I put the earbuds in. Close my eyes.
Soft electric guitar. Then, Janis’s whiskey-smoke voice, singing to a sad girl she calls Blue who’s at the end of her rope.
Sit there, count your fingers. What else, what else is there to do?
The words, the song, it’s a lullaby. Like Mom came from wherever she is and somehow she’s sitting in this booth in Zaftigs and she’s holding me in her arms and she’s saying: I see you.
When the song ends, I open my eyes. Jo is a blur, a teary mess of wavy auburn hair and leather jacket and thick eyeliner. She reaches across the table and takes out the earbuds. Hands me a napkin.
“Every time you want to use, Hannah, you count your fingers—give thanks for every single day you’ve stayed clean. All right?”
I nod. It means: Do anything but use. Literally count my fingers if I have to.
“Day ten. You’re a fucking badass.”
I smile. “I don’t feel like such a badass.”
Jo slathers a bagel chip in cream cheese. “Remember: It’s progress, not perfection. You fuck up, you try better next time. Like you are now. On my last day ten—girl, I had a lot of day tens—but my last one was six years ago. I’m twenty-five now. Ancient, right? So I was nineteen on that day. And my sponsor was this old lady named Lulu and she smoked like a chimney and she was a heroin addict from the East Village. She died last year. Sober, just old. Anyway, she gave me this song. And now I give it to you.”
“Do you still need it?”
She wipes bagel chip off her jacket. “Not like I used to. That’s why I’m your sponsor. But I’ll always be in recovery. So will you—even if you’re sober for the rest of your life. And I hope you will be. But being ‘in’ recovery never goes away. It’s not a label, being an addict: It’s just reality. You’ve got an incurable disease that’s in remission. Understand?”
I nod slowly. “I think so.”
“You will always have to stay on your ass,” she says. “People talk about mindfulness. Shit, you don’t need to talk to monks about that—talk to addicts. We are experts on mindfulness.” She takes a swig of coffee. “We work the Steps. Every day. We count our fingers. If we don’t, we’re making snow angels in the Boston Public Garden.”
In other words: Staying clean means we do right by the miracle.
“Someone in rehab said there’s new studies being done—that you don’t have to be stone-cold sober to keep from going overboard,” I say. “There’s, like, medicine that makes you not want to drink, so you can drink, you just don’t want to. Stuff like that. It’s, like, European or something.”
Jo nods. “It’s true that there’s actually not a lot of great data for the Steps—kind of a problem when everyone’s anonymous, right? And I won’t deny there could be all kinds of ways to stay clean that aren’t being explored. But the Steps worked for me. I’ve seen people do stuff like drink because pills are their problem. But the drinking usually leads back to the pills. We have this saying—fuck, we have a lot of sayings: One is too many and a thousand is never enough. That was true for me.” She sighs. “We’re all on our own journey, but my recommendation is to start with the Steps. Get clean. Get right with yourself and the people you love. Be okay being you without additives, know what I’m saying? Organic, free-range Hannah Winters.”
I smile. “Sounds delicious.”
“It is, man. Tastes better than the inside of a coffin, anyway.”
I stir my soup. “So anything I say to you is … confidential?”
Jo nods. “But I’ll keep it real with you: If you tell me you’re going to try to off yourself again, I’m gonna bring in whoever I need to, to keep you breathing.” She leans her arms on the table. “Your file said someone told your sister where to find you—I’m guessing she and I aren’t the only ones who want to keep you alive.”
“My…” I can’t stop seeing the look on his face when I said that whatever we had, it was done now. “Drew.”
“Your Drew?”
“He was kind of my boyfriend.”
“Was? Ah. The person you think you really love. But broke up with.”
I shrug.
“Does he use?” She must see my hesitation, because she twirls her finger around our booth. “Cone of silence, okay? I’m just trying to get the lay of the land here. I’m not a narc.”
I take a sip of coffee. “He sold to me. At first. But then he was the one who … He tried to get me to quit. He doesn’t deal anymore. He doesn’t use. We only took pills together once, and I’ve never seen him high outside of that one time.”
She blows out a long breath. “I think you know what I’m going to say.”
“You don’t know him. He’s … doing right by the miracle.”
I tell her everything. The whole story. Of me. Starting with Just Hannah. Ending with Mae spending two nights in the hospital before they transferred me to McLean. I tell her about Micah and Drew and the clinic. All of it.
“So you didn’t break up with him because you don’t want to be with him, or because he was part of your drug life,” Jo says. “You broke up with him because you feel like you’re not good enough for him.”
“I think I’m holding him back from getting on with his life after dealing. You know? Drew’s kind of weirdly straight-edge when it comes to pills and stuff, but I think … he’s addicted to me. A little. He wants to save me.”
Jo crosses her arms. “I think he wants to save himself.”
“Maybe.” I push the bowl of soup away. “Honestly, I mostly broke up with him for selfish reasons. I just can’t … I can’t disappoint one more person. And I think if he—when he realizes that I’m not going to suddenly be not fucked-up, then he’ll stop seeing me. Like I’d be invisible to him. That would—that would be so … It would shatter me, I think. And I’m scared of what I would do if I felt that way again.”
The waitress comes by to refill our coffee, and Jo’s quiet until we’re alone again.
“Codependence is a bitch,” she finally says. “I agree, he’s got shit to work on. And I think you two need to work on your shit separately. And maybe someday the stars will align. But your problem right now, Blue, isn’t whether or not to be with him. It’s that the only time you seem to feel okay with yourself is when you talk about how he sees you and how good it feels to have someone see who you are and still want you. That’s addiction talking. It’s the same as the pills. Get your hit of Drew, feel okay. No Drew? Not okay.” She leans forward. “You know you’re really working the Steps when you understand that no one can be your inner lighthouse. No person can get you safely to shore.” She points to her chest. “What you need—that light—it’s in here. It always has been.”
I can’t help it: I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, laughing softly. “Self-love shit. I know. But it’s true. Other people, they come, they go. But watch me blow your mind right now: The only person you can guarantee will be there with you every step of the way until you die … is you.” She rests her hand on mine. “So doesn’t it make sense to be good to yourself?”