Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 9

The world would be a better place if more people spent time drinking cheap coffee in church basements. So many think we must share the same beliefs to get along. In my experience, sharing the same fear is a far more effective strategy.

By the time I find my way down the stairs of the congregational church, I’m slightly out of breath. I claim a folding metal chair toward the back where I can get the lay of the land. The room, like so many I’ve sat in before it, has commercial-grade carpet, a drop ceiling, and walls covered in a combination of children’s art and framed Bible passages. It smells like coffee and mildew.

Once more, I’m the only white person in the room. Here, however, I can shed the label of outsider. In this room, race, gender, age, ethnicity, income level—these things don’t matter. Interestingly enough, neither does religion. While AA was founded on the principle of God, over the years its lingo has evolved to recognize a more general higher power. Call it what you want; even atheists have some kind of spirituality. The point is we’re all here because we recognize we have a problem with alcohol. We desire sobriety, and understand that, in this matter, we need help to get the job done.

Already, other AAs are turning to offer a nod of greeting, a hand in welcome. From a grizzled old war vet in an army jacket to a young Black kid in a T-shirt to a woman still folding up her cook’s apron. We introduce ourselves, even before the meeting has started. I have a hard time catching all the names or understanding all the accents, but I smile and mean it. Another basic tenet: All are welcome and we welcome all. We are comrades-in-arms, waging a mutual fight with the enemy. And we’ve come together tonight to share the horrors of war, while shoring one another up for another day of battle.

There’s power in humility. It’s one of the toughest lessons I’ve had to learn. Like the other souls in this room, I live on unsteady ground. Each moment is a choice and for all my good choices, I’m a single mistake away from having to start my journey all over again. As someone who’s relapsed twice, I know better than anyone I can’t afford to be cocky or negligent. No matter where I go, these meetings, this group, these strangers-who-aren’t-really-strangers, are my key to survival.

Meetings have different focuses. This meeting was listed in the pamphlet as Big Book, meaning we’ll take turns reading out loud, followed by discussion. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve gone through the giant tome at this point, but this format is still one of my favorites. There’s something soothing in revisiting words written eighty years ago that still resonate today. I can already feel my shoulders coming down, the pressure in my chest easing. I’m finally with my own people, all dozen of us young-old-Black-white-rich-poor-devout-atheist drunks.

An older gentleman sits at the head table. He has the look of a long-timer. He starts us off with the Serenity Prayer, which sounds even more beautiful in French-accented English, then we shift into meeting mode. I take my turn reading out loud, though my voice is slightly shaky. We are at the beginning of the Big Book, the chapter introducing the true nature of the disease and the terrible treachery that lies in the alcoholic mind.

I agree wholeheartedly. My mind is a traitorous beast I must monitor at all times. All those thinking games I used to play: I need a drink, I deserve a drink, I swear I’ll stop at just one.

Mad, sad, or glad, as the saying goes. We drink because we’re lonely, we drink because we fell in love. We drink to help ourselves go to sleep, we drink to wake ourselves up.

I drank because it made me feel alive. Then I drank because I didn’t want to live anymore.

Now, I sit here. One day at a time.

It feels to me that meeting-goers fall into two camps—those who find comfort in sharing their stories, and those who find comfort in listening to others share stories that could be their own. I’m in the second camp. I rarely talk during the discussion time or volunteer my journey. I genuinely appreciate hearing about others, though. The ways we are all different and yet alike.

Tonight, talking about the nature of the disease, allergy, whatever you want to call it, I recognize the classic story elements from my own life. A family legacy of alcoholism. A parent who was a chronic drunk, another parent who was a chronic enabler. Hitting that awkward, anxious phase of high school, not knowing who I was or where I belonged—and consequently tossing back a beer at that party, or stealing a shot of my parents’ liquor before boarding the school bus. That magical melting feeling that immediately followed. That sense of almost primal recognition. I like this. I want this. I need this.

Even now, I remember those first few drinks with longing. Those blissful early days of love, before I realized just how toxic and abusive the relationship was about to become.

The army guy shares his story of bottoming out. His wife kicking him to the curb, his kids refusing his calls. Spending months sleeping on the streets till another vet found him and dragged him to the hospital to begin detox. More nods around the room.

I didn’t bottom out, as much as I crashed in a series of waves—low, lower, lowest. By my twenties, my entire lifestyle revolved around booze. I existed to drink and drank to exist. Mostly I have dark, spiraling memories of neon lights and a strange, hideous laughter ringing in my ears. When I sobered up, it was only to realize that laughter was my own, so of course I drank again.

Then there was Paul. Holding out his hand. Offering to save me.

In the beginning it was enough.

Later came the hard knowledge that no one can save you from yourself.

The meeting reaches the hour mark. We each produce a dollar, toss it in the basket, then rise to standing. I’m curious if this is a Lord’s Prayer group or not. The traditional meetings end with it, but more and more groups have drifted away. This is a traditional group. I take the hand of an older Black woman to my right, and a cabdriver with an accent I still don’t recognize on my left. We recite the words together and I use the moment to focus on the feel of a neighbor’s hand gripping mine, to remind myself that this hour counts, that my sobriety is worth it. That we are all worth it.

The meeting breaks up. We help pile up books, pick up coffee cups. The army vet had coffee-prep duty. I move to his side to rinse out the coffeepot while he puts away creamer and sugar. His name is Charlie. I introduce myself again while we clean up together, explaining I’ve just moved into the area.

The meeting leader comes over. He has two pamphlets in his hand plus a torn piece of notebook paper.

“A list of daily meetings,” he informs me, handing over the green pamphlet. “More information on upcoming AA events.” The blue pamphlet.

I wipe my hands with a paper towel and peruse both brochures. The nice thing about major cities—they have robust AA populations. I didn’t have nearly this many choices at my former location. Especially these middle-of-the-night meetings, targeting those of us in the restaurant industry who get off after midnight and need support before heading home.

“Arnold,” the man says, sticking out his hand again. Copious introductions is an AA way of life. We all know what it’s like to feel lost in a crowd.

“Frankie. And thank you also for the phone list.” I hold up the notebook sheet.

“Top one’s mine. Third is Charlie’s.” The vet nods at me. “Second here, that’s Ariel.” He points to the woman who’d been wearing a chef’s apron. She crosses over to shake my hand.

“You need anything . . .” Arnold gestures to the phone list, indicating I should feel free to use it.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Ten days, ten months, ten years, you never know when the next craving is going to hit, and in those moments, a single connection can make all the difference.

Even after our relationship ended, I’d often call Paul. One a.m., two a.m., three a.m. It hardly mattered.

I’d dial his number. Hold the phone next to my ear. Listen to the sound of ringing, followed by the click of someone picking up on the other end.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He knew it was me just as I knew it was him.

We’d lie in silence together. I’d focus on the sound of his breathing, feel it like his heartbeat against the palm of my hand back in the days when we were still together, and I pressed myself against him in the middle of the night to keep my body, my thoughts, my very sanity from spinning apart.

Minute into minute. Until it was enough.

Then I’d hang up the phone and be separate once more.

Two weeks ago, after Lani Whitehorse’s funeral, when the work was done and my goal accomplished and I lay in bed in my cheap motel room, feeling all the emptiness and sadness crash down upon me, I called his number again.

Except this time there wasn’t silence on the other end.

This time, a woman picked up. She said, “You need to stop this.” Then, not unkindly, “You need help.”

I hung up the phone, my heart racing wildly in my chest. Then I curled up in the fetal position and burst into tears.

The truth can be like that.

“Hey,” I say now, addressing the three people before me. “I need to buy a new phone. Something simple and cheap, like a burner. Do you know where I can go?”

“There’s a T-Mobile around the corner,” Ariel mentions. She’s buttoning up a light jacket.

“Sounds expensive.”

Arnold doesn’t say anything, but Charlie the vet nods. I figured it would be him. Funny, how any addict can spot a dealer. We are crazy-good judges of character. Just don’t ask us about ourselves.

I hang back with Charlie, as Arnold and Ariel hit the stairs.

“How cheap you looking?” Charlie asks, moving over to the light switch.

“Very. I’m just now back to work, so extremely low on funds.”

“I do some volunteering at the rec center,” Charlie says, flipping out the lights and herding me toward the stairs. “I’ve heard the kids talk about after-hours phones.”

“After-hours?”

“After closing hours. You’ll find a guy or two lurking outside the mobile carriers. They have old phones with new SIM cards. Now, I mean old phones. Flip phones, that kind of thing.”

I nod.

“Lotta kids pick those up. Can use them for a month or two, at ten, twenty bucks a pop.”

I’m thinking if I’m a teenage girl embarking on a secret life with limited funds, that’s an excellent price point.

I drop my voice in a pseudo whisper. “Do I ask for Marco or just look for the guy in the trench coat?”

Charlie grins at me. I like his beard. It fits nicely with his broad face, hulking build. He would make an excellent teddy bear.

“Little thing like you needs to be careful asking around. Some of these kids are in the life for sure.”

I’m assuming he means gangbangers. Which makes sense. Additional funding for illegal activities.

“I’m not threatening,” I assure him. “Any kid looking to build his rep is hardly going to bother with a scrawny middle-aged white woman. Frankly, it’d be too embarrassing.”

Charlie grins again. “Not so wrong, little lady. Not so wrong.”

“You work at the rec center?” I ask as we exit the church. He locks up behind us.

“Volunteer three afternoons a week. Try to do my part to set these boys straight. I’ve lived here most of my life. Seen the good, the bad, the ugly. I know what they’re going through.”

“Ever meet Angelique Badeau?”

“The missing girl?” Charlie stops, looks at me. “Why are you asking about her?”

“I heard about the case. It’s made me curious.”

“I saw her around the center,” Charlie says slowly. “But can’t say that I know more than that.”

“Could I stop by, look around?”

“Don’t see why not. Best time is after school hours or on the weekend. If you’re looking to see the kids.”

Charlie studies me. Maybe he hopes I’m looking to mentor girls or volunteer my time or talk responsible drinking with teens. He’s not sure about my questions, however, some internal radar clearly pinging to life. Liars are very good at spotting other liars. He doesn’t push it, though. Maybe the next time we meet.

We’re outside the church now, standing on a broad avenue. I have eight blocks between here and Stoney’s to cover. The first of those streets is bathed in streetlights but quickly fades into a tunnel of black. I stick my hands in my jacket pockets, square my shoulders. Now or never.

“I can walk with you,” Charlie offers.

I shake my head. “I’m good. I don’t have far to go, and I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Charlie is clearly torn on the subject. But we’ve just met and part of being an addict is learning the importance of boundaries. His job is to take care of him, just like my job is to take care of me. We will both be the better for it.

He finally shrugs, heading in the opposite direction. I let him go first, watching his bulk shuffle into the dark. Then I set off at a much more rapid pace.

The first block is empty of pedestrians. Just cars passing by, some slowing down, some speeding up, all of which I pointedly ignore. Off the lighted boulevard now, onto a smaller, darker residential street. No shadows peel off from the dark. No footsteps echo around me.

I keep hustling, block by block. Two streets from my destination I spot four figures ahead. They are clumped near a tree at the corner of an overgrown lot. Definitely men, but other than that it’s too dark to tell. Their attention is on one another, not seeming to notice me as I cross to the other side to put more distance between us.

There is something so furtive about the group that the hairs rise instinctively on the back of my neck. One of them has his pants down around his knees. I don’t want to see more, yet I can’t look away.

Then I spy it, faintly illuminated by a distant porchlight. A needle jammed into the inside of the man’s thigh. Followed by an ecstatic look on the man’s face. His companions shift closer, one already reaching for the needle, anticipating his turn.

I pass on by. They never notice. Just five addicts sharing a brief moment that four of them will never remember.

I make it to my apartment. Close the door behind me. And remembering to leave my socks on, finally crash exhausted into bed.

The low rumble of an engine. I hear it, followed by a weight, solid and warm on top of my chest.

“Good night, Piper,” I murmur.

More rumbling.

Then we both fall asleep again.