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“You remember her?” I ask.
“She was one of the first residents we had,” he says.
“So shewasan addict?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
Even though everything pointed to this, I didn’t want to believe it.
As children, we hold our parents on a pedestal. As we get older, they become human. But for those of us who lose them when we’re young, we never have the chance to integrate them into real people.
Alexander notices I’m upset. “I’m sober too,” he says, trying to lessen the blow and normalize her being an addict. “Just celebrated my forty-fifth anniversary,” he adds.
“Congratulations,” I say. I can’t tell if he thinks I said it out of anger, so I clarify. “I’m a psychologist, and I know how hard-fought recovery is. I’ve been on my own recovery journey too. I just never knew this about my mom until today.”
“She was very motivated to get better,” he tells me. “More motivated than most. Not sure if that helps you to hear. What brings you here?”
“She died when I was fifteen, and I’m trying to learn more about her. I’ve had my own struggles,” I say.
“In my mind, the only thing holding her back was her boyfriend at the time,” he says. “We advised everyone who entered the halfway house to hold off from relationships until they had at least a year of sobriety under their belt. Many folks bucked the advice. She wasn’t the only one.”
“Do you know who he was?” I ask.
“I never met him, but I remember her roommate wasn’t a fan,” he says. “Esther Hermes—a famous socialite at the time. She and your mom knew each other from Bell Hospital. They had detoxed together there.”
Mom never mentioned Esther. Of course she didn’t; she never mentioned she was an addict.
“I heard your mom still graduated from NYU after the semester she took off when she came to us. Is that true?” Alexander asks me.
I nod. “She became a psychologist. She specialized in addiction.”
He smiles. “Good for her. I got out of the game, had to focus on my own sobriety. Can’t help anyone if you don’t help yourself first.”
His words hit close to home. If and when all of this somehow blows over, I know I’ll have to reckon with ED if I plan to return to my job helping others—and to my life with Eddie and Sarah, which now feels like a dream slowly slipping away.
I try pushing the thought out of my mind when my stomach growls loudly enough for Alexander to hear.
“We had a showing last night, and I have leftover food in the back. Can I offer you some?” he asks.
My phone starts ringing. It’s Paul again.
“I need to go,” I tell Alexander. “Thanks again for talking to me about my mom.”
“I’m glad things turned out well for her,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll work out for you too. I’m not sure what kind of struggles you’ve had, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that recovery is always possible. If you can quit for a day, you can quit for a lifetime.”
I nod, remembering Benjamin Alire Saenz’s quote from graduate school. I’ve yet to come across an analogous one for food.
The difference between alcohol and drug addiction and restricting food is that you can’t quit food. You have to find a way to live with it. Choosing eating disorder recovery means choosing it multiple times a day, every time you eat, over and over again.
My stomach growls loudly again.
“Sure I can’t offer you something?” he asks again.
I shake my head, hard. “I gotta go.”
CHAPTER40
June 1998
