The rehab’s sign was small and read, THE CODDINGTON REHABILITATION INSTITUTE. Myron took the private road up past the security gate. From the outside the place looked like one of those vinyl-sided, faux-Victorian bed-and-breakfasts. Inside, at least in the reception area, it was an interesting mix of luxury hotel and prison. Soft classical music played on the overhead speaker. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. There were bars on the ornate arched windows.
The receptionist’s nameplate read, CHRISTINE SHIPPEE, though Myron knew that she was much more than a receptionist. Christine was, in fact, the hands-on founder of the Coddington Institute. She greeted them from behind what might have been bulletproof glass, though “greeted” might be too strong a term. Christine had a face like a yield sign. Her reading glasses hung from a chain. She looked them over, clearly finding them wanting, and sighed. She slid the forms to them through the kind of chute you see at a bank.
“Fill out the paperwork, then come back,” Christine said by way of introduction.
Myron moved over to the corner. He started writing her name, but Kitty stopped him. “Use the name Lisa Gallagher. It’s my alias. I don’t want them finding me.”
Again Myron asked who “them” referred to and again she claimed to have no idea. No reason to argue right now. He filled out the forms and brought them back to the receptionist. She took the forms, put on the reading glasses, and started checking for errors. Kitty’s body quake picked up steam. Mickey put his arms around his mother, trying to calm her. It wasn’t working. Kitty looked smaller now, frailer.
“Do you have a suitcase?” Christine asked her.
Mickey held it up for her.
“Leave it there. We’ll go through the contents before we deliver it to your room.” Christine turned her attention to Kitty. “Say good-bye now. Then stand by that door and I’ll buzz you in.”
“Wait,” Mickey said.
Christine Shippee turned her gaze toward him.
“Can I go in with her?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“But I want to see her room,” Mickey said.
“And I want to mud wrestle with Hugh Jackman. Neither is happening. Say good-bye and then move on.”
Mickey did not back down. “When can I visit?”
“We’ll see. Your mother needs to detox.”
“How long will that take?” Mickey asked.
Christine looked at Myron. “Why am I talking to a kid?”
Kitty still had a bad case of the shakes. “I don’t know about this.”
Mickey said, “If you don’t want to go inside—”
“Mickey,” Myron said, cutting him off. “You’re not helping.”
He said in an angry sotto voce: “Can’t you see she’s scared?”
“I know she’s scared,” Myron said. “But you’re not helping. Let the people here do their job.”
Kitty clung to her son and said, “Mickey?”
Part of Myron felt great sympathy for Kitty. A far bigger part of Myron wanted to rip her away from her son and kick her selfish ass through the door.
Mickey moved toward Myron. “There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.”
“I’m not leaving her here.”
“Yeah, Mickey, you are. It’s that or I call the cops or social services or whoever else.”
But now Myron could see that it wasn’t just Kitty who was scared. It was Mickey. He was, Myron reminded himself, still a kid. Myron flashed back to those happy family photographs—Dad, Mom, Only Son. Mickey’s father had since vanished someplace in South America. His mother was about to go through a heavy security door and enter the harsh solo world of detoxification and drug rehabilitation.
“Don’t worry,” Myron said as gently as he could. “We’ll take care of you.”
Mickey made a face. “Are you for real? You think I want your help?”
“Mickey?”
It was Kitty. He turned to her, and suddenly the roles were back to where they should have been: Kitty was the mother and Mickey was her child again. “I’ll be fine,” she said in as firm a voice as she could muster. “You go and stay with your grandparents. You come back and see me as soon as you can.”
“But—”
She put her hands on his face again. “It’s okay. I promise. You’ll visit soon.”
Mickey lowered his face into her shoulder. Kitty held him for a moment, looking past him at Myron. Myron nodded that he’d be fine. The nod gave her no solace. Kitty finally pulled away and headed to the door without another word. She waited for the receptionist’s buzz and then disappeared inside.
“She’ll be fine,” Christine Shippee said to Mickey, finally a little tenderness in her voice.
Mickey turned and stomped out the door. Myron followed him. He clicked the remote, unlocking the car door. Mickey reached to open the back door. Myron clicked the remote again, locking it on him.
“What the hell?”
“Get in the front,” Myron said. “I’m not a chauffeur.”
Mickey slid into the front passenger seat. Myron started up the car. He turned to Mickey, but the kid had the iPod jammed back into his ears. Myron tapped the kid’s shoulder.
“Take them off.”
“Really, Myron? Is that how you think we’re playing this?”
But a few minutes later, Mickey did as he was asked. The boy gazed out the window, giving Myron the back of his head. They were only about ten minutes from the house in Livingston. Myron wanted to ask him more, wanted to push him to open up, but maybe it had been enough for one day.
Still gazing out the window, Mickey said, “Don’t you dare judge her.”
Myron kept his hands on the steering wheel. “I just want to help.”
“She wasn’t always like this.”
Myron had a thousand follow-up questions but he gave the kid space. When Mickey spoke again, the defensive tone was back. “She’s a great mom.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Don’t patronize me, Myron.”
He had a point. “So what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said she wasn’t always like this. Do you mean a junkie?”
“Stop calling her that.”
“You pick the term then.”
Nothing.
“So tell me what you meant by ‘she wasn’t always like this,’ ” Myron said. “What happened?”
The receptionist’s nameplate read, CHRISTINE SHIPPEE, though Myron knew that she was much more than a receptionist. Christine was, in fact, the hands-on founder of the Coddington Institute. She greeted them from behind what might have been bulletproof glass, though “greeted” might be too strong a term. Christine had a face like a yield sign. Her reading glasses hung from a chain. She looked them over, clearly finding them wanting, and sighed. She slid the forms to them through the kind of chute you see at a bank.
“Fill out the paperwork, then come back,” Christine said by way of introduction.
Myron moved over to the corner. He started writing her name, but Kitty stopped him. “Use the name Lisa Gallagher. It’s my alias. I don’t want them finding me.”
Again Myron asked who “them” referred to and again she claimed to have no idea. No reason to argue right now. He filled out the forms and brought them back to the receptionist. She took the forms, put on the reading glasses, and started checking for errors. Kitty’s body quake picked up steam. Mickey put his arms around his mother, trying to calm her. It wasn’t working. Kitty looked smaller now, frailer.
“Do you have a suitcase?” Christine asked her.
Mickey held it up for her.
“Leave it there. We’ll go through the contents before we deliver it to your room.” Christine turned her attention to Kitty. “Say good-bye now. Then stand by that door and I’ll buzz you in.”
“Wait,” Mickey said.
Christine Shippee turned her gaze toward him.
“Can I go in with her?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“But I want to see her room,” Mickey said.
“And I want to mud wrestle with Hugh Jackman. Neither is happening. Say good-bye and then move on.”
Mickey did not back down. “When can I visit?”
“We’ll see. Your mother needs to detox.”
“How long will that take?” Mickey asked.
Christine looked at Myron. “Why am I talking to a kid?”
Kitty still had a bad case of the shakes. “I don’t know about this.”
Mickey said, “If you don’t want to go inside—”
“Mickey,” Myron said, cutting him off. “You’re not helping.”
He said in an angry sotto voce: “Can’t you see she’s scared?”
“I know she’s scared,” Myron said. “But you’re not helping. Let the people here do their job.”
Kitty clung to her son and said, “Mickey?”
Part of Myron felt great sympathy for Kitty. A far bigger part of Myron wanted to rip her away from her son and kick her selfish ass through the door.
Mickey moved toward Myron. “There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.”
“I’m not leaving her here.”
“Yeah, Mickey, you are. It’s that or I call the cops or social services or whoever else.”
But now Myron could see that it wasn’t just Kitty who was scared. It was Mickey. He was, Myron reminded himself, still a kid. Myron flashed back to those happy family photographs—Dad, Mom, Only Son. Mickey’s father had since vanished someplace in South America. His mother was about to go through a heavy security door and enter the harsh solo world of detoxification and drug rehabilitation.
“Don’t worry,” Myron said as gently as he could. “We’ll take care of you.”
Mickey made a face. “Are you for real? You think I want your help?”
“Mickey?”
It was Kitty. He turned to her, and suddenly the roles were back to where they should have been: Kitty was the mother and Mickey was her child again. “I’ll be fine,” she said in as firm a voice as she could muster. “You go and stay with your grandparents. You come back and see me as soon as you can.”
“But—”
She put her hands on his face again. “It’s okay. I promise. You’ll visit soon.”
Mickey lowered his face into her shoulder. Kitty held him for a moment, looking past him at Myron. Myron nodded that he’d be fine. The nod gave her no solace. Kitty finally pulled away and headed to the door without another word. She waited for the receptionist’s buzz and then disappeared inside.
“She’ll be fine,” Christine Shippee said to Mickey, finally a little tenderness in her voice.
Mickey turned and stomped out the door. Myron followed him. He clicked the remote, unlocking the car door. Mickey reached to open the back door. Myron clicked the remote again, locking it on him.
“What the hell?”
“Get in the front,” Myron said. “I’m not a chauffeur.”
Mickey slid into the front passenger seat. Myron started up the car. He turned to Mickey, but the kid had the iPod jammed back into his ears. Myron tapped the kid’s shoulder.
“Take them off.”
“Really, Myron? Is that how you think we’re playing this?”
But a few minutes later, Mickey did as he was asked. The boy gazed out the window, giving Myron the back of his head. They were only about ten minutes from the house in Livingston. Myron wanted to ask him more, wanted to push him to open up, but maybe it had been enough for one day.
Still gazing out the window, Mickey said, “Don’t you dare judge her.”
Myron kept his hands on the steering wheel. “I just want to help.”
“She wasn’t always like this.”
Myron had a thousand follow-up questions but he gave the kid space. When Mickey spoke again, the defensive tone was back. “She’s a great mom.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“Don’t patronize me, Myron.”
He had a point. “So what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said she wasn’t always like this. Do you mean a junkie?”
“Stop calling her that.”
“You pick the term then.”
Nothing.
“So tell me what you meant by ‘she wasn’t always like this,’ ” Myron said. “What happened?”
