For the following hour, we were treated to this blustering rodomontade about Herb’s successful battle against demon rum. We were supposed to be inspired, but I couldn’t help thinking that if the guy had ever had one day like most of mine, he’d be back in the gutter with a dollar bottle of muscatel.
Then, for his next act, Herb wrote PEOPLE PLACES EVENTS on the chalkboard. “You abuse substances,” he announced, “because of one of these three things. Something a person in your past did. A place that hurt you. An event that traumatized you.” He used examples from his own life, so we got to hear about how his mother threw plates at him when he was six and how his drunken daddy left when he was nine and how he got busted up in ’Nam. And oh yeah-his daughter is a sex addict, so he won’t speak to her anymore. Thanks for sharing.
Mental note: next time I develop an addiction, sex addiction sounds a lot more fashionable, not to mention pleasurable, than substance abuse. All the major movie stars are sex addicts, right? But no one treats them like they would a wino. Alcoholism gives a girl ruddy skin and liver damage. Sex addiction adds luster.
Anyway, this guy’s sermon opened the floodgates on what all the women in the group wanted to do anyway-blame it on their spouses. This was not remotely helpful to me, but I have to admit listening to it had a certain addictive quality, like tuning into a poorly written soap opera-just one damn thing after another. I listened to hours of the running battles between Jill and Buddy, every last mean thing he ever supposedly said. Oddly enough, she never did anything to provoke his invective. At least as she told it. Jacqueline was slightly more honest. She admitted that she argued back when her husband came after her for no reason. But she was blameless. Those bad men made those nice girls drink.
Yeah, right.
So at the end of this interminable three-hour session, one of the leaders, a heavyset gal named Margie, decided to pick on me. I hadn’t said much, so I guess she felt obliged to try to get me into the whining bee.
“Why do you think you drink, Susan?”
“Drank. I don’t do that anymore.”
The smile only flashed for a second, but I didn’t miss it. “Why do you think you drank?”
“I liked it.”
She batted her long false eyelashes. “That’s all?”
“Yup. Tastes good. Makes me feel good. What more do you want?”
“You don’t think it… could have anything to do with your work?”
“Of course not. I love my work.” I left out the detail that I didn’t actually have work at the moment.
“You don’t think it could relate to… what happened with your husband?”
“No,” I said, giving her a stony glare. “I don’t.”
“You took a piece of glass-”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You seem to have a lot of anger. Why is that?”
“Maybe I don’t like having people prying into my private life.”
“We’re only trying to help you.”
“You’re talking about things you know nothing about.”
“Then tell us. We want to learn.”
“There’s nothing to learn.”
“No problems?”
“No. Everything is fine. Perfectly pleasant.” I even forced myself to smile.
Margie leaned forward. “Susan… what’s your secret?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your secret?”
“I don’t have one.”
She paused a moment. “I remember a patient I had about three years ago. He said everything was fine, too. Then one day I asked him, ‘What’s your secret?’ And he looked at me for a long time. Then he finally told me he was sexually abused when he was six years old. And he started crying. All that fear and anger tumbled out of him. He’s been well ever since.”
So that was what she wanted. Some big fake Hollywoodesque Prince of Tides-like single-event explanation for every problem I’ve ever had. Talk about trite. I considered making one up: I was stolen by Gypsies and forced to work on a coffee plantation in Kenya. But I knew I would be the only one laughing.
“There’s no secret. Your whole approach is psychologically wrongheaded. You can’t boil all of a person’s problems, all of their life, down to one person or incident.”
She remained implacable and insistent. “Susan… what’s your secret?”
What was this-some kind of hypnagogic brainwashing technique? “How many times do I have to say this? There is no secret.”
I could see the other patients in the room shaking their heads sadly. Margie sighed. “I hope that’s true, Susan. For your sake. You have a lovely smile, and I’m glad to see you using it occasionally. Beautiful eyes, too.” She paused, staring at me. “But when I look into those eyes-I see pain.”
At the next break, I left, never to return.
He heard Annabel even before he opened the door. That was unfortunate. He had not expected her to regain consciousness so quickly.
“Who is it?” she shouted as he came through the door. She twisted her head around; it was all she could move. “Who’s there?”
“Just me again, my lovely. Back from the trenches.”
She was lying flat on the table, as pure and unsullied as the day she was born. Her wide limpid eyes stared up at him. No restraints were necessary. She would not be able to move her limbs for some time.
“Why am I here?” she asked. “Where are my clothes?”
“You’re in my laboratory,” he said, maintaining calm, genteel composure. “And it was necessary to remove your garments.”
“I don’t-don’t know what you-what you-” She was trying to fight the drug, to gather her strength. It was hopeless, but he couldn’t help but admire her for trying. “I don’t know what kind of sick bastard you are-”
“I assure you my parents were married at the time of my birth, dear.”
“My boyfriend knows where I went! And when I don’t return, Warren will do whatever it takes to find me.”
A feisty one, this offering. A pleasant contrast to her predecessor. Exhilarating. “Dear me. Do you suppose he might call the law enforcement authorities? My heart’s atwitter.”
“Worse than that, you asshole. He’ll call my mom.”
“Do tell.”
“That’s right. She may be shit as a mother, but she’s got power and money and she won’t let you get away with this.”
“You should not speak ill of your parents, Annabel. It’s most unbecoming.”