It’s true, I have a broken heart. But it’s the only heart I have, so I’ve got to live with it. My son’s birthday came and went. I try to close my eyes to it, like I close my eyes to all anniversaries. But like the rest, I remember when it’s too late. I remember that I forgot, since forgetting is something I never do.
Remembering my son’s birthday always puts me in mind of my sister’s, which comes on Labor Day, which used to be a joke. But it hasn’t been a joke for years. Labor Day we don’t mention.
Before my stepson disappeared into the wilds of Scranton, having run through three different colleges without a single credit, four months in rehab, six in a halfway house, and 6 in what was called ‘sober living’, and who is now on the loose in a town with the highest population of people in recovery in the nation, which also has the highest concentration of addicts, I used to go on vacation in August, which lies between remembering my son’s birthday and staring at my sister’s. It was good to go to Greece and swim in the water, eat lousy food and walk around some island, a place where you will never belong, that gets along just fine without you, that won’t care when you’re gone but is hospitable enough, as long as you leave a trail of money. It’s life in a nutshell.
I didn't go to Greece because my wife refuses to leave NY, as my stepson might call. We haven’t heard from him in months, and the chance that he might call is nil, but my wife wants to be in a state of readiness. The last time my stepson set foot at home, my wife had an intervention team waiting, which included his favorite teacher from high school, my surviving son - also in recovery, and a professional interventionist who flew in from LA for an all expense paid weekend in NY courtesy of yours truly. It didn’t work, of course. My stepson handled the whole group like he was selling placebo. He even got enough money for a Manhattan haircut before he bolted without a trace - or a haircut.
My wife is half crazy and half sane, both in the extreme. I love her in both states, but I’m likewise divided, since the one costs and the other pays. I think she was also relieved not to be in Naples, where she usually spends July, since the situation there is a disaster. The family business is bankrupt, her brother has been confined to a mental hospital, and her parents are in need of constant care. Her father’s denial has become malignant, and could be counted as a nuisance were it not for his other son, who continues to look to his father for all the answers.
The father doesn’t have any answers. He’s 86. At this point, all he has are questions, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember the answers, even when the answer is where to find the men’s room. Another answer he can’t remember, or at least refuses to, is that there’s no more money. The little plastic card doesn’t work anymore. He keeps sticking it in, like one atm doesn’t know what the other one is thinking.
So I didn’t do anything much this summer but work, which didn’t feel too bad. Besides, we need the money. Recovery I can’t afford otherwise.
