Ninety Days (2 page)

After coffee, Jack takes me to another meeting of the same organization, a few blocks away, in the basement of a beautiful old brick church. It’s the meeting, he says, where he got sober. The one he goes to still. As we head back through the courtyard toward the meeting, we bump into a few people who nod hello to Jack, sometimes giving him a gentle hug and moving on. He smiles and waves to several others and as he leads me toward the front row I feel proud to be with him. It strikes me then, as it has before, that I barely know him. I don’t know his boyfriend’s name, most of his friends, or where he lives in the city, but I imagine him a sober superhero, a kind of Clark Kent by day and Super Sponsor by night. I look around the room at the dozens and dozens of people sitting in folding chairs—sipping coffee, talking, waiting for the meeting to begin—and no one seems as attractive and confident and kind as Jack does. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude that he stepped into my life when he did. We’ve spoken on the phone at least once a day since Lenox Hill, and he’s talked me through a whole universe of panics.
What a miracle this guy is,
I think, and as I do he tells me I need to raise my hand during the meeting and let the whole room know that I just got out of rehab and that this is my first day back in town.

There are over fifty people in the room. There were only four other patients in rehab, so the group meetings were never this large or remotely this intimidating. I shake my head no and Jack leans in and says,
You don’t have a choice. We had a deal: As long as you follow my suggestions, I’m your sponsor. If you don’t, I’m not.
And so, a few minutes later, when the guy running the meeting asks if there is anyone in the room under ninety days, I raise my hand and do what I’m told.

The meeting ends and many people, mostly men and gay at that, linger in the courtyard afterwards. Within a minute, a group of guys—young, skinny, with exquisite hair and many, I notice, wearing white belts—come over to say hi. They welcome me and ask if I would like to join them for dinner.
Thanks,
I say graciously,
but I’m having dinner with my sponsor.
But when the last word is out of my mouth I hear Jack behind me saying,
No you’re not.
I turn to look at him and see the stern face of a parent ditching his kid at sleep-away camp. Before I can say another word he gives me a hug and tells me to leave him a message on his voice mail when I get home. As I watch him go I consider sneaking back to Charles Street, but too many people are introducing themselves, handing me their phone numbers scrawled on little scraps of paper, for me to be able to disappear unnoticed.

So I go to dinner. The group consists of fifteen guys at least. All gay. Most young. Some cute. Most not. All loud. As we walk toward Chelsea I try to lag behind so it doesn’t appear that I’m with them, but each time I do someone drops back to chat with me.
How much time do you have?
is the usual question and I answer,
Fifty-nine days.
I’m embarrassed to tell them my story so I just allude to a rough patch. They seem to get it and don’t press.

Eventually we end up at the New Venus diner in Chelsea, where the waiters shove a bunch of tables together to form one long one at the front of the restaurant. In the scuffle of who-sits-where, I wind up toward the end, near the door. As I take my seat, I see a tall, pale guy with red hair and a white Izod shirt sit down directly across from me. He looks Scottish, but too exotic to be Scottish. Maybe Scandinavian, I think, but then wonder if there are red-haired Scandinavians. He’s very fit, very pale, loaded with freckles, and his clothes seem to glow they are so clean.
Hi,
he says.
I’m Asa.

Asa is a few years younger than I am, in graduate school for urban planning, and has been sober three years from a heroin addiction that wiped out his savings and forced him to drop out of school. When I ask him about the red hair he tells me it’s a mystery, no one in his family has it, just as no one in his family is an alcoholic or addict. He was raised in what he describes as an eccentric Presbyterian household in Baltimore, but unless there is a meeting being held in one, he no longer goes to church. He seems too well educated and serious for this gaggle of former club kids, but he couldn’t appear more comfortable in their company. I tell him my story and he listens and nods and asks the occasional question. I worry that he thinks I’m making up the parts about the agency, Noah, the life I once had, and the two months in hotel rooms that ended it. But at the same time I don’t want him to think that I’m trying to impress or shock him. I want to tell him I wasn’t always this pathetic, this broken, that it took a long time to get here and no one saw it happening. No one, that is, except Noah. When I hear myself say I used to go to London a lot, I realize I
am
trying to impress him and shut up.

Dinner ends and we talk on the corner of 22nd Street and Eighth Avenue as one by one the sweet, noisy boys I’m embarrassed to be seen with disappear into the night.
Call me,
most say, but I’ve already thrown out their numbers in the bathroom at the diner. Asa, I’ve decided, is the one I can relate to. He has the same cautious, easy-does-it tone that Jack has but he’s less distant, softer. He tells me about a meeting I should try. Everyone calls it The Library because it’s located in some kind of research library and, it turns out, it’s a few blocks from One Fifth, where I lived with Noah until two months ago. He describes the people there as a mix of gay and straight, educated and not, all very serious about sobriety. He gives me the address—which I write down on the slip of paper where I’ve written Dave’s Charles Street address—and tells me to meet him there tomorrow, ten minutes before the 12:30 meeting.

It’s late. Midnight or after. We walk a few blocks and I say good-bye to Asa on the corner of 17th Street and Eighth Avenue.
I’ll see you at the meeting,
he says and reminds me again where it is and when.
Absolutely,
I say, pathetically grateful I have somewhere to go tomorrow, someone to meet. I realize that beyond this and dinner with my friend Jean later in the week, I have no plans. No lunches, dinner parties, movie dates, plays, concerts, conference calls, business trips, breakfast meetings. Nothing. Asa gives me a hug and walks east down 17th Street. I watch him go, watch his white shirt and red hair bob through the dark until they disappear.

I get lost on my way back to Dave’s writing studio on Charles Street. I’m not familiar with the West Village even though I’ve lived four blocks east of here for six years and a few blocks north for three. The streets jumble together, and after going this way and that, each time I’m convinced I’ve finally figured out where I am, I stumble—again and then again—onto Seventh Avenue. It’s as if a spell has been cast and I’m doomed to end up there no matter what route I take. I’m exhausted and consider hailing a cab but I’m too broke and too embarrassed to ask for a ride that may be only one block. I feel as if I’m twenty-one again and have just moved to New York from Connecticut. I’m lost, have no apartment, no job, no family, no spouse. No one is expecting me. Every lit window taunts with the smug glow of an enviable life. Through heavy drapes and tasseled blinds I see the edges of beautiful living rooms shining with lamps and polished wood, perfectly littered with framed but not yet hung art and piles of books. Couples scurry home, leaning into each other, whispering stories and stressing opinions.
Do they know how lucky they are?
I think as they rush toward what I imagine are paid-for, mortgage-less, rent-free apartments and town houses. I watch them and wonder what Noah is doing. My chest tightens as I picture him winding down the evening with someone else, the two of them returning home together as we had countless times. I imagine him telling the story of his awful addict ex-boyfriend for the first time to astonished, sympathetic ears.

I finally end up back on Charles Street. All the buildings look the same, so I double-check the scrap of paper to make sure I have the right address. It’s now almost one o’clock and every light in the building is off. I fiddle with the lock, turn the key, and, as softly as I can, enter the vestibule. I take my shoes off—gently, quietly—and toe the first step. The wood beneath the carpet croaks like the loudest frog. How can I ascend these stairs without making a racket? How do I get back to the safe, chandeliered little apartment without waking the whole building? I climb the second and third steps and they’re even louder than the first. I’m sure the woman on the second floor is already calling Dave. Telling him that the hooligan staying in his apartment is thrashing in the stairwell, waking everyone. I can almost hear Dave cursing to Susie, swearing to her that this is the last straw, that he can no longer help me and I will need to find somewhere else to crash while I get back on my feet.

I go slowly. I stop and start dozens of times on the stairs and rest even longer on the first- and second-floor landings. I’m almost to the third floor, nearly at the top of the last flight, when I lose my grip on one of the shoes and—
oh God no
—it falls and bangs loudly down the entire flight of stairs. When it finally smacks against the landing below I freeze and listen for footfalls, creaking floorboards, any signs of suddenly awake tenants. A few minutes pass and with my breath held I reach up and place the remaining shoe at the top of the stairs so I don’t drop it. I inch back down until I reach the landing. The steps creak and belch the whole way and my progress—with numerous stops and starts—is excruciatingly slow. I pick up the renegade shoe and squeeze and twist and shake the thing viciously to punish it for causing so much trouble.

I turn back and look up the narrow flight of stairs to the third-floor landing. Nothing has ever seemed so far away. I consider going to sleep right where I stand. I can’t bear the sound of another plank of wood screaming under my feet. How did I end up here? Homeless, broke, alone, and frozen with panic on the second-floor landing of someone else’s building? How will I ever put my life back together? I stand very still.

Shaking off the drowsiness that’s tugging my eyes closed and making my body sag against the wall, I try to be hopeful. The apartment is only one more flight. If I’m quiet enough no one will hear me. If I’m careful enough no one will be angry. The air is damp in the stairwell and my shirt is soaked through with sweat. I imagine everyone in the city safely tucked away in their beds. I wonder again if Noah is alone or with someone. I think of the thirty-one days I have to go until I reach ninety and decide, ominously, that it’s easier to count days in psych wards and rehab, not so easy in the city.

Up ahead, the other shoe is sitting at the top of the stairs, exactly where I left it. It’s inches from Dave’s door, steps from the pullout bed I can collapse into and the pile of blankets I can hide beneath. Eventually, I move toward the bottom step. The wood moans under my feet. My damp back itches but I don’t dare scratch it. A toilet flushes on a higher floor and a door slams somewhere below. I wait for what seems like forever before taking the next step. There is a long way to go.

Sixty days.
It’s my first thought before opening my eyes after a restless night on Dave’s pullout. And then:
Thirty to go.
I look at my watch and it’s a few minutes past nine. I jump from the creaky pullout, hurry through my shower, get dressed, fold the mattress back into the couch, rearrange the cushions, and tidy up the place. I want to be up and out by the time Dave arrives. I don’t want to be underfoot and, more than that, I don’t want—not right now—to see him. I can’t bear that look of worry on his face. Though we’ve been friends for years, the look belongs to someone more warden than friend. It says without saying a word,
Get sober and then we’ll talk,
and I don’t blame him. So I tiptoe down those wretched steps and leave for the day.

It’s almost ten by the time I’m out of the building. I buy a cup of coffee from the closest bodega and wander around the neighborhood to get my bearings. None of it seems familiar. I’ve lived in New York for twelve years and I feel like I’ve never been here before. It’s quiet and leafy and appears unimaginably expensive. Every shop is one I haven’t seen before, every restaurant a place I can’t afford. I eventually make my way toward the meeting to see Asa, as planned, and as I’m approaching 10th Street and Fifth Avenue I remember a deal I struck with Jack: never to step within a two-block radius of One Fifth. This rules out Washington Square Park, all of University Place and Sixth Avenue between 8th and 10th Streets, and Fifth Avenue south of 10th Street. I’m also not to go within a two-block radius of Sixth Avenue and Houston, where my old drug buddy Mark’s apartment is and where much of my last drug use happened. The area around the now shut literary agency I co-owned, just north of Madison Square Park, is also off-limits. These places are what Jack calls triggers and I am to avoid them at all costs. For a moment I worry that the meeting where I’m joining Asa is off-
​limits
, but then realize it sits on the 10th Street border, half a block east of Fifth. If it were one door south of 10th Street, I wouldn’t be able to go.

I reach Fifth Avenue—the first time since coming home—and as the old familiar Art Deco tower that is One Fifth comes into view I feel like a ghost haunting my old life. How many times did I rush down this street toward home, worrying that Noah had changed the locks? How many times did I walk up Fifth toward the agency with a blistering hangover, gutted from being up the night before? Standing on the same pavement where I once walked with such agony I can’t help but wonder:
How was I that person? How did it go on for so long?
I walk toward the meeting and begin to think I should never have come back, that I should have accepted my sister Kim’s offer to live with her in Maine. How did I think it was possible to be here? Every inch of this neighborhood carries a memory of my life before. I look south, toward Washington Square Park, and I can see, just a few blocks away, the two oversized green awnings of One Fifth jutting out over the sidewalk. As clear as day I can see the corner windows of the apartment where Noah and I lived for six years, where Noah still lives. The last six weeks have passed in hospital rooms, rehab, and, last night, an unfamiliar apartment. Everything that has happened—breaking up with Noah, everyone knowing I’m a crack addict, the end of my career, the company gone, all the anger and disappointment—these things have all registered, yes, but collectively and in the abstract. This moment, however, is as concrete as the sidewalk I am standing on. This place before me—with shining windows and green awnings flapping in the breeze—was home and now is not. I no longer belong here. From some far memory comes the doomy voice of my childhood piano teacher, who predicted, after too many hours spent attempting to teach my distracted, unpracticed self, that I would one day grow up to become a crack addict, just as the most notorious girl in my hometown had.
You’ll have your comeuppance,
she forecast on more than one occasion, without a hint of doubt in her Irish brogue.
One day you’ll have a rude awakening, and when you do it will take your breath away.
And so it has.

I turn onto the street where the meeting is and see a blond woman pushing a stroller toward me. It’s Jane, an old friend of Noah’s from Yale and the wife of a former client whom I haven’t spoken to in many months. Jane’s also a bestselling and highly respected author, and as she approaches I think,
Of all the people in the world who I could run into, why her?
As she looks up it occurs to me that she might not say a word, that she may just pass me by and pretend I’m not there. Of course she will. I’m a pariah now. That’s what people do when they encounter a pariah. They don’t see them.

Jane slows down, kick-locks the stroller, and steps toward me. Without a word, she gently grabs my arms, pulls me in, and kisses me on the cheek. Quick, without ceremony, over-before-it’s-happened. She pats my shoulders, looks at me tenderly, and steps away.
Jane,
is all I manage to stammer before she’s unlocked the stroller and is off again down the street.

It’s 12:25 and I’m already late to meet Asa. I sprint toward the meeting, still bewildered by Jane’s kindness. I see the research library where the meeting is held and go in. The security guard asks me to sign a sheet and tells me the meeting is on the fifth floor.
How does he know I’m going to the meeting?
I think, worried that I look as unbuckled as I feel. I scribble my name and the time, and hurry up the stairs. On the fifth floor there is a reading room with beautifully carved bookshelves and wide panes of glass that look out onto the planted terraces and curtained windows adorning the backs of town houses and apartment buildings on 11th Street. Something about the room feels familiar, tugs at an old memory, like a room from a house I knew in childhood, but I know I’ve never been here before. Midday light streams in from the windows. Before I look around for Asa I sit down, rest my chin against my chest, close my eyes, and exhale. The shaky alienation I felt on the street just minutes ago calms with each breath. I feel small but safe, and at the edge of tears. I look up and Asa is in the seat next to me. Perfect khakis, black Izod, pink belt, freckled everywhere.
Hi,
he says, smiling.
I wondered if you’d show.
His red hair, in the gushing light, glows like a halo. It’s preposterous, I know this, but it really does. He puts his hand on my shoulder, this person I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours but who feels like my best friend in the world. He puts his hand on my shoulder, leans forward, and gives me a powerful hug.
You’re a mess,
he says.
You’re a mess and you’re going to be just fine.