what happened today?” I ask. I don’t ask about the crime.
“The judge put me on probation. Drug education and community service shit. Asshole. But he can’t stop me from smoking pot. I love pot, will always smoke pot, and no one can stop me.”
“Joey,” I sigh.
“Have you ever tried it? You should. Everyone should.”
I tell Joey I think his life is out of control and that he needs help.
“Maybe a twelve-step or addiction treatment program,” Joe adds, wiping a few cake crumbs from his lips with his napkin. Eyes averted.
There it is. The thing Joe and I have whispered about between ourselves but have been afraid to say out loud to our son.
“Yes, I need help!” Joey hollers. “What kind of parents are you? You won’t give me the car I earned, you won’t pay for me to go to college, and you won’t give me money when I’m having tough times. How am I supposed to be able to afford to live on my crappy income in this crappy town? Work and more work, that’s my life, and I have no hope of ever getting ahead because you never help me out. Parents who love their kids help their kids. I need real help, not the sort of shit you’re talking about. Addiction treatment shit. Fuck you. I’ll just keep getting help from the people who really care about me—my friends. I don’t need or want your kind of help, which is useless. How dare you accuse me of having any kind of problem? YOU are my problem.”
When I call around to some of Joey’s old friends, I hear that I’m overreacting.
“Everybody our age tries drugs. Unless it involves needles or crack, it’s not something to be worried about.” I don’t believe them. I continue to worry.
Today, I really miss my own mom.
Of three siblings, I’m the only girl, sandwiched two and a half years on either side between Richard, the eldest, and David, the goofiest. Growing up in Golden Valley, Minnesota, we lived in a yellow colonial-style house with black shutters at the windows and a milk box on the front porch, and filled our days with riding bikes and sledding and playing in the woods, or pelting one another with icy snowballs and giving Mom gray hair (and Dad no hair).
During high school we still got along well enough—we weren’t best buddies but we could stand to be in the same room together—and during college we would catch up around the kitchen table when we migrated home for holidays and summers. But once our grown-up lives took shape, as we scattered across the country and our trips back home were less synchronized, sibling updates fell to Mom and Dad in weekly calls, with news, security and love relayed from the phone nearest the well-worn La-Z-Boy in the den. Comfort Central.
Mom, I need you. But I don’t want to worry you. Please pick up the phone and call me right now.
Solid Midwestern folks; my dad is a doctor and my mom is a nurse. Sometime in the early 1950s they met on the ward of a county hospital in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Mom in her starched white uniform, nursing cap, and cat glasses. Dad in his resident jacket with a stethoscope hanging from his neck. Someone proposed to someone else while holding hands on a long walk and they’ve been happily married ever since. My parents’ weekly routine includes a lot of togetherness; grocery shopping, brisk hikes, and turns at the churches of their different denominations. Dad mows the grass, keeps Mom’s car topped off with gas, and irons his own shirts now that her hands are crippled with arthritis. Mom is tiny; I can rest my chin on her curly white head. A little bird, she bakes pies and cookies for Dad (a plumper bird), and fusses over him if he doesn’t wear a hat to protect his bald head. My parents see the world as they treat the world: gently.
My world isn’t feeling very gentle right now.
Mom, call me.
Hysteria becomes begging, which becomes scheming, which becomes anger, which becomes a dial tone. Joey hangs up because Joe refuses to drop off a car so he can drive to his girlfriend’s house and save her from a dose of bad cocaine and certain death. He didn’t care for Joe’s suggestion that Joey call 911. The phone rings again within minutes, but this time Joey is crying.
“Dad, help me. Please, Dad, come get me.”
Joe is out the door in five seconds.
Returning a short while later, Joe shoots me a warning look as he shakes off his boots and holds the door open for Joey. My son steps in from the dark, pale and twitching. He zooms through the kitchen and down the hall, in and out of rooms, choking on tears and fears and garbled words about cocaine. Joe and I follow around after him, trying to soothe the wild beast; somehow, eventually, after whatever he’s on wears off, we wait and listen. Joey lies down in his old bedroom, murmuring the words we’ve been waiting to hear.
“I need help. I need addiction treatment. I can’t do this anymore.” And he falls asleep.
Sadness leaks onto my pillow until I’m overcome with exhaustion. But then, drawn from a fitful sleep, I tiptoe through the house to check on Joey before dawn. He’s in the TV room, sitting in near darkness, propped up next to his girlfriend, Julianne, on our green sofa.
Where did she come from?
Neither of them moves, not even a bit, although their expressions become slightly amused, as though I’m some freaky apparition that magically appeared for their viewing pleasure. I don’t know what’s going on, but it feels smarmy. This doesn’t match up with what happened here earlier this night.
“Both of you, get out.”
They do. They stand up and float right out the door. Looking around, I notice a stain on the beige carpet. It looks like blood. What went on here during the night? Holding the edge of the coffee table for balance, I crouch down to touch the ruby wetness, and then slowly bring it to my nose. Not blood. Wine.
Growling now, I shake my head, trying to free my mind of the ugliness snaking into my thoughts. How dare Joey bring his scary world into our life and our home—his drugs, his drinking, his darling little dealer, and whatever that drama was that happened last night?
Furious, I slam my way through the rest of the morning, slamming doors and drawers and cabinets. I slam waffles into the toaster and then onto Rick’s plate (who then eats them in silence). Once Rick leaves for school I head to the garage, slam my car into reverse, and take my fury to Joey.
At Joey’s apartment, a long-haired stranger opens the door, a silent zombie who shuffles off to flop on the saggy black sofa in the middle of the room, leaving me to stand at the entrance. Not sure what to do, I stay where I am, taking a look around. The blinds are drawn against the morning light but I can see dried blood and other crud all over the carpet and walls. I presume the widely splattered blood stains are from the mysterious broken sliding-glass-door incident. Amidst crumpled bits of trash and dirty dishes, a Christmas tree stands in the corner, decorated with silver garlands and a few ornaments from Joey’s childhood. More than the decrepitude of this place where Joey lives, it’s the tree—Joey’s attempt at re-creating fond memories—that makes me want to cry.
Stepping farther into the apartment, I tap on Joey’s door. No response. I’m not at all sure I want to see whatever’s in there. But I have some yelling to do. So, I turn the grimy knob with two fingers and slowly push my way in.
Fully dressed (minus a sneaker), Joey is sprawled on his back across his bed. His long legs are twisted in the less-than-fresh-looking sheets. His eyes are closed, he’s breathing heavily. One arm is bent over his forehead, the other dangles above an empty wine bottle on the floor.
“Joey,” I whisper softly. Not to rouse him, but to see if it’s safe to snoop without getting caught. Not an eyelash flickers. The small room smells of ashtrays, recently smoked pot, and things unwashed; I hold the back of my hand to my nose. Three