Just then, somebody pointed at us and shouted, “Those boys! Those are the ones who killed my son!” And every eye in the room turned toward us, all these well-dressed church people glaring at a ragged band of junkies.
We pushed through the crowd. “Yeah, get out of here. You don’t deserve to be here!”
We rushed to the parking lot and regrouped back at my place. Nobody could speak. We’d just been accused of contributing to the murder of somebody we deeply loved. And could there be some truth to that? Was his blood somehow on our hands?
We sat in the empty apartment, some of us on the floor, a wisp of light coming in through the shades, and we were quiet for a few minutes. Then my friend Rick said, “I’m getting clean. I’m telling you, I’m getting clean.”
I said, “I’m in. Let’s do it together, all of us.”
“For Rodney.”
Everybody said, “Yeah—for Rodney.”
We meant every word of it, and I held to my convictions for two days. Until Dustin came over and said, “Listen, man, I know we’re all hurting. Eight-ball of coke, on me.”
I hesitated, for about two seconds. Three and a half grams of coke would cover lots of varieties of pain. And at the moment I was in a pretty good number of them. I said, “Come on in, Dustin.”
Another half-serious attempt at coming clean was behind me. I found solace in the empty moments of bliss that followed.
From there, it’s a blur, but I remember somehow my sister was back. Standing in my apartment, bag of groceries in hand, giving me an intense look.
“He’s turning eighty,” she was saying.
“Pawpaw,” I said. I needed to focus.
“Yes. Pawpaw.” She was after me again about going to my grandfather’s birthday party. We loved him so much. He was a World War II veteran who owned a dairy farm for years—the Gallaty family patriarch. My father bore his name, then me. I’m Robert III. So Lori was laying the guilt on me in broad strokes—our Pawpaw was near the end of his life, and I was going to sit it out, leave a big empty spot at the celebration? Really?
“That’s not fair,” I said. “You know I can’t go there.”
“Of course you can go there. If you miss it, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
“I’m already never forgiving myself. Believe me.”
She sighed heavily. “Come on, Robby. Please. Would you come just for me? I’ve never asked you for anything—just this one thing.” The tears were about to come. I hated it, and I shut that conversation down. Stonewalled it—changed the subject—until she gave up and went out the door, hurt as usual.
I hated thinking of how much she worried about me. If time was running out for her grandfather, she had to wonder if the clock was running even faster on her brother, her only sibling. She would have done anything in the world to reach out and rescue me, whatever it took. But what could she do? Nothing in the world she could think of, other than to get me to a family party. It was the only weapon in her arsenal, and in the end, it hit the target.
Watching her leave, I was as upset as she was. I just couldn’t let her see it.
Getting high affords you time to think, whether you want to or not. Your heart races too fast to go to sleep. Your mind never stops, so most nights are spent tossing and turning in bed.
I replayed every wrong choice I’d made. I relived the consequences of my actions. I thought often about my parents, wondered how they were doing and how angry they must be. One thing was certain: they weren’t beating down my door, asking me to come home.
Maybe that’s what I wanted—forgiveness without having to ask for it. I was the Prodigal Son demanding that his father come get him out of the pigpen. I think we all know, deep down, the story can’t end that way.
I knew Mom and Dad so well that I could guess how they were taking all this. Mom was the key. She was the rock-solid foundation to our family, tough because she’d learned it was necessary. My mother had been around addiction all her life, and she had a perfect understanding of how things worked in that world. Her dad had been a drinker all his life. Her brother followed in his footsteps, dying early after a battle with alcoholism.
She knew all the signs, and she’d had her eye on me since I was little—my compulsive personality could quickly become an addictive one. As she watched me in all-out pursuit of basketball or music or DJing or anything else, she knew the potential for problems down the road. She understood my crazy passion was fine until I began to pursue the wrong things, which, of course, is what eventually happened.
I can remember going to the store with her as a child. “Mom, look at this toy truck! It’s so awesome—can I have it?” I would beg and plead, trying to wear her down, and if she gave me a no, it meant no. I thought she was too tough, but in time I realized she was giving me exactly what I needed. There had to be solid boundaries when I was in hot pursuit, or I would chase something right over the nearest cliff.
We called Mom “The Warden”—even Dad said it. She physically threw me out of the house twice after arguments, and she didn’t just look away and say, “Leave.” She gathered up everything I owned and tossed it all out the door. Afterward, she’d soften around the edges and ask for forgiveness. She was great about that. But she’d grown up in an addictive household, she knew it was hereditary, and she understood that for some people, love must be tough or it isn’t love at all.
Then there was Dad—the perfect complement to his wife. Dad
