The Journey

Hello, Friend, and welcome to Chapter Seven of The Journey.

Content warning, this chapter contains discussions of depression, addiction and suicidal thoughts.

There is no sex in this chapter. If that's not your jam, please feel free to move on and find something more to your liking. I promise I won't be offended.

~~ Day One, Late November ~~

"Viv? Hey, Viv... Earth to Viv!"

"Hmm?" I'd been staring out the window, lost in my thoughts.

"Where'd you go? Been talking to you for like ten minutes," Diego said, looking over at me, then back out the windshield as I-95 stretched out in front of us.

"Just thinking about what a pile of bullshit this is."

"If you go into it thinking it's bullshit, you won't get anything out of it."

"Whatever," I sighed, "There's nothing for me to get out of this, other than getting through it."

It had been a tumultuous two weeks since I'd totaled

Abuela's

car. I'd narrowly avoided being arrested for drunk driving (thanks to some epic dumb-fuckery by the cop handling my accident investigation) and had almost, but not quite, lost my job.

Not to mention my decision to intentionally drive off the woman who'd been the best thing that had ever happened to me.

"You haven't said ten words all the way down here."

"Nothing to say."

Three or four more miles passed, before Diego's cell phone clipped to the dash pinged to let him know it was time to exit the interstate.

"I read up on the place. Supposed to be nice. They have a gym, a nutritionist. Even a personal trainer on staff."

"Yeah, I ain't gonna be lifting a lot of weights with this busted arm. Anyway... a nice prison is still a prison."

"It's not a prison, Viv."

"Whatever," I said again.

We passed the remainder of the trip in silence. "Here we are," Diego finally said as we turned into a long, tree lined driveway.

The discreet brass sign on one of the two stone columns that flanked the driveway announced we had arrived at

Pinewood Drug and Alcohol Treatment and Recovery Center.

"It looks nice," Diego said, gesturing at the buildings and manicured landscaping.

I sighed again.

Diego drove past what looked like a staff parking lot and into the main circular driveway. There were six or seven buildings I could see. We stopped in front of one that had a sign on the door that read

Intake and Reception.

Diego turned off the engine and got out. I didn't move.

I heard him get into the trunk, slam it shut, then come around and open my door, holding my suitcase.

"C'mon, Viv. Let's go."

Another sigh. "Fine."

I unbuckled my seat belt, struggling to climb out of the car. The cast that held my left arm in a L-shape was strapped around my body to immobilize it, with a foam wedge pinned between my arm and chest to hold my shoulder in the correct position, making maneuvering difficult.

Diego led me inside where a friendly looking woman waited at a desk across the rather large and ornate foyer.

We stopped just inside the door and Diego set my bag down.

The silence between us was as awkward as getting out of the car with my cast.

"I'll come see you next Sunday during visiting hours," he finally said, "Virginia said she'd like to come if it's okay."

"I'd rather she didn't."

He looked hurt.

"It's not her, Dee. I just don't want anyone to see me here."

"I get it... They really want a family member to come for visiting day if at all possible, though. It's part of the program. I'll come by myself, though. We can talk about the week after, maybe."

"Thanks."

"We got you something," he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He handed me a small package. "They're going to take your phone from you, but the website said patients can have iPods or music players as long as they don't have cell service. This one only has WiFi, but I don't think they have WiFi service here. There's AirPods in the box too."

I felt myself soften for the first time that day. "Aw, man. That was really nice of you. But you guys should have used that money on the down payment for the car for

Abuela

, not on me."

"Call it an early Christmas present. I logged into your Apple Music account, too, so I could download all your playlists to it since you won't be able to stream here."

"How did you get into my account?" I asked in surprise.

He smiled. "You've used the same password for every computer and online account you've ever had since we were kids."

"I guess that's true." I supposed I was a little predictable.

"I put some audiobooks I thought you might like on there too and synced your photos from your iCloud account. Although, like I said... no WiFi here."

"Thanks, Diego." I was feeling both overwhelmed and undeserving.

"You're welcome." We stared at the floor together for a minute. "I should get headed back."

"Sure. Thanks for driving me."

"Listen, I know you think this is stupid, but maybe just try and get something out of it, okay? Take some time to try and get yourself right."

I glanced at the woman at the intake desk, who was very professionally not paying attention to us.

"I'll try."

"Love you, sis," he said, then he gently hugged me around the contraption encasing my shoulder and arm.

I watched him get in the car and drive back up the driveway until I heard the receptionist clear her throat. I looked up and she beckoned me over.

"Miss Esparza? Let's get you checked in and oriented."

A couple hours later, after I'd filled out a metric fuck-ton of paperwork, gotten a basic physical, been shown my room and introduced to my roommate, and had a tour of all the facilities and meeting rooms, I was sitting in a comfortable leather chair in one of the counselor's offices.

Charlie Porter, the friendly man sitting in a matching chair across from me, had explained he would be my counselor for the next twenty-eight days. I'd be meeting with groups, listening to lectures, attending educational seminars, learning nutrition and getting personal training and life skills lessons, but at least once a day I'd have a one-hour one-on-one session with Charlie.

"So, Vivian, let's start off with you telling me why you're here?" Charlie asked me.

"So I can keep my job," I said.

"Tell me about that."

I sat, mute, doing my best to burn a hole through the window with my eyes. As cold as it was out, I was surprised how many people were out, walking and talking or sitting on the benches scattered around the square between the buildings, reading or staring into space.

Charlie sat across from me, equally quiet and clearly comfortable waiting for me to reply. Probably in his late fifties, he was black with a shaved head, and a salt and pepper beard. He was dressed casually in khaki pants and a comfortable sweater, and sat with his legs crossed, hands in his lap.

The silence finally got to me, but I remembered the advice I'd gotten from my Lampedo legal services attorney.

"I saw on my intake forms that I have doctor-patient confidentiality with you."

"That's right."

"Anything I tell you, you can't tell anyone else."

"As long as you aren't actively planning to commit a crime or to self-harm."

"I won't be doing either of those things."

He smiled at me again. "That's good. Now that we have that out of the way, go ahead and tell me about keeping your job."

"I'm not an alcoholic," I said.

"Okay," he said, "You're not an alcoholic. Why are you here?"

"I drove my car-- sorry, my grandmother's car-- after I'd had a few drinks and got into a wreck. It was just a dumbass decision. The cops didn't charge me with anything, but one of them was pissed off he fucked up the investigation, so he called my supervisor. Told her I was DUI, but they couldn't charge me due to a technicality. But, gee, we thought WMATA would want to know that one of their train drivers drove drunk and flipped her car twice, so maybe they should look into it."

"I bet that pissed you off," he said.

I felt myself smile for the first time that day. I'd been

monumentally

pissed off. "You could say that."

"So how does that end with you sitting here with me?"

"WMATA opened a conduct investigation on me, during which I was administratively suspended. Took a drug test, passed it. Did an interview and tap-danced my way out of that. They wanted to fire me outright, but they couldn't without any evidence. My union rep negotiated a deal where my suspension would be stretched to sixty days, unpaid, but I got to keep my insurance going. Which is fine, I guess, because my arm is going to be in this thing for six more weeks and then I have physical therapy, so I can't drive a train for a while anyway. But one of the conditions was that I have to complete an alcohol treatment program. If I do, I get reinstated with no loss of seniority. If I don't, I'm out on my ass."

"I see."

I looked out the window at the fancy grounds again. "Fortunately for me, union insurance is pretty top notch and my rep found me an advocate who got me in here. I've heard some horror stories about places like this, but you guys seem okay so far."

He smiled again. Seemed to be his default response.

"But you're not an alcoholic," he said.

"I like to drink. I never drink on the job. I never drink and drive. Or, I hadn't until this time, but that was... a day."

"Oh? Tell me about that day."

"No thanks."

"We don't have to talk about it in our first session."

"I'd prefer not to talk about it at all."

"Then let's talk about how much and in what situations you do drink?"

"Shit, I don't know. Usually when I'm out dancing. Or on my bowling night. That's it."

"That's it?"

"More or less. Sometimes I'll have a few beers with my roommate when we're watching a game or when I'm at my..." I felt a stab in my gut. "When I was at my ex-girlfriend's house."

"Ever drink when you're stressed?"

"After a shitty day, I'll have a beer or two. Who doesn't do that?"

"Do you drink to help yourself fall asleep at night?"

"No."

The fuck? This guy some kind of mind reader?

"When did you break up with your girlfriend? Was that recently?"

I sighed.

This is going to be the longest twenty-eight days of my life.

"Isn't it irritating how friendly Charlie is in session?" said Rhonda, my roommate, echoing my thoughts an hour later. She was sitting on her bed, watching me unpack. She was a few years younger than me, and was the first person I'd ever met who the word "waifish" would accurately describe. Pale skin, red hair and way too thin to be healthy.

I gave a half smirk but didn't say anything as I continued to awkwardly put my clothes in my dresser one-handed. I could already tell she was going to be too much of a talker for my tastes.

"It gets more irritating, the more you talk to him. But I hear he's the best counselor, though. Some of the others are hard-asses, I hear." She paused, but after it was clear I had no comment, she continued. "So, what are you here for? Oxy? Heroin?"

"What? Shit no, I don't do that stuff."

"Cocaine?"

"No! Alcohol."

"Huh. I wouldn't have pegged you for an alkie."

"I'm not an alcoholic."

"Sure, you're not. That's why you're at a rehab that costs twenty-k a pop."

I turned to look at her, irritated. "Listen, whatever my fuckin' problems are, they're

my

problems. I'm not here to make friends, so don't go thinking I'm gonna share my life story with you."

She laughed. "Oh, are you in for a surprise! You have no idea how the program works, do you?"

"Not really," I said, turning back to pull a stack of t-shirts out of my suitcase. "You an expert or something?"

She deflated a little, shrinking back into the pillows. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. This is my third time in a place like this."

Smooth move, Esparza.

"Sorry, I didn't know."

"It's cool. I tore up my knee in college. I wasn't an athlete or anything, I was playing sand volleyball at a frat house. I had to have surgery, then they sent me home with a big bottle of OxyContin. Flash forward to my doctors deciding I'd been going through my pills too fast, so they cut me off. Did you know Oxy is like twenty-five bucks a pill on the street? Anyway, turns out heroin is cheaper and easier to get."

I stared at her, my mouth open.

She gave me a wan smile, rubbing her hand up and down the crook of her arm. "We don't all look like we live on the street. I'm lucky, I guess. My parents keep trying, keep sending me to these places." She looked out the window. "After my last rehab I made it almost six months before I started using again. Managed to hide it from my parents for another five months after that. Until they found me OD'ed in front of the TV in the basement."

"Shit, I'm really sorry I said anything."

She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile. "Like I said, it's cool. I've gotten pretty good at talking about it. You will too."

I snorted. "Not likely."

"If you want to graduate from the program you will. That's about half of what we do here. Talk. And listen to everyone else talk. But mainly talk."

Fuck, really?

"We'll see."

"I have group in thirty minutes. When's your session? Maybe you'll be in my group. Wanna go get some coffee from the cafeteria? We can get coffee and snacks any time we want, as long as we don't miss any appointments and it's not after curfew. The snacks are just fruit and granola bars and shit. Nothing to get excited about, but the coffee is pretty good."

"Uh..." I grabbed the sheet of paper the receptionist had printed for me with my schedule for the day. She told me I'd get one slid under my door by the patient assistants, or P.A.'s every evening with my schedule for the next day. "I have group at three."

"Oh, you're in the session right after mine then. You've got time for coffee. Wanna go with me?"

"Maybe later. I want to get unpacked. But thanks."

"See you going in when I'm coming out, I guess." She shrugged into a thick fleece hoodie, stomped into a pair of Ugg's and trudged out of our room, leaving the door open.

I went over and shut the door, finished unpacking, then sat on the bed with the package Diego had given me, fumbling it open with one hand. There was an iPod touch, a white case with Air Pods and a small wireless charging pad that, according to a note from Diego's I found in the box, would charge both the iPod and the Air Pod case at the same time. My eyes welled up with tears.

Diego had to have been so fucking pissed that I'd taken

Abuela's

car and totaled it. He and Virginia had taken what savings they had and put a down payment on a used car for her. He didn't get an employee discount on used cars at the dealership where he was a mechanic, only new ones. But he'd spent one of his days off combing the used car lot and found a Corolla with sixty thousand miles on it. He'd put it through the wringer, testing everything he could in the shop, making sure they weren't buying her a lemon. The lot manager had cut him a great deal, but they'd still had to borrow eight thousand dollars.

They should be saving for a house or to have kids. Not buying Abuela a car because of me.

And certainly not buying me a gift like this. And I couldn't help with the money at all, at least not until I got reinstated with WMATA.

But Diego had never shown me a hint of anger. Just concern and worry. He had talked to

Abuela

and knew how things had gone down between us. He said she'd been too busy with work to visit me in the hospital, which I knew meant he hadn't been able to talk her into coming to see her sinful granddaughter.

I looked around the room and spied a box of tissues on the tiny desk next to my bed and grabbed a handful. I was in the middle of blowing my nose when there was a knock on the door.

"Yeah?" I called out.

The door opened and a woman stuck her head in.

"Hey, Vivian, I'm Jeri. I'm the P.A. on your floor during the day shift."

"Nice to meet you."

"If they didn't tell you at orientation, it's my job to make sure you get where you need to go, make your appointments on time, that sorta things. You've got group in just over an hour, thought I'd give you a head's up."

"Y-e-e-a-h, I know," I drew out the word out in irritation. "I really need a babysitter to make sure I go to class?"

"Just doing my job. We get a lot of people who don't really want to be here."

I smiled, mirthlessly. "I can believe it."

"You know where you're going?"

"Yeah, Adams Hall. It's the big one across the square, right?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Think I can make it."

"Alright. We'll let you find your way today. If you're late or skip a meeting then I'll start escorting you. Just so you know."

"Fine."

"Also, you're not allowed to have the door to your room closed during the day, okay?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes ma'am. That's the rule."

This place is fucked up. "

Okay. Leave it open then. Thanks."

She left and I shrugged into my jacket, slipping my iPod into the pocket. They'd confiscated my wallet and phone at intake, but if I wasn't allowed to close the door I'd be damned if I'd leave my new iPod in an unlocked room with a bunch of junkies walking around. Then I noticed for the first time the door didn't even have a lock on it.

Rhonda had been unfortunately accurate. I'd found out that the reason I wasn't in her therapy group was that all the patients in mine had been admitted over the last week. Since we were all starting the program more or less together, we were in the same group therapy session.

There were six men and four women in my group. And

good God

, did some of them talk. The first hour, some dude named Jeff talked about himself for more than half of the session. The counselor kept trying to steer the conversation to other patients, even trying to get me to talk once. Fortunately for me, Jeff interrupted and I let him. By the time the hour was up, I made it out of there without having said more than my name.

Maybe this'll be easier than I thought.

Next was dinner. Rhonda saved me a seat at her table, introducing me to some of the other patients. The food wasn't bad, if a little on the bland side. I mentioned it and one of the other women said it was because people going through withdrawal could have trouble eating and keeping stuff down. I put a reminder in my iPod calendar to ask Diego to bring me a bottle of hot sauce. Although since he could only visit every Sunday and I wouldn't get to talk to him until he came next week, I'd be halfway through the program before I could get it.

After dinner, the entire patient population, about a hundred fifty people, gathered in the small auditorium for a ninety-minute talk from one of the counselors about being "in recovery" as they called it.

I took every ounce of willpower I had not to pull out my iPod and see if it had any games on it. Although he did get my attention when he started talking about his own recovery. I was surprised that a counselor was a former addict, but I learned later that almost all of them were.

That evening I'd stayed in the common area of my dorm, sitting in an overstuffed chair, staring into space and listening to one of the audiobooks Diego gave me until the P.A.'s came through and herded us into our rooms at eight-thirty.

"Can't believe lights-out is at freakin' nine o'clock," I grumbled as I came out of our tiny bathroom.

"Takes some getting used to," Rhonda agreed.

"Want to play cards or something?" I asked her, hoping she had a deck. I mentally added a deck of cards to my list of stuff to ask Diego to bring me.

"Can't. They turn the lights off right at nine."

"Wait,

they

control the lights?"

"Yeah."

"That's some

bullshit."

"You'll hate it even more in the morning," she said, "Everyone has to get up at seven for breakfast. If you don't get up and start getting ready before then, they turn all the lights on for us."