The life was instantly sucked out of my body. My face went flush, my heart pounded, my breath slowed.
I called Harris immediately, and he actually picked up the phone. While I was relieved to hear his voice and know he wasn’t passed out or dead in a bathtub somewhere, I was unable to mask my anger as I recounted what she’d revealed. He brushed the whole thing off with a cavalier laugh that carried the weight of cheating on a diet and casually admitted, “Yeah, I relapsed at Phish, but it’s no big deal. I’m back on track now. I’m talking to my sponsor. I’m on my way to a meeting right now. I’ll call after the meeting. Don’t worry.”
He didn’t call.
Later that night, I texted him a photo of Iris I’d taken earlier that day. She was sitting peacefully in a swing at the park across the street wearing a houndstooth pilot cap that we put on to keep her hearing aids in her ears, a teal furry jacket, black leggings, and the yellow moccasins we’d bought the summer before in Utah. In the photo, she’s grinning from ear to ear. Her little dimple makes an indentation on her round, right cheek.
I hope you are going to a meeting tonight. I hope you will look at your beautiful niece’s face instead of putting a needle in your arm. I hope you will value the amazing opportunity you’ve been given on Aziz’s show and go back to working the Twelve Steps in order to keep your role. I know you’re the only one who can precipitate change so I hope you will be honest with yourself and go back to what you know. You have to admit you have a problem and that you are powerless. Not that you fucked up and it’s not a big deal and you can pop some pills and get yourself back on track. It has to start from within and you have to go to the support group. You mean the world to lots of people, Harris. I hope you will get the help you need.
He replied.
I’m going to hang with friends at UCB. I didn’t do drugs today or yesterday and I’ll keep not doing them.
I instantly responded.
I think we both know that’s bullshit. Go to the meetings. Every day. That’s how you’ll keep not doing them. You can’t do it alone.
And then he actually typed:
I only hear from everyone when I relapse.
I was seething.
Are you fucking kidding me?? I send you pictures and updates of Iris all the time. When you start using again, you stop responding. Look back at your texts. I am always there. Plus you literally told mom to leave you alone about the sobriety shit. So no one asks you about it so as not to rock the boat. But maybe we should more. Because clearly it’s still an issue. It’s very clear cut. Go to meetings, work the program, every day. When you stop, you relapse. If you could control your addiction yourself, you wouldn’t keep using.
My last message was time-stamped 10:15 p.m. He neglected to respond until 3:37 a.m., when I got the following text:
Okay. Look I fucked up. There is such a thing as a brief relapse. It’s called a ‘slip.’ I will stay on track til I see you Thanksgiving so here is my brotherly favor I’m asking… Please don’t tell parents. Keep this a secret like when we were in high school. I truly do not want to do that to them. I will check in with you more regularly. But at least wait and see if I fuck up again before we go freaking out for real. I’m alive, I’m going to a meeting with my sponsor tomorrow. I will not be able to look dad in the eye if he finds out I slipped. I will cancel my flight home. Please do this for me.
Once again, my brother was putting me in the fucked-up position of keeping a secret that could potentially kill him. Plus, he was just so full of shit. I didn’t believe a fucking thing he said anymore. But the most pathetic part was that I did it. I kept the fucking secret. If it had been an episode of Intervention, Jeff VanVonderen would’ve cut me down to size with those piercing, steely eyes of his and tell me I was enabling Harris and, thus, part of the problem. I hated both of us equally and didn’t respond to his text.
He sent another one at 3:48 p.m. the next day.
Hi Steph. Just left a meeting and feel really good. Just letting you know. Confessed all my sins.
I responded.
I’m glad to hear that. I didn’t tell Mom because honestly it will destroy her. She told me a few days ago she had a bad feeling that you were using again and that if you were, it was the last straw for her. I don’t want to break her heart. Please go to meetings every day. Please.
Harris: What do you reckon that means? The last straw.
Me: That she won’t be able to have a relationship with you anymore if you are using. No more contact—this is what she said. It’s too painful for her.
Harris: Okay I’m gonna call her now to check in.
Me: Are you going to tell her?
Harris: No. I’m going to stay sober. I had a hiccup.
Me: Do you have a game plan for how to make that goal a reality?
He responded immediately.
Meeting a day. Three calls a day. Steps.
• • •
Two weeks later, Pete Holmes
