Some Are Sicker Than Others (32 page)

The room filled with a couple of giggles.

“See, you all know what I’m talking about. You’re starting to notice your fellow patients and their perky breasts and their cute little behinds.”

Even more giggles.

“Am I right? Then, before you know it, this gal or guy you’ve been noticing is pouring out their guts in group therapy, going on and on about their innermost, personal feelings and you think to yourself,
oh my god, I’m in love
.”

More chuckles…more giggles.

“But please, believe me when I tell you, that it is most certainly not love. It is your disease. It is your disease tricking you. It wants you to take attention away from your recovery. It wants you to think you’ve found your true love here in rehab and are ready to go away, get married, quit the program, and start having babies. But that’s not true. That’s not reality. You cannot have a normal relationship until you first learn how to live without drugs and alcohol. And you cannot love somebody else until you first learn how to love yourself.”

Dexter paused and looked directly at Monty, as if what he’d just said was supposed to have some kind of special meaning. But it wasn’t new, it wasn’t special—it was the same bullshit he’d been hearing the past year from Robby…how he and Vicky shouldn’t have been together…how they were too young, too early in their own recoveries…how they needed to wait at least a year before they started seeing each other, otherwise they might relapse and leave the program. But, was Robby right? Did any of that happen? Hell no. Nothing could take away what he felt for Vicky—no drugs, no alcohol, no sponsors, nothing. Their love was stronger than this so-called
disease
. And if it hadn’t been for the accident, they’d still be together, engaged, in love, clean and sober. If he would’ve just pulled over and spent the night in Boulder, none of this would’ve happened—she’d still be here.

Monty sighed and took a deep breath inward while rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers. When he looked back up, he noticed that Dexter had switched from evangelical preacher to traveling salesman and was talking about how wonderful a rehab this was to be in. “Now, this facility,” he said, pacing in front of the horseshoe, “is the only one of its kind in the entire nation. In other places, they keep the men and women completely segregated. But, I and the other counselors here believe that severely limits what you are able to learn in here. We believe it is tremendously valuable to learn from one another, including members of the opposite sex. We believe that quantum leaps can be made in recovery by listening to one another, and I would never, ever, ever, wanna take that away from any of you. But, for your safety and the safety of your fellow patients, there shall be no touching, flirting, petting, hugging, kissing, or anything even remotely close to it. If one of your fellow patients is going through some trauma, please do not be a shoulder for them to cry on. Give them a tissue and let your counselor know that someone is having a problem. Let the counselors handle it. They are the professionals. That goes back to respect for the staff.”

He pointed back up to the word
STAFF
.

“You are here to learn about your disease and work on your own personal recovery. You are not here to work on each other’s recovery. Each and every one of you is sick. Some are sicker than others, but we’ve all got to work on our own personal recovery. And under no circumstance, should the men be on the women’s floor and the women on the men’s floor. In fact, no one should be upstairs during the day at all, unless you have first gotten your counselor’s permission. If you are caught upstairs, where you aren’t supposed to be, without your counselor’s approval, you will be asked to leave Sanctuary. No refund. You will be kicked out of here faster than you can zip up your jeans and put your thingy back where it belongs. Then you can explain to your family why you wasted their money and abused their trust just so you could satisfy a little tingling in your loins. Are there any questions about this?”

He paused and waited for any questions, but no one’s hand went up.

“No questions?” he said. “Going once…twice…okay, gone. Thank you for your time everybody and I will see you back here after lunch for your break-out groups.” Dexter smiled and pulled on his double-breasted jacket then trotted up the steps and disappeared into the kitchen. The patients all stood up and pulled on their winter coats and beanies then wandered out the door onto the back porch.

Dave let out a groan then leaned forward and stacked up his empty cups of coffee. “Well kid,” he said, as he pulled his right leg out in front of him, “I guess we’re outta luck. It sounds like we’re not gonna get to do too much fooling around in here. That sucks. There sure are a lot of good-looking girls in here. Did you see that one up there who was reading? What was her name, Jenny?” He drew out a long whistle. “She was pretty cute, wasn’t she?”

“I guess.”

“Hell yeah she was. Better be careful though. I bet most of these girls in here are nut jobs.” Dave smirked and reached into his jacket pocket then pulled out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “Come on,” he said to Monty, “let’s go get a smoke.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You’re shittin’ me. You don’t smoke?”

“Nope.”

“Shit, you’re probably the only one in here who doesn’t.”

“Yeah, I know. I usually am.”

“Well, good for you.” Dave patted him on the shoulder. “Shit’s bad for you. Come on outside with me anyway. I don’t wanna be alone with these fucking whackos.”

“What the hell.” Monty pushed himself up and struggled into his black jacket then followed Dave across the meeting hall and out onto the back porch. The sun was out and the snow was melting, turning the yard into a giant, vanilla Slurpee.

“Hey, look at that,” Dave said, pointing across the yard. “It looks like it’s actually starting to warm up for a change.”

“Yeah, finally. I can’t stand this cold.”

“Ah, it’s not that bad once you get used to it. So, where you wanna sit?”

Monty shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“How ‘bout up there?”

Monty looked to where Dave was pointing. There was a small, white veranda looking out over the backyard picnic tables. “You think we’re allowed to go up there?”

“I don’t see why not. Come on, let’s check it out.”

“Okay.”

They walked through the backyard and ascended the spiral staircase. The steps were icy and a bit narrow. Monty had to concentrate. He was still a little woozy from all those Benzos.

When he got to the top, he went to the railing and looked out over the stretch of snow-covered forest. There was nothing but miles and miles of evergreens in every direction—it looked like something out of a Robert Frost poem. No towns, no cars, no bars, no traffic…no drugs, no dealers, no liquor stores, no nothing. He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the railing then closed his eyes and soaked in the warm sun. “It’s nice up here.”

“Yeah, it sure beats being down there with all those nut jobs.”

Monty opened his eyes then turned away from the railing. Dave was sitting at a glass table underneath the house’s overhang. “You wanna sit down?” he said, as he lit his cigarette then took a drag and let the smoke curl away from his lips.

“Sure.”

Monty pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. The seat was wet from the snow melting and dripping off the overhang.

“Careful,” Dave said. “It’s a little wet.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Dave took another drag and expelled it upward then looked over at Monty as if he wanted to say something. “So,” he said, contemplating the end of his cigarette, “you still wanna hear my story?”

“Sure. But, only if you want to tell me.”

“I do, but you gotta promise not to tell any of these other whack jobs in here. I don’t want any of ‘em knowing my business.”

“Okay, I promise…but I have a feeling they’re going to find out sooner or later. I’ve been in these kind of places before and by the end of the first week everybody usually knows everybody else’s business.”

“Well then fuck it. I guess it doesn’t really matter then, does it?” Dave sat up and readjusted his posture as if he was about to launch into a serious dissertation. “The reason I’m in here isn’t because I’m an addict.”

“No?”

“Nope. It’s because my bitch of a wife called the fucking cops on me.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“What were you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why’d she call the cops on you? What were you doing?”

“Oh.” Dave snorted and leaned forward. Monty could see the annoyance bubbling on his face.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I’ll tell you. You seem cool.” He took another drag and put out his cigarette then loosened his collar as if he was a criminal on the stand being cross-examined. “Alright, here it goes.”

He took a deep breath then launched into a story about how he got pulled over while driving a school bus up to Estes Park. It seemed his wife called the cops on him and got him arrested for kidnapping his son, Larry, and taking him on the bus. The story was kind of convoluted and didn’t make a whole lot of sense to Monty. Why would his wife call the cops on him? And why would they arrest him? What was he doing? Was he being reckless? Was he driving too fast?

“Wait a minute,” Monty said, interrupting him, “I’m a little confused. Why did the cops arrest you? Were you driving too fast?”

“What? No, I told you. It’s because my wife called them.”

“Yeah, I understand that, but what grounds did they have for arresting you? I mean, they can’t just throw you in prison for no reason.”

“Oh, well they found my stash.”

“Stash of what?”

“Crack.”

Ah-ha. There it was. That explained it. Finally, the story was starting to make some sense. “Okay, now I see,” Monty said. “So, you were smoking crack and driving a school bus?”

“Well, not at the same time. I mean, I pulled over at a gas station. I’m not an idiot.”

“Right, right.” Monty tried his best to conceal his laughter, but the mental image was horrifically hilarious—this guy high off of crack behind the wheel of a school bus barreling down the mountains with the cops chasing after him. It sounded less like reality and more like television, like something he’d seen in a Bill Murray movie.

Monty sat up and put on his best poker face, squeezing the ends of the armrests. “So, your wife called the cops on you?”

“Yeah.”

“Was she on the bus too?”

“What? No man. She was at court all day.”

“Well then how did she know where you were?”

“She always knows where I am. She’s a fucking lawyer.”

“Oh, okay, that explains it.” Monty rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe this guy was serious. What was he talking about? Was he crazy? “Okay,” Monty said. “So, your wife’s a lawyer.”

“Yeah.”

“And she called the cops on you.”

“Right.”

“Because you kidnapped your son, Larry?”

“Yes—I mean, no. I didn’t kidnap him. He’s my son too for Christ’s sake. I didn’t have time to take him all the way to Broomfield so I just took him with me up to the volleyball match. What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing, except…”

“Except what?”

Monty paused and considered his next words carefully. He didn’t want to get this guy too riled up. In addition to being mentally ill, he could also quite possibly be homicidal. “Well, you
were
driving around under the influence, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never driven around a little fucked up.”

“No I have, but—”

“But what? What’s the difference?”

“Well, I guess there is no difference, but I mean, if I got pulled over, I’d definitely know I deserved it.”

“Well, there’s the difference right there—I didn’t deserve it. The cops pulled me over for no fucking reason. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I wasn’t speeding.”

“But you were smoking crack.”

“Yeah, but how would they know that?”

“Well, your wife told them, right?”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The bitch turned me in. She betrayed me.”

“Well, maybe she was just worried about you. Maybe she thought you’d get into an accident.”

“No, Cheryl doesn’t care about anyone but herself. Why do you think she put me in here?”

“Uh…because you need help?”

“Fuck no. The only reason she put me in here was so she could divorce me. I won’t give her another kid, so she’s trying to get rid of me. She’s fucking evil, man, I’m telling you. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s cheating on me right now with one of her little, fucking lawyer buddies.”

Monty just shook his head. He didn’t know what else he could say to him. The guy was obviously too far in denial to listen to any reason. But, what did he care? It wasn’t his responsibility to try and play counselor. Why not just let the guy have his crazy delusion? He seemed harmless, albeit a bit deluded. At least he was in here and not out on the highway. It was only a matter of time before the crazy bastard killed someone.

Just then, Monty heard someone shouting at them from the backyard patio. He got up from his chair and peered out over the railing. It was Dexter. He was in the yard, calling up to them, yelling something about coming down for lunch.

Monty walked back across the veranda, turning to Dave before he started down the spiral staircase. “I think they’re starting to serve lunch. You want to go down there?”

Dave nodded and finished his cigarette then stomped it out on the balcony. “Hell yeah, let’s go. I’m fucking starving.”

The meeting hall had been transformed into a banquet style cafeteria. The horseshoe of chairs was gone, replaced by two columns of white, fiberglass top folding tables. The women were on one side and the men were on the other, and there was a constant carousel of patients going up and down the steps to the kitchen. They carried plastic plates that were loaded with fried chicken and what looked like mashed potatoes swimming in an ocean of gravy.