House on Fire

9

One of Patty’s friends had brought over a large tray of homemade stuffed shells and chicken fricassee, so Sean’s family and I had it for dinner along with a salad. The two brothers bickered throughout the meal.

After dinner, I took the kids out for ice cream at our favorite soft-serve place, to give Patty a little break. When I got back and the kids allegedly prepared for bedtime, Patty and I sat in the kitchen. She poured us each a Scotch on the rocks.

“You know,” she said, absently wiping her hand along the Formica countertop, “for the longest time I thought Sean was weak. Resorting to this painkiller to basically get high. It never occurred to me that he might really be addicted, that he might have been powerless over the drug.”

“He wasn’t weak,” I said, taking a long swig.

“And then I realized there are all these people out there, I mean doctors and lawyers and businessmen and moms, and they’re all hooked on Oxydone, or Oxycontin, or whatever. Sean got addicted because his doctor wrote him a prescription and told him to take it. Take Oxydone, he said. But he didn’t say, Be careful, you might get addicted. Why is that not malpractice?”

“Sean was an incredibly strong person. It wasn’t his fault he got addicted to Oxydone.”

“Then who do you blame?”

I didn’t have an answer.