Lisa Gardner - Before She Disappeared

There’s power in humility. It’s one of the toughest lessons I’ve had to learn. Like the other souls in this room, I live on unsteady ground. Each moment is a choice and for all my good choices, I’m a single mistake away from having to start my journey all over again. As someone who’s relapsed twice, I know better than anyone I can’t afford to be cocky or negligent. No matter where I go, these meetings, this group, these strangers-who-aren’t-really-strangers, are my key to survival.

Meetings have different focuses. This meeting was listed in the pamphlet as Big Book, meaning we’ll take turns reading out loud, followed by discussion. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve gone through the giant tome at this point, but this format is still one of my favorites. There’s something soothing in revisiting words written eighty years ago that still resonate today. I can already feel my shoulders coming down, the pressure in my chest easing. I’m finally with my own people, all dozen of us young-old-Black-white-rich-poor-devout-atheist drunks.

An older gentleman sits at the head table. He has the look of a long-timer. He starts us off with the Serenity Prayer, which sounds even more beautiful in French-accented English, then we shift into meeting mode. I take my turn reading out loud, though my voice is slightly shaky. We are at the beginning of the Big Book, the chapter introducing the true nature of the disease and the terrible treachery that lies in the alcoholic mind.

I agree wholeheartedly. My mind is a traitorous beast I must monitor at all times. All those thinking games I used to play: I need a drink, I deserve a drink, I swear I’ll stop at just one.

Mad, sad, or glad, as the saying goes. We drink because we’re lonely, we drink because we fell in love. We drink to help ourselves go to sleep, we drink to wake ourselves up.

I drank because it made me feel alive. Then I drank because I didn’t want to live anymore.

Now, I sit here. One day at a time.

It feels to me that meeting-goers fall into two camps—those who find comfort in sharing their stories, and those who find comfort in listening to others share stories that could be their own. I’m in the second camp. I rarely talk during the discussion time or volunteer my journey. I genuinely appreciate hearing about others, though. The ways we are all different and yet alike.

Tonight, talking about the nature of the disease, allergy, whatever you want to call it, I recognize the classic story elements from my own life. A family legacy of alcoholism. A parent who was a chronic drunk, another parent who was a chronic enabler. Hitting that awkward, anxious phase of high school, not knowing who I was or where I belonged—and consequently tossing back a beer at that party, or stealing a shot of my parents’ liquor before boarding the school bus. That magical melting feeling that immediately followed. That sense of almost primal recognition. I like this. I want this. I need this.

Even now, I remember those first few drinks with longing. Those blissful early days of love, before I realized just how toxic and abusive the relationship was about to become.

The army guy shares his story of bottoming out. His wife kicking him to the curb, his kids refusing his calls. Spending months sleeping on the streets till another vet found him and dragged him to the hospital to begin detox. More nods around the room.

I didn’t bottom out, as much as I crashed in a series of waves—low, lower, lowest. By my twenties, my entire lifestyle revolved around booze. I existed to drink and drank to exist. Mostly I have dark, spiraling memories of neon lights and a strange, hideous laughter ringing in my ears. When I sobered up, it was only to realize that laughter was my own, so of course I drank again.

Then there was Paul. Holding out his hand. Offering to save me.

In the beginning it was enough.

Later came the hard knowledge that no one can save you from yourself.

The meeting reaches the hour mark. We each produce a dollar, toss it in the basket, then rise to standing. I’m curious if this is a Lord’s Prayer group or not. The traditional meetings end with it, but more and more groups have drifted away. This is a traditional group. I take the hand of an older Black woman to my right, and a cabdriver with an accent I still don’t recognize on my left. We recite the words together and I use the moment to focus on the feel of a neighbor’s hand gripping mine, to remind myself that this hour counts, that my sobriety is worth it. That we are all worth it.

The meeting breaks up. We help pile up books, pick up coffee cups. The army vet had coffee-prep duty. I move to his side to rinse out the coffeepot while he puts away creamer and sugar. His name is Charlie. I introduce myself again while we clean up together, explaining I’ve just moved into the area.

The meeting leader comes over. He has two pamphlets in his hand plus a torn piece of notebook paper.

“A list of daily meetings,” he informs me, handing over the green pamphlet. “More information on upcoming AA events.” The blue pamphlet.

I wipe my hands with a paper towel and peruse both brochures. The nice thing about major cities—they have robust AA populations. I didn’t have nearly this many choices at my former location. Especially these middle-of-the-night meetings, targeting those of us in the restaurant industry who get off after midnight and need support before heading home.

“Arnold,” the man says, sticking out his hand again. Copious introductions is an AA way of life. We all know what it’s like to feel lost in a crowd.

“Frankie. And thank you also for the phone list.” I hold up the notebook sheet.

“Top one’s mine. Third is Charlie’s.” The vet nods at me. “Second here, that’s Ariel.” He points to the woman who’d been wearing a chef’s apron. She crosses over to shake my hand.

“You need anything . . .” Arnold gestures to the phone list, indicating I should feel free to use it.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Ten days, ten months, ten years, you never know when the next craving is going to hit, and in those moments, a single connection can make all the difference.

Even after our relationship ended, I’d often call Paul. One a.m., two a.m., three a.m. It hardly mattered.

I’d dial his number. Hold the phone next to my ear. Listen to the sound of ringing, followed by the click of someone picking up on the other end.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He knew it was me just as I knew it was him.

We’d lie in silence together. I’d focus on the sound of his breathing, feel it like his heartbeat against the palm of my hand back in the days when we were still together, and I pressed myself against him in the middle of the night to keep my body, my thoughts, my very sanity from spinning apart.

Minute into minute. Until it was enough.

Then I’d hang up the phone and be separate once more.

Two weeks ago, after Lani Whitehorse’s funeral, when the work was done and my goal accomplished and I lay in bed in my cheap motel room, feeling all the emptiness and sadness crash down upon me, I called his number again.

Except this time there wasn’t silence on the other end.

This time, a woman picked up. She said, “You need to stop this.” Then, not unkindly, “You need help.”

I hung up the phone, my heart racing wildly in my chest. Then I curled up in the fetal position and burst into tears.

The truth can be like that.

“Hey,” I say now, addressing the three people before me. “I need to buy a new phone. Something simple and cheap, like a burner. Do you know where I can go?”

“There’s a T-Mobile around the corner,” Ariel mentions. She’s buttoning up a light jacket.