Free Spin by Catherine McKenzie Page A

office is oddly decorated with all things dog.
I mean, all things dog. There’s a dog calendar, a
dog clock, a couple of framed photographs of dogs, and a dog leash sitting on
the corner of her desk. The only thing missing is the actual dog itself. Or
maybe the leash is for me?
    Saundra sits behind her large oak desk. I get
comfortable in her matching visitor’s chair as she explains that the Oasis’s
approach is to identify the root, internal causes of my alcoholism and to teach
me techniques that will allow me to solve problems without alcohol. If I trust
Saundra and work with her, I should acquire the skills I need to stay sober by
the end of my thirty-day stay.
    I’m guessing the skills I really need to learn by
the end of my thirty-day stay aren’t what she’s talking about.
    “Some patients need longer than thirty days, of
course, but given that this is your first time in rehab, and the level of your
addiction, which is severe but not chronic, it should be sufficient.”
    “What do you mean by the level of my
addiction?”
    “You scored a ten out of fifteen on the alcoholism
test.”
    “Is that bad?”
    “It’s a graduated scale. Answering yes to more than
five questions means that drinking is interfering in your life in a substantial
way, which is a sign of alcoholism.”
    “And I got a ten?”
    “Yes.”
    Yowser, that is not good. But wait a second. Not
all those answers were really mine, right? At least three were what I told Dr.
Houston as my cover story. So my real score is probably
like . . . six. That’s nothing.
    Saundra pulls a pad of yellow legal-sized paper
toward her. “Katie, I’d like to begin by trying to discover the origins of your
alcoholism. How old were you the first time you got drunk?”
    “I was four.”
    Her eyes widen. “Four years old?”
    “I guess that’s kind of young, huh?”
    “A little. Why don’t you tell me about it.”
    “Well, actually, it’s a funny
story . . .”
    It was funny. When my
parents finally extricated themselves from their commune-gone-wrong legal
problems, they decided to celebrate by holding a party. There was champagne, and
my dad poured me a small glass, a splash really, so I could join the toast.
    I remember my first taste of that champagne. It was
sweet and delicious, like drinkable candy, and the bubbles felt ticklish on my
tongue. I loved it and I wanted more. So I asked for some, and my dad, already a
bit drunk, gave it to me. That disappeared as fast as I could drink it, and so
did the fuller glass I got from him a few minutes later when he wasn’t paying
attention.
    Before I knew it, I was hammered. I felt like my
body was floating, and I lay happily in the grass feeling each individual blade
with the tips of my fingers. When the party broke up, my parents took us to a
restaurant for dinner. My tipsy parents didn’t realize there was anything wrong
with me until we got there. That’s when I thought it’d be a good idea to teach
my two-year-old sister, Chrissie, how to pull the tablecloth out from under the
dishes. I’d seen a magician do it on TV and he made it look easy. I remember the
horrible clatter of dishes, my father’s jumble of oaths, and my mother repeating
over and over, “Why would you do that, honey? Why would you do that?”
    When they finally clued in that I was drunk—Dad
confessed to giving me “just a little taste”; Mom’s shriek of anger set half the
restaurant’s eardrums ringing—I was hauled out of the restaurant by my ear and
left in the family car to “sober up!”
    When my parents calmed down, the whole thing became
a family joke. From that point on, whenever I’d act out, my dad would yell,
“Sober up!” and we’d laugh and laugh.
    “Do you really think that’s a funny story,
Katie?”
    Uh, yeah. I’ve brought people to tears with that
story on more than one occasion, but maybe you need a drink in your hand to
really appreciate it. Like therapy.
    “Kind of.”
    “Can you see why not