only girl, sandwiched two and a half years on either side between Richard, the eldest, and David, the goofiest. Growing up in Golden Valley, Minnesota, we lived in a yellow colonial-style house with black shutters at the windows and a milk box on the front porch, and filled our days with riding bikes and sledding and playing in the woods, or pelting one another with icy snowballs and giving Mom gray hair (and Dad no hair).
During high school we still got along well enough—we weren’t best buddies but we could stand to be in the same room together—and during college we would catch up around the kitchen table when we migrated home for holidays and summers. But once our grown-up lives took shape, as we scattered across the country and our trips back home were less synchronized, sibling updates fell to Mom and Dad in weekly calls, with news, security and love relayed from the phone nearest the well-worn La-Z-Boy in the den. Comfort Central.
Mom, I need you. But I don’t want to worry you. Please pick up the phone and call me right now.
Solid Midwestern folks; my dad is a doctor and my mom is a nurse. Sometime in the early 1950s they met on the ward of a county hospital in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Mom in her starched white uniform, nursing cap, and cat glasses. Dad in his resident jacket with a stethoscope hanging from his neck. Someone proposed to someone else while holding hands on a long walk and they’ve been happily married ever since. My parents’ weekly routine includes a lot of togetherness; grocery shopping, brisk hikes, and turns at the churches of their different denominations. Dad mows the grass, keeps Mom’s car topped off with gas, and irons his own shirts now that her hands are crippled with arthritis. Mom is tiny; I can rest my chin on her curly white head. A little bird, she bakes pies and cookies for Dad (a plumper bird), and fusses over him if he doesn’t wear a hat to protect his bald head. My parents see the world as they treat the world: gently.
My world isn’t feeling very gentle right now.
Mom, call me.
Hysteria becomes begging, which becomes scheming, which becomes anger, which becomes a dial tone. Joey hangs up because Joe refuses to drop off a car so he can drive to his girlfriend’s house and save her from a dose of bad cocaine and certain death. He didn’t care for Joe’s suggestion that Joey call 911. The phone rings again within minutes, but this time Joey is crying.
“Dad, help me. Please, Dad, come get me.”
Joe is out the door in five seconds.
Returning a short while later, Joe shoots me a warning look as he shakes off his boots and holds the door open for Joey. My son steps in from the dark, pale and twitching. He zooms through the kitchen and down the hall, in and out of rooms, choking on tears and fears and garbled words about cocaine. Joe and I follow around after him, trying to soothe the wild beast; somehow, eventually, after whatever he’s on wears off, we wait and listen. Joey lies down in his old bedroom, murmuring the words we’ve been waiting to hear.
“I need help. I need addiction treatment. I can’t do this anymore.” And he falls asleep.
Sadness leaks onto my pillow until I’m overcome with exhaustion. But then, drawn from a fitful sleep, I tiptoe through the house to check on Joey before dawn. He’s in the TV room, sitting in near darkness, propped up next to his girlfriend, Julianne, on our green sofa.
Where did she come from?
Neither of them moves, not even a bit, although their expressions become slightly amused, as though I’m some freaky apparition that magically appeared for their viewing pleasure. I don’t know what’s going on, but it feels smarmy. This doesn’t match up with what happened here earlier this night.
“Both of you, get out.”
They do. They stand up and float right out the door. Looking around, I notice a stain on the beige carpet. It looks like blood. What went on here during the night? Holding the edge of the coffee table for balance, I crouch down to touch the ruby wetness, and then slowly bring it to my nose. Not blood. Wine.
Growling now, I shake my head, trying to free my mind of the ugliness snaking into my thoughts. How dare Joey bring his scary world into our life and our home—his drugs, his drinking, his darling little dealer, and whatever that drama was that happened last night?
Furious, I slam my way through the rest of the morning, slamming doors and drawers and cabinets. I slam waffles into the toaster and then onto Rick’s plate (who then eats them in silence). Once Rick leaves for school I head to the garage, slam my car into reverse, and take my fury to Joey.
At Joey’s apartment, a long-haired stranger opens the door, a silent zombie who shuffles off to flop on the saggy black sofa in the middle of the room, leaving me to stand at the entrance. Not sure what to do, I stay where I am, taking a look around. The blinds are drawn against the morning light but I can see dried blood and other crud all over the carpet and walls. I presume the widely splattered blood stains are from the mysterious broken sliding-glass-door incident. Amidst crumpled bits of trash and dirty dishes, a Christmas tree stands in the corner, decorated with silver garlands and a few ornaments from Joey’s childhood. More than the decrepitude of this place where Joey lives, it’s the tree—Joey’s attempt at re-creating fond memories—that makes me want to cry.
Stepping farther into the apartment, I tap on Joey’s door. No response. I’m not at all sure I want to see whatever’s in there. But I have some yelling to do. So, I turn the grimy knob with two fingers and slowly push my way in.
Fully dressed (minus a sneaker), Joey is sprawled on his back across his bed. His long legs are twisted in the less-than-fresh-looking sheets. His eyes are closed, he’s breathing heavily. One arm is bent over his forehead, the other dangles above an empty wine bottle on the floor.
“Joey,” I whisper softly. Not to rouse him, but to see if it’s safe to snoop without getting caught. Not an eyelash flickers. The small room smells of ashtrays, recently smoked pot, and things unwashed; I hold the back of my hand to my nose. Three of the walls are the color of a cigarette filter after a few puffs, and the wall over his bed is spray-painted with mostly black graffiti. Bongs, baggies, and cigarette butts litter the carpet between stiff-looking socks and mildewed towels, and the printer from college sits in one corner gathering dust while robust marijuana plants stand tall in another.
Stepping over some junk, I reach for his backpack. There’s another empty wine bottle and a corkscrew inside. I’m pretty sure these came from the room where Joe and I keep our liquor locked up—a recent precaution in case Joey ever came over. I guess he found a way in. If his room wasn’t so filthy, I might allow myself to crumple up on the floor and cry until tomorrow. Instead, I call out Joey’s name, this time loud and sharp.
Like rusty old hinges, his eyes slowly creak open, get a little stuck, close, and creak back open. Merely a crack. He remains deathly still. And silent. I’m fairly certain Joey’s not aware I’m here, but I yell at him anyway. I let go of my fury over last night’s drama, drugs, and deceit. I feel a little better, but I’m not quite done.
“Take a look at your life, at this mess, at everything you are throwing away. Get a grip. Grow up. Be responsible. Take control. Make something of yourself, Joey. Make a life you can be proud of. Oh, and, one more thing. I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
“How about a bike?” Joe asks me.
“No. I can picture Joey
