The Bottle Ghosts by Dorien Grey Page A

my mind said admiringly. Full of bullshit, but noble.
    We approached the Qualicare complex at about quarter to six, but it turned out to be barely in time. I’d mentioned that Qualicare had taken over the old St. Anthony’s Hospital a couple years earlier, and then started buying up every bit of property it could get within a radius of two blocks in every direction. They had been on a massive expansion program ever since. The whole area was one gigantic construction site. Old buildings coming down, new buildings going up, new parking structures popping up like mushrooms.
    We managed to locate the Family Care Center but had to drive around for five minutes or so to find a parking place. Obviously brand new, the building even smelled new: of wallboard, plaster, paint and new carpeting, though the halls were tiled.
    As we walked to the elevator, I noted from the spacing of the doors that apparently the first floor was mostly larger rooms—probably meeting and conference areas. This was confirmed when we got off the elevator on four, where the doors were much more closely spaced to indicate this was an office floor. We located Room 429 and knocked.
    “Come in,” a pleasantly masculine voice called in response, and we did.
    Brian Oaks got up from his desk to greet us. A very handsome man in his mid-forties with a full head of hair that was in the salt-and-pepper stage of making the transition from black to grey. On him it looked good. We walked over and introduced ourselves, shook hands, and took the seats he indicated for us as he took his own.
    We were all silent for a moment, Jonathan and I because we weren’t quite sure what to say, and Oaks because he was looking at us carefully with a calm but somehow bemused expression. Finally, having either found or not found whatever it was he may have been looking for, he leaned quickly back in his chair.
    “Tell me your story.”
    I glanced over at Jonathan and sensed him slipping into his “Let’s Pretend…” persona.
    “I don’t want to lose Dick,” Jonathan said, his voice low and very sincere, “and I’m afraid that unless we do something, I’m going to. He just doesn’t understand…”
    “You’re right there,” I said, following Jonathan’s lead, “I don’t understand how you can say you want to stop drinking one minute and then be pouring it down the next. I thought I could handle this, but I just don’t know. I get so damned frustrated and angry and that sure doesn’t help.”
    “How long have you been together?”
    “About a year now.” I was exaggerating by several months.
    Oaks’ face remained impassive as he looked back and forth between Jonathan and me. “And since you’re here, I understand that to mean that both of you agree you want to stay together?”
    “Oh, yes!” Jonathan said, reaching over to take my hand.
    Nice gesture , I thought. I just nodded.
    “No one has ever treated me better than Dick. I was hustling and he took me off the streets and…and I do want to stop drinking, but he just doesn’t know how hard it is.”
    Oaks looked at me.
    “And do you feel the same, Dick?”
    “Of course! But this drinking thing is just…” I left the sentence unfinished and we all sat in silence for a few moments.
    “Well,” Oaks said, “let me tell you from the offset that there is no cure for alcoholism. Jonathan probably knows this already. This group can’t make your problems go away. But what it can do is to make each of you understand where the other is coming from, to realize that you’re certainly not alone, and to help you work together toward Jonathan’s sobriety. And by talking about what bothers you in a group setting, and hearing what the others have to say, you might get a different perspective on how to better deal with your problems. Is that what you’d like to do?”
    We both nodded.
    “Yes!” Jonathan said. “I’ll do anything!”
    “Except stop drinking,” I muttered.
    Oaks looked at me, expressionless.