PART III Whatever You're safe, I remembered whispering to Quintana when I first saw her in the ICU at UCLA I'm here You're going to be all right Half of her skull had been shaved for surgery I could see the long cut and the metal staples that held it closed She was again breathing only through an endotracheal tube I'm here Everything's fine I would take care of her It would be all right It also occurred to me that this was a promise I could not keep I could not always take care of her I could not never leave her She was no longer a child She was an adult Things happened in life that mothers could not prevent or fix —JOAN DIDION, The Year of Magical Thinking 11 I drive the old Volvo, faded blue and rusty from the salt air of the coast and dented from Nic's misadventures It smells of his cigarettes It is the car he had taken Nic flops like a rag doll, pressed as close to his door, as far away from me, as possible Neither of us speaks Nic's electric guitar, buttercup yellow with a black pick guard, is in the backseat Another leftover from his escapades lies beside it: an intricately carved bong made of a glass beaker and meerschaum stem More: a flashlight, a copy of Rimbaud with a ripped cover, dirty jeans, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, the Bay Guardian, his leather bomber jacket, empty beer bottles, cassettes, a stale sandwich He tries a few times to talk me out of it "This is stupid," he weakly beseeches "I know I fucked up I learned my lesson." I don't answer "I can't do this," he says "I won't." He turns livid Glaring at me, he says, "I'll just run away." He is supercilious and condescending—almost savage "You fucking think you know me? You don't know anything about me You have always tried to control me." He screams until he is hoarse In the middle of his ranting, when I notice his slurring, I realize that he is high Again Still "What are you on today, Nic?" There's incomprehension in my tone An angry whisper comes from him "Fuck you." I look over at him, look deeply into his impassive face Nic has many of his mother's handsome features Like her, he is tall and thin and has her fine nose and lips He had her fair hair before it darkened as he grew up Even so, sometimes I have looked at his face and it was as if I were peering in a mirror It was not only the physical similarities that I would see I saw myself hidden in his eyes, in his expressions It would startle me Maybe all children as they grow up take on their parents' traits and mannerisms and become more like them I see my father in me now in ways that I never did when I was young In the car, however, I see a stranger And yet he is a stranger whose every part I know intimately I recall his soft eyes when they were elated and when they were disappointed, his face when he was pallid from illness and when he was burned red by the sun, his mouth and even each tooth from visits to dentists and the orthodontist, his knees from when he skinned them and I put on Band-Aids, his shoulders from putting on sun block, his feet from taking out splinters —every part of him I know every part from watching him and living with him and being close to him, and yet driving to Oakland I look at his sullenness and anger and vacancy, his retreat and his turmoil, and I think, Who are you? I pull up in front of the Oakland rehab and we walk through glass doors into an austere waiting room As I inform the receptionist that we have an appointment, Nic stands behind me, belligerent on his heels with his arms folded across his chest She instructs us to wait A counselor, with black eyes and hair tied back in a long pony-tail, comes out and introduces herself, first to Nic and then to me He acknowledges her with a grunt As instructed, Nic follows her into another room He hunches His feet barely move him forward I flip through an old copy of People, and then, after nearly an hour, the counselor emerges and says that she wants to speak to me alone Nic, palpably seething, takes my spot in the waiting room I follow the woman into a small office with a metal desk and two chairs and a murky fish tank "Your son is in serious trouble," she says "He needs treatment He easily could die from all the drugs he's using." "What can " "At eighteen, he is using and mixing more drugs than many people who are much older He has a dangerous attitude—he doesn't understand that he's in trouble He's proud to be so hardcore, wears it like a badge This program isn't right for him He is bordering on being too old and is at this point resistant to treatment We see it all the time He's in denial It's typical of addicts, who maintain and believe that everything is all right, they can stop when they want, everyone else has a problem but not them, they are fine, even if they wind up losing everything, even if they are on the streets, even if they wind up in jail or in the hospital." "Then what—?" "He has to get into treatment now, whatever it takes Not here, but somewhere." She recommends other programs In her somber tone and expression, I can tell that she holds out no great hope Driving home, the tension in the car builds and then explodes Nic finally yells, "This is bullshit." I think he might leap out of the car as I speed along the freeway "It is bullshit," I spit back "If you want to kill yourself, I should just let you do it." "It's my life," he hoarsely screams He cries uncontrollably, hysterically He hits the dashboard with his fists and kicks it with his boots We pull up in front of the house, but with Daisy and Jasper home now, I don't bring Nic in I sit with him in the car for another halfhour until he has exhausted himself He is remote—somnolent from drugs and spent anger, his breathing slowed, and then, finally, he falls into a deep sleep I leave him in the car, checking on him frequently Will you check on me every fifteen minutes? In a while he trudges inside and heads directly for his bedroom Jasper and Daisy silently watch as their brother's listless body drifts through the living room I have to find a program that will take him immediately Before I lose him *** With Nic asleep in his room, I sit down with the kids I explain as well as I can that Nic is once again on drugs and ill I say that I am ... intricately carved bong made of a glass beaker and meerschaum stem More: a flashlight, a copy of Rimbaud with a ripped cover, dirty jeans, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, the Bay Guardian, his leather... hour, the counselor emerges and says that she wants to speak to me alone Nic, palpably seething, takes my spot in the waiting room I follow the woman into a small office with a metal desk and two chairs and a murky fish tank... I know every part from watching him and living with him and being close to him, and yet driving to Oakland I look at his sullenness and anger and vacancy, his retreat and his turmoil, and I think, Who are you?