She laughs and laughs. “Vell, who knows, maybe you vill be very happy. It could be good for you both. But it could be very bad. Da, da, you are, as you said, fucked. Neek, you go to the office now. Sue Ellen, you come vis me.”
I reach over to squeeze Sue Ellen’s hand, but she quickly pulls away—hunched over—a mess of tears. She walks toward Marion in a sort of trance. And I watch them both walk off together.
Sue Ellen’s shadowed frame is bent and defeated.
A new sickness cuts its way through my stomach, like swallowing crushed glass and antifreeze.
For the first time I finally admit to myself that maybe I’ve made a big-ass mistake by getting involved with Sue Ellen. I keep asking myself, over and over, if I’ve actually hurt her more than helped her—if I’ve robbed her of her chance to really heal at the fucking Safe Passage Center. If nothing else, I know all our plans are ruined now. We had our chance, but we screwed it all up.
And the other thing I know is that now, after all this, I have no choice but to stick by her, no matter what happens. I mean, this is my fault.
So I start up the trail, my hands shaking bad.
I may have done some fucked-up things in my life.
But I’m gonna make this one better.
I have to.
I mean, I have no choice.
Ch.11
So, of course, Melonie is here.
Along with Marion and this wormy counselor Mathew.
Plus Shoshana, another counselor, who basically looks exactly like Melonie but with a different face.
They call this meeting with me a “round table”—and I can tell how serious it is, ’cause they’ve brought the head of the entire program in to watch me squirm. But it’s still Melonie who’s doing all the talking.
“The point is,” she says, her face flushed almost purple, “you’ve violated the trust of the entire community. And by your actions, whether you know it or not, you’ve essentially spit in the face of everyone who’s tried to help you. To say I’m disappointed would be such a gross understatement. I feel personally violated, Nic, I really do. It’s obvious you have absolutely no respect for me whatsoever. I see issues of borderline personality all over this—borderline, with sociopathic tendencies. You’re in a lot of trouble, buddy. If you don’t get help soon, I imagine you’ll be dead within three months.”
I watch the seconds tick by on the circular wall clock above me.
“Okay, hey, Nic!” Melonie practically shouts at me, snapping her fingers in front of my face, making me want to break them off. I mean, goddamn, even if I had zoned out for a minute, you still don’t do shit like that.
“What?” I say back, holding my jaw locked and my fists all clenched up. “What? What? What?”
She leans back and smiles.
I mean, fuck. I swear to fucking God.
“There’s no need to get defensive, Nic. We’re trying to help you. The staff here has been working hard to find a program for you to transition into. As it is, I think we’ve found the perfect option. And just so you know, I contacted the director and explained your situation to him in detail. He agreed that you are a perfect candidate for what they have to offer. And, luckily, they have one open bed left, so you’ll be able to leave first thing tomorrow. I spoke with your father, and he’s completely on board with all of this. In fact, he’s not willing to speak to you until you’ve checked in to the program.”
My breath gets caught in my throat suddenly. I feel my heart pounding through my head—blown-out speakers buzzing, loud and distorted.
“Wh-what program?” I stutter.
“Well, it’s an all-male sober living house, which I’d say is absolutely essential for you. They offer group during the day, but after thirty days you’ll be required to get a job in the local community—a city called Gallup, New Mexico, about an hour outside of Albuquerque—in the middle of nowhere, so you’ll be completely safe and isolated. Of course, they require you to attend twelve-step meetings and get a sponsor to help walk you through the steps. You’ll have extensive chores and restrictions on your writing and drawing and playing guitar—also essential to your recovery. But, as I said, the most important thing is that you will only be with other men, so you’ll have no opportunities to engage in your sex and love addiction. And, because the program requires a one-year commitment, you’ll be able to get a substantial period of abstinence under your belt.”
She pauses—I can only imagine for dramatic effect and for giving me time to squirm.
“Of course,” she continues, looking around at her fellow counselors as though trying to impress them with her bitchiness—I mean, her expert handling of this unspeakably evil act I’ve committed. “Of course, you do have a choice in all this. But if you decide not to attend, I’m afraid you’re going to be asked to leave the premises within the next hour. Otherwise you’ll be able to spend one last night here, say your good-byes, then leave for the airport tomorrow morning. Those are your only two options—and I need your answer right now so we can protect the community.”
I tell myself not to cry. Seeing me cry will only satisfy her all the more.
But I go ahead and cry anyway.
I can’t help it.
I mean, a year? In the middle of nowhere in New Mexico? Surrounded by nothing but fucking men?
There’s no way I can do it.
I actually lived in an all-male sober living once. It was my nightmare of what a goddamn frat house would be like. I lasted there a week. That’s all I could take. I mean, it was so goddamn depressing.
And that’s the thing I don’t get—how are people supposed to stay sober when they hate their lives? Fuck, man, my will
