Night Navigation Read online

  "Del?"

  She sets the cups on the table. Gets out the Hazelnut International Delight. But she doesn't sit down. Instead she leans against the sink and takes a deep breath. "Richard, you know how hard it is for me to do that drive."

  "You've done it before. You only have to drive back. You'll have a chance to look over the route on the way down." He leans toward her, makes sure he's got her full attention. "Much easier than driving to Camden."

  "Richard."

  "You stay on 88 to Albany, then get on the Northway and get off at Exit 4. The airport is right there."

  Her heart thuds. She'll be starting back around five o'clock. "That's going to put me returning in rush-hour traffic."

  He looks at her, starts to rise.

  She sits down, picks up the warm mug. "All right. I'm afraid to do this, but I guess I can. I'll just have to drop you at the airline though. You'll pull up and I'll get in the driver's seat and just swing on out. Getting back to the highway will be less confusing. The last time I got totally turned around."

  "Good," he says. "We'll take your car. Every time you do it, it gets easier."

  She unlocks the front door, yanks it open and steps into the icy rain, looks up at the dark sky, opens her mouth and screams. Talons release, weight lifts, flashes up and away. Back inside she walks up and down the hall. Her breathing is easier now. Certainly she does not have to invite anger up as the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh suggests. It's burst right in on its own. She dials Marna's number, gets her friendly "get back to you." "It's Del. Hope you had a good trip. I'm really just calling to vent. I'm so angry, I was finding it hard to breathe. I'll try to get hold of you tomorrow evening when I get back from the Albany airport. Maybe you could come for chili at my house Thursday…" and the machine clicks off. She does feel better. Venting to an answering machine. So much a minute. The weather, porn, vent: take your pick. In fact there's probably such a thing already. Good lord, why did she have to step out of the house to scream? Because Richard would have come back from the P.O., walked in and said, "I smell something burning." Like that time he was away working in the city, when she was renting her house to Mark and Aaron, living at Richard's, and she'd left water boiling, came in to find the bottom of one of her cheap pots melting, welding right to the thin outer ring and under-pan, seconds after she turned off the on-high glow. She'd rushed out and miraculously found replacements. She left the windows open, ran the fan, sprayed Lysol, but the faint chemical odor of melted metal lingered. The first thing he said when he opened the door, What's that smell? I don't know, she told him. Maybe the only time she'd out-and-out lied.

  All day every time she thinks about swinging around the circle to get out of the airport, her stomach takes a dive. Now you've promised, you have to do this. She goes through the motions of being a person: putting on the mayonnaise, rinsing the lettuce. She feels too jittery to try to deal with the internet. With a knife, she removes the little screw that keeps one of the glass shower doors from sliding—a screw Richard had inserted because water had started to erode the grouting of the floor tiles in that corner the year his son had been living with them. Now, in order to get rid of the buildup, you have to take all your clothes off and stand in the tub. Unless you remove the screw to slide the door. With soft-scrub and a non-scratch pad, with methodical circles, she works her way from the top to the bottom, removing all the lime and soap residue she's been meaning to go at for weeks.

  It isn't until Richard goes to sit down and she starts to set the salmon on the table that it comes to her: she is going to have to pick him up as well. She takes hold of the edge of the sink. "What time does your return plane get into Albany?"

  He gives her a weary look. "I don't remember the exact time."

  "About what time?" Her voice has that about-to-cry tremor.

  He cuts up the salmon and puts a piece on her plate. "Around midnight."

  "You mean I am going to have to drive down there late, in the dark…"—she points to the windows—"in possibly freezing rain?"

  "Del."

  "Something that is terrifying to me…"

  "Terrifying?"

  "…so you don't have to leave your truck in the parking lot?"

  He stands up. "Thanks," he says. "Wouldn't want you to put yourself out." His back is to her now.

  She follows him a few steps on his way to the stairs. "You know that's not it."

  From the stairway, he says, "When you want to, you can drive."

  He disappears. She stands looking down into the stairwell. "Richard, you are not going to equate this with me driving Mark to detox?"

  She follows him down the stairs. "You aren't going to eat?" He is sitting in his chair by the stove, the paper already before him. He doesn't answer.

  "You know this is not about that I can't be bothered." He turns the page. She goes back upstairs. She would like to break something. She dumps the salmon into the garbage, bangs the rice pot on the side of the can until it breaks loose and drops in one steaming mound. She feels sick. Bastard. She starts the dishes. Then she sets the salmon pan back in the water and goes to the head of the stairs. "If you cared about me, really cared, you would not ask me to do something that you know makes me so anxious. Or if you did ask, you would know that I have the right, I have the right to say no." Silence. She rinses the glasses, the silverware, the plates. She wipes the table and dries her hands. When she gets downstairs, she pulls her chair closer to his, then sits on the edge and looks at him. He does not look at her, just turns the page. "We need to talk." Nothing. "You know if it was an emergency—say you needed to go to the hospital—I would drive you. I would drive you. But this is so you don't have to leave your vehicle in the airport parking lot. Hundreds of people leave their cars in airport parking lots." No response. "We should talk." She leans toward him.

  Without looking at her, without setting the paper down, he finally says, "Nothing to talk about. Go on to your house."

  "Richard, this is so unfair."

  "Maybe it is. But I want you to go now. I'll call you when I get back."

  Her chest is tight. Let her not sob. It is not sorrow, it's fury. She goes back upstairs. Rage. And she's supposed to bring the rage up and give it sympathy: There, there. Fuck.

  She takes her coat from the back of the door and checks her purse for keys. She unplugs her toothbrush and jams the whole thing into her bag. She goes into her little room and packs up her drawings, wraps newspaper around the dried horseshoe crab she's been thinking about and tucks that deep where it won't be crushed. She is going home. She has a home to go to.

  Her headlights flash on her mailbox, the iridescent numbers 541 lurch toward the highway, the metal door askew—the whole business knocked cockeyed by the plow, so that nothing lines up anymore. She pumps the brakes to check for ice and makes the turn down into B & R Roto-Rooter & Excavating. The high beams hit the mountains of gravel dumped on her right-of-way, flash on her road up the little knoll just beyond that and then she sees the outside lights, what she's left on to make her returns less anxious. No one moving about. Just the dark shape of Luke in the front window. Before she can pull the key from the lock, Luke's wiggling his way through the narrow opening. "Lucas, my pal." There's a bed of fiery coals: such a fine stove. So loyal, so true. "Right, Luke." She folds her arms around his neck, presses her cheek to the roll of stiff hair that mounds over his collar, lets him give her a wet slurp. Then she pushes him with her knee so she can get to the right logs.

  Three flashes on the machine. "Del, it's Carla. Thought you'd like to know Rudy's gone to detox. Would you please have Mark call me?" Well, depending on when Rudy went to detox, there are that many days of not having to think about her barn burning down. The second call is a hang-up. Then, "It's me. Just wondering if you'd been able to find any info. Thought maybe the fax got fucked up since nothing came through today. Still no bass. I'll try you at Richard's. Or … you could call me. Things a little intense here, but nothing to worry about."

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nbsp; "Oh, right," she says. He has given her several pay phone numbers. It's only seven o'clock. She could call, but she does not want to talk to him until she's found some possible places, until she's tracked down the bass. He's got Rozmer for anything that requires real listening. Best she not talk to anyone, lest she start venting about Richard. She has taken flight so many times she now gives this disclaimer: Just roll your eyes and say, They're at it again. This after Richard's sister said to her the last time, Christ, you're both over sixty. Grow up. This, from a woman who decided to live alone long ago. No, she does not want to talk to anyone. She plays Mark's message again for Luke, then she reaches over and turns off the ringer.

  "There are 286 facilities within 100 miles of your starting point." Anywhere but here. Mark has said this many times. She's put in the wrong starting point. She types in White Plains instead of Marwick. "There are 490 facilities within 100 miles." She scrolls down nine or ten screens, scanning for the right words: Dual Diagnosis, Long Term, Accepts Medicaid. The words she wishes for: We're going to hold on to him until he's okay enough to go out into the world and take care of himself. Then she sees it, number 201: "Lazarus House, Therapeutic Community … non-hospital residential 24 hours … accepts dual diagnosis … Hedgebrook, NY." She goes back to the little map at the top of the screen. Red X 201. It looks as if it's not that far from New Vistas. Maybe even on the same train line. She types in the Lazarus House website address and the page opens up: "Lazarus House, Inc. Therapeutic Community." She skims for length of stay. "12 to 14 months." That flutter in her chest.

  SELF DESCRIPTION:

  Structured behavior modification self-help treatment facility.

  TREATMENT PHILOSOPHY:

  Expectation that the clients are the primary architects of their treatment under the supervision of the clinician.

  One day on top of another on top of another.

  APPROACH TO DUAL DIAGNOSIS:

  Primarily referred to psychiatric social worker and agency psychiatrist for clinical management.

  POSITION ON 12 STEP INVOLVEMENT:

  All clients are actively exposed to the 12 Step program.

  POSITION ON CONFRONTATION:

  Used when deemed appropriate to a specific clinical issue.

  She reads that several times. Mark has always said TCs are too hard core, too confrontational. Already she can feel herself pushing for this place. Twelve to fourteen months. She wishes they hadn't put in that part about confrontation—it might turn Mark off. She glances through the section marked "General":

  GENERAL:

  115 beds, 25% women, 20% under 25, 15% with a college education, 85% covered by Public Assistance, 67% receiving some form of psychiatric medication other than for detoxification.

  FAMILY PROGRAM:

  Family and significant others are integrated into the clinical process as thoroughly as possible on an encouraged voluntary basis.

  "As thoroughly as possible" … "on an encouraged voluntary basis." Between these carefully edited phrases, this chorus: Night after night we expected to find out this person was dead. Hundreds of promises have been broken. You want us to open up, on an encouraged voluntary basis, to hope again, as thoroughly as possible to feel that pain once more.

  She prints it all out, even the Lazarus House feedback on one of the link sites, testimonials from former clients: "Lazarus House saved my life." "Ten years clean and sober." "Bless you."

  She prints out the other places Mark has told her to look up as well. They don't sound as good. None are long term, just your standard "fix you up in twenty-eight days" rehabs. She puts the stack on the counter, ready to go first thing in the morning when the fax place opens. The bad news is that the bass hasn't even been sent, some foul-up and now it's on back order. She's got it all explained in a note to fax with the rest. Better than having to tell him over the phone.

  All the way to Sidney, her shoulders were in count-down, but when she makes the turn back into the gravel bank, she realizes they've unlocked. She looks toward the bluff and catches the slant of Aaron's roof rising up. What happens in her gut when the phone rings and whether she can look up this hill or not are the two barometers of how she's really feeling. For years, when she drove up this road, she had to look away.

  She turns off the wipers. No sun, but across the road, there's a glimmer of light. She tips the rearview to check the back seat. Luke has conked, finally exhausted from leaping and barking at every passing vehicle, with her saying NO in a firm voice each time. Surely this ignored NO is better than nothing. The minute Luke gets in the house, he collapses on his bed.

  "Next time I'm going to put a bag over your head," she tells him, but he isn't listening. 11:00. Most likely Mark's going to call any time now. She knows just what he'll say first, Fucking downer about the bass.

  Oh, it'll be good to see Marna. Once Richard said, Seems like having a friend whose son is so messed up, the two of you talking so much about all that, well, wouldn't it be better to be with mothers whose kids are okay? Better not to dwell. You mean, she told him, mothers who are concerned about whether their children are going to go to Colgate or Brown, concerned because their son just came home with a pierced ear?

  She takes the venison hamburger out of the refrigerator and her mother's heavy roaster from the bottom cupboard. The onions are sprouting green shoots in the dark of the bin. She gropes around for the hardest one, peels away the first couple of watery layers before chopping. Marna will help her calm down. Marna, you are my detachment guru. When that phone rings, think marsupial: once he gets too big for the pouch, out you go, joey. During this routine, Marna's long-boned body always assumes the Mama Kanga stance: she shortens her arms, sinks her six-foot frame into her haunches. Say it in the mirror every morning: Mama Marsupial, not Mama Bear. That way you can call the police if he forges one of your checks.

  The onions go yellow, translucent. Their sweet sharpness burns away the last dank smell of so many days without sun. Covers the remains of cigarette smoke. She breaks up the first of the three pounds of meat, the center still a hard ball that must be pinched apart with freezing fingers. Freed from constructive guidance, she actually likes to cook, especially big pots of stuff that, lined up in jars in the freezer, give her a zap of cornucopian fullness every time she opens the door. Plus Marna loves her mother's chili recipe: light on the powder, heavy on the sugar and Tabasco for the tomatoes, and lots of onions and fresh mushrooms. Once the beans get added, it will threaten to roll over the top until it cooks down. Making chili is always like being back in one of their small apartment kitchens again, talking with her mother.

  The phone. Sink into your haunches. She turns the heat low. All the systems are on, but she decides to let the machine pick up. "It's me, where are you?"

  She sits down and breathes. "I'm right here. Just making chili. Marna's coming out for a late lunch. Did you get the faxes?"

  "Bummer about the bass. Might have been better to still have it come here. But I guess as long as you express it to me once it gets to the house."

  She keeps her voice light, tries for marsupial tones. "How about the faxes of places? Anything look promising?"

  "Lindsey thinks this Lazarus House sounds good. Heavy-duty name. She got hold of somebody in their office to make sure I'd be eligible for coverage."

  She breathes. "Would you be eligible?"

  "You'd have to send a copy of my birth certificate."

  "I can do that." She hears a faint drumming. Probably Mark rapping on something near the receiver. "I'm taking the phone to where I've got all your files." She turns the meat off.

  "I don't know. Twelve months in a therapeutic community. Twelve months is a long time."

  It still feels surreal to be walking along and have a voice, cordlessly, coming into your ear at the same time. "Okay, I'm in my studio. Can you hear me all right?" She pulls on the file drawer that holds all Mark's records, but it's jammed. "Are you there?"

  "One whole year of 'do this, do that.'" Hi
s voice is so low she can barely hear him.

  "Did it sound like they had any openings?"

  "Don't worry, I'm not coming back there." His voice fades again. "That certainly has been the main thrust of the counseling here: how I need to grow up."

  She hesitates a second then speaks precisely into the receiver: "I think we've both come a long way."

  "Yeah, that's what I told John."

  She loosens her delivery. "Both of us trying to do as little harm as possible under the circumstances."

  The drumming is louder. "Under the circumstances," he says above the noise.

  She gives the drawer a yank. It opens a little. There's a folder twisted up so the heavy drawer won't give another inch. She'll probably have to rip it to get in there. "Should I fax a copy of your birth certificate?"

  There's a long silence. Finally his voice, without any accompaniment. "Some of it depends on if they'll let me have my bass. I'm not going any place where I can't have the bass."

  "I could fax a copy from Sidney once I get the chili simmering. Before Marna comes."

  Mark's voice sounds as if he's put the phone down and he's walking away. "What did you say was going on with Jason?"

  Don't think cub, think joey. She doesn't want to tell him Marna's son, Jason, is in jail again. That Marna's worried they're finally going to make him do real prison time. Stop treating his shoplifting thefts as drug-related. "He's struggling. Should I go ahead and fax the birth certificate?"

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Then a long sigh. "Sammi may come down later."

  "Oh, I hope that works out. Is she still reading short stories for Laser? What is it she's called herself? Slush-pile Sammi?"

  Just the sound of Mark breathing, then finally, "Yes."