Candler’s habit of “sleeping in” continued, despite our contractual obligations for beds made by 9:00 a.m.
“My brain injury,” he said, “I need a lot of sleep.”
“But that was more than twenty years ago,” I replied.
Early morning showings were the most frantic. While I feverishly made the bed, he dressed. Potential buyers and their agents explored the main floor simultaneously. Since we were not allowed to be in the home while there was a showing, all of this went on as stealthily as possible, with us slipping down the back staircase and out the door before they could spot us. The first few times brought giggles with a playful sense of adventure. But as this became standard operating procedure (SOP), I could feel my stress level rising and with it a growing irritation that Candler could at least one thing to make my life easier, like get out of bed on time.
I began each day with a fresh attitude and list of priorities to help me achieve my dreams which had been patiently waiting for me to finish raising a child alone, running a thriving business, settling my lawsuits and recovering my health. But by the fifth showing of the day and the disarray that had to be managed from King Kong’s lack of cleanliness, my hopeful spirit had run out of steam.
Psychiatrists say that our emotions are meant to tell us things. Anger, disappointment, rage, irritation, all of these are intended to be signs pointing to an issue that needs resolution – a word not in my vocabulary nor my husband’s. My family of origin didn’t resolve; we screamed, ignored, denied, minimized, exaggerated, pouted, punished, withdrew, shamed or self-deprecated. In an effort not to focus solely on altering King Kong’s behavior, I worked hard to change my own, trying not to go the way of my family heritage.
Despite my earnest plea for new behavior traits around his sleep requirements, puddles of clothes, papers, towels and the like, Candler remained deaf and unchanging. I began to wonder if his ability to process the simplest tasks had been affected by his accident after all. As a one-time passenger in a car he was driving, I could certainly support the theory. Following the incident, I drove everywhere we went, expressly to ensure my own personal safety.
In the four weeks since our move into showhome living, two unshakable, seemingly unchangeable realities had settled into my life. First, the implications of my husband’s Green Card status and secondly, the overwhelming time that requirement living in a showhome with Candler mandated.
The next “new normal” hit Planet Violet on May 8, Mother’s Day 2004, with the impact of a solar storm.
“Mom,” the distressed voice said on the other side of the telephone.
“Joshua, what’s wrong?” I asked, checking the clock beside my bed: 4:00 a.m.
“I’m in jail,” he said.
“What?” I said, instantly alert as my childhood crisis training taught me. “Why are you in jail?”
“I was pulled over for driving too slow,” he said.
“No one goes to jail for driving too slow,” I said. “What really happened?”
“They said I was drinking,” he replied.
“Were you?”
“I only had a couple of beers.”
“Did they test you with a Breathalyzer?”
“Yeah.”
“What were the results?”
Throwing the covers back, I stepped out of the bedroom onto the cold marble floor of the master bath. I sat down on the window seat, flooded in light from the motherShip. Since the fall of 2001 I’d known my son had a drinking problem. We had taken our traditional two-month trip to Europe, but unlike other years, he had drunk his way across the continent. Most nights I wandered back to our hotel alone after late night dinners or the theater while Joshua frequented bars. Each night he came back reeking of alcohol, his breathing labored as he slept in a black haze. The more inebriated he was the louder he snored. As our trip progressed, his skin developed a putrid rotten smell that filled our hotel rooms with an unbearable stench. I opened the windows. Most of our journey I slept only in winks.
On the Amalfi Coast I discovered a $400 liquor charge on our room bill for the few days we had been at The Poseidon. Rock slides and road closings made it impossible for us to make our way along the Italian coast and back to Rome. So we stayed, hoping the roads would be cleared. The proprietor of The Poseidon was so distressed by Joshua’s drinking that she arranged an intervention with guests with whom we had been dining. Joshua sobbed and spoke of his father’s death and its devastating effects. No matter how anyone reasoned with him about how he was destroying his own life, it did no good.
By Sunday the roads were still blocked. Devastated by the reality of my son’s alcoholism I chose to make our way through the Apennines Mountains back to Rome. I wept continually on the long drive, knowing I could no longer deny Joshua’s addiction.
Several times over the next year I had taken away his car keys, as he was too drunk to stand, much less drive. He had called cabs and ventured out into the night nearly unable to utter a sensible phrase.
“What are you doing to yourself, Joshua?” I asked him one day.
“I have to find out what drives a man to throw away everything he loves for drugs,” he replied.
“You mean your father?” I asked, stunned with his response.
“Yes,” He said.
“So you’re going to voluntarily throw away this wonderful life you’ve created, your music, your art, your girlfriend, everything, and lose yourself so you can understand your father?”
“I have to find out. I have to understand,” was his only reply.
Despite my suggestion, he refused therapy. Joshua seemed determined to find the source of the Nile that had drowned his father. He ventured further and further into jungle of addiction throwing himself over the falls and into the darkness below.
“I can’t stay here, Mom. It’s awful,” he said, breaking my reflection. His voice had moved from anxious to desperate; he began to sob.
“Were you involved in an accident?” I asked, growing more alarmed at his emotional condition.
“No, nothing like that,” he said. “Please get me out. There’s all kind of dangerous people in here. I’m scared. It smells awful, too. I don’t belong here, Mom. Please help me.”
As I sat in the bathroom window I could feel his fear over the telephone. I hoped his arrest would be the wake-up call that would turn him around.
“Has bail been set?” I asked.
“No. I won’t be arraigned until 7:00 a.m. I don’t have to stay here till then, do I?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I’ll have to make some calls. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Worse case I’ll see you at the arraignment. Hang in there, Joshua. You’ll be okay.”
I could hear voices in the background. “They’re making me get off the phone. Mom, I need you to post bail. I’ll pay you back whatever it cost when I get home. Please don’t leave me down here,” he said.
“I’ll see you soon,” I promised.
The voices in the background grew louder.
“I gotta hang up,” he said.
Someone wrestled the receiver out of his hand on the other end. I heard him call, “Please don’t leave me down here, Mom,” just before the click.
Bathed in street light, my emotions, a dark storm cloud thundering within, I barely noticed the train whistle and the quaking of the house.