Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 3

Houston, We Have a Problem





So, here I am a day after my meeting with Bob, the Philip Seymour Hoffman look-alike, sitting on the smallest airplane I’ve ever been on. Cocktail service begins in five, and our flying time will be a total of forty-two minutes. We’ll be flying at an altitude of twenty-two thousand feet, and yes, the flight will be this bumpy the entire time. Now remember, folks, if the mask falls from the ceiling because of a loss of cabin pressure, place it firmly over your mouth and breathe normally. In case you weren’t aware, there’s no smoking on this flight.

Now, let’s see. Is there anything I’ve forgotten?

Oh yeah . . . I’m on my way to rehab.

Turns out that besides being one of the editors of The Line, Bob is also the editor-in-chief of Gossip Central, an up-and-coming gossip magazine in a world of up-and-coming gossip magazines. Its niche is obtaining extremely inside scoop on celebrities. It made a name for itself when one of its reporters posed as a nanny for a movie star who has a penchant for adopting children from Third World countries. Apparently, a lot of people want to know what brand of underwear she wears. By supplying such details, Gossip Central’s market share grew quickly, and its circulation now surpasses the population of New Zealand. Or, at least, that’s what its website says.

Apparently, Bob had been trying to get something on The Girl Next Door for years. The problem is that she doesn’t hang out with anyone who isn’t quasi-famous, and that includes her hairdresser, makeup artist, and publicist. After several fruitless attempts, the idea was shelved, and Gossip Central moved on to other, more accessible, targets.

And then, TGND went to rehab.

No one was quite sure where the idea came from. Someone (Bob told me there were several people taking credit) shouted it out during the weekly editorial meeting, and the idea immediately caught fire. “We should follow her into rehab.” “That’s perfect!” “Whoever came up with that deserves a promotion!” “It was my idea.” “No, it was my idea!”

Once Bob calmed everyone down, they spent a lot of time discussing the thorny issue of who to send. It had to be someone who could convincingly appear to need to be in rehab and also write a kick-ass article. It couldn’t be anyone obviously connected with Gossip Central, but it had to be someone they trusted. They racked their brains before putting the idea on the back burner when TGND escaped from rehab.

You know the rest of the story. I showed up half-drunk and disheveled for my interview. They loved my work before they met me, but then they met me. TGND’s crack video surfaced, and she returned to rehab. Bob had a moment of clarity: what if the writer actually needed to be in rehab herself? Then she’d fit right in, and might even have a chance of striking up a friendship with TGND. Now who did they know who fit that bill?

So that’s why they called. Gossip Central wanted to hire me to go to rehab to spy on/befriend TGND and write about it. They’d pay the cost of my stay ($1,000 a day) and $2 a word. And if I did a good job (and dried out, he implied), they’d reconsider me for the position at The Line, which still hadn’t been filled.

When I picked my jaw up off the floor, I agreed to do it.

Embarrassingly quickly.

I wish I could say the decision was a difficult one, that the thought of going to rehab undercover to dig up dirt on a young woman in the middle of self-destructing gave me pause. I wish I could say I was indignant that Bob thought I’d agree to do it, or that I could convince anyone I needed to be in rehab. But that wouldn’t be true, and the first step to recovery is admitting that I have a problem, right?

So, OK, I do.

I want to work at The Line so badly I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get into Bob’s good books. And if spying on TGND in a sober environment for a minimum of thirty days is going to get me there, well . . . so be it.

Forty-two minutes and four mini bottles of Jameson and Coke later (hey, I can’t drink at all for the next thirty days, and I’ve never been a good flier), the plane lands, and I disembark a little unsteadily onto the sunny tarmac.

I grew up about forty minutes from here in a town nestled at the base of a ski hill that’s so small it doesn’t even have a real supermarket (just the Little Supermarket, where everything is twice as expensive and has twice the calories). There’s no McDonald’s, no main street, no town hall, and no courthouse. It does have a liquor store and a Santa’s Village, but that’s about it. Unemployment’s through the roof, the high school’s twenty miles away, and most of the residents don’t ski, despite the highest elevation in the east sitting at their back door.

My parents are an exception: educated and middle class, they fell in love with the outdoor life and moved to the town in a fit of hippieness in the late seventies to set up a commune with some like-minded friends. Six months, four broken friendships, and two divorces later, only my parents remained in the half-finished house nestled on a back road in a back-road town. The house was finished just before I came along. By the time my sister arrived a few years later, we even had indoor plumbing. Mom teaches English at the high school, and Dad is assistant manager at the ski hill.

I left town the day after high school graduation and never looked back. Fame and fortune hadn’t followed, but I was surviving. I was eking out a living in a city that spat out wide-eyed, small-town girls like cherry pits.

I haven’t been home in four years.

When I stumble out of the terminal, a pretty woman about my own age is waiting for me. She has caramel-colored hair that falls to her shoulders and round brown eyes. She’s wearing khaki pants and a dark blue polo shirt with a white Cloudspin Oasis logo on it.

“Hello, Katie, I’m Carol, the intake administrator for the Oasis.” She speaks in the local, drawn-out accent I’ve worked hard to get rid of.

“Hi, Carol. Thanks for picking me up.”

That might’ve come out, “Sanks for sticking me up,” though I’m not exactly sure.

“Have you been drinking, Katie?”

Hello! Of course I’ve been drinking. I’m supposed to be an alcoholic.

“I had a few drinks on the plane to steady my nerves.”

Schdeady me nervsss.

“Well, we’ve got about a half-hour drive to the lodge.”

“I know. I grew up around here.”

She smiles. “Then you’ll feel right at home.”

Absof*ckinglutely.

We climb into the van, and Carol maneuvers it onto the highway. I fiddle with the radio dial, searching for the station I listened to growing up. It comes in faintly through the crappy radio. The Plain White-T’s are singing “Hey There Delilah.”

Feeling oddly happy (I’ve got a good song + drinks buzz going), I roll down the window and breathe in the smell of the mountains. Maybe all woods smell the same, but this combination of loamy earth and tangy pines smells like home to me.

Seven songs later, Carol slows down to make the turn into the driveway that leads to the Cloudspin Oasis. Three cars are parked across the road. A group of dingy-looking men holding cameras and smoking cigarettes are lounging on the hoods. As we stop at the gate, one of them rises half-heartedly and walks toward the van. I smile at him, but he flaps his hand in disgust when he realizes I’m not worth the effort.

Carol pushes a button on a two-way speaker attached to a metal pole and mumbles something that sounds like “hot soup.” The gates creak open and she drives through.

“Why are the paparazzi here?” I ask innocently.

She glances at me. “Sometimes we have famous patients staying here. Just ignore them.”

We drive down a long, curving driveway lined with huge pine trees. Carol stops the van in front of the entrance to a large timber-framed building with a long wing on each side. The building looks new, new, new, with green siding and crisp white trim. There’s a lake behind it, and the pine-covered mountains rise steeply from its shore.

I get out of the van. The familiar earth and pine smell is more pronounced, making me feel oddly at ease.

What does it say about me that rehab smells like home?

Carol pulls my suitcase out of the back of the van and wheels it toward the entrance.

“Katie, you understand that once you begin the program, there’s no leaving for thirty days?”

“So they tell me.” I try to sound serious, but I feel like I want to laugh.

I guess the cocktails on the plane haven’t quite worn off.

I try again. “I want this. I’m sure.”

“Good.”

We enter the building through a heavy oak door. The reception looks like the lobby of a hotel, with a round check-in desk in the middle. The decor is a mix of honey-colored wood and robin’s egg blue, and the whole space is filled with natural light coming from the huge skylights in the ceiling. I place my hand on the back of one of the upholstered sofas to steady myself. It feels stiff and formal.

“This is Dr. Houston, the head of the medical staff,” Carol says, referring to an attractive man in his early forties who’s standing behind the counter. He has black hair, hazel eyes, and chiseled features. He’s wearing a white coat, and there’s a stethoscope poking out of his right pocket. She pronounces the name Houston like the street, “house-ton.”

“Welcome to the Cloudspin Oasis,” he says.

I shake his proffered hand. It feels cold.

“I’m Katie Sandford.”

“Nice to meet you, Katie. Just so you know, we ask that patients not use their last names, to protect their anonymity.”

That suits my purposes exactly.

“Sure.”

“Good. Carol will help you check in. Once you’re done, you’ll come to my office for your medical assessment.”

“Okey dokey.”

He frowns. “Katie, have you been drinking today?”

Come on. Doesn’t everyone arrive at rehab drunk, or high, or both? Aren’t they all finishing off their last hurrah in the parking lot? Like what’s his name in that movie, the one where the main character hid in rehab because his one-night stand died of a drug overdose. What the hell is that movie called? This is so going to bother me. Ah, got it. Clean and Sober. Michael Keaton. Phew.

“Just a little.”

Carol pulls a stack of forms from under the counter and hands them to me. “You’ll need to fill these out. You can take them to that table over there.” She points to a desk tucked into the corner of the lobby. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

“Right.”

I walk/sway to the desk and sit down. It’s made of a single piece of cherry wood that’s so polished I can see my reflection in it. My hair is windblown, and my eyes aren’t completely open.

God, I look like hell! No wonder everyone keeps asking me if I’ve been drinking. Well, at least I look the part.

I read the first form. It’s in legalese, but as far as I can tell, I’m agreeing to give up my right to leave for thirty days. Once I sign it, the only way out is to be thrown out.

I thumb the end of the pen, click, click, click, unwilling to write my name across the bottom of this paper.

What’s the hesitation?

It’s just . . . thirty goddamn days. That’s a long time.

Do you want this job or what?

Of course.

Then sign the form already.

All right, all right.

I take a deep breath and sign on the dotted line. Thirty days in rehab. Done.

I work through the rest of the pages, filling in my personal information and medical history until I come to a page entitled “Are You an Alcoholic?” As I scan the questions, I begin to feel queasy. Drinking in the day (OK, the morning) isn’t usually my thing, and it’s starting to catch up to me.

I walk the forms back to Carol.

“Are you all done?”

“Do you think I could finish these another time? I’m not feeling too well.”

She looks sympathetic. “Of course. Let me take you to Dr. Houston’s office.”

A wave of nausea passes through my gut, and I grip the side of the counter.

“Do I have to do that now? Can’t I just go to my room or something?”

“I’m sorry, Katie, not yet. It’s important that we give you a medical exam first.”

I breathe in and out deeply, and the nausea retreats. “All right, let’s get it over with.”

“Of course. Follow me.”

She leads me to the wing to the right of the lobby, where I thankfully spy a bathroom. I push open the door and Carol follows me inside. The sight of the toilet bowl speeds up my nausea, and I fall to my knees in front of it, taking long slow breaths. And for a minute I think I might be OK. That I might not throw up in front of this woman I don’t even know. But then the nausea returns, and all the drinks and the two packages of nuts I consumed on the plane are leaving my body in a long liquid stream.

That’s the last time I drink and fly.

Carol crouches by my side, holding my hair and rubbing my back. If I wasn’t feeling like such shit, I might laugh at the fact that this relative stranger is performing boyfriend duty. But instead, I feel like her kind hands are invading my privacy in the worst way.

Now, if cute Dr. Houston were here . . . Oh God. Not again.

When I’m finally done, I rinse the burning, metallic taste from my mouth and dry my face off on a piece of paper towel from the dispenser.

“Are you all right?”

“Just peachy.”

When we get to Dr. Houston’s office, I change into a thin hospital gown. Carol gathers up my clothes and tells me she’ll be back when my exam is done.

Feeling woozy, I lie down on the examining table while I wait. The minutes drift by, and I feel sleepy. I yawn widely. It’s cold in here. It’d be nice to have a blanket. So inconsiderate of them not to provide one.

“Carol tells me you were ill.” Dr. Houston’s pleasant voice startles me from my half-doze.

I open my eyes. He’s standing over me with a concerned look on his face.

Mmm. He really is quite cute. Kind of like Jason Patrick’s older brother.

“Are you feeling better?”

Better is kind of a relative concept right now.

“I guess.”

He pulls up a round, wheeled metal stool and sits down. “Good. I’m going to begin the physical examination, all right?”

“Sure.”

“This might feel a little cold.”

Dr. Houston loosens my gown and places his freezing stethoscope on my chest. I suck in my breath.

“Inhale deeply.” He moves the stethoscope around my chest. “OK, you can release it.” He takes the stethoscope’s earpieces out of his ears. “What are you here for, Katie? Alcohol? Pills? Cocaine?”

He examines my arms one after the other.

Is he looking for track marks?

“Alcohol.”

He takes a penlight out of his chest pocket and shines it in my eyes. “Anything else?”

“Nope. I just drink.”

“How many drinks do you usually have a day?”

Who keeps count of that?

“It kind of depends.”

He slips a blood pressure cuff around my arm and pumps it tight. “Just give me an average.”

What does an average alcoholic drink in a day? I so should’ve done some research before I came here, you know, other than Googling TGND to death.

“I don’t know . . . two bottles of wine . . .”

I watch him nervously. Is that enough?

He pushes his hands into my stomach. “Every day?”

Maybe I went too far?

“Yes.”

“Sit up, please.”

I sit up and he taps his fingers along my back, making a hollow sound.

“How long has that been the case?”

“A year?”

“Is wine your drink of choice?”

I think back to Joanne’s dwindling supply of investment wine and my stomach flips over. I eye the sink in the corner, mentally calculating how long it’ll take me to get from here to there. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need at least seven seconds.

“Are you all right?”

Breathe in, breathe out. I. Will. Not. Puke. Again.

“I think so.”

“You look green.”

“Is ��green’ a medical term?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Your pallor is troubling.”

Maybe it’s the lingering Jameson and Cokes, but I think he might be flirting with me. I glance at his left hand. No ring. Interesting.

I look into his eyes for some sign of interest. There’s nothing there.

Oh my God, will you get over yourself! He’s a doctor who works in a rehabilitation center. He’s not going to flirt with a patient he’s admitting into his facility!

After depressing my tongue and inspecting my throat, Dr. Houston takes a needle and a few color-coded vials out of a drawer. He ties a plastic tourniquet around my forearm and waits for a vein to bulge, then dabs my skin with a swab of alcohol.

“This will pinch a little.”

I turn my head away. I’ve never been able to stand the sight of a needle pushing through flesh.

The needle enters my arm, and I swear I can feel my blood flowing out into the vial. I try to focus on something else. The number of door handles on the cupboards. The spider spinning a web in the corner.

He pulls the needle out and places a piece of gauze firmly on the hole in my arm. He gives me a paternal smile. “We’re almost finished.”

I can’t believe I thought he was flirting with me.

“Good.”

“When we’re done, Carol will take you to a room in the recovery wing, where you’ll begin the detoxification process.”

“What is that exactly?”

“Simply put, it’s not drinking in a medically supervised environment. It should take two to three days depending on the severity of your withdrawal symptoms.”

Sounds lovely.

“What kind of withdrawal symptoms?”

“Have you ever tried to quit drinking before?”

Does not having enough money to buy drinks count?

“Not really, no.”

“The symptoms can be both physical and psychological. Common psychological symptoms are depression, anxiety, and cravings. Physically you may experience tremors, headaches, vomiting, loss of appetite, and insomnia. In severe cases, patients can also experience seizures.”

Shit, that doesn’t sound good. Thank God I’m only pretending to be an alky.

“Seriously? Seizures?”

“I don’t think that’s likely in your case . . . if you’ve been honest about the amount of alcohol you generally consume.”

I really have to find a way not to flinch when people use the word “honest” while I’m in here.

“Yes.”

“Even so, we’ll give you some medication for the first couple of days in order to help you through the detoxification and ensure that you don’t have a severe reaction.”

He wheels his stool over to a metal medicine cabinet in the corner, unlocks a drawer, and tips some pills into a small paper cup. He spins his stool and kicks the ground with his foot, skidding back to me.

He hands me the cup. “Would you like some water?”

I stare at the pills. They look big. “Do I have to take them?”

“I would definitely recommend it, unless you have a specific reason not to.”

I don’t really, it’s just . . . the day before I started high school my father sat me down to have the drug talk. He was supposed to tell me to “just say no,” only my still-hippie-in-his-heart dad (who I was pretty sure grew pot in the corner of the garden he was always telling us to stay away from) couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he gave me a set of guidelines.

“The way I see it, Kid, anything that comes from the ground is OK,” my father said. “It’s that manufactured shit, pardon my French, that gets people in trouble. If you can consume it in its natural state, and never tell your mother I said this, I don’t see why you can’t experiment a little.”

I stared at him from the middle of my beanbag chair. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

“I’m talking about pot, hash, and ’shrooms. If you stick to those, you should be OK. Not that I’m telling you to take them. But if you decide to do drugs, those are the drugs you should use.”

“OK,” I said, feeling freaked out. Did my dad just tell me it was OK to use drugs? Rory wasn’t going to believe this.

To date, I’ve followed his advice. I may have done a little pot, hash, or ’shrooms back in the day, but I’ve never ventured any further down the yellow brick road.

“What’s the matter, Katie?” Dr. Houston says.

“I think I want to do this on my own. You know, without chemical help, or whatever. Isn’t that the point?”

“It’s absolutely the point. But your addiction is more than psychological, it’s physical. And if you can’t make it through the physical part, you’ll never get a chance to work on the rest.”

I stare back into the cup, looking at the pills as if they might tell me what to do.

Why are you hesitating now?

It’s just . . .

Spit it out!

I didn’t think I’d begin my first day in rehab expanding the list of drugs I’ve taken.

Will you stop being such a priss!

I upend the cup and dry-swallow the pills. They leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

“You can get dressed now, Katie. I’ll see you again in a couple of days.”

He leaves, and Carol returns with a set of soft cotton pajamas that are a size too big for me. I change into them, and she takes me to my room. As we walk down a long corridor, my slippers make a shuffling sound on the hardwood floor. I realize I haven’t seen another patient since I arrived.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

“There’s group therapy every afternoon.”

Joy.

“Here we are.” She opens a door. The room behind it looks like a dorm room. There’s a single bed with a simple blue cover on it underneath a barred window, a fold-out suitcase rack supporting my suitcase at its foot, and a small bedside table. A stainless-steel kidney pan sits on the simple chest of wooden drawers. The air smells clean and slightly institutional.

“The bathroom is two doors down. If you need assistance, you can push the button here.” She points to a white button set into the wall above the bedside lamp. “This will be your room until you finish detoxing. Meals will be brought to you three times a day. Do you have any questions?”

I look around the tiny room. “Am I supposed to stay here the whole three days?”

“Most patients generally do, but if you want to go outside, let me know.” She takes a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “This is the treatment schedule you’ll be following over the next thirty days. Let me know if you have any questions.”

I take it from her. “Thanks.”

“I suggest you get some rest.”

“Right.”

“Everything will be all right now, Katie.”

Oh God. Is she going to hug me? I’m so not into hugging strangers.

Carol squeezes me tightly to her. She smells faintly of lilac, like my grandmother does, which is pretty odd for someone who seems my age. I know I’m supposed to put my arms around her, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I stand there until she releases me.

After she leaves, I lean over the bed to look through the window at the daffodil-ringed courtyard. The grounds are empty and peaceful.

I sit on the bed and unfold the piece of paper Carol gave me. It’s a thirty-day events calendar. I have a larger, erasable version on my own wall at home left over from university. Only, instead of entries like Kegger @ Delta Phi or Matt Nathanson concert, this says things like detox (Days One to Three), learning the steps (Day Four), coping skills (more days than I can count), visiting day, and (oh, please God, no) family therapy.

I toss the schedule onto the bedside table. Christ, I’m already bored. How am I going to get through the next three days? Maybe the pills will help pass the time? I wonder when they’re going to kick in. I guess I feel a little sleepy. Maybe a nap wouldn’t hurt.

I take off my slippers and climb under the covers, closing my eyes to block out the sun seeping through the curtains. In a few minutes, I can feel myself slipping away, the drugs taking effect.

Sorry, Dad.