I had three to five years to live,” my father shouted. “How would you like that? I hear him telling me that every night before I go to bed. I’m not going back there. At least Dr. Barren thinks he can do something for me.”

“Mom said Dr. Barren thinks the lung cancer is unrelated to your prostate cancer,” I said. “She said Dr. Barren is sending you to a surgeon who removes lung cancer when he’s not working as a cardiologist. Shit Dad, you want a specialist, someone who does nothing but lungs. You don’t want some part-time lung doctor opening you up.”

“I don’t feel good about that either,” my dad said. “But Dr. Barren says he can help me. What the fuck? What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m so fucked up!”

“I’ll find you a specialist at Northwestern.”

“Evanston,” my father said. “I don’t want to go into the city. I don’t want your mother to have to drive all the way downtown when I’m dying in the hospital.”

“Fine,” I said.

As good as a martini sounds right now, I’d be ineffective in this cancer nightmare if I were drinking.

[Tuesday, November 11]

Charlie never asks about my father. He doesn’t seem to give a shit. Charlie works, brings home a paycheck, and wants to get laid. That’s it. He rarely strikes up a conversation, and I can’t remember him ever sharing anything personal with me. I’ve stopped talking to him, and I don’t think he’s noticed.