Page 5 of Mountain Man Bad Boy

I looked up at Mike to find him smiling. “I’m really happy to hear you say that. I thought that the last time you got sober, you would make it. I guess I don’t know much about addiction.”

I nodded, a little bit uncomfortable. “It’s hard.”

Tammy swooped in with the coffee, her mood a bit improved. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Have you told Matthews?” Mike asked, sitting down.

Elizabeth climbed off my lap and went to sit with her dad. I picked up the coffee. “Yeah, he was really supportive.”

“Good.” Mike nodded.

“He said he would save my job for me,” I added.

“That’s great.”

“I’m gonna pay rent a couple months in advance, with what little money I have,” I explained. “If you could stop by my place once or twice to pick up the mail…”

“Consider it done,” he said.

“Thanks man. I know I don’t really deserve your help after all the crap I’ve put you through.”

“This is a big thing you’re doing,” Mike spoke, as if I needed reminding. “You’ll do great.”

I put my cup down and stood up. “Thanks for always believing in me. I think I’m not living up to your standards.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Mike could see that I had to leave and moved Elizabeth off his lap to stand up.

He circled me in a hug so strong, it brought tears to my eyes. I hoped to God I didn’t let him down again. When Mike broke it off, I gave Tammy a quick salute and patted Elizabeth on the head. All the way back to the car, I waged war against myself.

About three-quarters of me wanted to drive directly to the hospital, to check myself in and get the ball rolling. But there was that devilish minority that screamed so loud, I almost lost my nerve. It wanted to go back to my apartment, where I knew I still had some dope. It wanted to get high again and forget the life-affirming decision I had so recently made. It wanted me to throw away all the goodwill I had earned through my hard conversations, to turn my back on my best friend and my boss. It promised euphoria, and I struggled not to give in.

Driving to Nashville was an epic battle. Through turn lanes and on-ramps I saw demons and angels, both screaming at me to follow their advice. The further I got from our little town, the better. I narrowed my focus, holding the treatment center in my mind as a beacon of hope.

I fought with myself all the way to the parking garage, all the way to the front door. When I presented myself for intake, it was like a weight off my shoulders. I had made it. I’d fought the demon and won this battle. I was going to change my life for the better and win the war, and nothing could stop me.

4

GINA

That Wednesday started with a phone call on my antiquated landline. I didn’t recognize the number that woke me up. I squinted at the caller ID and decided to ignore it. The same number rang three or four more times as I brushed my teeth and fed Evil. Finally, I decided to pick it up.

“Hello?” I answered.

Silence greeted me over the line. Silence, and the sound of someone breathing. I hung up. The same number called three more times as I took my shower and made my breakfast. I was thoroughly freaked-out by the time I was ready to leave. I considered pulling the plug on the darned thing, but I was leaving the apartment anyway. What did it matter if it rang to an empty living room?

The phone rang again, and I crossed the floor to put a stop to it when I stepped right in a lovely present Evil had left for me. A slick stain of cat vomit was smeared across my hardwood floors, probably from her eating too quickly. I groaned, hopping over to the kitchen to fetch some paper towels. Tearing off a fistful, I wiped the sole of my shoe before bending down to clean up the floor.

Great. I couldn’t think of a better way to start the day. Cheer up, my sunny side encouraged me. It can only get better from here.

Unless it’s a bad omen, my pessimistic side argued. I quieted both of them, pulled the phone cord out of the wall, and locked the apartment. There were no further incidents on my walk, and I coasted into work with most of the cobwebs dusted off. I appreciated the commute more than most people. Walking gave me a chance to decompress after a particularly hard day or to charge my batteries before the shift began. This particular day, walking gave me a chance to loosen my tense muscles.

Who the heck could be so interested in pestering me as to call six times and say nothing? Unfortunately there were a lot of creepers out in the world, and a single woman in a big city had to be careful. After five blocks of pavement pounding, the whole incident started to seem less important. It had just been a computer. I had been caught in an automatic call loop, that’s all it was.

I clocked in late and added that to the list of things I was kicking myself about this morning. I tossed my bag into my locker, changed my shoes, and put up my hair. Facing the big whiteboard, I noticed that I had just one new patient that day. I flipped through my clipboard, searching for the new intake.

It was a man named Porter Hayes, thirty-three years old, and checked himself in yesterday. He had been through intake, though it had taken him a long time. He had the shakes when he first came in, a clear sign of alcoholism. They had gotten as much information from him as possible, including insurance, but they hadn’t managed to get very much of his medical history. No previous surgeries, no information about allergies or family history of cancer.

It would be up to me to fill out the chart as much as I could when he was able to recall this information. They had put him in room 204C—that meant alcohol and drugs. I flipped down the pages of his chart, already empathizing with him. For him to check himself in with no additional supporters, when he had the shakes, nonetheless, spoke of power and self-awareness. Most of our patients came through court referrals or police commissions. We didn’t get a lot of people who realized they had a problem and asked for help. That said a lot for Mr. Hayes’ chances of a sustainable recovery.

---