Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [51]
Dad steps in the room, smiling, and I suddenly feel incredibly grateful for both him and Mom—the fact that they flew down here and still love me, despite what a fuck-up I am.
Mom, who’s been silent for probably longer than she has in her entire life, asks, “Now, do you have anything you need taken care of? The cats—why don’t I take them until you’re back on your feet again?”
I think of my apartment and its piles of clothing and gray paint everywhere. I nod. “My place is a disaster.”
Mom nods and says, “After this is all over, maybe you’ll want to move back home?” This is always Mom’s angle. I think she’d be thrilled if I still lived in my old bedroom. But for once, this doesn’t bug me; I feel oddly grateful for the fact that she still wants me near her, even though I have no intention of moving back north.
Dad says, “I don’t want you worrying about money for the time being—just concentrate on getting well.”
And then Mom and Dad lean in to hug me. And, I kid you not, Dr. Ronald Rand throws one arm around Mom, one arm around Dad, and presses his face into our hug like we’re all one big, happy family.
13
When we pull up at Pledges, I marvel over what a fantastic job the rehab has done of making it look casual and rustic. This place, with its threadbare living room, smoking patio littered with overflowing ashtrays, sad-looking “therapy” room, and broken basketball net, looks more like the camp I went to in Yosemite—plus about twenty years of wear and tear—than a rehab to the stars. And I decide I like the fact that they make an effort to downplay all the luxury—I’d hate if it was ostentatious, like a cruise ship, and I might feel intimidated if there were a bunch of movie stars with perfect bodies lounging by a pool.
A smiling forty-something guy bounces into the entry room and introduces himself as Tommy, adding that he’s going to be my counselor. I wonder how such assignments are made. Does an efficient receptionist examine my facts and go, “Hmmm…magazine journalist, coke problem, serious smoker—this one’s for Tommy”? But something about Tommy makes me feel immediately safe, so I decide to like him even though I already resent his cheerfulness.
“Have you been in before?” he asks me as I pick at a cuticle that is already bloodied from the abuse I’ve been giving it since checking out of the hospital.
“In?” I ask. Looking around, I ask, “In this room, you mean?”
Tommy bursts into a huge laugh. “Ah, I love newcomers,” he says.
A few derelict types wander into the room: a Mexican guy wearing a T-shirt that reads, “Need your plumbing fixed?” and a nervous-seeming balding man who would look right at home sitting at a bus stop clutching a drink inside a brown paper bag.
“Joel, Stan, come meet Amelia,” Tommy bellows. He pronounces the name “Joel” with an “H” so it sounds like Hoel.
Stan shuffles over while staring at the ground and Joel fixes me with a lascivious leer. Even though I’m fairly horrified by my soon-to-be rehab-mates, I know I’m going to have to make friends around here, so I smile and reach my hand out to Joel to shake. Stan is staring at the ground with his arms by his side, so I leave him alone.
“Welcome,” Joel says, ignoring my hand and throwing his fleshy, sweaty arms around me, pulling me into him so that his B.O. is basically permanently embedded in my nostrils. I’m positive that Tommy is going to yank me away from this disgusting man and tell him to stop sexually harassing the women around here, but when I gaze out at Tommy’s face from under Joel’s armpit, he’s smiling as if Joel and I are the cutest couple he’s ever seen.
As I extricate myself from Joel’s grasp, Tommy smiles at me. “Oh, Amelia,” he says. “Soon enough, you’re going to learn how to accept love.”
I give Tommy the evil eye but he’s obviously