Crazy Love You (39 page)

“Ian,” she said. “How are you today?”

She stood and shook my hand, gestured to the couch, and then sat in an oversize leather chair across from it. I settled in. My hours with her were long and painful, my only comfort was her long shapely legs, her silky blue-black hair. She tried to hide it, her hotness, in loose dresses and big, dark-framed glasses. But it was like trying to hide the blaze of a klieg light.

“Getting there,” I said.

“Getting where?” she asked, never one to let a colloquialism slide. She was not a native speaker. She was Brazilian, her accent thick and sweet like cocoa.

“You know,” I said. “There. To the place where I want to be. Sobriety. Normalcy. Megan and our baby.”

“You must be proud of the progress you've made so far,” she said.

No, I wasn't proud of my progress. That was one of the more annoying things about this place. Everyone was so self-congratulatory. Every tiny victory was met with thunderous applause. But people were here only because they'd fucked up their lives and probably the lives of everyone else they knew. We were clawing our way back to a starting point, seeking forgiveness, atoning for our many sins, paying for crimes we'd committed. Was I supposed to be
proud
that I was
somewhat
less of a fuckup than I'd been four months ago.

“I am,” I said, with my imitation of a confident nod. “Thanks to you and all the people here.”

“We just hold the door open,” she said. “You have to chose to walk inside and do all the hard work when you get here.”

I gave her a modest but acknowledging nod. I knew it was what she wanted from me. One had to take responsibility for one's own sobriety. Because in the end, you're the only one who can keep you that way. To give away your power to others is the first step back to your addiction—whatever it is.

She had my file on her desk. I knew they were getting ready to kick me out of this place. I had completed the program. It was time for me to reenter the real world, which was weirdly scary and a big relief.

“Ian,” she said. “As you know, you have completed the program here at New Reflections. This will be your final week with us.”

“Okay,” I said. “That's great.”

“How do you feel about that? Would you like to discuss it?”

I rubbed at my shoulder, which had been hurting. That was another thing about being sober. I was tuned into my body in a whole new way. And I didn't really like it. I had all kinds of aches and pains. I used to just pop a pill for whatever ailed me. Those days were gone.

“I am eager to start my life again,” I said. “Our baby is due in three months, and we have plans to build a new house. So there's a lot to look forward to.”

She nodded, waiting. As usual, I tried to figure out what she wanted me to say.

“But I suppose I'm a little nervous,” I went on. “This is such a safe environment, so predictable.”

“We are always here for you,” she said. “And you'll continue as an outpatient for another six months or as long as you wish.”

I would not be returning to the candy store that was Manhattan—that island of temptation and debauchery. Meg's apartment was on the market, and she was renting a place for us off the precious little main square in town. Yes, Megan and I were moving to The Hollows. We would use the money from the sale to build Meg's dream house, the place where we would raise our family. With a little help from Binky and Julia, who, though not pleased with anything that was currently happening, were predictably supportive.

What could they do? Meg had chosen to stay with me, against all advice and good sense. She loved me; I was the father of her child. But there were conditions: one was that I stay sober and the second was that we not return to Manhattan. It was such a perfect trap that The Hollows had laid for me that I almost had to laugh. Almost.

Does this seem like an odd choice? That I would return to The Hollows after all my passionate declarations to the contrary. Sometimes the choices we make are not choices at all, but concessions to forces beyond our control.

“And, as you say, you have a lot of reasons to be well,” said the doctor.

Megan saw Manhattan as a threat to my sobriety. It was the place where my various addictions had unlimited supply. I had a million opportunities to do the wrong thing. And it was widely agreed in the sobriety community that one should not return to the old hood if it could be helped. New self, new start, new place—you got it—new reflections. Even if, for me, the new place was the old place.

From beneath the file, the doctor pulled out a newspaper—
The Hollows Gazette.

“I was interested to read about the restoration project you're planning,” she said.

She handed me the paper, and I looked at the article of interest.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”

With the help of Eloise Montgomery, who had been to visit me several times once visitors were allowed, I have arranged for the old church and graveyard on the land that edges my property to be restored. Joy Martin, of The Hollows Historical Society, agreed to work with the same architect who was building my house, to save what could be saved of the old structure and rebuild the rest. The gravestones would be restored and reerected, the grounds cleaned and relandscaped. And I agreed to maintain the property.

A recent royalty payment, which included my cut of the sales of that Fatboy mask, had left me flush again. There was money, and with the new contract I was about to sign, in addition to the movie rights to the series that just sold to a major studio, there would be money for the foreseeable future. I would use that money to rebuild my life, yes, but also to right some wrongs—and not just my wrongs. Because in The Hollows it was not enough to atone for your own sins. The land demanded more.

The church would serve as a memorial to all the men who died in mining accidents in The Hollows. There would be a plaque that recounted the history of the industry and what it has meant to our region—for better and for worse. There would be photographs on the walls, as well as a book containing the names of the dead.

“I think it's very healing,” the therapist said. “To honor Priss in this way.”

“She deserves it,” I said.

Dr. Sanchez is the only therapist I have ever had who did not demand that I denounce Priss, pretend that she was some figment of my imagination, that she never existed. Don't get me wrong. Dr. Sanchez didn't believe that Priss was a real entity, a haunting, a ghost that almost destroyed me—she thinks Priss was a product of my pill-addled psyche, an archetype for my rage, a symbol of all my repressed anger toward my murderous mother. In other words, she believed that Priss was real to me—and that I had to deal with her as I would deal with any other person in my life. Part of recovering from addiction is to make amends to those you have wronged, and to forgive those who have wronged you. There can be no more holding on to the past. Love lets go.

I finished my session and went back to my room, where I took a shower and put on a pair of jeans, a blue-and-white-checked shirt that Megan had bought me. I was meeting her in the cafeteria for lunch. She'd had her doctor's appointment today, and I was looking forward to going with her to the next one. So far, she'd had to go to her checkups alone—which I hated. But I had a lifetime to make amends, and I planned to do so.

Don't let her turn you into one of those millennium nerds, Ian. One of those neutered, so sensitive, stay-at-home-dad types.
Her voice was still with me, sarcastic, knowing. But I was going to let Megan turn me into whatever she wanted me to be. At least I wouldn't be an addict and an asshole.

•  •  •

Megan was waiting for me when I arrived in the cafeteria, smiling brightly. I kissed her, sat down next to her.

“How'd it go?”

She kept on smiling, slid a piece of paper over to me. I flipped it over and saw a grainy sonogram image. A little peanut, floating in space. I stared at the perfect profile—round cheeks and upturned nose. The little hands were clasped together.

“The sonogram was today?” I said.

I felt surprisingly sad, left out. It was something I'd fantasized about, that moment when, through one of the miracles of modern medicine, I could see our baby on a screen. I should have been there to hold Meg's hand, to wipe away her joyful tears. Megan's smile faded a little as she realized what I was thinking.

“Oh,” she said. She put her hands on top of mine. “I'm sorry. I should have waited. You're right.”

“No,” I said. “No. It's okay. I'm happy.”

“The face,” I said. I held up the sonogram image again, looked at it closely. “I can see you.”

“I thought so, too! I wouldn't let them tell me if it was a boy or a girl,” she said. Her excitement, her joy, was contagious. Whatever sadness I'd felt, faded. It was okay. It was just one moment; I'd be there for all the others. Lucky for me.

•  •  •

I don't know who pushed Megan onto the tracks that night, but it wasn't me. It couldn't have been me. That Fatboy mask; there are tens of thousands of them floating around New York. And a certain element has taken to using them in the commission of crimes. This fact has saved me. The police have not charged me. Megan will not believe that it was me. But Binky and Julia . . . they despise and fear me. They are not sure who or what I am, what I am capable of doing. They only know I have their daughter in my clutches, and so they keep me close. You should see the way Julia looks at me when she thinks I'm not watching.

I know you
, Megan said.
I look into your face and I see pain, yes. But I only see goodness beneath that. You are not Fatboy. You are Ian, my baby's father.

Thank God for her, really. I would not, could not survive this without her. It was Megan who forced me to face down my haunting demons. It was my love for her that forced me to swim the river. What would have become of me on the other side? I shudder to think.

Sitting now in the sunny cafeteria, she chatted happily about the house. The plans were done. The baby was healthy in spite of the two bad falls Megan took. She'd been worried about that, she admitted now. But it was okay. Of course it was. And she'd been to see Joy Martin, who showed her some preliminary plans for the restored church and graveyard. She'd visited my mother, brought her some new clothes, as I'd requested.

“You know,” she said. She took a sip of soup. “I know you never thought you'd be back in The Hollows. But I love it. It's so strange, but it feels like home to me.”

I tried to ignore that tickle of fear that traveled down my gullet to my belly. Megan had picked up a big piece of chocolate pie from the case, and I took it from her tray and shoveled it into my mouth. I ate half of it in two bites. I had put on weight in here, nearly ten pounds. You had to have
something
, didn't you?

“I guess it
is
home,” I said.

There must have been an unintended dark note in my tone, because I felt her go quiet in that way she has. I kept eating.

“Are you going to be okay here?” she asked when the pie was gone.

“Of course,” I said. I wiped the cream and chocolate from my mouth. “It's what you want. It's what you both want.”

She nodded, but she didn't look as happy as she had when she arrived.

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

•  •  •

What did she want?
Eloise had asked on her first visit to New Reflections. And I told her because there was no one else to tell. A mild look of surprise softened her features, then disappeared into its usual gentle neutrality.

And you're going to give that to her?

What choice do I have?
I had asked. She didn't have an answer, and she knew it.

You said that we were all connected
, I went on.
That we are all points of light on an infinite web.

Yes.

Well, some of us are more connected than others.

More silence from Eloise.

Me and Priss. We can't be apart; it won't work.

By the time I was released from rehab a week later, No Paine Construction had already cleared the new home site and had started laying in the foundation. Megan had brought me pictures. The new house was set back from the land where the old one had been. And a circular driveway would be laid where my childhood home had been. I was trying to see it all as a fresh start, one in which I'd torn down the past and started anew. I was surprised by the speed of the builders, but I guess I shouldn't have been.

When things are right, they're right
, Megan said. And she sounded so sure of herself that I had no choice but to believe her.

I was jittery and nervous as I packed my things. I didn't have much, which gave me some clarity about my mother's situation. In a place like this, you need next to nothing. I wasn't as happy as I had imagined I'd be, graduating rehab. I was starting to understand why my mother had chosen her institutional existence. It was easy, once you got the hang of it; you made no decisions—not even about what to eat or when. I wished I was more excited to be going home. Of course, the place we were renting off the square wasn't really home.

“Don't be concerned if you're not giddy with relief,” Dr. Sanchez had warned me earlier that day. “There's a long road ahead of you, and you're smart enough to know that. Just keep your life small right now. Focus on Megan and the baby, your work. Stay home, cook. Do things you haven't done before.”

“Right,” I said. “That's exactly my plan.”

There had been a small party that morning with my various counselors and some other patients, who looked at me with expressions ranging from envy to terror. Lots of awkward hugs and averted eyes. Everyone was on their own trip there; some of us would make it and some wouldn't. I wasn't totally sure in which group I would fall.