Page 71

seventy f

A Letter Changes Everything

O n Monday, May 19, 1986, a thin envelope waited for me. My name and address were clearly printed, but no return address. I stood next to the bank of mailboxes and carefully ripped the seal.

Dear Ava,

Hi, it’s Ricki. Thank you for saving my life. I would have died if you hadn’t called my mom , who got me into a thirty-day rehab program. It wasn’t easy, but I had no choice. I worked really hard in the program and was scared shitless when I left.

You asked about meeting for coffee. I’m sorry but I can’t. I had to make a clean break, which is why I never called you or any of the old gang. That’s why I didn’t put a return address on the envelope. I think about you guys all the time, but I’m afraid to get sucked back into the life.

I have a new apartment—more like a studio—since I’m not making the big bucks anymore. I’m working in an office. Life isn’t easy, but I’m alive, and maybe one day I’ll even get custody of my daughter.

I go to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings every night. I have a sponsor and get support from other members. On the weekends, I sometimes go to two meetings a day.

If you want to see me, here is a list of my meetings.

I love you,

Ricki

I leaned against the cool bricks of my building and stared at Ricki’s note. If Ricki could get sober, maybe I could, too. I scanned the list of AA meetings and for a minute considered attending one. But then I thought about the meetings I’d seen on TV. Bad coffee, stale cookies, and alcoholics chain smoking and sharing their dirty laundry in a church basement.

I’d been a private person my entire life. I couldn’t imagine standing in front of a room full of strangers, confessing my addiction.

Back in my apartment, I stuffed Ricki’s letter and list of meetings in my junk drawer and poured a hefty shot of tequila. I told myself I’d already cut back on my drinking and drug use. What more could I do?

Warren invited me to spend Memorial Day with him and his family. Much as I appreciated his kindness, I knew his sister Sally would bug me about going full time into cosmetology. Warren would look at me with sad eyes and worry about my survival.

Dancing on Memorial Day would be a waste of time. Bars would be empty until midnight, when drunks stopped in for a nightcap on their way home from family gatherings. Diana invited me for another raunchy picnic. I turned her down, too.

I envisioned a quiet holiday reading by the community pool. Instead, I partied with my drug pals, sans Ricki, until four in the morning the night before. I stumbled into my apartment, dropped the blinds, took the phone off the hook, and fell into bed. I woke at noon with one of the worst hangovers of my life.

I downed nearly a pot of coffee, which made the pounding in my head even worse. I washed down three Tylenol with a pitcher of Bloody Marys. By late afternoon, I felt ready to face the holiday crowd at the pool.

Kids splashed in the shallow water while moms chatted and dads grilled burgers and hot dogs. I’d missed a magnificent day of sunshine and the joy of family and friends—again.

I smiled falsely at familiar faces and soon returned to the solitude of my apartment.

What was the purpose of my existence? Why was I taking up space on the planet when the food I ate could be given to someone more deserving? Who would miss me if I disappeared? Disappear—I laughed at the irony. Die was more appropriate.

I pulled out the list of AA meetings and saw that Ricki’s meeting had been in the morning.

AA’s for suckers , at least that’s what I’d told myself for years. I can get sober on my own, and if I can’t, I’ll leave a good-looking corpse.

For the next few days, I managed to avoid alcohol, pot, and pills. But on Saturday, May 31, I found myself back at Dream Girls with the usual crowd of burnouts. My resolve disappeared. Life was so much easier if I gave in to the will of my friends.

But it wasn’t. Something shifted in my consciousness, and I knew I’d reached the end of myself. I had two options: slit my wrists or meet Ricki at her Sunday AA meeting.

I chose the less messy option. I stumbled into my apartment, put my things down, and fell to my knees.

“God, please help me,” I said in total surrender.