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“Even in rehab.”

W
hen I
get back to my room, I spend a long time talking myself out of packing my bags
and jumping the fence. I can’t believe I thought I could keep coming to rehab a
secret, especially so close to home. How stupid can I be?

Do you really want me to
answer that?

Shut it.

OK, OK. Calm down. The patients are supposed to be
anonymous, right? I mean, the whole world knows TGND is here, but that’s because
she’s an enormous celebrity. Who am I? Nobody. And Zack said he wouldn’t tell,
or couldn’t tell, which is just as good.

Besides, is it really that big a deal if Mom and
Dad find out? It’s not like they’re going to actually think I need to be in
rehab. They’ll know something’s up, and I’ll let them in on the secret and it’ll
be fine.

OK. Sounds like a plan. Though, just to be on the
safe side . . .

I take out the iTouch and send my dad an email
saying that I’m going on the road with some (made-up) band so my parents don’t
call the apartment. Then I eat enough dinner to ensure that I don’t give anyone
the impression that I still need “medical supervision” and try to ignore the
strong urge to down several glasses of wine with my Salisbury steak. When I
can’t, I take the two little pills that came with my dinner, and fall asleep at
seven thirty.

In the morning, I feel better than I have in a long
time, and I eat every bite of the breakfast Carol brings me. When I’m done, I
sit on my knees staring out the window until Carol comes to take me to see Dr.
Houston.

“Well, Katie,” he says after he’s given me another
physical exam. “I can see you’re doing better. I think we can move you out of
detox and into the cognitive therapy wing.”

Oh, thank God.
Learning the
steps,
here I come.

“That’s great.”

“However, before we can move you there, we need to
perform some diagnostic tests.”

I knew it was too good to be true.

“Why? I thought I was OK.”

“You are physically, but a lot of addicts have
other psychiatric issues.”

“I’m not crazy.”

I only do crazy things sometimes.

He lifts a pen out of the pocket of his white lab
coat and writes something on his clipboard. “It’s not a question of being crazy,
Katie. We simply need to make sure there aren’t any underlying disorders that
will impede your recovery.”

“What do I have to do?”

He takes some forms from a drawer and hands them to
me. “You can begin by completing this diagnostic test. It will give us your
basic psychological profile.” He unclips a couple of pieces of paper from his
clipboard. “You’ll also need to fill this out.”

I take it. It’s the “Are You an Alcoholic?” form
from two days ago. Joy.

“As you’re filling this out, I’d like you to think
about what your answers mean. About the impact alcohol has had in your
life.”

You mean all the good times? I’m guessing no.

Back in my room, I sit on my bed and work through
the tests. The psychological assessment is a series of multiple-choice questions
I vaguely remember from an Intro to Psychology class I took years ago. I toy
with the idea of answering “C” to every question but discard it as the bad idea
it is.

When I’m done, all I have left to do is discover
whether I’m an alcoholic. As if they can tell that by answering a few silly
questions. Well, here goes nothing.

Do you enjoy social events
more when there is alcohol present?
Well, obviously. Who doesn’t?
Yes.

Have you ever been unable to
remember events from the night before after drinking?
Yes,
thank God. Who wants to remember everything
they’ve done after a night of drinking?
Take that
“birthday girl” comment from Steve. I’m pretty sure I have no interest in
remembering all the gritty little details of that night.

Has drinking ever caused a
problem between you and a friend or relative?
Does Joanne count?
No.
Only . . . shit. What about
that fight with Rory? She definitely counts. Fine, fine.
No.
Yes.

Do you stop drinking after one
or two drinks, or keep drinking until you get drunk?
Duh. You’ve got
to keep the drinks rolling once you’ve started a buzz. Everybody knows that.
Coming down from a buzz is, well . . . a buzzkill. And nobody
likes a buzzkill.
Yes.

Have you ever attended an AA
meeting or other twelve-step program?
No way. Not unless you pay me.
Which I guess explains what I’m doing here.
No.

Have you had unprotected sex
because you were drunk?
Sigh.
Yes.
Only . . . hold on a sec. It wasn’t
because
I was drunk. I was just young and stupid and really, really
into Jack from my creative writing class. When we ended up half-naked at his
place after many rounds of cheap beer and he said he didn’t have a condom, I
told myself that he didn’t seem gay or have track marks and threw caution to the
wind. But I did think about it. I
might
have made
the same decision if I was sober. It’s possible.
Yes.
No.

Have you missed work or school
because of drinking?
Well, obviously, who hasn’t? If that’s a measure
of someone having a drinking problem, then every one of my friends, and most of
the population, has one too. OK, maybe the kids who go to Mormon college
wouldn’t qualify, but that’s about it.
Yes.

Can you drink more than most
of your friends?
Let’s see. Greer and Scott can definitely drink more
than me. Rob and Toni are kind of lightweights, and so is Rory. Joanne doesn’t
drink. Where does that leave me? I read the question again.
Mmm . . . “most of your friends.” What if it’s a tie? Ah,
fuck it.
Yes.

Does it take more alcohol to
get drunk now than when you started drinking?
Yes.
Of course it does. It’s called “tolerance,” and
it takes a while to build one up. And once you have, you have to maintain it.
It’s a survival tool, really. How else do you make it past midnight at a
university party?

Do you get drunk on a regular
basis?
Well . . . it’s not like I drink every day or
anything. At least, it’s not like I get drunk every day. Not every day. But
didn’t I tell Dr. Houston that I did? What did I tell him, anyway? The details
are a little fuzzy, but I seem to recall something about two bottles of wine a
day. Did I really say that? I guess that means . . .
Yes.

Have you ever tried to cut
down on your drinking?
Yes.
Wait a minute. Maybe that’s the wrong answer.
Didn’t I talk about this with Dr. Houston too? Why the hell is he making me
answer all these questions again? How am I supposed to keep all these details
straight? I hate this fucking questionnaire.
Yes.
No.

Do all of your friends drink
alcohol on a regular basis?
Finally, an easy question.
Yes.
I bloody well hope so.

Have you ever been arrested
for drunk driving?
Another easy one.
No.
Hah! See? I obviously don’t have a problem. I’m a safe drunk. I take cabs, I
walk, sometimes I let other people drive drunk, but I never do. Never. Well,
except for that one time when I drove Zack’s truck in high school, but that was
just in a field, and I’d only had like three wine coolers, maybe four.

Do you have a family history
of alcoholism?
Mmm . . . didn’t Uncle Brad have to go
away for a while? Wait. Was that rehab or just a mental institution? How did he
end up there again? Oh, right. He found his girlfriend kissing some other guy at
a bar and went crazy, smashing up the bar and the guy and maybe even his
girlfriend. Then he went on a three-day bender that ended when he wrapped his
car around a tree. Or something like that. It was hard to catch all the details
my mother was whispering over the phone to her sister.
I never saw Uncle Brad drinking any alcohol after that, though. He
always asked for seltzer. So, I guess . . .
Yes.

Last question.
Do you use
drugs on a regular basis?
No,
I write.
Only since I came
to rehab.

I
must’ve passed the test, because Carol’s leading me to my new digs in the
women’s wing, where I’ll spend the rest of my stay. As we walk through the
building, she explains that the Oasis presently has twelve patients and that
they never have more than twenty at any time.

I guess at $1,000 a day they can afford to keep it
exclusive.

“You’re going to be rooming with Amy,” Carol says
as we walk through the large common room that occupies the back of the main
building. “We like to pair newcomers with patients who’ve been working the
program well.”

“Does that mean she’ll be my sponsor?”

“No, you’ll get a sponsor when you join an AA or NA
group once you go home. Our focus is on cognitive therapy. You’ll learn how to
develop skills that will help you cope with life without using drugs or
alcohol.”

Right, I remember.
Coping
skills,
Days Five through forever.

“Is that what we do in group?”

“That’s right, but also in your individual therapy
sessions, which will be more focused on your particular issues. Your first
session is tomorrow morning with Dr. Bennett, who also leads group therapy.”

“So, that’s all we do? Individual therapy in the
morning and group in the afternoon?”

“We have guest speakers sometimes as well.”

Now that sounds more interesting.

“Like celebrities?”

She frowns. “The speakers are generally former
patients who’ve stayed sober. But since you brought it up . . .
As you already know, we sometimes do have celebrity patients, but it’s important
not to treat them any differently. They’re just like you: addicts trying to get
help.”

“So who’s here? Would I know them?”

“Katie . . .”

“OK, OK, I got it. No asking for autographs. Don’t
worry. I can behave.”

She stops in front of a nondescript door. “Good.
Well, here we are.”

She knocks and opens the door. The room is much
like the one I just left (barred window, simple furnishings, blue bedspreads,
faint whiff of institution) but big enough for two twin beds with a nightstand
in between. There’s evidence of my new roommate on the bed nearest the door, but
she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Group starts in twenty minutes in the common room.
I’ve left a list of the house rules on your bed. Do you need anything else?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

She pulls me into another one of her tight hugs. I
give her back a few halfhearted pats, hoping she won’t notice my lack of
response.

“This is where it really starts, Katie. And you
only get out what you put in.”

Funny, that’s the same thing my trainer said when I
decided to try getting into shape a few years ago. The gym membership was Rory’s
Christmas present to me, and I’d been really determined. That was, until I was
put through a rigorous series of crunches and lunges by a man who’d just gotten
out of the Corps.

“You only get out what you put in, Katie,” he said
as I was trying to do my first pull-up since the fifth grade. “Are you ready to
give it your all?”

“Yes,” I managed to squeak.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Yes,” I yelled as I hung inches off the ground,
unable to lift myself any further. My body hurt for three days, and I never went
back.

“Right, I understand,” I say to Carol.

She leaves, and I sit down on my new bed. Lying on
the pillow is a single sheet of paper containing a list of rules about mandatory
therapy sessions and meals, no fraternizing between patients, and lights out at
10 p.m.

It’s funny because, with a few small alterations,
this list is identical to the one that adorned the wall at my summer camp. Come
to think of it, we weren’t allowed to leave there for thirty days, either. Of
course, camp was, you know,
fun.
I’m guessing we
aren’t going to be singing songs around a campfire here.

I fold the list into my journal—more atmosphere for
my article—and unpack a few of my things. Then I take out the iTouch and log on.
There’s no email from Rory, but there is one from Bob.

Kate, please provide a status
report on the target. Bob.

What a sinister word, “target.” Like I’m an
assassin, or at the helm of an X-wing fighter. I’m not here to kill anyone,
buddy, just get them to spill their deepest, darkest secrets, or discover them
by trickery if that doesn’t work.

Bob, they’ve had me in
isolation until now. Expect to see TGND at group in a few minutes. Will send
status report when can. Kate
.