The Dog Year Read online

  “I’m only here to pick up some, um, literature. You know, for a friend.” Lucy kept her head down and tried not to make eye contact.

  With a conspiratorial duck of her head the woman said, “Oh, sweetie, I know an escape when I see one. I can just step right out of your way and you can run like hell.” She had a hint of a southern accent. “Or”—and she winked at Lucy—“you can bring your pretty self inside, have a shitty cup of coffee, and spend an hour with a bunch of drunks.”

  “I don’t drink, really. That’s not my problem.”

  “No, of course it’s not, hon. It’s just like a prison here. Everybody’s innocent.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  The woman smiled, pure kindness, and said, “Come on in and tell us about it. The people in that room are your biggest fans. You just haven’t met them yet.” She linked arms with Lucy and gently tugged her toward the meeting room. “You will never feel more welcome as when you’re at an AA meeting. We love you already. My name’s Claire Weezner, and I’m a ton more fun than my name. I’m thinking of changing it to Claire-all-the-rivers-of-Guadeloupe-Saint Barts. I like the implications. It has sort of an all-inclusive beach front with a we are the world kind of feel. Don’t you think?”

  Lucy resisted but not enough to slow Claire’s progress. The tired yellow conference room had long since given up being cheery. Grime darkened all the corners, reminiscent of a time when smoking was still allowed on the premises. Mismatched aluminum folding chairs surrounded three gray aluminum tables in a U formation. If not for the large windows that streamed sunlight into the room, it would have resembled a Gitmo interrogation facility. The four people already seated there obviously knew one another and chatted away, ignoring Claire and Lucy’s entrance until Claire said, “Hi, everyone! Let’s get cracking, I’ve got a Botox appointment at noon.”

  A lanky woman with striations in her jaw and neck that looked like they’d been many years and many drinks in the making continued knitting. “Age is coming, love, and no amount of denial, chemical or otherwise, is going to hold it off.”

  “If I want to smooth out my worry on the surface to better reflect my inner peace, I don’t need your craggy-ass wisdom to get in the way.” Claire’s smile was radiant.

  With a frown, the youngest, toughest-looking person in the room gave Lucy a once-over. Blackened nails, eyes, and clothes shadowed her slight frame. She looked, in a word, used. An inked web of ivy covered her neck, roping around to the front of her throat and into her ear. She snapped her gum.

  “Now, ladies, remember your manners,” said Ron, a man in a motorized wheelchair, with nicotine-stained nails and dreadlocks. A POW sticker occupied the entire side of his chair and he wore a crucifix so large and so naked that Lucy could count Jesus’s ribs. “You’re late; we started. But you already know that, Claire, because you always miss the readings.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? Better late than drinking.”

  As she took a seat, Lucy eyed the only person who hadn’t spoken. She was engrossed in reading from one of the several books at the table. Pretty in a soft, dated way, the woman appeared to have chosen her look in high school and stuck with it. She sat, steadfast in her flowery skirt and lacy collar, following the text with her fingers and ignoring the conversation around her.

  Lucy felt the floodwaters of panic rising in her chest. She was not a joiner, and if she were one of those people who could happily enter a group and vent, she certainly wouldn’t have picked this immoderate group of movie extras. Alcoholics. These people couldn’t hold their liquor. Didn’t know when to say when. Had trouble living in a world where a drink meant more to them than family. And they must have thought that Lucy was one of them. That she stumbled through her day intoxicated. Drank a bottle for breakfast. Shook her way through the lunch hour, hoping for a cocktail. Lucy pushed back in her chair, thinking her hypocritical, unimaginative thoughts, and considered how she might escape.

  Claire said, “What’s our topic today?”

  Ron tilted his head with disapproval. “We’re not giving you a summary, St. Bart’s. Get here on time for a change. Participate.”

  Claire stage-whispered to Lucy, “Ron’s my sponsor and can’t help himself. He wants me to conform.” She turned back to Ron. “I ain’t workin’ for da Man, my brother.” She pronounced it “brutha.” Ron rolled his eyes.

  The frowsy woman still had her nose in her book. “Tru dat,” she said without looking up, and everyone laughed. Ron pointed to the woman and said, “Kimmy knows. Right, Kimmy?” The prim woman lifted her eyes from her book long enough to give Ron a black-power fist.

  Lucy reached for her purse as she looked at the exit, and at just that moment, Tig, like a life preserver on the Titanic, strolled into the room. “Hi, everyone. Sorry I’m late.”

  Ron clearly was happy to hand over the reins of what would soon be an unruly meeting. He nodded to Tig and said, “We’re talking about gratitude.”

  “Thanks for getting everything going, Ron,” Tig said, putting an oversized briefcase on the floor and pulling out a chair. “Who wants to start?”

  “Right on! Okay, I’ll go. I’m grateful for my new friend here,” Claire said, indicating Lucy with her thumb. “She’s definitely what our group needs. We’re a bunch of stereotypes and we need some redefinition.” Tig smiled at Lucy as Claire went on. “I’m grateful for having my colors done and finding that this fire-engine red is the cornerstone of my palette. My consultant is single, beautiful, and might be interested in more than just my cornerstone.” Claire winked at the group, adding a lascivious element to her candy-store look.

  “No relationship for a year, Claire. You know the rules.”

  “Oh shut up, Ron, I just need a Park n’ Ride. I’m not interested in anything but getting my colors done, if y’all know what I’m gettin’ at.”

  “Unfortunately, we do.” The dark girl pulled a strand of hair under her nose, pursed her lips, and held it there, looking dastardly and silly at the same time.

  “No interrupting people, Sara. Keep your black lips zipped,” Claire said in mock irritation. “All-the-rivers has the floor! I’m grateful for Starbucks and for the fact that I am thirty days sober as an infant. Over and out.”

  There were positive affirmations all around. Even Sara gave a grimace of a smile.

  Tig said to Lucy, “If there’s anything you would like to share, please feel free to speak up.”

  Kimmy said, “We’re very rude and don’t follow all of the rules entirely but you will find us very empathetic.”

  “I don’t have an alcohol problem.”

  Sara rolled her eyes.

  “Sara, please,” Tig said gently.

  Lucy said, “I’m not saying I don’t have problems. I’m addicted to my own loneliness, for one thing.” Lucy straightened her shoulders and glanced around as if it were someone else who had confessed to having no friends; someone who, in a moment of introspection, had shared that fact with these strangers. She itched to leave before more incriminating information sprang from her lips.

  Then, as if reading her mind, Sara said, “This isn’t a friendship club.”

  “Sara Lynn, you will hold your tongue and let our guest speak,” said Ron.

  “She’s not one of us. She said so herself.” Sara slammed her chair against the wall and swooped toward the exit. “I don’t need this. I’m out of here.”

  Before the door slammed, Tig was able to say, “Come back tomorrow, Sara Lynn, but with a better attitude.” To Lucy, she added, “She is working on her anger, and it gets the best of her at times, but that shouldn’t stop you. Go on.”

  Lucy slid her chair from the table and stood. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “As you wish.” Ron nodded. “But remember: Sometimes lonely is as lonely does.”

  Claire touched Lucy’s arm. “Stay. This is partly why our grou
p is so small. We’re fringy with manners and protocol, but we’re sincere.”

  “I rarely drink,” Lucy said, shouldering her purse. “It’s not like I’m above it, believe me.” Surprising herself again she said, “I probably don’t have the guts for it. Tig knows.”

  Kimmy looked at her with a peaceful expression. “We all have something a little different to deal with. Maybe we have what you need. Maybe not. But you won’t know unless you sit it out.”

  “Not today. I just can’t.” Lucy shoved out of the room in the same way that the tortured Sara had done, filled with stubborn resolve. Unlocking her car door, she sat down heavily in the driver’s seat. “So that sucked,” she said, and Little Dog snorted.

  * * *

  Later that night, Charles spooned white rice onto his plate and said, “You have to go back.” Ever since he’d found Lucy sleeping on the floor in a flutter of chocolate wrappers, he had made it his habit either to bring or make dinner for Lucy.

  “Nope. I’m going back to my therapist and coming up with a different plan. She’ll help. She saw how bad it was.”

  “What were the people like? I always imagine an AA meeting populated by greasy-haired, shaky people with diet Cokes and cigarettes.”

  “No, it was nothing like that. It wasn’t very big. But the group was pretty eclectic. No different from the mix you see in the grocery store or when getting your oil changed.”

  “What’d they talk about?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell you. It’s Alcoholics Anonymous. What goes on in the Maplewood Serenity Center stays at the Maplewood Serenity Center.”

  “C’mon, Luce. You can tell me. Did you forget you were the first person I told when I came out?”

  “You used that last month when I wouldn’t give you my recipe for chili. Besides, I didn’t stay very long.” Lucy pulled a folded paper out of the pocket of her jeans and handed it to her brother. “The twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Look at number three. We’re supposed to turn our will and lives over to God. Apparently if we do that, he’ll fix things.” Lucy stood quickly, and her fork flipped like a catapult, sending a piece of white rice flying onto Charles’s hand. “I’m not interested in letting anyone else drive in my life. What if everybody crashes and dies again? I’m already pissed at God for that.”

  Charles stood and hugged his sister. “I guess I can’t argue with that. But can’t you kind of modulate the message for your purposes? Maybe it’s not about God per se. Can you engage with a higher power that isn’t quite so parental and bossy?”

  “God is bossy! It’s always push, push, push with him.”

  “Right; so pick an entity that feels more supportive. Remember ‘Come as Your Favorite Saint Day’ at school?”

  “That was so weird, wasn’t it? Who has a favorite saint in third grade? Everyone wore their bath robe as a costume.”

  “Lyra Giese wore her mother’s pink shorty robe and high-heeled slippers. Maybe God isn’t your go-to guy in this situation. Maybe you should pick a saint. Ask for help.”

  “So when they’re praying in the AA meetings I should envision Sister Hilaria?”

  “Maybe Joan of Arc. She’s feisty.” Charles tilted his head and examined his sister. “Should I come to a meeting with you? Grease the wheels?”

  Lucy looked at her brother and touched his prominent chin, remembering how often he had stuck it out for her. “I love you, Charles. But this is just another time where you can’t do anything to help.”

  * * *

  The worst thing for Lucy about her counseling appointments with Tig Monohan was getting into the building. Even after passing through the gauntlet of Reception, successfully dodging volunteers, nurses, and lab assistants, Lucy kept her coat buttoned and her keys in hand, in case fleeing might become suddenly necessary. Choosing a seat by the door, she idly flipped through a National Geographic magazine with its smorgasbord of rainforest extinction, general atmospheric warming, and reports of worm shortages in Maine. Once again her anxiety took the stairs two at a time as she waited to be called so she could talk about her shortcomings. She’d spent her whole careful life watching where she stepped, staying out of the fray, and now, this one time, she allowed her impulses free reign, and everywhere she looked, the cosmos seemed to be shouting, Explain yourself.

  When her name was called she carried the magazine with her into Tig’s office.

  “Did you leave this particular issue in the waiting room for me?”

  “Nice to see you, Lucy,” Tig said with a warm smile.

  “Seriously, are you trying to teach me some kind of lesson?”

  Tig tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “I’m not following.”

  Lucy dropped the magazine on Tig’s desk and pointed to the photo essay of an African tribe. “This picture here. The little boy with the shoe.”

  Clad only in a pair of faded shorts held onto his slender hips with a piece of twine, the boy wore one slip-on tennis shoe, the kind surfer dudes wear after a day of catching waves. “Cause I get it. I steal unnecessary stuff while this little guy doesn’t even have a shoe for his right foot.”

  Tig raised an eyebrow. “You think I planted that particular photo essay for you?”

  “What am I supposed to do with that image? It’s not like I can erase it later with the Uninstall button, the way I do when I’m cleaning up my hard drive. From now on, I have to live with that image, and the possibility of it popping up while brushing my teeth or having a conversation with the guy at the Jiffy Lube.”

  Tig said, “It sounds like your anxiety is particularly high today. Talk to me about this, Lucy.”

  Lucy flipped the magazine to a full-page color photo of a grouping of women. “Here’s another,” she said, as if the lesson-to-learn was inscribed on the page.

  The women were all topless, and all standing together, like deer, seemingly unaware of their feral exquisiteness. Their luminescent skin shone without benefit of Clinique’s new line of moisturizers or the latest in skin toners. Calm and collected, they gazed serenely at the camera, their quiet attitude made more impressive by their uncovered breasts.

  “What are you showing me here, Lucy?”

  “Look how beautiful. The only time in my life when I could be that composed, nude, and in front of a camera would be in a dream.”

  Tig gazed at the picture.

  “Yeah, and even then my body anxiety would win out and I’d grab a dream bush.”

  Lucy wasn’t finished. “Check out those breasts. In plastics, we say that the perfect breast measurement is twenty-two centimeters from sternal notch to nipple. This woman’s breasts are easily a glorious forty centimeters from origin to destination with not a trace of anxiety in her eyes, not a date circled in her appointment book for a surgical consultation. No dreams for a perkier twin set. Her culture loves her long, beagle-eared breasts. She’s probably the pin-up girl of the tribe. If, say, she had small Hershey’s Kisses for breasts, she would cover them in shame and pray at night for breasts that droop toward her middle, hoping against hope that one day she would be able to tuck them into her waistband for the harvest and feed the tribe during breaks.”

  “What are we talking about, Lucy?”

  Lucy dumped herself into a chair. “Maybe my shopping/stealing thing is just my biological drive to hunt and gather, but made crazy by a culture that forces a narrow range for beauty. If loveliness in our society was a saggy ass and shitty hair, I could stay home with my gold medal and stay away from the temptation of free shopping.”

  “So you’re thinking IV bags are the key to beauty?”

  “Look, I’m just offering some kind of insight. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do here?”

  “Maybe we should talk about why you left the AA meeting.”

  “You saw me there. I don’t fit. And, besides, I don’t get alcoholism. First it’s a disease, and then it�
��s something we give to our higher power.” Lucy emphasized higher power like it was a ridiculous notion, made up by children wielding crayons, or well-meaning hippies. “If you have diabetes, you take your insulin, not pray for Jesus. If you drink too much, you should stop drinking so much.”

  “And if you steal too much, you should stop stealing so much.”

  “Whatever. Stealing doesn’t wreck my liver and ruin my ability to work.”

  Tig shot Lucy an incredulous look. But Lucy waved her expression away as if she were returning a serve at the tennis courts. “I can work; my hands are steady and my thinking is clear. It’s just my decision-making after work that’s a little sticky.”

  “Sticky?”

  “I’m just saying AA isn’t the right place for me. The people at the meeting said as much: that I need to find some place more appropriate for my needs.”

  “I’m not going to fight with you. I’m happy to listen, try to solve problems, identify issues, and work through them—but I’m not going to fight you.”

  Lucy seemed to deflate a bit, having been puffed up and ready for the debate. She had fought her way through medical school. She had fought hierarchy and sexism. She had fought disease and illness every single day of her life as a doctor. Her life was all about putting up her dukes. Take that strategy away and what was she left with?

  Tig said, “I talked to Stan. It would go a long way to mending your relationship with him if you’d return some of what you took.”

  Lucy stood. “I offered to bring it all back! He scoffed at me.”

  “He’s less angry now. More willing to listen.”

  In her mind, Lucy saw herself unlock her old bedroom door, push into the dusty room, and breathe in the scent of what was once her and her husband’s refuge. Her chest tightened. She pictured herself filling boxes with all the pilfered supplies and hauling them out of her house.

  Tig took in Lucy’s pallor. “Lucy?”

  “I have every last syringe, every last chux pad. It’s all in my bedroom.” She considered explaining the details to Tig, but what exactly would she say? “My marriage bedroom is a shrine to my husband except when it’s a storeroom for red-hot hospital merchandise”? Would she tell Tig that she only opened the door to the room when she has to make a deposit? That she slept in the home office that was supposed to have been the nursery for her unborn child?