Free Spin by Catherine McKenzie Page B

everyone would think so?”
    “I guess. They shouldn’t have been giving me
alcohol at that age, right?”
    “Yes, that’s one thing. But don’t you also think
it’s problematic that they turned it into a family joke?”
    “It’s not like I wasn’t punished.”
    “By leaving you alone in the car?”
    “I grew up around here. People always left their
kids in the car.”
    Saundra writes a few words on her pad of paper in a
cursive script. “Were your parents neglectful in other ways?”
    “What? My parents didn’t neglect me.”
    “I’m sorry, Katie, a poor choice of words. What I
meant to say was, were there other times you got drunk as a child?”
    A flash comes to me of a Thanksgiving dinner when
my mother was away visiting her parents. I was thirteen or fourteen, and
Chrissie, Dad, and I polished off several bottles of wine. A snowstorm kicked up
in the middle of dinner, and my sister and I ran out into the night to make snow
angels. We spread our arms wide, the fluffy snow giving way to our sweeping
arms. Dad sprang onto the front porch swinging a bottle and yelling, “I’ve got
the last of the wine!” We burst out laughing and couldn’t stop for what seemed
like hours.
    I feel a wave of nostalgia for the fun Chrissie and
I used to have together. “Yes, but . . . those events were
harmless. They were fun.”
    “I’m sure it seemed like fun at the
time . . . but do you think it’s possible that those early
experiences laid the foundation for your alcoholism?”
    “Are you saying it’s my parents’ fault that
I . . . that I’m here?”
    “Of course not. I’m merely exploring to see if we
can find the root of what led you here.”
    There’s a knock at the door. Saundra glances at the
clock.
    “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today.
We’ll pick this up tomorrow, all right?”
    “Yeah, I guess.” I stand up to leave. “I don’t
think my parents did anything wrong. I mean, they were, are, great parents.”
    She looks sympathetic. “I understand. I’ll see you
in group this afternoon.”
    “Right, sure. See you in group.”
    S o, I
have a confession to make. I didn’t have only four mini bottles of Jameson and
Coke on the plane. There were a few drinks at the airport too.
    Now, I don’t usually drink in the morning, but
there was something about that morning that felt out of the ordinary. It was a
combination of things, really. Seeing the tiny plane I was going to have to fly
in. Going undercover. Being about to meet a celebrity I’d been watching for
weeks on television. Having the opportunity to finally get where I wanted to be
as a writer. Going to rehab. It all balled up inside me, and I needed something
to calm me down. The chamomile tea I had before I left for the airport wasn’t
cutting it, so I headed to the always-open airport bar and ordered a gin and
tonic.
    And it worked. When the drink was gone I felt
better. I felt steady. I felt ready.
    Then the flight got delayed because of mechanical
problems (Mechanical problems? Shouldn’t they be canceling the flight or getting
a new plane?) and I ordered another drink to soothe my renewed nerves. The plane
wasn’t ready until I got down to the ice in drink three, and I blame that drink
personally for what I did next.
    You see, the whole time I was at the bar there was
a woman sitting next to me intently reading a book. I kept trying to strike up a
conversation, but she wasn’t having it. I don’t know if she didn’t want to talk
to me, or she was enjoying her book too much, but I couldn’t get two words out
of her.
    As I sat there drinking, I started to feel pissed
off, and the focus of my pissed-offedness was this woman, sitting there all
serene and too good to talk to me, reading, reading, reading.
    So, so, when she got up
to go to the bathroom, leaving her book sitting on the bar, I had this
uncontrollable urge to take it. I knew it was childish, I knew it was kind of
criminal, but I was having a