“Lois won’t hear of it.” As far as Monroe was concerned, it ended there. “She feels, and I have to agree, that Joey would think we’d abandoned him.”
“The transition would be difficult, there’s no denying that. It would have to be handled by all of us in such a way that Joey understands he isn’t being punished or sent away, but offered another chance. Mr. Monroe, I have to be candid with you. Joey is not responding to treatment.”
“He’s not drinking?”
“No, he’s not drinking.” How could she convince him that the alleviation of one symptom was far from a cure? She’d already seen in their family therapy sessions that Monroe was a man who saw results much more clearly than he saw causes. “Mr. Monroe, Joey is an alcoholic, will always be an alcoholic whether he drinks or not. He’s one of twenty-eight million children of alcoholics in this country. One third of them become alcoholics themselves, as Joey has.”
“But he’s not drinking,” Monroe persisted.
“No, he’s not.” She linked her fingers, laid them on the blotter, and tried again. “He is not consuming alcohol, he’s not altering his reality with alcohol, but he has yet to deal with his dependency, and more importantly, the reasons for it. He is not getting drunk, Mr. Monroe, but the alcohol was a cover-up and an offshoot of other problems. He can’t control or blanket those problems with liquor anymore, and now they’re overwhelming him. He shows no anger, Mr. Monroe, no rage, and very little grief, though it’s all bottled inside of him. Children of alcoholics often take on the responsibility for their parent’s illness.”
Uncomfortable and impatient, Monroe shifted in his chair. “You’ve explained that before.”
“Yes, I have. Joey resents his father, and to a great extent he resents his mother because both of them let him down. His father with his drinking, his mother with her preoccupation with his father’s drinking. Because he loves them, he’s turned this resentment onto himself.”
“Lois did her best.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did. She’s a remarkably strong woman. Unfortunately, Joey doesn’t have her strength. Joey’s depression has reached a dangerous stage, a critical stage. I can’t tell even you what was discussed or what was said in our recent sessions, but I can tell you I’m more concerned than ever over his emotional state. He’s in such pain. At this point I’m doing little more than soothing the pain so that he can get through the week until I can soothe it again. Joey feels his life is worthless, that he’s failed as a son, as a friend, as a person.”
“The divorce-”
“Divorce batters the children involved. The extent of which depends on the state of mind the children are in at the time, the way the divorce is handled, the emotional strength of the individual child. For some it can be as devastating as a death. There’s usually a period of grief, of bitterness, even of denial. Self-blame is common. Mr. Monroe, it’s been nearly three years since your wife separated from Joey’s father. His obsession with the divorce and his part in it isn’t normal. It’s become a springboard for all of his problems.”
She paused a moment, and linked her hands together again. “His alcoholism is painful. Joey feels he deserves the pain. In fact, he appreciates it in the way a small child appreciates being disci-plined for breaking the rules. The discipline, the pain, makes him feel a part of society, while at the same time, the alcoholism itself makes Joey feel isolated from society. He’s learned to depend on this isolation, on seeing himself as different, not quite as good as everyone else. Particularly you.”
“Me? I don’t understand.”
“Joey identifies with his father, a drunk, a failure both in business and in family life. You are everything his father, and therefore Joey, is not. Part of him wants to cut himself off from his father and model himself on you. The rest of him simply doesn’t feel worthy, and he’s afraid to risk another failure. It’s gone beyond that even, Mr. Monroe. Joey is fast reaching a point where he’s too tired to bother at all with life.”
His fingers were clenching and unclenching. When he spoke, it was his calm, board of director’s voice. “I don’t follow you.”
“Suicide is the third highest cause of death among teenagers, Mr. Monroe. Joey has definite suicidal tendencies. He’s already playing with the idea, circling around it with his fascination with the occult. It would take very little at this point in his life to push him over the line-an argument that leaves him feeling rebellious, a test in school that makes him feel inadequate. His fathers ambivalent behavior.”
Though her voice was calm, the underlying urgency was communicating to him. Tess leaned forward, hoping to take it to the next step. “Mr. Monroe, I can’t stress how vital it is that Joey begin structured, intensified treatment. You trusted me enough to bring him here, to allow me to treat him. You have to trust me enough to believe me when I say I’m not enough for him. I have information here on the clinic.” She pushed a folder across the desk. “Please discuss this with your wife, ask her to come in and talk it over with me. I’ll rearrange my schedule so that we can meet any time it’s convenient. But, please, make it soon. Joey needs this, and he needs it now, before something pushes him over.”
He took the folder, but didn’t open it. “You want us to. send Joey to a place like this, but you didn’t want us to have him change schools.”
“No, I didn’t.” She wanted to pull the pins out of her hair, run her hands through it until the pressure at her temples was gone. “At that time I felt, I hoped, I could still reach him. Since September Joey’s been pulling away more and more.”
“He saw the change in schools as another failure, didn’t he?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“I knew it was a mistake.” He let out a long breath. “When Lois was making the arrangements to transfer him, he looked at me. It was as if he was saying, please, give me a chance. I could almost hear him. But I backed her up.”
“There’s no blame here, Mr. Monroe. You and your wife are dealing with a situation where there are no easy answers. There is no absolute right or wrong.”
“I’ll take the papers home.” He rose then, slowly, as though the folder in his hand were weighty and leaden. “Dr. Court, Lois is pregnant. We haven’t told Joey.”
“Congratulations.” She offered her hand while her mind weighed how this news might affect her patient. “I think it would be nice if you told him together, making it a family affair. The
“We’ve been afraid he might resent it-us.”
“He might.” Timing, she thought-emotional survival could so often depend on timing. “The more he’s brought into the process, into the planning, the more he’ll feel a part of it. Do you have a nursery?”
“We have a spare bedroom we thought we might redecorate.”
“I imagine Joey would be pretty good with a paintbrush, given the chance. Please call me after you’ve discussed the clinic. I’d like to go over it with Joey myself, perhaps take him there so that he can see it.”
“All right. Thank you, Doctor.”
Tess closed the door behind him, then pulled out the pins in her hair. The band of tension eased, leaving only a dull ache. She wasn’t sure she could rest easy until Joey was being treated in the clinic. At least they were turning in the right direction, she told her-self. Monroe hadn’t been enthusiastic about her suggestion, but she believed he would push for it.
Tess locked away Joey’s file and his tapes, holding on to the cassette from their last session a moment longer. He’d spoken of death twice during the session, both times in a matter-of-fact way. He hadn’t termed it as dying but as opting out. Death as a choice. She kept the last tape out, and decided to phone the director of the clinic in the morning.
When her phone rang she nearly groaned. She could leave it. Her answering service would pick it up after the fourth ring and contact her if it was important. Then she changed her mind, holding Joey’s tape in her hand as she crossed over and picked it up.
“Hello, Dr. Court.”
In the silence that followed she heard labored breathing and the sounds of traffic. Automatically she pulled a pad over and picked up a pencil.
“This is Dr. Court. Can I help you?”
“Can you?”
The voice was only a whisper. She heard not the panic she was half expecting, but despair. “I can try. Would
