“Good morning.” Tracksuit trotted through the preamble, then said, “For those of you who wish, let’s start with the serenity prayer.”
Callie kept her body turned toward Tracksuit, but she watched Sidney getting settled. The young woman was clearly still flustered from the call. She checked her phone before shoving it into her purse. She crossed her legs. She pushed back her hair. She crossed her arms. She pushed back her hair again. Every quick movement said she was pissed off and would’ve loved nothing more than to run out into the hall and finish her conversation, but when a judge told you thirty meetings in thirty days, and the tracksuited fascist who signed off on your court-ordered log wasn’t prone to forgiveness, you stayed for the whole hour.
Tracksuit opened up the room to discussion. The men kicked it off, because men always assumed people were interested in what they had to say. Callie listened with half an ear to business dinners gone wrong, embarrassing DUIs, confrontations with angry bosses. The Westside AA meeting was a lot more fun. Bartenders and strippers were not worried about their bosses. Callie had never heard anyone top the story of a twink who’d woken up in his own vomit, then eaten it for the alcohol content.
She raised her hand during a lull. “I’m Maxine, and I’m an alcoholic.”
The group returned, “Hi, Maxine.”
She said, “Actually, I’m called Max.”
There were some chuckles, then, “Hi, Max.”
Callie took a breath before launching in. “I was sober for eleven years. And then I turned twelve.”
More chuckles, but the only one that counted was the husky, low laugh of Sidney Winslow.
“I was a professional dancer for eight years,” Callie began. She had spent hours prepping the story she would tell at the meeting. She hadn’t worried about leaving a digital trail. She had used her phone to dig deeper into Sidney’s social media so she would know which points to hit the hardest. Started taking ballet in middle school. Raised in a very religious family. Rebelled after high school. Estranged from her family. Lost all of her friends. Made new ones in college. Track team. Yoga. Pinkberry. Beyhive.
“There’s a clock on dancing professionally and, once my time ran out, I fell into despair. No one understood my loss. I stopped going to church. Lost touch with my friends and family. Found solace at the bottom of a bottle.” Callie shook her head at the tragedy. “And then I met Phillip. He was rich and handsome and he wanted to take care of me. And in all honesty, I was tired of being on my own. I needed someone else to be the strong one for a change.”
If Sidney had been a beagle, her floppy ears would’ve perked up as she wondered at the parallels between Max’s life and her own.
“We had three wonderful years together—traveling, seeing the world, going to great restaurants, talking about art and politics and the world.” Callie went in for the kill. “And then one day, I pulled into the garage and Phillip was lying face down on the floor.”
Sidney’s hand went to her heart.
“I rushed over to him, but his body was cold. He’d been dead for hours.”
Sidney’s head started to shake.
“The police said he’d overdosed. I knew he’d started taking muscle relaxers to help with his back, but I never …” Callie carefully looked around the room, ratcheting up the suspense. “Oxycontin.”
There were plenty of nods. Everyone knew the stories.
Sidney murmured, “Fucking Oxy.”
“The loss was a desecration to the love we had together.” Callie let her shoulders slump from the weight of her imaginary grief. “I remember sitting in the lawyer’s office, and he was telling me about all the money and properties, and it meant nothing. You know, I read a story last year about Purdue Pharmaceuticals coming up with a formula. They were going to pay out $14,810 for every overdose that was attributable to Oxycontin.”
She heard the expected quacks of outrage.
“That’s what Phillip’s life was worth.” Callie wiped away a tear. “$14,810.”
The room went silent, waiting for the rest. Callie was content to let them extrapolate. They were alcoholics. They knew how it ended.
Callie didn’t have to look at Sidney to know that the young woman had been sucked in. Sidney’s eyes had not left Callie the entire time. It wasn’t until Tracksuit led them in a keep coming back it works if you work it chant that Sidney managed to pull her attention away. She had her phone in her hand and a scowl on her face as she walked toward the door.