Idiot - Laura Clery Page 0,48

We grew up next to each other. We probably passed each other at Target, picking up bath towels with our moms. I found out that she had moved home, too, after hitting rock bottom. She committed suicide in the house she grew up in. She was trying to escape, just like me.

Everything felt precarious.

* * *

I got lunch with my aunt Sheila: my aunt, my godmother, my biggest ally growing up. We went to our favorite Mexican restaurant. When I was little, we’d talk there for hours. She would show up with a cigarette and too much Botox. I would try to swing my backpack onto the back of the chair like she swung down her fur coat. She would tell me that “you’re too young for sex, but when you have it, make sure that you achieve equality,” as I nodded eagerly.

This time, she sat down across from me, lifted her sunglasses above her expressionless eyebrows, and surveyed me.

“You look like shit. Your hair is a rat’s nest.”

She gave me a skeptical look and lit a cigarette. The waiter looked at us with disdain.

“Um, Miss—”

“We’re on the fucking patio, give it a rest, Charlie,” Aunt Sheila snapped, blowing smoke.

The waiter backed away. Aunt Sheila had a real fierceness about her. And honestly, she’s been smoking at lunch here for like twenty years. Charlie should know by now to back off.

The best thing about her was that I didn’t have to say anything for her to know. I didn’t have to tell her about my trip, my fucked up choices, and the way it felt like I wasn’t choosing them; how it felt like I couldn’t think, how it felt like my body was moving forward without my mind—

“You need help.”

She broke my endless chain of thoughts. Damn it, I was just getting to the good part where I contemplate the best way to kill myself. I tried to brush it off.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m gonna go to the salon later. Maybe get some highlights—”

“Laura.”

Damn it, I could avoid everything in my life except her piercing look.

“I know,” I said.

It was the first time I’d ever admitted it. My aunt Sheila is the only person in my family to have become sober. She told me what it’s like, what AA meetings look like, that it’s fucking hard, but if I didn’t try I could die. She recounted the stories of when she almost did die.

I promised I would try.

I remember that night, sleeping in my childhood bedroom. My pink flowery wallpaper was peeling off and my mom had moved this infomercial stair climber next to my bed.

But there was one thing that stayed the same: this photo of me, when I was about twelve, swimming underwater. I had it blown up really big because underwater cameras were a big deal at the time.

I was smiling so big, trying to keep my eyes wide open even though chlorine was stinging them like crazy. My arms were above my head, trying to keep me underwater as my body naturally tried to float.

I looked so fucking happy.

I flew back to LA and stayed on my sister’s couch. I found an AA meeting to check out at a place called the Log Cabin Community Center.

When I walked in, I saw people laughing. They were happy. What the fuck? I was expecting some depressing-ass dark room like I saw on TV, but this was light. Maybe everyone was high. I sat down with the group in one of their dinky chairs, wishing I was high, too.

My first meeting couldn’t go by fast enough. I listened to other people’s stories and prayed that I wouldn’t have to talk. I wasn’t ready. At the end of the meeting we all took one another’s hands and did something called the Serenity Prayer. We thanked God. What the fuck? I didn’t sign up for church; I just wanted to get sober. I was freaked out.

When the meeting ended, I tried to rush out. But someone walked next to me. A kind-looking woman. She asked me if it was my first time here.

“Yeah. It is.”

She stared at me, waiting for me to talk more about myself. What was I supposed to say? That I was a fucking failure? That I was a horrible person that hurts the people around me? That I got high because I couldn’t deal with real life? That I was a fucking idiot?

“My name’s Laura.”

She smiled. “My name’s Tricia. What do you do?”

“Um. I’m an