Take Me With You Page 10

  “Maybe. Maybe, yeah. I think as long as I live I’ll be able to close my eyes and see hoodoos. Even if I never can figure out how to describe ’em. It’d be kind of nice to go where there are meetings.”

  “Meetings.”

  “Yeah. You know. If you can find ones that’re open. That aren’t for alcoholics only. Which way do we go next? What’s the next stop? Are there meetings in between here and where we’re going next?”

  “There are meetings just about everywhere,” August said. “When we leave here, we drive quite a ways before we get to any more good national parks where we plan to stop and stay for a while. We go through Salt Lake City next and some other parts of Utah where there are fewer rocks and more people. So, yeah, I’d say there are meetings ahead of us.”

  “Well, then I’m ready to go on when you are,” Seth said.

  “Look, I want to say this while Henry is still asleep,” August said.

  They were back in their campsite, and August was standing at the kitchen counter making tuna sandwiches for lunch. Henry was still asleep sitting up in his seat belt, Woody draped over his lap. The dog’s paws were twitching, as though he were running in his dreams.

  “Sure, okay, August. What?”

  “I’m going to need you to ask your dad exactly when he gets out of jail.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I thought I did. Now I’m not sure.”

  “Can’t you just count from the date he went in? That Monday the day after we left?”

  “Yeah. I could do that. But when I ask him about it, I’m not getting a clear answer. And once he even hung up on me.”

  “I don’t think he’d do that on purpose, August. I think your phone just lost reception.”

  “I was talking about that time on the pay phone.”

  “Oh.”

  “So I just thought maybe it might be good if you asked. Maybe he’d be more inclined to talk to you.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence.

  August finished the sandwiches—three of them—and placed them on paper plates on the dinette table. Seth sat down in front of one.

  “What if he’s getting out later than you thought? What happens to us then?”

  “We don’t know that’s the case,” August said. “So let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Okay,” Seth said. And took a big bite of sandwich.

  August looked up to see Henry’s eyes come open. Not so much as though he’d just wakened up. More as though he’d just decided to open them.

  “Henry is fast asleep for the night,” August said. “What do you think we should do?”

  “I think it’s okay to leave him.”

  “Do you?”

  “We’ll be locking up. Right? And Woody would bark like crazy if anybody tried to get in. We can put down those curtains so nobody can even see there’s a kid in here. I think he’ll be fine, August.”

  “And I’ve got an alarm system anyway.”

  “And we’d hear it, right? We’ll be right in there, right?” Seth pointed through the window of the rig at the open doorway of the meeting place. Light spilled out onto the street, looking inviting. Warm. “It’ll be fine, August.”

  “What if he wakes up and gets scared because he’s alone?”

  “He’s not alone. Woody’s here.”

  “Think that counts?”

  “To Henry? Are you kidding? Nobody counts more than Woody.”

  “Oh, look,” August said. “There are cookies. And coffee, but don’t drink any.”

  “I don’t drink coffee, August.”

  “Good.”

  “But I can go take some cookies?”

  “Why not?”

  But Seth didn’t move.

  They were standing just inside the entryway of the small meeting hall. It was a good ten minutes before the meeting started, so only about three people puttered around. Four folding tables had been pushed together into one big table, and a huge, broad-shouldered man was placing stacking chairs around it.

  “My dad doesn’t like it when I eat sugar. He says I talk too much as it is.”

  “I’m sure it will have worn off by the time you see him again.”

  Seth smiled a crooked smile and set off in that direction.

  The man, about the size of an NFL linebacker, approached August.

  “I’m Ray,” he said. “Welcome.”

  “August.”

  “Newcomer?”

  “Visitor. This meeting is open, right? They told me on the phone at central office that you’re men’s stag but otherwise open.”

  “We are,” he said. “But I think your son would be happier in the next room. A few of our regulars bring kids because they can’t afford a sitter. There’s a TV in there and some comic books and stuff.”

  “Thanks,” August said, “but you don’t know Seth. He begged me to take him to a meeting.”

  “It won’t bore him to death?”

  “Like I said, you don’t know Seth.”

  August looked up to see that Seth had never made it to the cookie table. He’d been waylaid by a table full of AA literature, clearly marked as free. He was choosing brochures and stuffing them into his pockets until they bulged.

  The leader of that night’s sharing was the guy with the least time sober. Only five days. August glanced at Seth’s face occasionally as the young meeting leader shared his experience of throwing away seven months of sobriety.

  “Everybody asks me what I was thinking,” the guy—whose name was Greg—said. “And it’s absolutely impossible to explain. Because I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking. There was no thought process. None. It just happened. I’m not saying it did itself, because I know I’m responsible. I just don’t know where I was when it happened.

  “Nothing bad was going on. I wasn’t celebrating anything. I was hungry and in kind of a scratchy mood, and I went into this place to get fish and chips. I figured it would settle me down to have a full stomach, you know? My nerves just felt a little raw. Not even really much more so than usual. And then . . . I don’t even want to say I got an idea to. It didn’t even feel like an idea. I just ordered a beer because it seemed like it couldn’t do me any harm on a full stomach. All of a sudden two beers and a plate of fish and chips looked like a good plan. Just totally reasonable. I keep looking back at it, but I don’t know how I would’ve stopped it, because it’s almost like I didn’t even see what I was doing until it was done.

  “Oh, I’ve talked to my sponsor a lot, and I know in a broader sense how I could’ve prevented it. If I’d stayed closer to the program and called him every day like I’m supposed to and worked the steps and gone to more meetings, I probably wouldn’t have been set up for a slip. But once I was in that place, it’s like I didn’t even see it happening. I knew I ordered that first beer. And I knew I was drinking it. I just had this idea that it was okay. And then it was later that night, and I needed to go out and get more, and then it was so obvious that it wasn’t okay. And I just couldn’t imagine how I’d sat there in that fish-and-chips place not knowing it. I’ll just never get over how this disease works.”

  As he wound down his sharing, Seth folded his arms on the table in front of him and set his head down in that cradle. August figured he was just tired. Though it was only a little after eight.

  Ray shared next and said, “Welcome back, Greg. The main thing is you’re here now. You’re back. I’ll tell you exactly what happened. There’s a name for that crazy thing where you drink and you can’t even say why. It’s called alcoholism. The only disease that tries to convince you that you don’t have a disease. Sneakiest damn thing on the planet.”

  August leaned over and whispered in Seth’s ear. “You okay, buddy?”

  Seth turned his head and looked into August’s face. He looked a little queasy.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You sure? You look sick.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Ray was in the middle of shar
ing about a drinking dream he’d had a few days prior. “And then I sort of come to—in the dream, I mean; I don’t mean I woke up yet—and I’m sitting at the bar with a half-drunk whiskey in my hand. And it was that same feeling. Like, how the hell did that happen? I mean, I know it’s a dream and all. But I was in and out of this program eleven or twelve times before it stuck. And believe me, this was realistic. That’s just how it was in real life. No real reason why I fell back except I’m an alcoholic. I think it’s because I came in for my wife. You know. Not for me. I hadn’t hit my bottom yet. I’d hit what she thought was my bottom. But I wasn’t done, and that’s just how it is.”

  Ray said more, but August was watching Seth again. Wondering if he should offer him the chance to go back to the motor home. August lifted up in his chair and leaned to his right, looking through the window to see if all was still and quiet inside the rig. If there was any movement, any indication that Henry was awake. But nothing seemed to move.

  “What about our visitor?” Ray said in closing. “And his young friend. Care to share tonight?”

  Seth’s head came up and he shot August a panicky look. “Do I have to share, August?” he asked in a loud, tense whisper.

  “No. You don’t. It’s up to you.”

  A long breath came out of Seth audibly, and his shoulders dropped.

  “My name is August and I’m an alcoholic from San Diego, California.”

  Of course the group said, “Hi, August.” As groups do.

  “I related a lot to the part about the drinking dreams. I still have them. Maybe two or three times a month. They scare the crap out of me, but it’s almost worth it for that sense of relief when I wake up and realize I didn’t really do it. I didn’t really throw my time away.

  “They’re a little different from what Ray was describing, but that denial factor is the same. That sneakiness of the disease. Like in the dream, I’ve been having a couple of drinks a couple of times a week, but it doesn’t matter. It’s okay. I haven’t told my sponsor or the group, and I haven’t changed my sobriety date. Because it doesn’t matter. But then in the dream it suddenly hits me that it totally matters and I totally have to come clean. But I don’t want to. But by then there’s no other choice.

  “In my home group there’s this one guy who tries to tell you there’s something wrong with your program if you’re having drinking dreams. And I’ve already told him he better never say that to me again. Because I completely disagree. I know exactly why I have those dreams. It’s not because I want to drink, it’s because I’m scared of that denial Greg was talking about. I’m scared it’s going to get me when I’m not paying attention. And that fear comes out in my sleep. If I wanted to drink, I would have by now. For whatever reason, I’ve been here since I got here. Probably because I was ready. I didn’t come here for anybody but me. Nobody told me it was time. I decided.”

  Normally he would have shared more, but he looked over at Seth. Seth was sitting upright again, looking even more distressed.

  “You want to share, Seth? You don’t have to.”

  Seth shook his head in fast, panicky motions.

  “You feel okay? You want to go back to the rig and lie down?”

  Seth nodded, white-faced and silent. So August dug the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Seth, who scrambled out.

  He listened to two more people share, then left the meeting early to check on Seth and make sure he was okay.

  He found Seth sitting up on the couch, next to the sleeping Henry, poring through the literature.

  “You okay, Seth?”

  Seth sighed. But he didn’t speak.

  Woody wove around August’s feet in greeting, and August reached down and scratched between the dog’s shoulder blades gently.

  “You looked like you were physically ill. Did you have a headache or a stomachache or something?”

  Seth shook his head no. August perched on the edge of the couch and draped an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Seth began to cry. He wiped at the tears with the back of his sleeve, but they just kept coming. “Shit,” he said. “I hate it when I cry. Oh great. And now I cussed, too. Sorry, August.”

  “Don’t really care,” August said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m so stupid.”

  “Why are you stupid? I don’t think you’re stupid at all. Why do you think you’re stupid?”

  “I thought if I went to a meeting I could sort of . . . pick up something there that I could bring home to my dad. Like I could find this thing that works for people to stop drinking . . . and . . . you know . . . give it to him. But it totally doesn’t work like that. Does it, August?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “You have to want it for yourself, and even then it doesn’t always work.”

  “True.”

  “You have to be really ready. And you can’t even help somebody else get ready. They have to get themselves ready. So what do I do, August?”

  August sighed deeply. Pulled Seth closer in to his side.

  “I have no idea, Seth. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think my father’s an alcoholic? I know what you always say. Like how you can’t tell from the outside, and you are if you say you are, and stuff like that. But now that feels like you’re just ducking the question. I know you can’t say for sure, but I’m asking what you think. And I really want to know, August. I want to know what you think.”

  “Okay then,” August said. “I’ll tell you. Here’s what I think. I think the vast majority of people with three drunk-driving convictions are alcoholics. Because most people who are not, who are just heavy drinkers . . . if they get two DUIs, they’re going to do one of two things. Either stop drinking or stop driving when they drink. The only people I know who are crazy enough to set themselves up for a third are alcoholics. So, I don’t really know your father well enough to judge him. But based on knowing that, if I had to guess, I’d guess yes, he is. And there’s another reason I think he is. Because if he wasn’t, I don’t think you’d be as upset as you are right now.”

  Seth turned his wet face up to August, no longer trying to hide the tears.

  “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it?”

  “If there was anything you could do, it wouldn’t be bringing him something from an AA meeting. If there was any way you could make a difference, I would think it would be by telling him something very honest from your own experience. Like sitting him down and telling him from your heart how his drinking affects you.”

  “Think it might help?”

  “I don’t know, Seth. It might or it might not. All I really know is that you have a right to do it. And that nothing short of that is likely to do much good.”

  “Thanks for telling me what you really think, August.”

  “Wish I could do more.”

  “It’s not your problem.”

  But I wish it was, August thought. So I could do more to fix it. He didn’t say so out loud.

  He made a mental note to call Harvey in the morning and get a second opinion on the wisdom of planning an intervention for a guy you only know because he towed you to his repair shop and got you back on the road at no charge. Oh yeah. And because you have his kids.

  Chapter Ten:

  FOUR STRIKES

  When August woke up, both Henry and Woody were looking out the window on the opposite side of the rig, their hands and paws against the glass. Seth was nowhere to be seen.

  August rose and leaned over to the other side of his motor home, bracing one hand against the back of the couch. He looked out to see what they saw. Seeing nothing but their empty campsite, he looked down at Henry.

  “Good morning, Henry. What are we watching with such fascination?”

  Henry looked up into August’s face and frowned. Then he pointed out the window. Seth had paced back into their field of vision, audibly talking on August’s cell phone. His face looked pinched and clou
ded. The volume of his voice betrayed anger, but August couldn’t make out individual words. Seth looked up briefly and saw the three of them staring at him. He turned his back and paced directly away from the rig. August pulled on his sheepskin boots and let himself out the back door, wearing a light coat over his pajamas.

  By the time he got outside, Seth had ended the call and apparently set the phone down or slipped it into his pocket. He was picking up small rocks, one after the other, and hurling them fiercely at the trunk of the campsite’s biggest fir tree. August could hear the thwack, thwack, thwack sounds of the rocks striking their target. On one hit he saw a piece of bark burst free and land a foot from the base of the tree.

  Seth looked over his shoulder at August. Cast him one miserable glance, as if every part of life was wrong and August was the worst of it. Then he picked up another rock and landed it with an even louder thwack.

  “Seth,” August said.

  No reaction. He walked closer to the boy’s back. Seth’s shoulders looked high and tight around the back of his neck.

  “Seth, how about we give that poor tree a break. Maybe tell me what’s going on. Bet you anything it’s not the tree’s fault.”

  Seth shot him another dark look over his shoulder, then picked up a new rock. August stepped in and took a firm hold on the boy’s right hand. Seth dropped the rock and let out a strangled sound of objection. He fought wildly to get free. For lack of a better plan, August threw his arms around the boy and wrapped him up tightly. It was something like trying to restrain a medium-sized wildcat, but August held on.

  “Let me go!” Seth shot out.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Not with you holding me prisoner.”

  “I’m not holding you prisoner. I’m trying to hold you. I’m trying to put my arms around you and give you a hug, but you’re fighting so hard you can’t tell.”

  Seth stopped moving. All the fight silently drained out of him. August could feel it go. Then Seth began to cry quietly.

  August walked him over to their picnic table and sat them both down on one of its benches, still wrapping Seth in his arms. He glanced up to see Woody and Henry still watching them out the window. He wondered which of them looked more concerned. He finally decided it was a tie.