“It’s great to meet all of you,” he said when I’d finished the introductions. He grinned — an amazing grin, one that seemed to prove, all by itself, that he was smart, funny, friendly, thoroughly nice. “I’d like to say I’m glad to be here, but I bet you wouldn’t believe me.”
It wasn’t funny, but we all laughed. Even Martha looked starry-eyed. “Why are you here, Mr. — but no.” She remembered the first-names-only rule just in time. “Why are you here, Roland?”
He smiled at her, and her jaw went slack. How many years had it been since any man had smiled at Martha that way? “Little matter of a disagreement with a judge, Martha,” he said. “I’d been doing maybe seventy — who knew it was a school zone? — and this fat, greasy cop wouldn’t listen to reason. Then the court date slipped my mind. I’ve got lots of appointments — it’s hard to keep track of them all.”
“It must be difficult to remember everything,” Courtney said eagerly, “when you have such a busy schedule.”
He rewarded her with a smile. Probably, celebrities don’t mind when someone echoes what they say; probably, they’re used to it. “Damn straight,” he said. “But the judge started spouting all this garbage about contempt. So my attorney and my shrink and some other folks got involved, and the judge agreed to suspend the sentence if I went into rehab. Not some fancy celebrity rehab center, she said — a real rehab center, far away from Hollywood. So my agent checked into it and came up with this place.” He looked around the room and shrugged. “Not too bad.”
“The judge must’ve figured you have an addiction, right?” Brian said. “To what?”
Roland sighed; his shoulders slumped; his grin drooped. “I’m addicted to failure, Brian. I have a crippling fear of success. Every time my career seems ready to take off — like with the movie I’m doing — I get scared, and I screw up somehow, just to derail things. I can’t stand the thought of being too rich and famous, I guess; my shrink says deep down, I’m terrified that it’d turn me into a phony. But I have to get a handle on this fear; I’m determined to do it; with your help, I can do it.”
He smiled again — a brave, humble smile, aimed at all of us. For someone with a crippling fear of success, I thought, he’s done pretty well — a popular comedian, a television star. But I’m no psychiatrist; if that’s the official diagnosis, fine. “We’re delighted to have you join us, Roland,” I said. “Do you have questions about the center — about its philosophy, for example, or its rules?”
He shrugged again. “Fred gave me a brochure. I think I pretty much got everything down.” He looked around the room again. “What’s with the thermoses?”
“They’re one of the homey touches here,” Brian said, sounding honored by the privilege of informing a celebrity. “See, the kitchen staff fills the thermoses by nine in the morning and puts them in the refrigerator, so we’ll have something to drink during therapy sessions and free periods. You can have just about whatever you want — just tell the staff. Me, I always have mineral water.”
“Sounds tasty,” Roland said. “What’s in your thermos, Martha?”
“Sweet tea,” she said, blushing — with pleasure, I thought. “When I was a little girl, we’d visit my aunt in Georgia every summer, and she’d make sweet tea and serve it to us on the front porch. It’s a precious memory, because—”
“Yeah, and I bet your aunt’s dead now,” Brian cut in, perhaps upset because Martha had drawn Roland’s attention away from him. “All that sugar! Before you know it, you’re obese, you’re diabetic, you’re dead. I used to have a sweet tooth — I admit it. No more. I quit cold turkey six months ago and haven’t had a grain of sugar since. I don’t even want it any more.”
“Well, I always ask for diet soda in my thermos,” Courtney said, with an arch look at Roland. “No calories.”
“Loaded with artificial sweeteners, though,” Brian pointed out. “Worst possible thing for you. They throw your whole metabolism off, make you digest food less efficiently. You’ll be fat before you’re thirty, Courtney.”
“I can’t imagine that.” Roland gazed at Courtney with a frank appreciation that made her look ready to swoon. He turned around in his chair. “What about you, Felix? What’re you drinking?”
I’d almost forgotten Felix was in the room — he’s so quiet that he melds into the furniture. Now, he looked deeply flustered, clearly wanting to respond but not able to manage it. At the risk of feeding his addiction, I decided to help. “The beverage in Felix’s thermos,” I said.
He sighed with relief. “What is skim milk?” he asked.
Brian guffawed. “Milk. That figures. You gotta make allowances for Felix, Roland — nice enough guy, solid businessman, but sorta odd. And sorta secretive. It took me a long time to get him to admit he’s never had a real date with a girl.”
“You, by contrast, immediately announced you’ve been divorced three times,” Martha said, stitching viciously. “I suppose that makes you feel superior to Felix.”
“Hey, at least I’ve been married — more than you can say, Martha. And at least I know how to talk to women.” Brian’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Felix does have one woman in his life, though. Let’s see — how should I phrase this?” He thought for a moment, then turned to face Felix. “The category is Millionaires Who Have Never Had Houses or Apartments of Their Own. And the answer is Felix.”
Felix hung his head. “Who still lives with Mother?” he said, his voice barely audible.
Clearly, it was time to take control of the session. I asked the guests to get out their Recovery Journals and share their reflections, and that took up the rest of our time. Brian accused Courtney of copying ideas from his journal — her reflections did sound remarkably similar to his — but that was the only moment of tension. I sent the guests on their way and hurried to the office to read files for my afternoon groups.
After half an hour, feeling uneasy about the conflicts that surfaced during the morning session, I decided to check on the group members, who had a free period now. Passing through the courtyard, I spotted Brian and Roland locked in conversation; Brian was talking about the profits one of his companies had garnered during the last quarter, probably trying to persuade Roland to invest. Unfortunately, Brian was punctuating his sales talk with push-ups, and I had to tell him to stop — he’s not allowed vigorous exercise while he’s in rehab.
I found Courtney and Felix in the Caterpillar Room. Courtney was reading a well-worn copy of a Sue Grafton novel, probably borrowed from the room’s small library; Felix was trying to look interested in the paint-by-numbers landscape he was completing. Poor man — he’s not permitted to read in rehab, for fear he’ll add to his store of trivia. I asked about Martha, and Courtney said she’d decided to take a nap before lunch. Well, all that seemed normal enough.
And now I really should have something to eat myself. I’ve used up most of my lunch hour taking these notes, and I need some nourishment to give me strength to face my afternoon groups.
“So I never got a chance to take notes about my other two groups,” Leah said. She rinsed the last plate and handed it to Sam. “I didn’t get another free minute all day.”
“Too bad.” Sam dried the plate and placed it in the cupboard. “How did your afternoon groups go? Any problems?”
“Not really. Some people in the Verbal Addictions group were hard to take. I didn’t mind the rapper so much, and the rhymer was sweet. But the punster and the insult addict! I enjoyed the Compulsive Hobbyists group, though. I learned a lot about coin collecting. And did you know there are hundreds of Civil War reenactments every year, in over thirty states? Did you know there are American Civil War reenactments in Italy and Australia?”