Chapter Nineteen
Wendy's was perfect, just as I thought it would be. I felt absolutely fine as we pulled out of the parking lot. Lucy had filled me in on the night before, and as she'd said, the entire night was drama free. This surprised me for several reasons. First, it was a frat party, which meant there were lots of sorority girls running around. Now, I was friends with a lot of sorority girls and I had nothing against sororities in general, but it seemed to be a rule that drama just followed these girls around.
Second, Lucy and I, and Isaac and I, had had fights earlier that day. It was amazing to me that nothing that brought on the fights had come up during the party. Maybe it was because the music was so loud. In any case, I was happy that the night had gone smoothly. I was actually feeling much better about everything.
I thought it was really funny that Lucy brushed off the fact that I didn't remember the majority of the night. She never really cared when I did that and it had happened quite a bit in the past. I wondered why she didn't make a big deal about my blackouts but she was so worried when she thought I wasn't sleeping or going to class.
I wouldn't say I had a problem with alcohol, but that's probably only because I was in college. Hangovers and blackouts just go with the territory. Had I been 50 years old and a successful corporate lawyer and I still drank like I did on the weekend, I would be worried. I would also be my father.
I was thirteen when I had alcohol for the first time. And I don't mean a sip of my dad's beer at a company picnic. I mean my friend Dana and I got puking, blinding drunk. My parents were at some benefit or another and wouldn't be home until very late. We snuck into my dad's liquor cabinet, stole his most expensive vodka, poured it into some Tropicana and chugged. Dana ended up puking all over the new carpet in the hall and when my parents came home, they found us both passed out on the bathroom floor. I think my father was more upset that we drank his vodka than that we were only thirteen and drunk. It was not a pretty sight. My father, who was almost as drunk as we were, dragged us out of the bathroom and made us clean up the puke in the hallway. My mother simply turned up her nose and walked into their bedroom. Dana and I scrubbed the carpet, taking breaks to run back to the bathroom, while my father stood over us. Eventually he got bored or tired or started to lose his buzz and he walked into his study and slammed the door.
Dana tried to make a joke, but I was too busy trying not to cry that I didn't notice. We went to bed and the next morning, all was back to normal, except for Lupe, the maid, scrubbing up the vomit Dana and I had missed on the hall carpet.
My parents never talked to me about it. When Dana and I went down to breakfast, my father was drinking coffee and reading his paper and my mother was on the phone. My father folded down his newspaper and looked at us for a moment. His eyes felt like they were burning into my forehead. Then he went back to reading his paper as if nothing had happened the night before. I thought now that maybe he didn't remember. Maybe he thought he was the one who got sick in the hallway, and that was why Lupe was cleaning it up. Not that I could ask him.
The next time Dana was over we again went in search of alcohol, not having learned our lesson the last time. This time, however, we found that my father had locked his liquor cabinet. Apparently he had remembered and that was his way of telling me "hands off." Dana and I had to settle for some sherry we found in the kitchen.
Of course I had a warped view of alcohol. How could I not? I'd been drinking since I was thirteen and my father had been drinking ever since I could remember, and quite probably before that. His drinking got worse, lots worse, after PJ died, but my mother never said anything to him about it. That's when she turned off and stopped caring. My parents had mustered the energy to send me to therapy, but it was only as an afterthought. I didn't think they really cared that I thought I was seeing and talking to PJ, I think they were just worried that I'd tell someone else that and they'd think I was crazy.
No one ever told me drinking as often as I did could be a problem. All of my friends in high school did it, so I didn't worry. I thought it was a normal part of growing up.
Besides, everyone in college drank like I did. In some cases, more. I was fine.
Second, Lucy and I, and Isaac and I, had had fights earlier that day. It was amazing to me that nothing that brought on the fights had come up during the party. Maybe it was because the music was so loud. In any case, I was happy that the night had gone smoothly. I was actually feeling much better about everything.
I thought it was really funny that Lucy brushed off the fact that I didn't remember the majority of the night. She never really cared when I did that and it had happened quite a bit in the past. I wondered why she didn't make a big deal about my blackouts but she was so worried when she thought I wasn't sleeping or going to class.
I wouldn't say I had a problem with alcohol, but that's probably only because I was in college. Hangovers and blackouts just go with the territory. Had I been 50 years old and a successful corporate lawyer and I still drank like I did on the weekend, I would be worried. I would also be my father.
I was thirteen when I had alcohol for the first time. And I don't mean a sip of my dad's beer at a company picnic. I mean my friend Dana and I got puking, blinding drunk. My parents were at some benefit or another and wouldn't be home until very late. We snuck into my dad's liquor cabinet, stole his most expensive vodka, poured it into some Tropicana and chugged. Dana ended up puking all over the new carpet in the hall and when my parents came home, they found us both passed out on the bathroom floor. I think my father was more upset that we drank his vodka than that we were only thirteen and drunk. It was not a pretty sight. My father, who was almost as drunk as we were, dragged us out of the bathroom and made us clean up the puke in the hallway. My mother simply turned up her nose and walked into their bedroom. Dana and I scrubbed the carpet, taking breaks to run back to the bathroom, while my father stood over us. Eventually he got bored or tired or started to lose his buzz and he walked into his study and slammed the door.
Dana tried to make a joke, but I was too busy trying not to cry that I didn't notice. We went to bed and the next morning, all was back to normal, except for Lupe, the maid, scrubbing up the vomit Dana and I had missed on the hall carpet.
My parents never talked to me about it. When Dana and I went down to breakfast, my father was drinking coffee and reading his paper and my mother was on the phone. My father folded down his newspaper and looked at us for a moment. His eyes felt like they were burning into my forehead. Then he went back to reading his paper as if nothing had happened the night before. I thought now that maybe he didn't remember. Maybe he thought he was the one who got sick in the hallway, and that was why Lupe was cleaning it up. Not that I could ask him.
The next time Dana was over we again went in search of alcohol, not having learned our lesson the last time. This time, however, we found that my father had locked his liquor cabinet. Apparently he had remembered and that was his way of telling me "hands off." Dana and I had to settle for some sherry we found in the kitchen.
Of course I had a warped view of alcohol. How could I not? I'd been drinking since I was thirteen and my father had been drinking ever since I could remember, and quite probably before that. His drinking got worse, lots worse, after PJ died, but my mother never said anything to him about it. That's when she turned off and stopped caring. My parents had mustered the energy to send me to therapy, but it was only as an afterthought. I didn't think they really cared that I thought I was seeing and talking to PJ, I think they were just worried that I'd tell someone else that and they'd think I was crazy.
No one ever told me drinking as often as I did could be a problem. All of my friends in high school did it, so I didn't worry. I thought it was a normal part of growing up.
Besides, everyone in college drank like I did. In some cases, more. I was fine.
posted by Jennie at 12:43 AM
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