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“You’re not!” He gives me a firm shake. “You are not your father. You don’t have to drink to cope and you don’t have to follow his dreams. You can be your own man. Choose a different path, one that’s right for you. Don’t give up on your gift and passion for writing or stay stuck in the past nursing your anger and grief. You’re young. You don’t realize it, but time is short. Precious. Don’t waste this life.”
I couldn’t know then how poignant those words would be, but they still affected me. Seeped into that place that I had closed off after she left. “I want to stop. The drinking doesn’t make me forget. The girls don’t make me forget. Nothing does. I want to be better than this. I don’t want you and Mama T to keep worrying about me. But I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“Wanting to stop is the first step.” His hopeful smile is like a beacon guiding my dark and broken soul. “Let me help you with the rest.”
I take a two-weekleave. Only my student advisor and coach know the reason. I don’t tell my old man. I can’t deal with him on top of everything else.
Papa T found this place out in the boonies that looks more like a retreat than a place for young male drunks to dry out. It must cost a fortune, but he says he has insurance. I don’t believe it will cover all this.
My roommate is a thin, pale dude with dirty-blonde hair he wears in a long ponytail. He plays the guitar and doesn’t talk much. That’s fine byme. I have to talk enough in therapy. That’s the absolute worst part about being here, even more than the night sweats and shakes. I seriously hate that shit. I don’t talk about Malcolm. Ever. Only Dee holds those secrets and she’s gone. I don’t want to talk about her either. What’s the point when it won’t change anything? But Papa T tells me it’s an important part of the process. He says I should participate to get the most out of my time here. I’ll start the outpatient program after that. Guess what I’ll be doing there? More talking.
Victor and Mama T call every night and Papa T visits every day. He’s staying at a nearby hotel. I feel bad that he’s missing work and missing time with his family.
“You are family. This is where I want to be.”
I don’t take his words lightly. He’s bound and determined to see me healthy and living again. I won’t let him down.
On the last day, Papa T drives me back to the apartment. It’s stripped clean, no liquor bottles. New sheets on the bed, clothes washed. Smells of Lysol and laundry detergent. A fresh start.
“Thank you for this.” I hug him hard. “Thank you for everything.”
“I’m proud of you, Mick.”
“I want you to be. I promise no more drinking. No more nameless girls. And I’m going to talk to Coach. Tell him I’m not coming back next season.”
“That’s a big step.”
“I’m ready for it.”
“Have you spoken to your father?”
“It’s none of his business.”
“He’s going to find out.”
“So, what? He can’t stop me.”
It’s almost two months beforeI finally sit down with my coach to tell him I’ll finish out the season, but won’t be back. I avoided telling him this long because it also means telling my old man. But I get it done and it’s a relief. Like shedding a thousand pounds off my shoulders. The coach was livid; he said I was making a huge mistake, one that I’ll live to regret. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know that basketball was the mistake.
It’s funny how I start playing even better as the end of the season draws near. I’m still busted up over Dee, but I’m breathing again. My grades have improved. I haven’t had a drink in more than ten weeks and I don’t wake up with strange girls in my bed.
Therapy still blows. Maybe because the counselor says I’m putting the blame on Dee for my drinking when I really need to look at myself, at my addiction. I ignore his advice and find a constructive outlet.
Whenever I’m tempted to take a drink, I jog. Whenever I think of Dee, I jog. Suffice it to say I jog a lot. But on the plus side, I’m in the best physical shape ever. And my head’s clearer. I’ve even started hanging out with some of my teammates that are a good influence on me.
Friday, after last class, we make plans to meet up at the gym to lift weights. Hurrying to my apartment to change and grab a bite first, I walk in to discover Malcolm Peters.
I’d expected a confrontation. I’d rehearsed it over and over, what I would say and how I would say it. But I wasn’t expecting to do that today.
He takes a swig of whiskey from the bottle he’s holding and stares me down with those steely, black eyes. At nine, I would have been shaking in my Air Jordans. At nineteen, I meet his gaze and don’t feel anything but contempt.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, dropping my backpack onto the floor.
“Did you think a flimsy lock would keep me out?”
I don’t back up when he steps forward.
“You and Cayo come up with this lamebrain plan?”
