Al-Anon
"Who is it?"
"Logan. It's me. Open up."
Logan Chandler wondered who could possibly be banging on his door at 5:30 in the morning. He should have known it was his brother. Nathan Chandler was a 27-year old police officer with the Topeka sheriff's department. He was two years older than Logan and the two were inseparable best friends.
"I gave you a key, Nathan. What's with all the banging?"
"I don't carry with me when I'm on duty."
Nathan held up the huge ring of keys and Logan understood why adding another one was too much.
Logan yawned then said, "Oh, sure. Every key matters. So what's going on so damn early in the morning?"
"I'd have stopped by earlier, but I know you get up to do that Yoga crap before Emma wakes up."
"Right. So again, what's the deal?"
Nathan lowered his head before looking at his brother.
"Sorry, bro. It's Samatha."
"Yeah. What else could it be?" Logan said, feeling foolish for not knowing the most obvious reason his brother would show up that early. "What did she do this time?"
"Sit down, okay?"
"Why? What's wrong?"
Samantha Chandler left six months ago when Emma was only eight months old. Feeling severely depressed after the birth of their first child, Samantha let an old friend from high school convince her to try something that would 'make all of her cares go away'. She'd tried marijuana a couple of times before and hated the way it made her feel. But cocaine? 'Blow' really did make everything feel right.
She didn't tell her husband as she thought she could control her desires, but within a month she was taking cash out of Logan's wallet. Two weeks after that she started regularly taking money from ATMs. Then it was siphoning from their modest 401k. Since she did their finances, Logan had no idea. Until overdue notices started coming in.
Okay, he knew something was going on before that because Samatha's mood went from sullen to happy virtually overnight. Initially he bought into her claim that she'd talked to a friend that gave her some fantastic advice on how to deal with postpartum depression. Happy to have his wife back, Logan didn't give it too much thought.
When he confronted her about the late payments and the bills piling up, she exploded in rage. She shocked him when she not only admitted to using drugs but telling him they were the only thing in life she cared about, because, unlike him, coke made her feel good. He tried to reason with her. He used Emma to no avail. He even had Nathan talk to her about what it was like in prison.
His concern was met with Samantha leaving them. At first Logan was beside himself. He didn't care about the financial hole she'd put them in. He just wanted her to stop using and come home, but Samantha not only didn't stop, she moved from cocaine to meth. By comparison, her first use of cocaine which had seemed mind blowing, was tame when it came to methamphetamine.
Her brain exploded in a way she couldn't have imagined. From that moment on, it craved more and more of the magic crystals that made her feel invincible. But along with those incredible highs came the crashes, and when she didn't have money to buy another teenth or at least a taste, the lows were as unbearable as the highs were wonderful.
Being a very attractive, 25-year old woman, Samantha only knew of one way to make the kind of money she needed to support her habit. She began selling her body for either meth or money to buy meth. In just a few months she'd gone from a quiet, pleasant, suburban wife and mother to a hopelessly addicted meth addict and prostitute.
Logan gave up trying after two months when he realized she was too far gone. After four he stopped caring at all as it was obvious Samantha had chosen getting high over her family.
Nathan looked at his little brother and said, "She's dead. I'm sorry."
Logan couldn't help but believe this day would come. He just assumed it would be a couple of years or more down the road, but Samatha had some sort of genetic makeup that, when she experienced the powerful effects of cocaine and meth, the desire for more became insatiable.
"We're pretty sure it was Fentanyl."
"Jesus," Logan said as he thought back on the beautiful girl he'd married just two years ago. So full of life, and she brought so much joy to the world. To his world.
Nathan watched his brother carefully. He'd made these kinds of notifications many times since Fentanyl invaded the city. He saw Logan shake his head then lower it. He could tell his brother was crying without seeing his face and knelt down by him and hugged him.
"It's okay, man. This isn't your fault."
Logan cried briefly then got angry.
"I know it's not my fucking fault, okay?"
Tears fell as he struggled to speak.
"How the hell could she do this? To me! To Emma! What kind of person does that?"
Nathan knew his questions were rhetorical. He also knew there weren't any simple answers as to why someone--anyone--started using. It wasn't as common for people with stable families and home lives, but it still happened there just like it did in poorer areas where drugs were common and sold on every corner in certain parts of town. And Fentanyl proved itself over and over again to be an equal opportunity killer without regard to race or socio-economic status.
"Can I make a suggestion?" Nathan quietly asked.
"Yeah. Sure. Whatever," Logan said as he raised his head and stared out the window as the sun started coming up. "For all the good it'll do."
"Al-Anon. Give it a try, okay? You're not going through this alone. Trust me."
Logan again lowered his head and looked at the floor between his feet.
"I don't know. What good is sitting around in a circle sharing your misery? How does that solve anything?"
"I'm not saying it will. But it might help. And doing nothing but being angry sure as shit won't."
He put a hand on Logan's shoulder and said, "Come on. What have you got to lose?"
Logan looked at his brother, and the answer to the question hit him.
His countenance softened when he spoke.
"Emma. I have Emma to lose. I need to get some perspective on all of this so I can put it behind me."
"Exactly. Look. I've got some cards one of the people I know from a local group gave me. I'll go grab one and be right back."
Nathan had just gotten off shift, so he stayed and made breakfast for them, and he got to see the sweetest little girl on God's green earth when Emma woke up. She was already sleeping through the night and rarely ever cried. She was such a happy baby, and that was a huge blessing for Logan who didn't need to deal with something like colic or a crying baby on top of all the heartache and loneliness.
Nathan left around 8am so he could hit the gym and get some much-needed sleep before going back to work. Logan admired his brother and couldn't imagine putting up with the endless...shit...cops had to deal with every single day. Perhaps it was different in a small town with a few hundred people, but even here in Topeka, Kansas, with a population of 126,000, cops were often portrayed as the bad guy, and they had to take it. All of it. The cursing, the spitting, the names, the taunting, the threats of legal action. And don't say one word in reply out of anger or sarcasm lest you lose the privilege of being dumped on by people who hated you. Until they needed you.
Logan couldn't do that, but he supported those who did. With Natan gone and Emma jibber-jabbering happily beside him he looked at the card and shook his head.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he said as his eyes again became bleary. This time he fought it off and swore he'd never cry for his late wife--or himself--again.
There was a small memorial for Samantha after her body was cremated. Logan gave her ashes to Samantha's mother who was heartbroken not only for her dead daughter but for her son in law and granddaughter whom she so dearly loved. Logan assured her nothing would change and that she would always be welcome to see Emma anytime.
They hugged, and with that, a chapter of his life came to a close. A short chapter filled with love and hope followed by worry, despair, and death. He pushed Emma and her stroller out to the car then headed home to the quiet, empty house he'd so recently called a home.
It was a week later before Logan realized he couldn't shake the anger. He never cried again, but he hated himself for hating Samantha. He told himself several times he didn't hate her but rather what she'd done and become. Regardless, the anger and hatred were palpable, so he grabbed the card, looked at the address then called his mother in law to see if he could bring Emma by for a couple of hours. She was thrilled, so Logan got ready to attend his first-ever Al-Anon meeting not knowing what to expect but hoping against hope it might provide some small amount of relief.
"Amanda, you're a godsend. Thank you again," her sister told her.
"Come on. I get to hang with my favorite nephew, right big guy?"
Her nine-year old nephew, Jacob, smiled and told his Aunt Amanda, "Right!"
"I shouldn't be late. You know the drill."
"Monica? You've been going for a couple of years now. So, yes, I know the drill. Just...hang in there, okay?"
"Yeah. I'll uh, I'll definitely hang. In there."
"Not funny!" her sister said.
Monica Jordan was three months shy of turning 40. Her son was nine and her late husband had drank himself to death. She learned how awful and physically painful cirrhosis of the liver could be as the man she'd so dearly loved went from a few beers when grilling for friends or maybe during a Kansas City Chief's game to downing a quart of vodka or more a day every day for many years.
It started when their daughter was abducted and assaulted by a sick, perverted piece of shit 12 years ago, and it ended with her little body being left in a dumpster. Monica felt the same emptiness her husband did. Unlike him, however, she chose to fight back. She got healthy, she joined any group that helped children, and she refused to give in to the temptation to drown her sorrow with pills or booze. Her husband chose the opposite path.
He quit taking care of himself. Within months he lost his job. He was soon drinking a 12-pack every night. That turned into a case which became a case plus a few shots of liquor. To enable himself to drink more he gave up beer which was mostly water and turned to vodka, his drink of choice until he was so sick he could no longer drink without vomiting blood. But not drinking caused DTs.
Beside herself, Monica had him committed under the Baker Act with a legitimate fear he would kill himself. It took several days under a doctor's care to ween him off of alcohol, but an MRI showed that his liver was so far gone there was no chance of recovery.
Adding insult to injury, he left the hospital once he was no longer considered a threat to himself and stopped to buy vodka. He'd taken a saline bag and an IV line from the hospital and 'mainlined' the alcohol.
For better or for worse, he lived just nine days after coming home. He was in agony from the pain and sick from the booze, and the pain medication wouldn't stay down. Through it all, Monica could only watch and pray for relief in the form of death. When it came she never shed a tear. She buried her husband, held her young son, and bore her anger and sorrow in silence until she couldn't take it anymore.
A year later she joined Al-Anon. The first meeting gave her hope, but since then she wasn't sure how much good it could do. But she'd promised a facilitator she'd give it at least six months. If it didn't help, she'd make her own way. Six months became a year and then two, and she was still clinging to the hope that it might eventually help. Her next meeting was starting in 20 minutes.
"Do I look okay?" Monica asked, wondering why she cared.
"Mon? I'd give my right boob...arm...to look like you," her sister told her. Monica was three years older and looked five years younger. It was just flat out unfair, and Amanda never missed an opportunity to tell her sister how she felt.
"Okay. Well, I'll see you guys soon!"
"Bye, Mom!" her son said. "See you soon!"
"Bye, Jakey Jake! Thanks, Manda."
"Yeah, yeah. Go be beautiful," she mostly teased as she watched her sister leave in a pair of jeans she couldn't get into if she was 16 years old again.
"It's SO not fair," she said before asking her nephew what he wanted to do.
Monica was raised Catholic, but hadn't been to mass since she was 14. If God was real, she wondered how he'd feel about her going into a Methodist church all these years. She thought about genuflecting, just to be safe, and almost laughed. Almost.
