He paused for a second, then shrugged. “But she also told me how wonderful you used to be, before the drugs took hold. She told me how brilliant you were and about all your accomplishments and how you swept her off her feet when you first met. She told me that she never loved anyone the way she loved you. She told me how generous you are to everyone, and how everyone takes advantage of your generosity. And she also told me about your back, and how that exacerbated…”
As my interventionist kept talking, I found myself hanging on the word loved.He had said she lovedme—past tense. Did that mean she no longer loved me? Probably so, I thought, because if she still loved me she would have come to visit me. This whole business of her being scared didn’t make sense. I was in a locked-down psychiatric unit—how could I harm her? I was in terrible emotional pain. If she would just visit me— even for a second, for Chrissake!—and hug me and tell me that she still loved me, that would ease my pain. I would do it for her, wouldn’t I? It seemed unusually cruel of her not to visit me after I’d almost committed suicide. It didn’t strike me as the act of a loving wife—estranged or not—no matter what the circumstances.
Obviously, Dennis Maynard was here to try to convince me to go to rehab. And perhaps I would go, if the Duchess would come here and ask me herself. But not like this, not while she was blackmailing me and threatening to leave me unless I did what she wanted. Yet wasn’t rehab what I wanted, or at least what I needed? Did I really want to live out my life as a drug addict? But how could I possibly live without drugs? My entire life was centered on drugs. The very thought of living the next fifty years without Ludes and coke seemed impossible. Yet there was a time, long before all this happened, when I’d lived a sober life. Was it possible to get back to that point, to turn back the clock, so to speak? Or had my brain chemistry been immutably altered—and I was now an addict, doomed to that very life until the day I died?
“…and about your father’s temper,” continued the interventionist, “and how your mother tried to protect you from him but wasn’t always successful. She told me everything.”
I fought the urge to be ironic but quickly failed. “So did little Martha Stewart tell you how perfect sheis? I mean, since I’m such damaged goods and everything, did she even get a moment to tell you anything about herself? Because she is perfect, after all. She’ll tell you—not in so many words, of course—but she will tell you. After all, she’s the Duchess of Bay Ridge.”
The last few words gave him a chuckle. “Listen,” he said, “your wife is far from perfect. In fact, she’s sicker than you are. Think about it for a second: Who’s the sicker one—the spouse who’s addicted to drugs or the spouse who sits by and watches the person they love destroy themselves? I would say the latter. The truth is that your wife suffers from her own disease, namely, codependence. By spending all her time looking after you, she ignores her own problems. She’s got as bad a case of codependence as I’ve ever seen.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” I said. “You don’t think I know all this shit? I’ve done my fair share of reading, in case no one’s told you. In spite of the fifty thousand Ludes I’ve consumed, I still remember everything I’ve read since nursery school.”
He nodded. “I haven’t just met with your wife, Jordan; I’ve also met with all your friends and family, everyone who’s important to you. And one thing they’re all unanimous on is that you’re one of the smartest men on the planet. So, that being said, I’m not gonna try to bullshit you. Here’s the deal: There’s a drug rehab in Georgia called Talbot Marsh. It specializes in treating doctors. The place is filled with some very smart people, so you’ll fit in well there. I have the power to sign you out of this hellhole right now. You could be at Talbot Marsh in two hours. There’s a limousine waiting for you downstairs, and your jet is at the airport, all fueled up. Talbot Marsh is a very nice place, and very upscale. I think you’ll like it.”
“What makes you so fucking qualified? Are you a doctor?”
“No,” he said, “I’m just a drug addict like you. No different, except that I’m in recovery and you’re not.”
“How long you sober for?”
“Ten years.”
“Ten fucking years?” I sputtered. “Holy Christ! How the fuck is that even possible? I can’t go a day—an hour—without thinking about drugs! I’m not like you, pal. My mind works differently. Anyway, I don’t need to go to rehab. Maybe I’ll just try AA or something.”
“You’re past that point. In fact, it’s a miracle you’re still alive. You should’ve stopped breathing a long time ago, my friend.” He shrugged. “But one day your luck’s gonna run out. Next time your friend Dave might not be around to call 911, and you’ll end up in a coffin instead of a psychiatric unit.”
In a dead-serious tone, he said, “In AA we say there are three places an alcoholic or an addict ends up—jails, institutions, or dead. Now, in the last two days you’ve been in a jail and an institution. When will you be satisfied, when you’re in a funeral home? When your wife has to sit your two children down and explain how they’re never gonna see their father again?”
I shrugged, knowing he was right but incapable of surrendering. For some inexplicable reason I felt the necessity to resist him, to resist the Duchess—to resist everyone, in fact. If I were to get sober, it would be on my own terms, not on anyone else’s, and certainly not with a gun to my head. “If Nadine comes down here herself, I’ll consider it. Otherwise you can go fuck yourself.”
“She won’t come here,” he said. “Unless you go to rehab she won’t speak to you.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Then you can both go fuck yourselves. I’ll be out of here in two days; then I’ll deal with my addiction on my own terms. And if it means losing my wife, so be it.” I rose out of my chair and motioned to the orderlies.
As I was walking out of the room, Dennis said, “You may be able to find another beautiful wife, but you’ll never find one who loves you as much as she does. Who do you think organized all this? Your wife’s spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of panic, trying to save your life. You’d be a fool to let her go.”
I took a deep breath and said, “A long time ago there was another woman who loved me as much as Nadine did; her name was Denise, and I fucked her over royally. Maybe I’m just getting what I deserve. Who knows anymore? But, either way, I’m not being bullied into rehab, so you’re wasting your time. Don’t come see me again.”
Then I left the room.
The rest of the day was no less torturous. Starting with my parents, one by one my friends and family came into the psychiatric unit and tried to convince me to go to rehab. Everyone except the Duchess. How could the woman be so coldhearted, after I’d tried…what?
I resisted using the word suicide,even in my own thoughts—perhaps because it was too painful, or perhaps out of sheer embarrassment that the love or, for that matter, the obsession with a woman, even my own wife, could drive me to commit such an act. It was not the act of a true man of power, nor was it the act of a man who had any self-respect.
In truth, I had never actually intended to kill myself. Deep down, I knew that I’d be rushed to the hospital and my stomach would be pumped. Dave had been standing over me, ready to intervene. The Duchess wasn’t aware of that, though; from her perspective, I had been so distraught over the possibility of losing her, and so caught up in the despair and desperation of a cocaine-induced paranoia, that I had tried to take my own life. How could she not be moved by that?
True: I had acted like a monster toward her, not just on the stairs but over the very months leading up to that heinous act. Or perhaps years. Since the early years of our marriage, I had exploited our unspoken quid pro quo—that by providing her with the Life, I was entitled to certain liberties. And while there might be a germ of truth to that notion, there was no doubt that I had stepped way over the line.