gave on to the East River, dark and languid in the rain. Brooklyn on the other side. A large windowless building dominated the view.
We all stared out the window.
We didn’t talk.
There was nothing to say.
Steiglitz entered, filling the room with color and charisma. As if from another world. Large. Larger than life.
We were diminished.
He strode to the desk. Sat down. Looked us each in the eye, ending with Melissa.
Hello, Melissa, he said.
Hello, Dr. Steiglitz, she replied.
You’ve got a problem.
I know, she whispered.
He turned to me.
It’s very simple, he said. When it gets to this point, there’s nothing we can do.
He paused to let that one sink in.
As professionals, I mean. The best we can do is show you the way. Give you some tools.
Okay, I said.
She’s not going to change.
Though he looked straight at her as he said this, he spoke in the third person.
Unless, he continued.
Unless?
Unless she hits rock bottom.
If this wasn’t rock bottom, I asked myself, what was?
And even then, he said. Even then. There’s no guarantee. This has gone very far. But I can tell you, with complete assurance, that if she doesn’t hit rock bottom, nothing will change. Or at least, if she doesn’t really, truly believe that next time, she’s going to hit rock bottom.
He paused, but clearly wasn’t finished.
We waited.
He looked straight at Melissa.
She’ll be dead within a year, he said. Maybe two.
No emotion showed on his face. He was simply stating a fact. His voice was still the silky baritone of the late-night radio announcer.
Melissa looked at the floor.
I’m trying, she mumbled.
You’re trying, he said, a note of sarcasm creeping in. All right. Let’s examine that. What is the longest period of time you’ve gone without a drink? In the last year.
There was a long pause while she thought about that.
I quit at Christmas, she said at last.
Kelly looked up at me, brows knitted. If she had quit at Christmas, it was news to us. She’d been, if anything, more absent then than ever.
I didn’t ask you when, said Steiglitz. I asked you how long.
He was slowly raising his voice. Playing the prosecutor. Melissa was so shrunken, so beaten down. I felt protective. I wanted to say something. But Steiglitz gave me a Look.
The Look said: Don’t do it.
How long did you quit for? he repeated.
Three weeks, she said, barely audible.
Three weeks, he nodded. When did you stop?
Christmas Eve. I stopped on Christmas Eve. I wanted to be there for Kelly.
We could barely hear her. Kelly looked at her feet. Melissa hadn’t been there Christmas Eve. She’d been asleep in Kelly’s room. We’d eaten without her.
And when did you start again?
Kelly’s birthday, she mumbled.
When is Kelly’s birthday?
The fifth.
January fifth?
Yes.
I looked at Steiglitz, a question in my eyes. What did all this mean?
He ignored me.
How many days in three weeks? he asked.
He was boring in.
Twenty-one, she mumbled.
How many days between December twenty-fourth and January fifth?
She was silent.
How many, Melissa?
Thirteen, she whispered.
Twelve, Melissa. Twelve days.
Twelve.
Not three weeks.
No.
Not even two.
No.
She looked up at Steiglitz for the first time. She seemed strangely pleased. As though she had enjoyed his performance. Or perhaps it was relief. That somebody at last was confronting the Monster.
He looked at me.
So, he said.
Silence.
Rock bottom, he said.
What does that mean? Kelly asked, with a flash of impatience. What’s rock bottom?
The street, he said.
The street?
She has to know that if she takes another drink, another pill, she’s on the street. That’s it. She’s gone. You’re going to disown her.
You’re telling me to throw my wife out on the street? I asked.
Only if she has another drink. Or takes another pill.
He looked at me placidly. It occurred to me that he had had this conversation many times before. An infinite array of naive and loving husbands, fathers, sons. Anguished. Confused. Protesting.
I thought of all the homeless people on the streets I walked. They’d hit bottom, to all appearances. They didn’t look too cured to me.
I suddenly felt very tired. I just wanted to go home.
He’s right, you know, said Kelly.
She never failed to surprise me.
Melissa looked resigned. Steiglitz looked smug.
It seemed that everyone understood but me.
Steiglitz prescribed three Valium a day, for five more days. To ward off the DTs. Then nothing. Antabuse. AA. And patience. One day at a time. Not just for her. For us.
When we got up to leave, Steiglitz came around his desk. He shook my hand, and Kelly’s. He turned and put his arms around Melissa, hugged her.
He was so tall, so manicured.
