Just then the phone rang, startling all of us. Ken quickly picked it up. It was a nurse from Mesa Vista Hospital saying they'd just had a cancellation. They instructed Ken to bring me in right away.

Ken was working on a brief and couldn't leave right away. As the firm administrator, Dorothy couldn't leave either. However, she said she knew someone who would probably be willing to take me: Sheila, another secretary at the firm, who had undergone similar drug treatment. She had over a year clean.

Bullshit.

Dorothy asked if I'd be okay with Sheila's taking me to the hospital. I knew of Sheila, though we'd never talked much. Like most of the secretaries, she didn't fuck with me and I didn't fuck with her. Still, I told Dorothy that I didn't care who drove.

As Dorothy left to talk to Sheila, Ken gave me a little pep talk. He told me to go and take care of myself and not to worry about my job-that it would be there when I got out.

"The most important thing," he said, "is that you get better. That you take care of you."

Just as Ken was finishing his talk, his office door opened and Sheila came bouncing in.

"Let's go, Cup," she said. Dorothy must have already filled her in because she seemed so damned happy about taking me to the hospital.

I, on the other hand, began to sweat.

Aw, shit, I told myself, this is really happening! All of a sudden I changed my mind. I began convincing myself of reasons why I didn't need help.

I ain't got no "problem" with drugs. I just use too much every now and then. I just need to learn how to control it. Yeah, that's all I needed: learn to CONTROL my using! Girl, you was just trippin'!

I realized I couldn't go to any damn hospital! I also realized that going to Ken was a bad idea.

Damn that Voice! I screamed to myself. I had to get out of this!

Ken, Dorothy, and Sheila were heading for the door.

"I can't go!" I suddenly yelled.

They all stopped in their tracks; the agitation in my voice apparently startled them. Almost in unison, they turned toward me and eyed me suspiciously.

Dorothy was the first to speak.

"Why?"

"Because I don't have any cigarettes." I could smell the gin on my breath. I wondered if they could. If they did, they didn't let on.

Although at the time I smoked, I never had cigarettes, unless I bummed them or stole them, because every dime I had went to drugs and booze. But all of a sudden, at that moment, it became VERY important that I had some cigarettes.

"I'll get the cigarettes," Sheila said.

Shit!

But they weren't dealing with an amateur. Before they could reach for the doorknob I spoke up again.

"I can't go."

"Why?" they all asked at once. They were all obviously fed up with my excuses: Dorothy's arms dropped to her sides as she gave a heavy sigh; Sheila threw her arms up in the air with a groan of frustration; Ken glared at me and said, "You'd better have a good reason!"

Oh, I got a good reason, all right. The hospital said they would keep me anywhere from two weeks to thirty days. I didn't have any time on the books, so I wouldn't get paid.

"I don't have any sick leave. I can't afford to go!"

I'd failed to realize the audaciousness of that statement. Less than an hour before, I was about to be fired. And I never had sick leave or vacation. If I earned one day, I took three.

They all stood silently for a moment; Ken lowered his head into his hands, as if in deep thought. Suddenly he turned to me.

"Cup," he said, "I'm going to GIVE you the time off with pay. Don't worry about your job; it will be there when you get out. You just take care of your life.

"Now," he asked slowly, "is there anything else you need?"

I sat there quietly contemplating the question, my hands racing up and down the chair's arm rests. My mind raced frantically for an excuse. I kept coming up blank.

"Okay," I quietly muttered. I stood up, but my head hung down with what I thought was shame, but later learned was humility. "Let's go."

Sheila and I took off for the hospital; Dorothy stayed behind to gather the insurance information the hospital had asked for; Ken went back to his brief.

We stopped by Mona's to pick up what few clothes I had and headed for the hospital.

"What kind do you smoke?" she asked.

"Wh-what?" I stammered. Her question threw me off.

"Cigarettes. What kind do you smoke?"

I'd completely forgotten about my alleged need for cigarettes, or that she had volunteered to buy me some. I told her my brand. She didn't respond. She just kept on driving.

A few minutes later, she pulled over to a liquor store and went in.

Fuck the cigarettes. I hope she's buying something to drink, I thought as I sat in the car, waiting for her to return. I'd lost my high on the way to the hospital and was dying for a drink, a snort, something.

A minute later, she returned with a brown paper bag. I felt my spirits lift because I'd convinced myself that there would be booze in it. She got into the car and pulled a carton of cigarettes out of the bag.

"Are these the right ones?" she asked.

I nodded.

She winked at me and nodded her approval as she pulled into traffic and headed for the hospital.

She seemed so happy about the whole hospital thing. I, on the other hand, was scared to death.

45.

AS SHEILA PULLED into the parking lot at Mesa Vista, I felt like I was going to the electric chair. I was scared to death. Dozens of questions were running through my mind.

What could they possibly do to me or tell me to make me not drink and use-I'd been high off something almost every day since I was eleven.

Sheila found a parking space and turned off the car.

"You ready?" she asked.

Hell, no! I wanted to yell.

Instead, I slowly nodded my head. A tear began to work its way down my face.

"Why are you crying?" she asked gently.

"I don't know." I really didn't.

"Don't cry. We're here to save your life. Trust me. About a year ago, I was exactly where you are, and I can honestly tell you, it's the best thing that ever happened to me."

I really wasn't trying to hear that shit. Then a new thought popped up in my head.

Maybe the hospital will teach me how to control my drinking and using! Not quit, just get it under control. All of a sudden, the hospital didn't seem so scary-in fact, I wanted to go in. I'd seriously convinced myself that they wouldn't try to make me stop, they would just teach me how to do it right.

"Let's go!" I said as I hopped out of the car and almost ran to the front door. Surprised at my abrupt attitude change, Sheila scurried behind me.

At the reception area a short white woman approached and introduced herself as Sam. She said she was an intake counselor and was the one who would assess my condition to determine where I should go.

With Sam leading, me following, and Sheila bringing up the rear, we walked down the hall to a small office that had a chair sitting outside the door. Sam gently escorted me into the office, but when Sheila started to enter, she held up her hand. Explaining that the process was quite personal, she asked Sheila to sit in the chair until she had completed checking me in. I didn't want Sheila to stay outside, but before I could protest, Sam had closed the door and plopped down in the chair behind her desk. She instructed me to sit in either one of the two chairs in front of it. She pulled out a clipboard with some forms attached to it. Grabbing a pen, she began asking questions.

"Name? Age? Birth date? Social Security number?" Each time I gave her an answer, she feverishly scribbled it onto the paper. I was glad she was doing the writing. There was no way I could have written the answers myself. I was too pissed to write. I hated folks in my business and that woman was all in my business. The questions seemed endless.

I needed a drink badly.

As the questions continued, they got much more personal. She wanted to know if I had any sexually transmitted diseases.

"Do you mean now or ever?"

For the first time since she'd begun asking questions, she looked up at me. She had a puzzled look on her face. Apparently she wasn't even sure which one she meant. After thinking about it for a moment, she decided she wanted both.

"Let's see," I said as I began to think back. "I don't remember much. But I do remember having crabs. And I've had gonorrhea. Twice, I think. Oh, yeah, and recently I tried to get AIDS, but I don't know if I was successful."

Her head bolted up as she stared at me in horror.

"Are you saying you tried to get AIDS?" she asked.

"Yeah," I replied. "I wanted to commit suicide and it was the best I could think of."

Her stunned look told me Sam didn't understand my reasoning. She was already too much in my business, so I chose not to explain it to her.

"Are you still suicidal?" She asked slowly, studying me carefully.

"Well, I don't know."

"Well, let me ask you this. Would you consider yourself suicidal or homicidal?"

That one was easy.

"I guess right now, I'd have to say I'm homicidal 'cause before I kill me, I'll kill you!" I cracked up laughing.

She didn't laugh with me; she just sat there with a baffled look on her face. She obviously failed to appreciate my humor.

"Let's continue," she said, apparently deciding not to push the issue. "What is your 'problem'?"

My "problem"?! Bitch, you my "problem"! I wanted to shout. She was wrecking my nerves. All of a sudden, treatment didn't sound so good.

"With drugs, I mean," she said as if that clarified the question. "What drug are you here for?"

I get to PICK one? I asked myself. What, you got different treatments for different drugs?

I took a moment and thought about it. Maybe the drugs I listed would be those they would teach me to control. Shit, I wanted to learn how to control ALL of them. So I proudly listed all of them.

"All four of the white girls: crack, coke, meth, heroin, and of course acid and dust. Can't leave out dust. Ummmm, let's see. Oh, yeah, pills."

"What kind of pills?"

"Shit, ANY kind: uppers, downers. And let's see, what else? Oh, weed. Can't forget weed. It relaxes me." I gave her a sly grin and a coy wink. She didn't grin or wink back. She just kept writing.

"Booze, of course. We can't forget booze. Hell, that's what I can get when I can't get nothing else. If all else fails, I can always steal a can of beer or bottle of wine."

"Which one is your favorite?" she asked.

That question puzzled me. No one had ever asked me that before. I really didn't have a favorite. Whatever was free was my favorite. But deep in my heart, if I had my choice, I knew crack would definitely be at the top of the list.

"Crack," I replied.

Next she wanted to know how long I'd been using.

How long had I been using? I'd never really thought about it. But now that I was, it seemed like I had been using forever. I sat quietly thinking about it. She sat quietly watching me.

My mind flashed back over my life and stopped at Pete and the first time he'd raped me. He'd given me a drink of some sort.

But, what was it? I don't know why all of a sudden I needed to remember what kind of drink it was. I just did.

It was rum and coke. Yup, that's what it was. Rum and coke.

That wasn't the first time I'd ever had alcohol, though. Daddy would give me sips of his beer every now and then. But that wasn't important because alcohol wasn't a drug-least I didn't think it was; and she'd asked when I started using, not drinking. Like a flood, the memories came back: Candy, the weed, more booze, my first trick. I was eleven years old then. Along with the memories came the shameful feelings-reminding me of why I never looked back.

"Eleven," I whispered.

"Eleven?" she repeated, unsure of what she'd heard. "Did you say 'eleven'?"