Girl Walks Out of a Bar Read online

  Suddenly I remembered all of us on Fire Island when we rented the beach house for the summer of 1992. The weekends when we could all leave the city for the beach were precious, and this had been a particularly good one, a perfect, clear bluesky Fourth of July.

  We had all congregated on the wooden deck in the back, sitting in a circle of beach chairs around the grill. It was a Saturday, and we had invited some other friends to join us. The sun was setting and the air had that magic twilight quality that emerges right at the beginning edge of a summer night. Most of us had just showered after a long day of laughing and sleeping on the beach. We walked around barefoot, letting our just-cleaned hair dry however the ocean air willed.

  Jerry was hovering over the grill watching fresh clams open one by one and bopping along to the Grateful Dead’s “Bertha,” that played out of the house speakers. As the clams opened, he plucked them off the grill with oversized tongs and dropped them into a large bowl. “Dude. These are amazing!” he kept saying, to no one in particular.

  The salty sea air mixed with the smell of garlic powder melting into drawn butter. I could hear the whir of the blender inside as Russell yelled, “Frozen margaritas—two minutes!” Jessica, Devon, and I giggled and cackled as we remembered listening to a bunch of day-tripping teenagers on the beach talking about their evening plans. “We’re totally getting into the Albatross tonight. It’s gonna be awesome,” we heard one of them say. Our cigarette smoke trails crossed and we shook with laughter as we joked about a bunch of seventeen-year-olds with fake IDs trying to use pouty lips and cleavage to get past Bobby, the bar’s grumpy, gay bouncer.

  That’s how it always was when we got together—it was comfortable. It was funny. It was easy. We were happy. And we were usually smoking and drinking. Now I was afraid I’d never fit in with my friends again. I was going off the rails and ruining everything. Another reason to hate myself.

  Snapping back, I realized it was close to lunchtime. “Hey, you guys hungry? Should we order Chinese?” I asked. “Maybe we should eat and I’ll take a nap before we go.” I was trying to slow the clock.

  “Yeah, get a bunch of food.” Jerry said. “Don’t know when you’re going to get a decent meal again!”

  After a full plate of spring rolls, sweet and sour shrimp, and broccoli with garlic sauce, I needed sleep. “You guys, I’m going down for a nap,” I said, staggering into the bedroom.

  When I awoke several hours later, it was dark outside. For a moment I forgot the gravity of my situation, but as my eyes began to adjust to the light of my bedside lamp, my mind caught up on current events. I was about to slide back under the covers when Devon padded into the room, having long ago kicked off her Gucci shoes.

  “I packed your bag,” she said. “You never know who’s going to be in rehab, so I put some nice stuff in, too: good bras, a couple of short skirts, high heels… There could be rock stars there.”

  “I doubt it’s that kind of place,” I said.

  Devon shook her head and rolled her eyes. “It’s entirely possible, so you and your nice panties will be ready.”

  I washed my face, brushed my teeth and walked back out into the living room where my support team remained gathered, still sipping red wine from large glasses. It was time to leave. All I had to say was “Let’s go,” but instead, I flopped my still exhausted body down onto one of the club chairs. My friends stood up and began to put their coats on. They talked about who should share a cab, and I panicked.

  “You know what, you guys? I’m feeling way better. Maybe I should just get more sleep and go tomorrow instead.” My leg was draped over the oversized arm of the chair, and I avoided eye contact with everyone.

  Devon whipped around toward me. She was holding a little bag with my toiletries and pointed a tube of toothpaste at me. “Oh, no, you don’t!” she said. “After what we went through today? And what you told us you’ve been doing? You’re going to detox, and you’re going right now.” I looked to the guys for help, but all three of them were nodding in agreement.

  Russell turned to me as we were walking out. “Why don’t you give me a set of keys? I’ll come back here with Devon and we’ll make sure there’s nothing lying around when you get back.” Russell was always two steps ahead of a situation. It was part of what made him so successful in law and in banking.

  “OK, yeah, good idea,” I said, watching him drop my spare set of keys into his jacket pocket. Then I said, “Oh wait, you know what else? Take down all the sweaters on the shelves in the walk-in closet. Shake them to see if any stray bags of coke fall out,” I paused, thinking through my other stashes. “Oh yeah, and the boxes in the linen closet? You know, like where I keep Band-Aids and hotel shampoos? Better check those, too.” His expression didn’t change as he nodded slowly, but I swore I could see him start to process the fact that I hid bags of coke between my sweaters and in Band-Aid boxes. “Oh yeah, and there’s some really good pot in the box with the votive candles on my bookshelf,” I said, as if I had left something off a shopping list. “Give it to Jerry.”

  There was nothing but support in my friends’ eyes, but I felt as if I’d just told them I’d been selling crack to sixth graders.

  We took two taxis to Gracie Square. I sat between Russell and Devon, my head resting on Russell’s shoulder. I felt so tired and sick that there was no room left for fear or dread.

  The front of the hospital was like none I’d ever seen. No bright lighting, no circular driveway for drop-offs and pick-ups, no fleet of idling ambulances waiting for their next 911 call. In fact, the building looked like the dreary corporate offices of a company that time had forgotten. Russell, Devon, and I exchanged curious looks but no one spoke.

  Jerry and Mark arrived in their own cab. “Yo, smoke ’em while you got ’em,” Jerry said, handing me a cigarette. “What the fuck is this place? Doesn’t look like a hospital.”

  “No idea. Give me your lighter,” I said, grabbing it with a shaking hand.

  After stomping out my cigarette, I swung open one of the big glass doors and headed toward the receptionist who sat in a booth behind a panel of protective glass. A young, tired-looking security guard in a blue uniform sat at a wooden desk a little farther back in the lobby. Was he armed? We all looked at each other as if to acknowledge that whatever this place was, it was no New York-Presbyterian.

  Devon raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “I don’t like this place,” she said. I shrugged back at her, and she offered, “Why don’t you let me call Silver Hill? It’s a place up in Connecticut and is supposed to be nice. I think Billy Joel went there.”

  Starting over didn’t sound like a good idea at that point. I shut my eyes and said, “Let me just try it here. If it’s terrible, I’ll leave.”

  The receptionist directed us to a large waiting area with hard plastic, burgundy chairs that were linked up in sets. After a few minutes, a tall, middle-aged man in khakis and a faded blue button-down shirt walked into the reception area, looked around, and approached our group. He had thinning brown hair, and he walked with the casual lope of someone unlikely to be surprised by whatever happened next.

  “Hi. I’m Brad,” he said, clasping his hands together, perhaps an attempt at enthusiasm. “I’m here for Lisa.” I gave him a half wave from where I was slouched in a chair and leaning on Russell.

  “Hi Lisa. I’m going to get you admitted and up to the detox floor. We need to go to the intake area. Are you folks Lisa’s friends or family?” he asked the group.

  “We’re her friends,” Russell said before anyone else could speak. “We’d like to hear what’s going to happen.” He was using the voice he probably adopted when closing corporate mergers. I nodded at Brad, and he pulled up a chair so that everyone could hear.

  “OK, I’m going to explain a few things,” Brad said. “Lisa, I understand that you’re here because you have an alcohol problem and are seeking a medicated detoxification. If you choose to do that here, you need to understand that this is a locked-down p
sychiatric facility, not a hospital where you can come and go.” I kept my eyes on Brad, afraid to look at anyone else. “If you agree to be treated, you must sign a consent that requires us to keep you here for at least 72 hours. You cannot leave before that, unless a written request is granted.”

  He seemed like a kind man, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in his tone. “From here, I’ll take you to the detox unit where you will be treated with the rest of the detox patients. Now I want you to be prepared: you might see and hear some things you’re not used to, but the patients there are all dealing with the same thing you are. They’re just getting help, like you. The floor is coed and you’ll share a room with another female patient. You will share a bathroom with the patients in the next room. Also, you should know that there are no locks on any of the doors because the staff needs unrestricted access to patients at all times. Do you understand all of this?”

  I nodded and tried to keep a calm face but my insides were shouting at me, Why didn’t you research this more thoroughly? Why did you just pick this place? Christ, you give more thought to changing your lip color. Devon seemed to share my thoughts. Her expression seemed to say, “I’m not leaving you here with Jack Nicholson in his creepy ass hotel!” But I was so tired, and it had taken so much to come this far—I just wanted to give whatever signatures would let me fall into a bed, any bed. Brad held out a clipboard with a stack of papers, and I started signing with my right hand while Russell held my left hand. Then it was done. I was officially a mental patient.

  “OK, Lisa, you won’t meet the staff psychiatrist until tomorrow morning. I’m taking you to the night physician now. He’ll take some blood so he can run the necessary tests and get you started on Librium.”

  Hot tears built up in my eyes and I struggled to hold them back as I hugged my friends goodbye. They looked more frightened than I was, but then again, they hadn’t made a practice of snorting coke for breakfast followed by vomiting blood. They called out, “We’ll visit” and “You’ll be OK” as they walked out into the world I couldn’t rejoin for 72 hours. I wondered if they were comforting themselves or me.

  Then it occurred to me that they were probably going for a drink. My mouth watered at the idea. They’d certainly earned a drink, and surely there would be a download discussion. A big part of me wanted to run after them, but a bigger part was grateful that I’d signed away the option.

  2

  Brad and I rode the ancient elevator up to the third floor in silence. He clasped his hands behind his back as we both looked up, watching the floor numbers tick higher.

  “This is it,” he said and pulled open the final door to the detox unit. The door slammed shut behind us. Shit, I thought. I’m really on a locked-down floor of a mental hospital. What just happened? I’m a nice Jewish girl from New Jersey who belongs to MoMA and reads The Economist.

  The unit looked like a typical hospital floor lined with patient rooms, but it smelled like a combination of antiseptic, piss, and vomit. I became dizzy as we started down the hall and my stomach scrambled as if I might barf.

  There was a loud commotion directly in front of us. Two haggard-looking women were screaming at each other. “Fucking cunt! I’ll kill you!” It was impossible to tell what they were fighting about because their exchange was nothing but screamed threats and name-calling. They looked middle-aged with their pasty white skin and long, frizzy hair, but something told me that they may very well have been in their twenties. They wore grubby sweatpants and tshirts, both of which hung off their bodies the way clothes seem to want to escape long-term heroin users and war-weary refugees.

  “Keep moving,” Brad said as he veered me away from the chaos. Raw fear jolted through my fingers and toes. There would be no need for the lingerie Devon packed.

  Seconds later, a tall, angry man stormed toward us. He had what looked like several days of stubble on his face and tattoos on every bit of exposed skin. He looked strong enough and pissed off enough to take down the two battling women with a single swing. But he was staring at me.

  I fell behind Brad and looked at the floor, but it didn’t help. As soon as we were within twenty feet, the man bellowed, “HEY!” I pretended not to notice.

  When I didn’t respond, he repeated himself. “HEY!” I couldn’t help looking up. He came closer pointed his finger at me, and scowled, “YOU, GIRL. I’M GONNA FUCK YOU UP!”

  I looked around, hoping that he’d mistaken me for someone else he intended to fuck up. And that scary freak must have read my mind because as he passed us, he turned back and shouted, “YEAH, YOU.”

  I looked at Brad in a panic. “That’s it,” I said. “No fucking way. I’m out of—”

  “No, no, no, no,” Brad interrupted. “It’s going to be fine. I know it looks scary, but really, it’s going to be fine.” He had his arm around my shoulder and was guiding me forward quickly.

  “Did you hear that? That guy said he’s going to fuck me up. You have to let me go.” I stopped walking and stomped my foot.

  “Lisa, take it easy. No one is going to hurt you. You signed yourself in. You’re here for 72 hours, and we’re legally required to keep you here. It’s OK; he’s just talking. He’s here for the same reason as you, just here to get help.” Did Brad believe what he was saying? I didn’t trust him. I felt like I had to run away, fast. Was this what they meant by “fight or flight” on those animal shows I watched on the National Geographic Channel at 3:00 a.m., coked out of my head? Was this what a gazelle felt right before a lion’s teeth sank into her hindquarters?

  “No,” I said to Brad. He continued walking, so I had to follow. “No way I’m sleeping here with no locks on the doors and these lunatics running around. No fucking way.” The words didn’t seem to be coming out fast enough. Brad just kept walking.

  We arrived at the examination room where the night physician was waiting to complete my intake process. By now I was near hyperventilating. “Lisa, this is Dr. Maxwell,” Brad said.

  With his slick black hair, Dr. Maxwell looked a little like my former pediatrician and seemed to have the same cold manner. No one introduced the nurse next to him. Brad turned to the doctor and said, “She’s scared. A few people acting up out there.” Acting up? I thought. Acting up is a baby tossing Cheerios off his high chair. This was a credible, physical threat and they needed to do something about it.

  I fell into the first chair I saw and started bawling. “I want to leave!” I screamed. My fists were clenched into balls.

  Dr. Maxwell looked unfazed. “Lisa, calm down,” he said. “We’re just going to take some blood and then we can give you some Librium. It will help you relax and you’ll feel much better. It’s okay.” I saw him arranging his bloodletting instruments, no longer looking at me.

  “NO!” I shrieked, as if they were threatening to pull out a fingernail with a pair of pliers. “I am not letting anyone stick any needles into my arm. I am not taking any Librium or any drug in this place. And I am not staying.”

  Another argument occurred to me and I tried to sound calm and reasonable. “The conditions here are unacceptable. I am a lawyer. I know my rights.” This was a lie. I had no idea what my rights were in this situation. “You cannot keep me here against my will. I do not feel safe.” I had heard somewhere that “I do not feel safe,” was an effective buzz phrase for when you needed help, but that might have been in a Vanity Fair article I read about a dominatrix. “If you don’t let me leave, I’m going to call the police!”

  As I rocked back and forth sobbing, Brad and Dr. Maxwell stepped out of the examination room.

  They returned a few minutes later. “OK, Lisa,” said Brad. “We’re going to work with you here, but you’re going to have to work with us. We understand that you feel uncomfortable, but we cannot let you go tonight. You can write a request to be released, but it can’t be reviewed until the psychiatrist arrives in the morning. And then it will be up to him. You’re going to have to spend the night here, but we think we can make it a li
ttle easier on you. We can put you on the Asian floor.”

  “The Asian floor?” I asked, still choking back tears. “What do you mean the Asian floor?”

  “We have a floor upstairs that’s all Asian,” Brad said. “Patients, doctors, and nurses. These aren’t detox patients. They’re patients with other mental illnesses, such as dementia, paranoia, and schizophrenia. They come here because their families want a more comfortable, familiar atmosphere for them. You’re still going to see lots of people roaming the halls, talking to themselves, acting in ways you’re not used to seeing. But it can be quieter up there.” This couldn’t be happening. Was I really locked in a mental institution and negotiating which was the most desirable floor? I wanted a drink.

  “What do you say?” Brad continued. “You would be right outside the nurses’ station. Just give it a try for tonight and we’ll get your request for discharge evaluated in the morning.”

  There was clearly no going home that night. If I got out of reach of the dangerous lunatics on the detox floor and was outside a nurses’ station, I thought, I could probably make it until morning. To survive the night, I could sit in a ball on the floor next to the doorway of my room so that if anyone came by to attack me they would see an empty bed and move on to another victim. “All right,” I said. “I’ll go up there tonight, but just for tonight. Then I’m out.”

  “Great,” Dr. Maxwell said. “Now if you’ll just roll your sleeve up, we’ll draw that blood and get you started on the Librium.”

  “No fucking way,” I said. “No blood. No drugs. Please give me a piece of paper to write out my request to leave.” Brad handed me a pad and pen. I scribbled a short note requesting my immediate discharge and handed it to Brad. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said.

  Just two floors above the detox, looking the same but smelling better, the Asian floor felt like another world. In some ways it was. As described, everyone on the floor was Asian, with the exception of Brad and me. He walked me to the nurses’ station. “This is Vivian,” he said, as a short, plump Asian woman with a sympathetic smile shook my hand. “She’ll help you get settled for the night.” I nodded at him and shook the nurse’s hand. Then she took my bag from Brad.