they be his? I call him The newspapers are his We are paranoid and crazy It's not only the addict who becomes paranoid and crazy I haven't returned Nic's calls because I just can't face talking to him now, not until he is sober Off every drug Not "I'm just using Klonopin to get off the meth," or "just a Valium to help me come down." I love him and always will But I cannot deal with someone who lies to me I know that sober and clear-headed and in his right mind and in recovery Nic would not lie to me In a way, I am grateful for the blatancy It has taken away one thin layer of my uncertainty Normally I am in some hellish purgatory, not knowing what is true and what isn't, whether he is using or not, but now I know I have, above my desk, photographs leaning against books on a shelf There's a recent picture of Karen and another of her when she was a child, a ruminative, dark-complexioned girl with short hair and a striped sailor shirt on a beach somewhere She looks like Daisy, or, rather, Daisy, with her sparkling gaze and dark eyes and hair, looks like her There are also pictures of Daisy In one she wears moccasins and blue underwear and is closely inspecting Moondog's tolerant face There's a picture of Jasper when he was an infant in Karen's arms and Jasper dressed up in a red flannel loden coat, silk purple raja pants, a knitted green flannel hat with gold tassels and fluffy pompoms, and, on his feet, genie shoes embroidered with gold thread with curled-up, pointy tips There are team pictures of Daisy and Jasper posed in their swim goggles There are pictures of Nic In one he is about ten, wearing jeans, a blue zippered sweatshirt and blue sneakers His hands are in his pockets and he looks at the camera with a gentle smile There is a more recent picture of Nic, too A broad smile, in baggy trunks and bare-chested, from when he met us in Hawaii It's my son and my friend Nic in recovery, and he is all right I cannot bear to have it stare down at me I put it in a desk drawer Jasper has become adept with Garage Band, a music recording and mixing computer program He has constructed a haunting and beautiful song "It's a sad song," I say as I enter the room where it's playing "Yes," he replies quietly "Are you sad?" "Yes." "About?" "We ran the mile at school today I couldn't think about anything but Nic." I tell Jasper that there are places we can go where other kids with brothers or sisters or parents with alcohol or drug problems go "What do you do there?" "You don't have to do anything You can just listen to what other kids say It can help If you want, you can say something." "Oh." "Do you want to try it?" "I think so." He hugs me tighter and longer than he ever has before In the morning, the sun shines through a hole in the gray-black sky It's like a klieg light is shining on the garden There is a yellow circle surrounded everywhere by a diffused patchwork of gold, rust, and dying white hydrangea—the dying colors of autumn The poplar trees are nearly bare; all but a few leaves are gone, and the trees' naked white branches reach skyward into the gray shimmering light Only the magnolia has blooms—three white flames A load of firewood was delivered for the winter season This morning my goal is to stack it with the kids As we work, I am thinking about, what else, Nic I am neither optimistic nor pessimistic I don't know what will happen I believe deeply in his good soul and brain and at the same time I have no illusions about the severity of this illness No, to be honest, right now I do not feel optimistic at all It comes down to where Nic is I'm optimistic—not overly optimistic but optimistic—when he's in recovery, disconsolate and pessimistic when he isn't Strangely, the thought of being cut off from Nic used to send me into a panic, but now—today, at least, today at this moment, at least —I am all right with the concept But then I think, Nic could die Stacking wood, I think, Nic could die I stop for a moment I would miss having Nic in my life I would miss his funny phone messages and his humor, the stories, our talks, our walks, watching movies with him, dinners together, and the transcendent feeling between us that is love I would miss all of it I miss it now And here it sinks in: I don't have it now I have not had it whenever Nic has been on drugs Nic is absent, only his shell remains I have been afraid—terrified —to lose Nic, but I have lost him In the past, I tried to imagine the unimaginable and I tried to imagine bearing the unbearable I imagined losing Nic by overdose or accident, but now I comprehend that I have already lost him Today, at least, he is lost I have been terrorized by the fear that he would die If he did, it would leave a permanent crack in my soul I would never fully recover But I also know that if he were to die, or for that matter, if he stays high, I would live on—with that crack I would grieve I would grieve forever But I have been grieving for him since the drugs took over—grieving for the part of him that is missing It must be grief At least it feels exactly like Joan Didion describes it in The Year of Magical Thinking: "Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life." (Ah, so that is what they are It's a relief to know.) I grieve, but I also continue to celebrate the part of him that is untouchable by meth or any other drug I will never let a drug take that from me "Insanity is the insistence on meaning," wrote Frank Bidart in a poem Yes, but this human brain of mine requires meaning—at least an approximation of meaning The meaning I have come to is that Nic on drugs is not Nic but an apparition Nic high is a ghost, a specter, and when he is high my lovely son is dormant, pushed aside, hidden away and buried in some inaccessible corner of his consciousness My faith, such as it is, comes with a belief that Nic is in there and he— Nic, his essence, his self—is whole, safe, and protected Nic strong and clear and filled with love—Nic may never again emerge The drug may win the battle for his body But I can live knowing that Nic is in there somewhere and that the drug cannot touch him where he is in there somewhere he is there Whatever happens, I will love Nic Somewhere in that place he knows this And I know I look over at the pile of unstacked wood We have barely made a dent in it The kids are whining and don't want to work They look dejected and sullen Jasper's head falls back, his eyes are closed, and he exhales loudly He grumpily tosses a log onto the sagging pile My head rings I hear a truck grinding up the hill There is currently no ongoing Al-Anon group for kids as young as Jasper and Daisy (Alateen is for older children.) So I call around for recommendations of other places to go for help I want them to know that they aren't alone, it's not their fault, and that though the drugs ... baggy trunks and bare-chested, from when he met us in Hawaii It's my son and my friend Nic in recovery, and he is all right I cannot bear to have it stare down at me I put it in a desk drawer Jasper has become adept with Garage Band, a music recording and... circle surrounded everywhere by a diffused patchwork of gold, rust, and dying white hydrangea—the dying colors of autumn The poplar trees are nearly bare; all but a few leaves are gone, and the trees' naked white branches reach skyward into the gray shimmering light... Jasper has become adept with Garage Band, a music recording and mixing computer program He has constructed a haunting and beautiful song "It's a sad song," I say as I enter the room where it's playing "Yes," he replies quietly "Are you sad?" "Yes." "About?"