tobacco and vomit. I remember her baby smell, her sweet head smelling of baby oil, her sweet tush smelling of baby crap. How can your children get so far away from where they started?
I immediately start making phone calls. By that night, Molly and I are on a plane for Minnesota.
Even though it’s November, it’s midwinter in Minnesota. It’s always midwinter in Minnesota. We are standing in baggage claim when a chubby woman in a parka comes up to us.
“Molly?” she says.
“I’m Erica, this is Molly.”
“I’m your transportation,” she says. “I’m Mary M.”
We get into a station wagon and drive north. It starts snowing. I hold Molly’s hand.
“I’m scared, Mom.”
“No reason to be scared,” says Mary calmly, “the worst is behind you.”
About two hours north of the airport, we arrive at a group of brick buildings in the wilderness. There is a frozen lake, tall pine trees, fields of snow.
Getting out of the car, I see that my breath is making puffs of smoke in the night air. Molly and I are led into an office where a short black man with a clipboard has some questions for us. We fill out papers, sign releases.
“I need to talk to Molly alone now,” he says. “Probably you should wait outside.”
“Don’t go, Mom.”
“I think I should.”
“Molly,” says the man, a counselor called Jim R., “I need to ask you some specific history of what brought you here and I think you might be more comfortable talking if your mother isn’t here.”
“O.K.,” she says.
I wait outside in a cubicle, muttering prayers under my breath. I am full of remorse. How could I have let this kid go away to college? How could I have missed all this? How could I have been so immersed in my own problems?
Molly stays with Jim R. an hour or so while my mind races. Then she comes out, her eyes red, her nose running. Jim and I walk her down the hall to Detox and again there are papers to sign. Molly is taken into a little room with a bed and a sink. A nurse comes in and searches her luggage.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” she says. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“Go, Mom, I’ll be O.K., I promise.”
And I am escorted down a long underground corridor until we come to another building. Upstairs, a locked door and a series of rooms along a hall. One of these rooms is mine. It has two narrow beds bolted to the floor, a few Spartan tables and lamps. The bathroom has a paper bath mat and two tiny white towels. I shed my clothes and crawl into the narrow bed. I am shaking.
“God help me,” I mutter. “God, please be there, please.”
There have been lots of times in my life when I felt I had hit bottom, but this was the lowest. Molly was my future, all the dreams I had not fulfilled—like having a son, having movies made of my work, being the success in show business my father had always wanted to be or me to be for him. I needed Molly to live far more than I needed to live myself.
When I wake up at five in the morning, I find my room looks out on the frozen lake. Little huts are set up on the ice. Small bundled figures are walking across, leaving tracks in the snow. It is the quietest place I have ever been. You can listen to your thoughts here. Minnesota—I love you.
I quickly dress—my city clothes are all wrong, of course—and walk outside in the snow. My thin shoes crunch and I can feel the cold straight through. Still, I find a path through the tall firs and I follow it as long as I can stand the cold. Then I reverse direction and come back.
In one of the lounges of the building where my room is, I find a fire going in a stone fireplace and coffee and donuts laid out. I get some coffee and drink it in front of the fire. I pick up a book called Serenity from one of the tables. Here are the words I open to: “When we stop thinking of fears and doubts, they begin to lose their power. When we stop believing good things are impossible, anything becomes possible.”
The rehab had no
I immediately start making phone calls. By that night, Molly and I are on a plane for Minnesota.
Even though it’s November, it’s midwinter in Minnesota. It’s always midwinter in Minnesota. We are standing in baggage claim when a chubby woman in a parka comes up to us.
“Molly?” she says.
“I’m Erica, this is Molly.”
“I’m your transportation,” she says. “I’m Mary M.”
We get into a station wagon and drive north. It starts snowing. I hold Molly’s hand.
“I’m scared, Mom.”
“No reason to be scared,” says Mary calmly, “the worst is behind you.”
About two hours north of the airport, we arrive at a group of brick buildings in the wilderness. There is a frozen lake, tall pine trees, fields of snow.
Getting out of the car, I see that my breath is making puffs of smoke in the night air. Molly and I are led into an office where a short black man with a clipboard has some questions for us. We fill out papers, sign releases.
“I need to talk to Molly alone now,” he says. “Probably you should wait outside.”
“Don’t go, Mom.”
“I think I should.”
“Molly,” says the man, a counselor called Jim R., “I need to ask you some specific history of what brought you here and I think you might be more comfortable talking if your mother isn’t here.”
“O.K.,” she says.
I wait outside in a cubicle, muttering prayers under my breath. I am full of remorse. How could I have let this kid go away to college? How could I have missed all this? How could I have been so immersed in my own problems?
Molly stays with Jim R. an hour or so while my mind races. Then she comes out, her eyes red, her nose running. Jim and I walk her down the hall to Detox and again there are papers to sign. Molly is taken into a little room with a bed and a sink. A nurse comes in and searches her luggage.
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” she says. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“Go, Mom, I’ll be O.K., I promise.”
And I am escorted down a long underground corridor until we come to another building. Upstairs, a locked door and a series of rooms along a hall. One of these rooms is mine. It has two narrow beds bolted to the floor, a few Spartan tables and lamps. The bathroom has a paper bath mat and two tiny white towels. I shed my clothes and crawl into the narrow bed. I am shaking.
“God help me,” I mutter. “God, please be there, please.”
There have been lots of times in my life when I felt I had hit bottom, but this was the lowest. Molly was my future, all the dreams I had not fulfilled—like having a son, having movies made of my work, being the success in show business my father had always wanted to be or me to be for him. I needed Molly to live far more than I needed to live myself.
When I wake up at five in the morning, I find my room looks out on the frozen lake. Little huts are set up on the ice. Small bundled figures are walking across, leaving tracks in the snow. It is the quietest place I have ever been. You can listen to your thoughts here. Minnesota—I love you.
I quickly dress—my city clothes are all wrong, of course—and walk outside in the snow. My thin shoes crunch and I can feel the cold straight through. Still, I find a path through the tall firs and I follow it as long as I can stand the cold. Then I reverse direction and come back.
In one of the lounges of the building where my room is, I find a fire going in a stone fireplace and coffee and donuts laid out. I get some coffee and drink it in front of the fire. I pick up a book called Serenity from one of the tables. Here are the words I open to: “When we stop thinking of fears and doubts, they begin to lose their power. When we stop believing good things are impossible, anything becomes possible.”
The rehab had no
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