“I’ve been off it for a month. Heroin, that’s what I use. Heroin.”
“That’s great,” she tried to smile. “I mean about being off drugs. It must be hard.”
What was she supposed to say?
“Yes, Terry is working hard. That’s why he’s here. He needs our support,” said the doctor.
All the faces in the room now turned to Terry. Debbie nodded at him and tried smiling again. She felt the rush of fear, the wave of it rising in her as everyone else seemed to sigh and reach for a cigarette or cup.
She would have to tell them the truth. Even though the doctor said she didn’t have to if she didn’t want. No, she did have to tell them. It was part of getting better. She would have to tell them everything, about the abortion and the breakdown and the counting. Yes, she would. She would have to tell them everything, these people who seemed angry she was there, except for Terry the addict.
No, how could that be? They weren’t angry. She just didn’t understand them yet. They would help her get better, yes. All she had to do was tell them the truth about everything and they would help her.
The younger woman puffed at another cigarette, the older woman sighed deeply, Bob shrugged and Terry put the sunglasses back over his eyes and melted back into the couch.
*
“Are you ever afraid?” she asked Ellen on their late night call.
“Of course, who isn’t?”
“You don’t ever act like you are.”
Ellen took a puff on her cigarette.
“Oh, everyone is at one time or another. They better be. Being afraid keeps you safe. Makes you watch out for what may be coming at you. If you’re normal,” she exhaled the stream of smoke, “you’re afraid of something.”
As Ellen talked, Debbie could feel herself becoming safe again.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Circus clowns, absolutely. They are the most terrifying thing I can imagine. Think about it, big red noses, crazy hair, floppy feet, horns honking all the time.”
Debbie giggled.
“I went to that group thing today,” she told Ellen. “It was interesting. Only a few people but they seemed nice. Someday I’ll be tough like you and I won’t need doctors and groups.”
“Right.”
“Tell me why you like New Mexico so much,” Debbie asked, not wanting the phone call to end.
“Beautiful land, interesting people.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough for starters.”
“Maybe I’ll go there,” Debbie said, “and meet someone and get married and be happy.”
“Sure, why not?” Ellen agreed.
“Did you ever want to get married?”
“Oh, there was this guy once, but it didn’t work out.”
“You going to tell me about him?”
“Nothing to tell,” Ellen said. “Believe me, nothing at all.”
30
She didn’t tell people about Ronnie McBain. She left that story in Albuquerque. She had stories about other men, Sam the reporter in Florida who made her roar with laughter and the surfer she met in Paris. Leave it to her to spend a year in Paris with a blond from California.
She could talk about the public relations man for the electric company in Albuquerque and the photographer who would take her on the shag rug in her apartment before leaving her for the redhead with the Brooklyn accent.
“Isn’t it cute? I think it sounds so cute,” he gushed about the girl who sat outside in his car.
“Want to come with us? We’re going to Rosie’s for a drink.”
“You and me and her?” she demanded.
From the car came a loud redheaded Brooklyn laugh.
“Are you crazy?” Ellen shouted at him.
“What?”
“You think I’m going to go with you and her? You must be out of your mind.”
She suffered her way through that one for about a month. Then, she met Ronnie McBain, the tall, slow-talking cowboy who pulled his boots on with a huff and a sigh.
“Are you sure these are my boots?” he once questioned her with a sheepish grin. “I can’t see that these are my boots.”
He struggled to pull one on as he sat on the edge of the bed. She burst out laughing.
He once stood naked at the hotel window in San Francisco, staring down at the street.
“Why don’t the police come?” he asked. “They’ve been down there for five minutes. Can you explain this?”
“What?” she called from the bed.
“The accident. Where are the police?”
“Does it look like anyone is hurt?” She joined him at the window.
“Can’t tell.”
For him it was a few days off in a big city. For her it was a trip to find another job.
“You really are ashamed of living in New Mexico,” he said after a visit to an art gallery where she had been quick to tell the gallery owner that she lived in Albuquerque but came from Boston.
“Ah,” the owner nodded. That made a difference.
“You leave Albuquerque,” her mother told her. “You don’t move there.”
“It’s not for me,” she told Ronnie.
“I like it,” he said simply.
Not her. She had no ties to the city. She could move at the drop of a hat and she would. Tempting as he might be with all that ah shucks talk, Ronnie McBain wasn’t going to change that.
She met him while covering a fundraiser for the city’s art museum. His sister Sara was the assistant to the museum director.
“It looks like you’ve got yourself an interesting job,” he said after watching her do a stand-up.
“It has its moments,” she said.
She liked his family. Sara was sweet and smart. The oldest brother, Bob Junior, spent most of his time at the family ranch down south. She liked what she had seen of him. Phillip, the youngest, was a student at the university in Las Cruces. They were loved and owned by their mother, Joan McBain.
She lived in the north valley in a house as big and comfortable as the woman who built it. She had short brown hair, beauty-parlor streaked with blond, a hard weathered face, narrow slate-blue eyes, the lashes spiked thick with black mascara. She wore polyester pants over her ample rear and sipped her chilled vodka from a shot glass.
Sara also
