Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [59]
“Amelia,” Tommy says gently. “Pick someone else to share.”
Tears continue to stream down my face as I point to Hawaiian Tropic.
“I’m Robin and I’m an alcoholic,” she says. And then she turns to face me. “And Amelia, can I just thank you so much for your share? It was like the most honest, beautiful thing in the world. I so exactly felt that way when I came in here, so thanks so much for reminding me of why I’m so grateful to be here.”
Part of me wants to remind Robin that she’s been here like a week so thinking back to when she came in couldn’t have been that much of a stretch, but at the same time I feel something sort of unleash in my heart, and for a split second I wonder if maybe I am in the right place. If this ditzy, fake-titted sometime bikini model felt like this a week ago and she’s now clapping her hands at being called crazy, maybe there’s a chance that I can learn from these people and not always be miserable.
Joel shares and then Tommy announces that it’s time to wrap up group. He looks at me. “Before we end, I’d like to thank you, Amelia, for your honesty.”
I’m starting to feel almost embarrassed by all this attention—something I’d never known was possible.
“This disease takes people from jail and people from Yale,” Tommy continues and he looks me directly in the eye. “And it’s not your fault. Do cancer patients beat themselves up for getting sick?” He’s clearly on some kind of a roll because he then adds, “Remember, your disease takes on all kinds of forms, and telling you that you’re a piece of shit because you’re sitting in a folding chair in a rehab is just one of those.”
I smile at Tommy. Maybe there’s something to this disease thing. Or maybe just hearing that people from Yale end up in rehab, too, makes me feel better.
We end the group by holding hands and saying the serenity prayer, which I’d only heard before I came here at the beginning of a Sinead O’Connor song. I have to admit I find it far more comforting than any of the prayers I used to have to say at temple. But it also has the added advantage of not being in Hebrew.
As I reach down to pick up my cigarettes, Robin walks over to me and gives me a hug.
“Thank you so much,” she says as she holds me.
“Thank you,” I say back to her and mean it, surprising myself for not immediately trying to disentangle.
“I love you,” she says, and I don’t even flinch. In just a few days, I’ve noticed that people in rehab announce their love for each other more often than honeymooners. “Thanks for passing the Equal,” someone might say at a coffee table, “I love you.” Or, “Your share was awesome—I love you.” But this was the first time anyone here has said it to me.
And then the most shocking thing of all happens.
“I love you, too,” I say, and even though I only say it because I feel like I have to, as soon as it’s out of my mouth I realize that I feel better than I have in months.
15
I’m not sure when rehab starts to seem like the most normal place in the world because it seems to happen without my being remotely aware of it. One minute I’m horrified by my roommate—a black middle-aged woman from Vegas who shouts in her sleep and leaves after three days, when she decides that she can still smoke crack “casually”—and the next I’m helping to set the table for dinner and not even remotely repulsed while listening to Joel talk about how he hasn’t had sex in three months. The days and nights at Pledges are so spectacularly consistent—every meal, group, and outing happens at the exact same time each day—and after a few days, I realize what a relief it is to have someone telling me where to go and what