"Your mom told me about Nancie," My Uncle Ernie said as we walked out the front door. It had just stopped raining and thick clouds of steam floated up from the pavement in the orange glow from the street light across the street. The evening air was humid and warm. Drops fell from the awning above our heads.
"And about all the money she left to Ken's name?" I began. "It's ridiculous. Especially because Grandma and Steffie don't see it."
He shook his head in agreement. "How's your mom doing?" he asked. The wind blew and shook the thick oak boughs to life, sending giant drops of moisture showering into the lawn below.
I told him she was doing okay, and it occurred to me then why he would ask that question. "Aunt Steffie's been talking your ear off I guess," I asked with a smile.
"Yeah," he answered. "I'm not sure they're in tune with what's going on."
Knowing my Aunt Steffie, it wasn't surprising to find out she had been talking about Nancie, relaying all Nancie's lies that she believed: That Ken was beating her, that her friends forced her to do drugs, that she was trying to get clean--and stay clean this time. No really, this time for sure.
Norcie and Ernie--fresh pairs of ears--were doomed to hear the stories like a dry sponge sucking up water. When Aunt Steffie had something on her mind, she was sure to let people know. And when something bothered her, watch out. That, along with her forgetfulness, made hearing the same things over and over again (and in every possible way) somewhat mind numbing. I felt bad for my Aunt Norcie, who, caught in the crossfire of Grandma's and Aunt Steffie's conversations, would hear the stories more than anyone in the next week.
"Drive safe," my Uncle Ernie said with his hand on my shoulder. As I left, he shook my hand firmly with a five dollar bill in his palm. I thanked him. It was refreshing to see someone not buying into Nancies lies or Steffie's ideas. He asked how my mom was, not because he was a part of the drama, but because he wasn't. He had integrity, was down to earth, and always polite. I had always loved that about him. He gave a wave from the front steps as I backed out. It was a sad day for the air force the day he retired, I thought to myself as I drove away.
The next day Nancie got out. Again, when my mom tried to question the situation, she got nothing out of Grandma or Steffie. Not what happened to the fifteen day plan, who her contact person was, or how she got picked up. The only thing Grandma said was that Nancie was ready to come home, and ready to live a clean life.
"Yeah right," my mom said when she found out. "This was her chance to get clean. She probably manipulated everyone to get out of there as fast as she could." I believed it.
I could picture the way she manipulated the doctors: carefree, head back laughing, done with the enthusiasm of an actor discovering a new role."Oh sometimes I just let myself go, take that one step too far and then regret it the next day. I say all these silly suicide things for attention and it's fun while it lasts, you know, like any privileged housewife does after too long couped up inside."
She'd laugh arrogantly with the doctors, as if they knew too, that she doesn't need to be there. Not her. The whole thing is just a misunderstanding! What happened is fair--she gets that, it's all part of the civilized society in which she is aptly accustomed to, but now it's time to go--someone else needs to take her spot, someone that needs it more she does.
The truth of it was, Nancie had a burning passion to leave that place and was desperately trying to get out, probably from the very moment she was sober enough to remember who she was and coherent enough to plan her next move. She needed to get out to get her next fix, forge her next prescriptions, or pop the rest of the pills she already had.
She DID need to be there, more so than the other addicts in the rooms beside her. They couldn't control their emotions, if they needed their drugs, it was as simple as that--either they got them or there was a meltdown. Nancie, though, was better than that, smarter and more manipulative. If she just toughed out three days, proved to everyone that she was okay and ready to leave, she would get her fix faster than the other idiot patients that couldn't control themselves. She put up a shining facade of success and optimism, the perfect success story for any psychiatric/ alcohol abuse unit. But in actuality, she was rotting on the inside with adrenaline filled fires fueled by heavy pangs of addiction and the claustrophobic nervousness of withdrawal.
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