A MILLION LITTLE PIECES
: Chapter 15

I hear my name. I feel someone kicking me. I’m not sure if it is real, I am not sure what to do. My name. A foot. Someone is calling me. Someone is kicking me.

I open my eyes. It is still dark, but getting lighter. Somewhere in the hour before dawn. I see outlines of trees and Lilly in my arms. Someone is calling me. Someone is kicking me.

I look up. Ted is standing above me with a blonde Girl in her late twenties. Both look tired, both have messy hair. Ted speaks.

I thought you were dead, you Little Fucker.

What are you doing here?

Saving your ass.

What time is it?

Time to fucking go.

I gently shake Lilly. She opens her eyes.

What?

We gotta go.

Who are you talking to?

A friend. His name’s Ted.

What time is it?

I don’t know.

We stand. I’m awake, but not completely. Lilly isn’t even close. She knows the Girl with Ted and they say hello. I kiss her good-bye and I tell her I’ll miss her. She asks when me we’ll see each other again and I tell her tonight.

Ted and I walk through the Woods toward the Trail. I ask him what he was doing and he says getting laid. He asks me what I was doing and I say talking. He laughs. I ask him if he’s been out here before and he says every goddamn night. He asks me and I tell him no, it was my first time.

We hit the Trail. He says be careful and get ready to run, if we get caught out here, we’ll be in deep shit. I haven’t run anywhere in a long time. I don’t have the lungs for it.

The Trail fades into the grass surrounding the Buildings of the Clinic. We make it inside safely and I go to my Room and I climb into bed. I wish I was still with Lilly. I fall asleep. I wish she was here.

When I wake up, Miles is gone, but there is a note on my nightstand. It is sitting on top of the Tao. It reads thank you, James, it made sense. The note makes me smile.

The alarm inside tells me I’m late, so I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, dry off and get dressed. Leave.

I hurry through the Halls to the Dining Hall. When I arrive, it is nearly empty. I get a donut and a cup of coffee and I leave.

More Halls. I hurry. I’m late to meet my Parents. The Fury is with me, but barely. It is still full from its feeding. I replace the Room, open the door.

My Parents are sitting at the conference table with Daniel on one side of them, and a man I don’t know, dressed like my Father, but slightly younger, on the other side. My Mother is crying.

What’s wrong?

She shakes her head. I look to my Father.

What’s wrong?

He stands, speaks.

James, this is Randall.

He motions to the man, who also stands.

He’s an Attorney who works for the Clinic.

I look at the man.

Hello, Randall.

He reaches over the table.

Hello, James.

We shake hands. My Father speaks.

He’s been talking to the Authorities in Michigan, North Carolina and Ohio.

What’d they say?

Why don’t you sit down.

I sit down. I’m nervous and scared. They sit down.

What’d they say?

My Father looks at Randall, Randall looks at a file. My Mother cries and she stares at the floor. Daniel stares at me. I’m nervous and scared, starting to shake. The Day of Judgment has arrived. The Day of Judgment. Randall looks up.

I’ve good news and bad news. Which would you like first?

The good.

Michigan and North Carolina want Misdemeanor Possession. Your time in here will be time served. You’ll have some fines, a couple thousand dollars in each place, and your Record will be cleared in three years. The Courts in both places are overloaded and want this to go away. I’d recommend going along with what they’ve offered.

My Father speaks.

So would I, James.

I nod.

Okay. What’s the bad news?

Randall speaks.

You’re in a lot of trouble in Ohio. It’s a Small Town and they don’t see much like what they saw with you. They say that you caused quite a few problems there and made a number of enemies within the Police Department. They are incredibly angry, as angry as any Prosecutors that I have ever had to deal with on a case, and they want to make an example out of you. They don’t particularly care that you are here and that you’re trying to get your life in order. They say they have an open-and-shut case and they’ll be happy to go to Trial. I believe them.

He takes a deep breath.

I’m nervous and scared. Scared to fucking death. The Day of my Judgment has arrived.

If you agree to plead guilty to all of the charges, they’ll agree to three years in State Prison, followed by five years of Probation. If you violate your Probation, you will be required to serve the full term of the Sentence, which is an additional five years. You will be required to pay fifteen thousand dollars in fines and to fulfill one thousand hours of Community Service upon release. Your driving privileges in the state will be permanently revoked. Your Record will be permanent marked.

If you force them to go to Trial, they’re saying that if you’re convicted, they will press for the maximum Sentence, which is eight and a half years. As far as the Trial prospects go, they are claiming to have thirty witnesses, a blood test registering your blood alcohol level at point two nine, and a bag of crack cocaine. If that’s true, as they say, it’s an open-and-shut case.

The fear is gone, replaced by horror. My Father stares at me, my Mother cries. Daniel looks at the wall, Randall waits for a response.

Fuck.

My Mother looks up.

Could you not say that word, James?

I look at her.

I was basically just sentenced to three years in Prison, Mom. What the fuck am I supposed to say?

Her lips quiver.

Please.

I clench my jaw.

Fine.

My Father speaks.

Any ideas?

No.

Do you think they have all of that evidence?

Yes.

What do you want to do?

I look at Randall.

What can I do?

He shrugs.

I can go back to them with something, but I’m not optimistic about it.

What’s that mean?

It means they probably won’t budge.

I shake my head, think about three years in a State Prison. A moment ago fear became horror. At this moment, the fear has come back and the horror is still here. Three years in a State Prison. Three years of savagery, three years of fighting and three years protecting myself every second of every day. Three fucking years.

What if I run?

My Father speaks.

No more running.

I look at him.

This is my decision, Dad.

No, it’s not.

Yes, it is.

You’re not paying for whatever it costs.

You gonna be in the cell with me?

No, I’m not.

Then I am paying for whatever it costs.

I look at Randall.

What if I run?

My Father speaks.

I won’t allow that to happen.

I ignore him.

What if I run, Randall?

There is a seven-year Statute of Limitations. If you stay out of trouble, at the end of that term, you’re a free man. If you get caught for anything at any point during that time, even a traffic ticket, you’ll likely be jailed, extradited, tried and forced to serve the full term. I would highly, highly, highly recommend against that course of action.

I put my face in my hands, speak to myself.

Fuck.

My Mother speaks.

James.

I look up at my Mother.

Sorry.

She’s crying and her lips are quivering.

My Father speaks.

What would you like to do?

I don’t know.

Would you like to mount a defense?

It’d be a waste of time and money.

Why?

Because I’m guilty of all the charges.

Your Mother and I will pay for it.

You’ve paid enough. I don’t want you to pay any more.

What do you want to do?

I need to think.

I stare at the floor. I’m guilty of all the charges. Three years in a State Prison is an eternity, a fucking eternity, and it’s likely I’ll be put in Maximum Security. I have never been there, but I know people who have been there. They did not come out rehabilitated and they did not come out resembling who they were when they went in. Addicts became Thieves. Thieves became Dealers. Dealers became Killers. Killers killed again. I look up at Randall.

Tell them I’ll plead guilty to everything.

My Mother interrupts.

You’ll be a convicted Felon.

Doesn’t look like I have a choice about that, Mom.

I look at Randall.

I’ll plead guilty, but for now, tell them I’ll keep running unless I get some placement other than placement on a Maximum Security Block. Try and get the time down, if you can. If there’s any sort of choice, which sounds like an incredible longshot, I would rather do more time than go into Max.

Randall nods, speaks.

You said for now, what’s later?

I don’t know.

He looks to my Father.

Does this sound okay to you?

My Father speaks.

Let’s see what happens.

Randall looks at his watch, closes his file, stands.

I need to go. I’ll call North Carolina and Michigan and tell them we’ve got deals. I’ll call Ohio and see what I can do. I can’t promise anything.

I stand, reach for his hand.

Thank you.

He takes it.

You’re welcome.

My Father does the same and Randall walks out. My Mother is staring at the floor. She looks as if she wants to cry, but there are no more tears. Daniel speaks.

Would you like to be alone?

My Father nods.

Yes, please.

Daniel stands.

I’ll be at the Family Center if you need anything.

Thank you.

Daniel leaves. My Father stares at the table, my Mother at the floor. I stare at the wall. There is an awful, uncomfortable silence. The type of silence just after a bomb explodes and just before the screaming starts. We sit in our chairs. We breathe, we think, we stare. It is awful and uncomfortable. The bomb has exploded. We all just sit and stare.

The wall isn’t giving me any answers. It just sits there bright and white. I look up and see my Father take a deep breath and look up at me.

It has been an interesting and enlightening day and a half.

I’m sorry.

He shakes his head.

It’s much worse than I thought, James.

I know. I’m sorry.

I don’t know if we can help you this time.

I don’t think you should.

We’re your Parents. It’s our instinct to try and help you.

I don’t think you can this time, Dad.

He shakes his head. My Mother speaks.

I’m sorry, James.

I look at her.

You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Mom.

I am though. I just keep wondering what we did wrong.

You didn’t do anything wrong, Mom.

We must have done something.

She starts to break down. My Father stands and he goes to her. He pulls out a chair next to her and he puts his arms around her. She buries her face in his shoulder.

She cries. I watch her cry. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take her crying, I can’t take the guilt I feel because of it. I can’t let her take responsibility for what I am and for what I have done, I can’t let her try to accept any of the blame. I created this situation and I made the decisions that led me to where I am today. I made every goddamn one of them. It’s not her fault, nor anyone else’s fault. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take it.

I push my chair back. I stand. My Father is holding my Mother as my Mother cries. She is crying because of me. I step toward them. I step again. I am two steps away I step again. I am one step away. They are not paying attention to me. They are lost in their own sorrow. Sorrow they do not deserve. Sorrow I have dumped down upon them. I step again. I am there. I am next to them. I am there.

The Fury speaks it says no. The Fury speaks it says turn and run. The Fury speaks it says fuck them let them deal with it. The Fury speaks it says I will make you pay. I say fuck the Fury. My Mother is crying. Fuck the goddamn Fury.

I get down on one knee. I am close enough to smell her tears. I reach forward and I touch my Mother’s shoulder. It is the first time in all of my memory that I have initiated contact with either my Mother or my Father. I firm my grip so she knows it is there. It is the first time in all of my memory that I have initiated contact with either my Mother or my Father. The first time in my life. She lifts her head and she turns toward me. I speak.

Mom.

She stares at me.

I’m sorry.

She has been broken.

Truly, truly sorry.

Broken by me.

I fucked up your life, all of our lives, and I’m truly truly sorry.

She smiles a smile of happiness and a smile of sorrow, happiness for my gesture and sorrow for my life, and she takes one of her arms from around the width of my Father and she puts it around me. She pulls me in. She hugs me with one arm and I let her and I hug her back. I have never done this before. Hug my Mother. Never in my life.

My Father takes one of his arms and he puts it around me and I do the same. Take my arm and put it around him. My Mother is still crying she can’t stop crying her youngest Son has just been sentenced to three years in Prison my Father and I hold her. We hold each other. We are a Family. Though I have been their child for twenty-three years, we have never been a Family. We are now. As we hold each other. As my Mother cries for my wasted life. As my Father tries to figure a way to save it. As I try to accept three years locked in a cell.

My Mother stops crying. Everything is streaked and stained, but she doesn’t seem to care. She pulls her arm from my Father and leaves her arm on me and she wipes her face with her free hand. She sniffles. She takes deep breaths. She tries to compose herself. She speaks.

What are we going to do?

Wait and see, Mom.

I don’t want you to go to Prison.

I don’t either.

What are we going to do?

Let’s just wait and see.

She nods and her nod is some form of cue that we my Family all understand. We pull away from each other and we sit, though not in our original chairs. We sit close. In a small half circle. We all know something has changed, we are all exhausted. The change has drained us. We sit close. We are a Family.

My Father looks at his watch.

I think it’s about time for lunch.

My Mother and I stand. We walk toward the door, open it, step outside the room. My Father speaks.

We’ll see you this afternoon.

Yeah.

My Mother speaks.

Can I have another hug?

I smile.

Sure.

She steps forward. I put my arms around her. I am immediately uncomfortable and I immediately feel as if I’m somewhere I don’t belong. I gently squeeze. I am more uncomfortable, feel more foreign and out of place. She squeezes me, which makes me want to run. This is my Mother. I am hugging her. I don’t want to hug her, but I want to try. I hold her tight and I hug her. It is but a small price to pay for all that I have done.

She releases me and I step back. I feel better.

I’ll see you later.

I turn and I walk away, through the Halls and toward food. I am hungry. Hungry from the cold of last night, hungry from the tension of the morning, hungry to feed just for the sake of feeding. Hungry.

I enter the Corridor. I glance through the glass to the women’s side. I see Lilly sitting at a table. She is pretending not to notice me, but I know that she does. I am pretending not to notice her, but she knows that I do. In her arms last night after she cried she clung to me like a lost child. She held me strong and thin and she told me she never wanted to let go of me. She told me that she had never been so open or honest with anyone before and that the feeling scared her to death. She told me that she never wanted to let go. She asked me about my plans for the future and I told her I didn’t have any and I didn’t know what I was going to do. She told me she that she is going to a Halfway House in Chicago, that she doesn’t feel strong enough or free enough to live without some form of supervised support. She will be near her Grandmother and being near her Grandmother will make her feel better. She will be able to get a job and she will be able to start building a life in a City where she feels a sense of safety. After she finished speaking, she asked me again if I knew what I was going to do. I told her again I didn’t know. She asked me if I had been to Chicago before and I told her yes, that’s where both my Parents grew up. She asked if I still had Family there and I said yes. She asked if I would consider moving there and I said yes. She asked if I was considering it because that is where she is going to be living. I smiled and I thought for a moment and I said yes.

I get a tray and I get in line. I get a plate of chipped beef, a plate of chicken strips and rice, a plate of turkey taquitos. I carry the tray to the Dining Room. My friends are at a table in one of the far corners. I walk toward them.

I sit down so I can see Lilly and Lilly can see me. Leonard and Miles and Ed and Ted and Matty are talking about the imminent Heavyweight Boxing Match. They ask me what’s new, I tell them about my Sentence. They are all surprised. They figured whatever time I was looking at was likely to be short and easy. Leonard asks what I did and I tell him. Ed and Ted both say nice work, three years for popping a Cop is probably worth it. Matty says he knows some good fighting tricks that will help me once I go inside and he’d be glad to teach them to me. Miles asks in what Jurisdiction the case is located.

We eat. I glance at Lilly. We talk. Prison is the main topic of conversation. Everyone at the table has been to Prison except for Miles and me. Leonard did what he calls an easy four at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary in Kansas. Matty spent six years in a Juvenile Correctional Facility, where he learned to box. Ed did two years at Jackson in Michigan for Assault with Intent to Inflict Great Bodily Harm, Ted has twice been to Angola State Farm in the swamps of Louisiana. Miles says he has sentenced men to Angola, but he has never been there. He says from what he hears, it is Hell on Earth. It is located in the deep bog, hot, humid and miserable, fifty miles from the nearest town. Cells are often open, the Yard is basically unsupervised, and there are scores of Gangs, usually organized according to race, that are in a constant state of war. The busiest part of the entire Facility is the Morgue. When men aren’t fighting or hiding or trying to survive, they work fourteen-hour days in the state-owned fields digging irrigation ditches and growing vegetables.

Ted laughs and says it ain’t that bad. Miles says if that’s what you think, you are either the sickest man alive or you’re just fooling yourself. Ted stops laughing and says he’s facing Life-No-Parole there under the Third-Strike Law, and that if anything, he’s just trying to get prepared for it. Miles asks what the strikes are and Ted says Armed Robbery at nineteen, for which he did four years, Possession of a Controlled Substance with Intent to Distribute and Possession of an Automatic Weapon when he was twenty-five, for which he did three years, and most recently, at thirty, Statutory Rape, after he was caught in the backseat of a Trans Am with the fifteen-year-old Daughter of a Small-Town Sheriff. Miles asks why the District Attorney would push on the Statutory charge if he knew Ted was facing Life-No-Parole. Ted laughs and he says he did the same thing with the DA’s two Daughters, but that they were both in love with him and were unwilling to press charges. Miles shakes his head in disbelief and asks if Ted would like him to try and help him. Ted says fuck yes, my life is at stake here. Miles says he’ll see what he can do.

We finish eating and we stand. As we walk out, I see Bobby sitting at a table with the familiar man the menacing man the man I know but do not know from where. Bobby is staring at me. The man is staring at me. I stare back. I hold my ground.

We leave the Dining Room. My friends go to the Lecture, I go to the Family Center. When I enter the Main Room, I see my Parents in the same chairs they were in yesterday. As I walk toward them, they stand and they greet me. Dad speaks.

How was your lunch?

Okay.

Mom speaks.

Who did you eat with?

I have some friends in here.

What are they like?

Do you really want to know that?

Dad speaks.

Of course we do.

My closest friend is some kind of Mobster. My Roommate is a Federal Judge. My other friends are Crackheads and Drunks. I sort of have a Girlfriend, and she’s a Crackhead and a Pillpopper and she used to be a prostitute.

My Mother cringes, though she tries to hide it. She speaks.

Are they nice People?

I nod, smile.

They are, and in weird way, they’re the best friends I’ve ever had.

That’s all that really matters, if they’re nice People and you like them.

I do. Very much.

Dad speaks.

Aren’t male/female relationships against the Rules here?

They are.

Do you think you should be doing it?

There are a lot of Rules here. I try to follow most of them, but this Girl, her name is Lilly, has been good for me. She’s cool, she’s smart, she listens to me, I listen to her, we understand each other. We’re different and we come from different places, but in a lot of ways we’re the same. We’re both wrecked, we’re both trying to get better. We both need help and we’re trying to help each other.

My Mom speaks.

Would I like her?

If you could get past what she’s done and what she’s been through.

I think I could.

Then yeah, you would. You’d like her a lot.

Do you love her?

You know I don’t like talking about that stuff with you, Mom.

Maybe you can try, though?

I smile, look down at the floor. I have hidden as much as I could from my Mother and my Father for my entire life. I don’t want to do that anymore, so I look up and I look at my Mother and I speak.

I haven’t told her, but yes, I love her.

My Mother and my Father smile. They are bright, genuine smiles, the best smiles I have seen since I have been here. My Mother speaks.

I wish we could meet her.

You will someday.

My Father speaks.

Next time you see her will you tell her we said hello.

I smile.

I will.

The bell rings. The man standing next to the bell tells us to go to the same Rooms we were in yesterday. I stand and I say good-bye to my Parents and I hug them. I am not comfortable doing it, but I do it anyway.

I walk to the Room. The chairs are arranged in a circle again. I sit down, a young woman is on one side of me, a middle-aged man on the other. We nod to each other and we say hello. Sophie walks in and she takes a seat an empty seat at the head of the circle and she introduces herself. Around the room we follow. Introducing ourselves.

The introductions end. Sophie stands and she takes two steps backward. There is a large, white, laminated board on the wall behind her, a tray at its base is lined with colored erasable markers. Sophie grabs one of the markers a blue marker and she starts writing on the board. When she’s finished, she steps away. The words read: Addiction = Disease, Alcoholism = Disease.

She starts speaking. She tells us that now that we have a general idea about addictive behaviors and the impact that they have on both the Addicts and the Family Members of the Addicts, we need to start understanding the cause of those behaviors. She says that addiction is a disease. Whether it is to alcohol or drugs or food or gambling or sex or anything else, it is a disease. It is a chronic and progressive disease. It is classified as such by most Doctors and by organizations such the American Medical Association and the World Health Organization. It is a disease that can be arrested, or placed into a state of remission, but that is incurable. No matter how hard we try, no matter what action we take, addiction, she says, is incurable. Absolutely incurable.

She starts talking about the causes of the disease. As with most diseases, the belief is that the cause is genetic. She says that Alcoholics and Addicts are born with a gene or a gene structure, precisely which is not yet known, that, when activated, causes the disease to present itself in an individual. Once this has happened, and at this point there is no way to know if or when it will, the Addict is at the mercy of the disease. It cannot be controlled, it cannot be held in check by force of will, the decision to use or not use, to indulge or not indulge, to take or do or not take or not do, is not a decision that can be made because the disease makes the decision for you. The Addict always uses, always indulges, always takes, always does. The Addict always wants and always needs and that want and that need is always satisfied. The inability to control and the lack of choice is but a symptom of the disease. A dangerous and horrible symptom, but a symptom nonetheless. It is incurable. If active, there is no way to stop it.

She talks about the environmental aspects of the disease. The Family setting, the prevalence of drinking within the Family, the influence of friends, the availability of drugs and alcohol, factors of stress, the Social reliance and acceptance of chemicals and their use in everyday behaviors and functions. She talks about the control of the environment and its effect on someone who has an active form of the Disease. She says that removing as many triggers, which are environmental factors that may cause relapse, such as bottles of wine in a home or friends who abuse substances, is an important part of maintaining a healthy Recovery Program.

When she finishes speaking, Sophie opens the floor to questions. Nearly everyone has one. A young Mother asks about the likelihood of addictive genes being passed from her Husband to their Children. The likelihood is very high. She asks how to deal with it. When they are old enough, talk to the Children and make them aware of it, and try to eliminate as many triggers as possible. The man next to me asks about medication. Are there any that can control the disease the way traditional medications control other diseases. There was one, Antabuse, which made Alcoholics vomit when they drank. It proved ineffective because it could be circumvented by not taking it. A middle-aged woman asks if there are specific groups that are more likely than others to be genetically predisposed to the disease. No, it is an equal-opportunity disease. It affects black, white, yellow, everyone in every culture around the World. A man whose Wife is in her fourth Treatment Center asks why the disease seems to return with greater strength each time she relapses. Sophie says that because of the progressive and chronic nature of the illness, when a state of remission is breached, the illness returns at the same level of strength it had when it remissed. He asks if there is any way to reduce the level of its strength. The answer is no. If active, the disease always becomes stronger.

There are a number of questions about Treatment options. A young man asks if there are any beyond what is traditionally taught in Treatment Centers, which are AA and the Twelve Steps. Yes, of course there are other ways. Do they work? No, they do not. Why? We don’t know why, they just don’t. AA and the Twelve Steps are the only real options. How successful are they? Fifteen percent of those who try them are sober for more than a year. Fifteen percent seems low. It is. Why? It is an incurable illness. Is there anything else we can do? Beyond loving your Family Member and trying to support them, there’s nothing else you can do. Is there any way to increase our chances? Fifteen percent is the best we can give you.

I sit and I listen. I sit and I think. I don’t ask any questions and I don’t say a word. I would like to stand up and scream bullshit this is all fucking bullshit, but I don’t do it. I don’t believe that addiction is disease. Cancer is a disease. It takes over the body and destroys it. Alzheimer’s is a disease. It takes over the body and the mind and it ruins them. Parkinson’s is a disease. It takes over the body and the mind and makes them shake and it wrecks them. Addiction is not a disease. Not even close. Diseases are destructive Medical conditions that human beings do not control. They do not choose when to have them, they do not choose when to get rid of them. They do not choose the type of the disease they would like or in what form it is delivered, they do not choose how much of it they would like or at what time they would like it. A disease is a Medical condition that must be dealt with using Medical technology. It cannot be dealt with using a Group or a set of Steps. It cannot be dealt with by talking about it. It cannot be dealt with by having Family Members attend three-day seminars about it or by reading books with blue covers or saying prayers about serenity.

Although genetics and a genetic link may be undeniable, everything about us is genetic, and everything about our physical selves is predetermined by a genetic link. If an individual is fat but wants to be thin, it is not a genetic disease. If someone is stupid, but wants to be smart, it is not a genetic disease. If a drunk is a drunk, but doesn’t want to be a drunk anymore, it is not a genetic disease. Addiction is a decision. An individual wants something, whatever that something is, and makes a decision to get it. Once they have it, they make a decision to take it. If they take it too often, that process of decision making gets out of control, and if it gets too far out of control, it becomes an addiction. At that point the decision is a difficult one to make, but it is still a decision. Do I or don’t I. Am I going to take or am I not going to take. Am I going to be a pathetic dumbshit Addict and continue to waste my life or am I going to say no and try to stay sober and be a decent Person. It is a decision. Each and every time. A decision. String enough of those decisions together and you set a course and you set a standard of living. Addict or human. Genetics do not make that call. They are just an excuse. They allow People to say it wasn’t my fault I am genetically predisposed. It wasn’t my fault I was preprogrammed from day one. It wasn’t my fault I didn’t have any say in the matter. Bullshit. Fuck that bullshit. There is always a decision. Take responsibility for it. Addict or human. It’s a fucking decision. Each and every time.

Sophie finishes answering questions. The mood in the Room is somber. The words genetic and disease and incurable and fifteen percent success rate hang in the air like radioactive poison. Everyone looks around. Everyone looks at each other. We all know that when we leave here, eighty-five percent of us are going to return to the same problems we had before we came. We have now been told that the root of them is something that is incurable.

We take each other’s hands. We hold tighter than yesterday. We try to squeeze hope from each other, try to bond in the hope that bonding will change reality. It won’t. Eighty-five percent of us are fucked.

We say the Serenity Prayer. God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change, the courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. We say it again, we say it again. Sophie has us say it again and again until the poison lifts, until smiles start appearing on faces. God, grant us the serenity, God, grant us the serenity. The People are smiling, but smiles and prayers aren’t going to change reality. Eighty-five percent of us are fucked.

We finish, we stand, we file out of the Room. Primary Patients walk one way, Family Members another. I walk back to the Unit and I get a cup of coffee. I sit down at a table. The afternoon Session is just ending, a Graduation is taking place. The Bald Man is standing before the men giving a speech. He says what he learned here has saved his life. He says that if hadn’t come, he would have never stopped drinking, no matter what the consequences, because, although he had tried, he did not know how to stop. He says he knows how to stop now. He says that AA and the Twelve Steps and his Higher Power have shown him the way. He says that after his Wife and his Children, this way, this knowing how to stop, is the greatest gift he has ever been given. The greatest gift by far. He starts to cry. The men let him cry. Through his tears he says thank you. Thank you for letting me come here and thank you being here for me. He starts to cry harder. He says thank you over and over. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my Family. They mean everything to me. Thank you for everything. Thank you.

As he cries, the men sitting in front of him look at each other, unsure of what to do or how to react. I hear a clap. A single sharp sting of hand on hand, flesh on flesh. It is loud, and it pierces the uncertain looks of the men the way words of a Preacher pierce the hearts of Believers. I hear another clap. Another. Another. From around the room, isolated clapping becomes part of a unified expression of admiration and respect. The Bald Man cries. The men salute him.

He stands and he smiles. He wipes his face. The clapping continues. Leonard stands and he cheers and the men follow him. They stand and cheer, salute and respect. The Bald Man smiles wider, cries harder, the joy of the now this moment and of the bright, shining future with his Family lights his face, his skin, the round dome of his skull. It lights him lights through him dimming whatever he has done before the darkness of his past has been overwhelmed. I stand and I clap and I cheer. The hair on the back of my neck is alert and alive, there are chills running down the length of my spine. Good luck, Bald Man. I never knew you well but you showed me how to cry like a man. You were braver than me and the rest of the men here you were braver than all of us good luck. May you go home, be happy, live sober and free, live the life you imagine yourself living. May you love your Wife and Children and let them love you. Good luck, Bald Man.

He runs from the Room. Just like before, but not at all the same. As he runs he smiles and as he runs the men laugh, but it’s not like before, not like it at all. He runs sober and free. The bright, shining future lies stretched out before him.

The men stop cheering they are happy and laughing and they start to go their separate ways. I see Miles approach Leonard, tap him on the shoulder, and they walk toward the door. I pick up my coffee and I walk to the phone and I get into the Booth and I sit down and I shut the door. I pick up the phone and I start making calls. I call my Brother. He asks how it’s going with Mom and Dad. I say better than I thought it would. He says good, try to be cool, they are only there because they love you. I say I’m trying and he says keeps trying, I say I will. I ask him to say hello to Kirk and Julie and he says he will. We hang up.

I call Kevin. Kevin lives in Chicago. He yells into the phone I can tell he’s been drinking. It makes me sick and it makes me jealous. He’s free. He’s drinking. I can imagine the glass in his hand the liquid on his lips the feeling the feeling the feeling. I ask him about Chicago. He tells me it’s cold. I ask him if I would like it he tells me I would. There are lots of dark alleys and places to hide. I tell him I’m not hiding I’m going to Jail before I move. He says fuck, man, fuck Jail. I say I have to go to Jail and when I’m out I’m moving to Chicago. He says that’s great if you need anything I’ll help you out you can stay with me when you get here. I say thank you and we hang up. He was drunk. It makes me sick and it makes me jealous.

I call her friends. The ones who became my friends. Amy, Lucinda, Anna. The conversations are all the same. How are you I’m good. I’ve been thinking of you thank you. Do you need anything I’m fine. The conversations are tense. As if they know something that they are not telling me. I can feel it, they can feel it. It is best left alone I leave it alone and so do they. It is none of my business anymore. They each say they love me. Not romantically but in the way people love when they have seen too much hard life and they have seen it together. They saw it with me. I say I love them back and I do. When we hang up when I hang up with each of them I feel better. Not because of their relationship with her, but because of their relationship with me.

I am finished with the calls. I have made enough of them and I know that my calls will spread among those who know me. I walk out of the Unit and through the Halls and the Glass Corridor that separates men and women in the Dining Hall. I glance through to replace Lilly, she is sitting at a table. She is there with her friends and she is staring at me. Her eyes are red and swollen. There are stains of tears that have been washed away. I can see her hands shaking. She is staring at me as if she wishes I were dead.

I don’t want to acknowledge her and risk more than we have risked or give away more than is already known, but she is staring at me. Staring at me as if she wishes I were dead. I stare back, lift my hands and lower my head and say what’s wrong without words with my face and with my body. She stares at me. I do it again. I know I can be seen, but I don’t care. She just stares at me.

I get a tray and I get in line and I get a plate of chicken casserole. It is covered in crispy Chinese noodles and unidentifiable greens. I walk toward a table I look through the glass. She is still staring at me. Her friends are staring at me. The entire table is staring at me.

I sit down with Ed and Ted and Matty. The subject of the conversation is Ed, who found out this morning that he is leaving tomorrow. He is going back to Detroit, going back to work in the Steel Mill. He is happy and hopeful. He knows that his Union insurance won’t pay for him to go through Treatment again, and he feels as if this time it might actually work, or he might actually work at making it work. He is anxious to see his Sons. He has four of them. He knows that he has set a horrible example for them, and he wants them to see that he has changed for the better. He feels that the change will make a positive difference in their lives, that it will help prevent them from growing up to be anything like himself. Ed is hard man. Big, strong, tough as the material he works with, and I have never seen him be vulnerable in any sense of the word, but as he talks of his Sons, his eyes get soft and wet. He wants them to have a good life, a life better than his life has been. He wants them to finish School and stay out of Jail, go to College and get white-collar Jobs. He wants them to have Families, and when they do, to have an example of how to be a good man within those Families. He wants them to have everything he never had, and he wants to stay sober so that he can give it to them. He says he needs to do one thing, which is stay out of Bars. If he goes to Bars, he knows he will drink. If he drinks, he knows he will fight. If he fights, he knows he’ll be in trouble. His Union won’t support him if he gets into trouble again. He wants to set an example for his Children so they don’t end up like him. He knows this may be his last chance. He is happy and hopeful.

We finish eating. As we walk out of the Dining Hall, I look through the glass at the table where Lilly was sitting. Lilly is not there. The table is empty. I don’t know why, but she was looking at me as if she wished I were dead.

We walk through the Halls together. Matty and Ed and Ted discuss the absence of Leonard and Miles at dinner. They laugh about what they might be doing together. A Mobster and a Judge. Ed says he saw them sitting on the benches in front of the Lake, that they looked deep in conversation. Ted says Leonard is asking Miles for some sort of Immunity in relation to something that Leonard has done. Matty says whatever they’re doing it ain’t none of our business. We split up and they go to the Lecture and I go to Joanne’s Office.

Joanne is sitting behind her desk. I say hello to her, she says hello to me. My Mother is sitting on the couch. She stands, says hello, gives me a hug. I hug her back. I am still not comfortable touching her, and I am still not comfortable having her touch me, but I know it’s better if I let it happen. She hugs me tight. I wait. She lets go of me. I feel better.

Where’s Dad?

My Mother speaks.

He had a call he had to make for work. He’ll be here as soon as he’s done.

Everything all right?

I think so.

I look at Joanne.

What are we doing tonight?

We’re going to talk about the source of your addiction and what the root causes might be.

Do we wait for my Dad to do that?

Yes.

What do we do till then?

Your Mother was just telling me a story.

About what?

The first time she really believed you might be in trouble.

I look at my Mother.

When was it?

Do you remember when I found that bag of marijuana in your jacket pocket?

I chuckle.

Yeah.

Why are you laughing?

I don’t know.

It wasn’t funny, James.

I know, Mom.

Joanne speaks.

Did you replace it funny, James?

Sort of.

Why don’t you tell me your version of it.

I look at my Mother, she looks tense. I wait for a moment, collect my memories, speak.

I was fourteen. I had been away at Soccer Camp the Summer before. I had met this Girl there, I think her name was Emily, and we spent all of our time at the Camp sneaking away and smoking dope. When we left, we wrote each other. She was sort of a female version of me, which meant the letters were pretty explicit about drugs and drinking. One afternoon I came home from School and went to my Room and a bunch of my stuff, stuff that I kept hidden, including Emily’s letters, was sitting on my dresser. I knew I was in trouble and I was pissed my Mom had gone through my shit, so I went back downstairs to replace her and get it over with. When I walked into the Kitchen, she was standing there holding a bag of dope that she found in the pocket of my coat. She asked what’s this and I asked her where she got it and she said don’t talk back to me young man and I said tell me where you got it and I’ll tell you what it is and she said stop mouthing off young man and I laughed.

I look at my Mother. Her face is white beneath her makeup. I look back to Joanne.

She held the dope in front of me and she screamed what is this where did you get this you tell me right now. I laughed and she kept screaming. I got sick of her screaming and I was pissed about the invasion of my privacy, so as she was holding the bag up, I reached out and I snatched it from her hand. She was shocked, and as I put the bag in my pocket, she reared back to slap me. I saw it coming, so when she swung I grabbed her hand. That made her swing with the other hand and I grabbed that one too. I had both of her hands and she was struggling and screaming and I was laughing. I guess I was laughing because a bag of dope didn’t seem like such a big deal to me and it was ridiculous to watch her freak out over it. She couldn’t hit me because I had her arms, so she tried to kick me. As she did, I let go of her hands and she lost her balance and fell to the floor and she started crying, crying really hard. I turned around and walked out the front door. I could hear her crying as I did, but I didn’t want to deal with it, so I just walked out. When I came home a few hours later my Dad screamed at me and grounded me for a month.

I look at my Mother. She is staring at the floor. Joanne speaks.

That’s an awful story, James.

I know.

How did it make you feel as you told it?

Part of me still thinks it’s funny, but more of me is just ashamed and embarrassed.

How do you think it makes your Mother feel?

I look at my Mother. She is staring at the floor and she is trying not to cry.

I think it probably makes her feel pretty awful.

Why?

Because it must have been humiliating. Trying to confront your Kid about drugs and having him laugh at you and trying to discipline him and ending up in a heap on the floor.

Joanne looks at my Mother.

Is that true, Lynne?

My Mother looks up, lips quivering.

Yes.

Do you think that was what the incident was really about, drugs and discipline?

I speak.

No.

What do you think it was about?

It was about control.

Why do you think that?

Going through my shit and reading my private letters was about knowing what I was doing so that she could control me. Trying to make me tell her what was in the bag when she already knew what was in it was about control. When she fell after she hit me, she wasn’t upset because she didn’t land her shots, she was upset because she knew, at that point, I was out of control.

Joanne looks at my Mother.

Do you think that’s a valid interpretation?

My Mother stares at the floor, thinks. She looks up.

I was upset about the drugs. It was upsetting reading those letters and replaceing out about some of the things he had been doing, especially after we sent him to that Camp to try and get him away from some of that stuff. When I actually found the bag in his coat, I was scared and horrified. He was fourteen. Fourteen-year-old Boys shouldn’t be carrying around bags of drugs. To a certain extent, though, he’s right about the control. His Father and I were always trying to control him, mainly because he had always been so out of control.

There is a knock at the door. Joanne says come in and the door opens and my Father steps into the Office.

My Mother stands and gives him a hug. I do the same. My Father sits next to my Mother. He holds her hand and he looks at Joanne.

Sorry I’m late.

We were talking about an event that happened when James was fourteen, and that discussion led to one about the issue of control. The goal of this evening’s session is to try and get some idea of a root cause for his addiction. I’m sensing that there may be some connection between the issue of control and the root cause.

What was the incident?

My Mother speaks.

When I found that bag of marijuana in his coat pocket.

Which time?

The time I fell trying to slap him.

My Father nods.

That was bad. What does control have to do with it?

Joanne speaks.

James said he thought the incident had more to do with control than with drugs.

My Father turns toward me. He looks confused, slightly angry.

That sounds a bit ridiculous, James.

I speak.

Not to me. Going through all my stuff and reading my letters and hunting through my jacket is about trying to replace out what I’m doing so that Mom could try to control it.

There were drugs in there. Your Mother had every right to go through your jacket. You were fourteen years old.

That’s fine if that’s what you think, but spying on me and sneaking around through my private shit was about controlling me, which is something you guys always tried to do.

My Father’s voice rises.

You’ve been out of control your entire life. We’re your Parents, what did you expect us to do?

My voice rises.

Leave me be. Let me live my own life.

When you were fourteen? Where do you think you’d be if we’d done that?

Where the fuck am I now? It couldn’t be much worse than this.

Parents don’t leave Children alone, James, they raise them. That’s all your Mother and I tried to do with you.

You tried to micromanage me and keep track of me every second of every day and make me do what you wanted me to do.

My Father clenches his jaw just like I clench my jaw. He’s angry, very angry, and he starts to speak. Joanne cuts him off.

Just a second, Mr. Frey.

He takes a breath and he nods. She looks at me.

Why do you think it didn’t work?

Same reason that if you keep a dog on a short leash it’s more aggressive. Same reason if you keep a Prisoner in solitary for too long they become violent. Same reason Dictatorships usually end in Revolution.

Those are nice examples, but what’s the reason?

I didn’t want to be controlled, so I did everything I could to try to break the pattern of it, which made them want to control me more.

Joanne looks at my Parents.

Do you think there is any validity to what he’s saying?

My Father speaks.

No.

My Mother speaks.

Yes.

My Father looks at my Mother.

Why do you think that?

You know I always worried about him, even when he was an infant I worried. I probably tried to keep him too close because I didn’t want him to get hurt.

Joanne speaks.

You have another Son, right?

My Mother nods, my Father says yes.

Did you raise him the same way?

My Father nods, speaks.

Yes.

My Mother speaks.

No.

What was the difference?

I was much more careful with James than I was with Bob. I knew we weren’t going to have any other Children, and I wanted James to be perfect and healthy and safe. I can’t say it any other way. I wanted him to be safe.

That’s natural, but do you think you tried to keep him too safe?

My Father speaks.

Too safe? Is that possible with a Child?

Joanne nods.

Yes, it is.

My Mother speaks.

How?

Everyone has boundaries. They’re different for every Person, but we all have them. When they’re crossed or violated, it is usually upsetting. If they are crossed or violated repeatedly, especially in the case of a Child, who usually has no way of controlling whether someone crosses or violates his boundaries, it can result in negative behaviors, the easiest example being the resentment of authority.

My Father speaks.

That sounds absurd to me. Children’s boundaries are set by their Parents, and the Child learns to respect them, not the other way around.

Joanne speaks.

Not necessarily.

What do you mean?

Children learn more in the first two years of their life than they do in all of the rest of their years combined, even if they live to be a hundred. Most behavioral patterns, including our personal boundaries, are set during those first two years. Sometimes the pattern of establishment of those behaviors and boundaries is disrupted.

By what?

Generally by abuse.

My Father flares.

If you’re suggesting—

Joanne holds her hand up.

I’m not suggesting anything, and when I brought up the possibility of abuse with James, he very adamantly insisted that he had not suffered from any. I’m telling you how this sometimes happens.

My Mother speaks.

We did protect James more than our other Son, but I think we had good reason, and I don’t think we violated anything.

Joanne looks at her, waits for her to continue.

Bob is three years older than James. Just after Bob was born, my Father retired, and after he retired he started drinking heavily. It was very difficult for my Mother and my Brother and my Sister and me. We tried to stop him, but he just told us to leave him alone, that he had spent his whole life taking care of us and now he wanted to be left alone. I had heard about Alcoholism being passed from generation to generation, so when James was born I was scared to death. I don’t know if it was female intuition or what, but for some reason I didn’t worry about Bob, I just worried about James.

I speak.

Grandpa was an Alcoholic?

My Father looks at my Mother, my Mother speaks.

I don’t know if he was an Alcoholic, but he had a drinking problem.

Joanne speaks.

Did you not know that, James?

My Father speaks.

It’s not something we have ever really spoken about.

Why?

It was a very sad and devastating situation. We try to remember Lynne’s Father as he was for the greater part of his life, which was a kind and gentle and generous man, rather than what he was near the end of it.

Joanne speaks.

As Lynne mentioned, it has been proven that there is a link between the disease of Alcoholism and genetics. Don’t you think it might have helped James to know that he might have, and in my opinion, most probably does have, a genetic predisposition toward addiction?

I speak.

I don’t think knowing about my Grandfather would have made any difference. I didn’t drink and do drugs because of some genetic flaw.

Joanne speaks.

Why are you so quick to dismiss what has been proven empirically to exist?

I think it’s bullshit. People don’t want to accept the responsibility for their own weakness, so they place the blame on something that they’re not responsible for, like disease or genetics. As far as studies go, I could prove I was from Mars if you gave me enough time and enough resources.

My Mother speaks.

It certainly might help explain a lot of these things for us.

I think it’s interesting that Grandpa had a drinking problem. I’m surprised to learn it, because I have only heard great things about him. I think it sucks, and it must have been awful for everyone to have to deal with him, just like it has been awful to have to deal with me, but I won’t blame him or his genes for my problems.

My Father speaks.

What’s your explanation?

I was weak and pathetic and I couldn’t control myself. An explanation, especially a bullshit one, doesn’t alter the circumstances. I need to change, I have to change, and at this point, change is my only option, unless I am ready to die. All that matters is that I make myself something else and someone else for the future.

Joanne speaks.

Don’t you think knowing why you are the way you are might help you in the process of that change?

I think I do know why.

Would you like to share your ideas with us?

Not really.

Why?

Because it will hurt and upset my Parents, and I think I’ve done enough of that.

My Mother speaks.

I think we’d like to hear, James.

My Father speaks.

We definitely would.

I look at them, take a deep breath, speak.

I’ve always felt these things. I don’t think there are any words that describe them exactly, but they are a combination of rage, anger, extreme pain. They mix together into what I call the Fury. I have known the Fury for as long as I can remember. It is the one thing that has been with me throughout my entire life. I am starting to learn how to deal with it, but until recently, the only way I knew was through drinking and drugs. I took something, whatever it was, and if I took enough of it, the Fury would subside. The problem was that it would always come back, usually stronger, and that would require more and stronger substances to kill it, and that was always the goal, to kill it. From the first time I drank, I knew drinking would kill it. From the first time I took drugs, I knew drugs would kill it. I took them willingly, not because of some genetic link or some function of some disease, but because I knew they would kill the goddamn Fury. Even though I knew I was killing myself, killing the Fury was more important.

I look at my Parents.

I don’t know why, and I don’t know if it matters, but whenever you are near me, the Fury gets worse. Whenever you have tried to control me or baby me or take care of me or stop me, the Fury has gotten worse. Whenever we talk on the phone or I hear your voices, the Fury gets worse. I’m not saying you’re to blame for it, because I don’t think you are to blame. I know you did the best you could with me and I know I’m lucky to have you, and I can’t think of anything in my background that would have caused it. Maybe the Fury is genetic, but I highly fucking doubt it, and I won’t accept disease and genetics as the cause of it anyway. It makes it too easy to deflect the responsibility for what I have done and what I have done knowing full well I was doing it. Each and every time, I knew full fucking well, whether it was take a drink or snort a line or take a hit from a pipe or get arrested, and I made the decision to do it anyway. Most of the time it was to kill the Fury, some of the time it was to kill myself, and eventually I didn’t know the difference. All I knew was that I was killing and that at some point it would end, which would probably be best for everyone involved. For whatever it is worth, I feel it now, sitting here with you, and I will feel it tomorrow morning when I see you again. I will feel it the next time we speak, and the time after that and the time after that, and if there is an explanation for why I am the way I am or for who I am, it is that there is a Fury within me that is uncontrollable without drinking or drugs. How do I get better? I take responsibility for myself and I learn to deal with myself and I learn to control the Fury. It might take a while, but if I hold on long enough and I don’t accept excuses for failure or deflect what is essentially a problem I have caused, I can do it.

My Mother and My Father stare at me. My Mother looks as if she’s going to cry, my Father looks pale, as if he has just seen a terrible wreck. My Mother starts to speak, stops, wipes her eyes. My Father just stares. Joanne speaks.

Not discounting other factors, I would say there may be some validity to your theory, but I am curious where you think this Fury comes from.

I don’t know.

She looks at my Parents. There are tears on my Mother’s face, my Father still stares. My Mother looks at me, speaks.

Why didn’t you tell us this before?

What was I supposed to say?

Do you hate us?

I shake my head.

What did we do?

You didn’t do anything, Mom. This isn’t your fault.

She wipes her face. My Father stares.

I’m sorry, James.

Don’t be sorry, Mom. I’m the one who should be sorry.

There is a long silence. My Father looks at Joanne, speaks.

Could this feeling, or set of feelings, have been brought on by a Medical Condition?

Did James have a Medical Condition as an Infant?

He had ear problems.

Were they properly diagnosed and treated?

My Mother speaks.

We didn’t know.

How did you not know?

My Mother looks at my Father and she takes his hand. She speaks.

We didn’t have much money when the Boys were first born. Bob was a Lawyer, but most of his salary went to paying off his school loans. Bob Junior came out healthy and he was a happy child. He was very quiet and very calm. When James was born, he was the opposite. He screamed and screamed and screamed, and no matter what we did, we couldn’t get him to stop. It was awful screaming, long and loud and piercing, and I can still hear it in my memories. We went to the Doctor, and we got the best one we could afford.

The Doctor told us that there was nothing wrong, that James was probably just a vocal child. We went home and the screaming continued. I’d hold James, Bob would hold James, we tried giving him little toys and feeding him more, and nothing worked. Nothing could make him stop.

The tears start flowing. My Mother grips my Father’s hand, my Father watches her as she speaks. I sit and I listen. I have never heard about my screaming before, though it does not surprise me. I have been screaming for years. Screaming bloody fucking murder. My Mother cries as she continues.

It went on for almost two years. James just screamed and screamed. Bob started doing well at his Firm and got a raise, and as soon as we had some extra money, I took James to see a better Doctor. As soon as he looked at him, he told me that James had terrible infections in both of his ears that were eating away his eardrums. He said James had been screaming for all that time because he was in tremendous pain and that he had been screaming for help. He recommended surgery, and just before he turned two, James had surgery on both of his ears, which was the first of seven surgeries that he would have on them. Obviously we felt terrible, but we didn’t know.

The tears turn into sobs.

If we had known we would have done something.

Sobs.

But we didn’t know.

My Father holds her.

He just screamed and screamed and all that time we didn’t know that he was screaming because he hurt.

My Mother breaks down, burying her face in my Father’s shoulder and shaking and trembling and quivering. My Father holds her and he patiently waits for her, stroking her hair and rubbing her back. I sit and I stare, and though I have no memory of what she’s talking about, I do remember the pain. That is all that remains. The pain.

My Mother stops crying and she pulls away slightly just slightly from my Father. She looks at me.

I’m sorry, James. We didn’t know. We really didn’t know.

I reach out and I put my hand on one of my Mother’s hands.

You got nothing to be sorry about, Mom. You did the best you could.

She pulls away from my Father completely and she stands and she takes two steps toward me and she puts her arms around me and she hugs me. She hugs me strong and tight and I return her hug and I can tell that she is trying to express her remorse and sadness. In a way this hug is her apology, though none is needed.

She lets go and she sits back down next to my Father. Joanne waits for a moment to see if any of us are going to speak. We don’t, so she does.

Do you remember any of that, James?

I remember the operations, only because I had them until I was twelve, but I don’t remember any of the early stuff.

Was there any long-term damage from them?

I have thirty percent hearing loss in my left ear and twenty in the other.

Why didn’t you tell me this before?

I don’t think it’s that big a deal.

It helps explain, or perhaps, entirely explains, why you say your first and earliest memories are of rage and pain.

Why do you think that?

When a child is born, it needs food and shelter and a sense of safety and comfort. If it screams, it is usually screaming for a reason, and in your case, it seems you were probably screaming because you were in pain and you wanted help. If those screams went unheeded, whether consciously or unconsciously, they might have ignited a fairly profound sense of rage within you, and might very well have led to some long-term resentments. That rage would help explain both your feelings of what you call the Fury, and also your particular feelings of it in regards to your Parents and in regards to issues of control with them.

I sit and I think. I try to decide if I am willing to accept genetics and ear infections as an explanation for twenty-three years of chaos. It would be easy to do so. To place myself on a pedestal away from what and who I am and to write it all off because of my Grandfather’s genes and a Doctor’s incompetence. It has been twenty-three years of chaos. Twenty-three years of Hell. I could let it all go with the simple acceptance of that which has been presented to me. I could let it all go.

I look up. My Parents are watching me, Joanne is watching me. They are waiting for a response. I take a breath and I speak.

It’s an interesting theory. It probably holds some weight. I can accept it for what I feel it is, which is a possibility. I won’t accept it as a root cause, because I think it’s a cop-out, and because I don’t think it does me any good to accept anything other than myself and my own weakness as a root cause. I did everything I did. I made the decisions to do it all. The only way I’m going to get better is if I accept responsibility for the decision to either be an Addict or not be an Addict. That’s the way it has to be for me. I know you’re going to try and convince me otherwise, but you shouldn’t bother.

Joanne chuckles, my Mother and Father stare at me. I look at Joanne and I speak.

Why are you chuckling?

She smiles.

Because you are the single most stubborn Person that I’ve ever met.

I just won’t let myself be a victim.

What do you mean by that?

People in here, People everywhere, they all want to take their own problems, usually created by themselves, and try to pass them off on someone or something else. I know my Mother and Father did the best they could and gave me the best they could and loved me the best they could and if anything, they are victims of me. I could say I’m flawed in my genetic makeup, that I have this disease and my addictions are caused by the presence of it, but I think that’s a load of shit. I’m a victim of nothing but myself, just as I believe that most People with this so-called disease aren’t victims of anything other than themselves. If you want to call that philosophy stubbornness, go right ahead. I call it being responsible. I call it the acceptance of my own problems and my own weaknesses with honor and dignity. I call it getting better.

Joanne smiles.

Despite the fact that I can’t really endorse or condone your philosophy, I am gradually becoming a Believer.

I smile.

Thank you.

My Father speaks.

James.

I turn toward him and my Mother. They are smiling at me.

I have never been more proud of you than I am this moment.

I smile.

Thanks, Dad.

My Mother speaks.

Me too, James.

Thanks, Mom.

Joanne looks at her watch.

I think we’ve done some exceptional work tonight and it’s getting late.

I stand.

Let’s get out of here.

My Parents stand. My Mother speaks.

Can we have another hug before we go?

I step forward, put one of my arms around each of them, and they each put one of their arms around me. We pull each of us pulls and we hug each other the three of us hug each other it is strong and easy and full of something maybe love. The Fury flares and I am momentarily uncomfortable, but the strength I am giving and the strength I am taking kills it. Easily and quickly. The giving and taking kills it.

We separate. My Parents are still smiling. I say good-bye to Joanne and she says good-bye to me. I open the door and I wait. My Parents say good-bye and thank you to Joanne and she smiles and says no problem. They walk out and I follow them. We say good-bye outside the door and they go one way and I go another.

I walk back to the Unit. I know my way the walk is automatic. I am tired and I’m ready for bed. I don’t want to deal with anything or anybody. I don’t want to think about Prison or genetics or ear infections. I don’t know about one and the other two don’t matter. I want to sleep. Close my eyes and sleep.

I get to my Room open the door walk inside. Miles is in bed he is already sleeping. The light on my nightstand is on I turn it off get under the covers. They are warm. The pillow is soft.

I am tired.

I go to sleep.