Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [98]
She nods.
“I think I love him, but I also think that you can love people who aren’t good for you.”
Wendy crosses her legs. “One of the qualities I have seen in my experience as a therapist, one of the ‘traits’ if you will, is that people I associate with long-term sobriety all have a sense of perspective in common. As if they can step back from their life, step back from the play, and watch the performance and make judgment calls. You seem to me to have this quality.”
This feels like the closest I will ever come to a stamp of approval. I almost wish she’d write this down on her letterhead so I could carry it with me, as evidence of emotional health and stability. I could then pull it out on the third date, when a future potential boyfriend’s questions and doubts arise.
“How do you feel about this being our last session?” she asks. I am wary and feel this could be a trick question. I must be careful how I answer, because I do not want her to revoke my mental health.
“Well, it’s a process. You know.” Process is an excellent word. I continue, more confident. “I mean, I won’t ever reach a place where I can say, ‘Okay, I’m together now.’ But I do feel like my immediate crisis is over, I’m sober. And now it’s just a matter of using the tools I got in rehab and in therapy to stay sober and continue to grow.” As I say this I am impressed with my own ability to think on my feet; a skill absolutely honed in advertising. Of course, I have no idea if any of what I’ve said is true. But it certainly sounds good.
“You really don’t talk about Pighead very much. Yet I get the feeling that there’s more to the story.” She looks at me as if I have some sort of reply.
“Hmmmm,” I say. “Maybe so.”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Just enough so that I can see that she can see a crack in my glossy, sober exterior.
• • •
After therapy, I go to the gym. As I do bench presses, I think about Pighead unable to even manage a small paper cup. And Foster, unable to manage his life.
Later at home, I play the soundtrack from Falling and drink lemon seltzer water while I sit at my computer and write radio commercials for my German beer client. Half an hour later, the buzzer sounds. I jump.
“Who is it?” I say into the box on the wall.
“I’m a friend of Foster’s,” says the voice. The voice with a British accent.
I buzz him in and stand by the door until I hear the knock. I open up and there, standing before me, is one of the most mortifying sights. A needle-thin man with dark circles under his desperate eyes. His clothes look—and smell—like they haven’t been washed in weeks. He could be a member of an eighties punk band who just woke up from an overdose.
“Where is he?” he asks urgently.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Kyle, goddamn it. Who the hell are you is what I’d like to know?”
I don’t want to get into a fight with somebody who might have a fistful of syringes in his back pocket. “I’m just a friend of Foster’s. How did you know he was staying here?”
“What do you mean, how did I know? How the hell do you think I know? He’s my boyfriend. I know where he is.” He edges closer. Letting him in is not an option.
“Well, Foster’s not here now. I’ll tell him you stopped by. Okay?” I begin to close the door.
His hand flies up and blocks it. “Where the hell is he?” the maniac wants to know.
“Look, asshole. I don’t know where the fuck he is. Get lost.” I lower my voice and narrow my eyes. I channel Jeffrey Dahmer. “I mean it. Leave now.” I give him a look that I hope makes him understand I am not a rational, sane person. That I might actually enjoy making soup stock out of his cranium.
“Fuck you,” he spits. He turns and walks down the stairs. I stand there until I hear the door below open and close. I stand a moment longer listening for breathing. Convinced he’s gone, I go back inside my apartment.
By eleven o’clock, there’s no sign of Foster. I go to