| September 2007 |
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FICTION
Check out Poor, Sad Pears, a related story by the same author that was featured in the last issue of Eleventh
Transmission.
The Secret
by Anne Sorbie
Hillary: Halloo—my name is Hillary and I’m an addict.
All: Hi Hillary.
Hillary: My substance of choice is crack cocaine.
I listen to her and I think… I’m in the wrong place, because I’m not an addict. I’m only here because my Dad sort of
made me come. Because I let him think he could make me come here. I’m the one who decides, not him. The room
is dingy and doesn’t feel like it’s in a church basement. To me, it’s exactly the kind of hole that the junkies outside on
the street would love to come to party. There are people from the families of addicts and alcoholics. Some of them
here are also addicts and alcoholics. Most of them are teenagers. No one looks at me and I don’t look at anyone.
John: Hi—I’m John.
All: Hi John.
I wonder why John has his chin in his hands. His words are chopped off when he speaks. John doesn’t say
anything, even after everyone else speaks, but when I say, “hi,” he starts to sob, and I hate that he does that because I
suddenly feel like I want to do the same thing. A noise comes out of me and snot escapes from my nose. I want to get
up and run out into the hallway. Nobody says anything. They are all waiting for John. He burrows his head in the
shoulder of the person with her arm around him and I stand up, then I sit down. The person next to me speaks.
Alyssa: Hi—I’m Alyssa.
All: Hi Alyssa.
Things get quiet and I know I should say something, but my face is screwed so tight that I hide under my hair; there’s
a pain in my chest and in my throat. I can’t say anything, so I blow air out as if I’ve been holding my breath for an hour.
Me: I’m Linda and I’m not—my mother is—
All: Hi Linda.
Me: My mother is an alcoholic.
My voice is high and squeaky when I say those words. After they come out, I start to laugh uncontrollably. So
uncontrollably that I can’t even think about stopping, and I keep laughing until six other people talk about themselves,
and when they’re done, I’m bent over. Alyssa rubs my back, and as soon as she touches me I stop, I’m holding my
breath again, and my body is stick-rotten- brittle. I think that if I turn my head too much it’ll just fall off. So I rock. I rock
over my arms that are folded across my stomach and every time I go forward my arms press against my thighs. Then
someone passes me a book, and I’m supposed to read the next step in it, but Alyssa takes it and reads it instead of
me.
And I want my mother. I want her in this room so that she can see and hear all of this, but I know that she’d just look
through these people and not even see me; unless I could do something for her, as in get her a drink or answer the
door and get the bottle that the delivery man is not supposed to hand over to a minor. Even though I hate her guts and
I can’t stand being here, I want her in the room.
James: Our topic of discussion tonight is acceptance. And for those of you who are new, you can take up the
theme if you want, you can speak about it if you like, but you don’t have to. Does one of you, longer time attendees,
want to say something about acceptance and why we come back to this topic from time to time?
I look at James from my red eyes, which are set in my puffed up, purple, bloated face. I’m looking at him out of the
corner of my eyes because I’m doubled over, looking into my purse mirror, and I think he’s ugly cute behind his
glasses and just newly in charge because he’s nearly twenty.
The John person who couldn’t talk before decides to take up the torch, and he goes on and on about his lost brother,
because today is the third anniversary of when he came home and found his lost brother swinging from the rafters of
the family garage, and I want to vomit. I want to vomit the way my mother has been vomiting for weeks, not quietly or
politely the way this John person is talking, but hugely loud as in when there’s no vomit left and all you hear is a sort of
a long belch as if her insides are coming out and she’s dragging them along the hardwood floor to get to the phone
and call for more booze. And I can’t help myself, so I spit hiss the word: ack—ssssssssssssssssssssss—cept—
an—ssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
I try to ask, politely, why we have to, or why we should, and how we can, when the stupid person in our family is
causing all that pain. I go stick-rotten again after I shrug Alyssa off. I listen to James ask someone to write something
called the three C’s on the ancient blackboard; I sit up, reading the words, ‘cause-control-cure.’
All: You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.
You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.
You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.
Me: But this is not The Wizard of Oz. I’m not Dorothy so I can’t just go, there’s no place like home, there’s no place
like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, while I click sparkly red shoes together—I can’t just
magic myself or IT away, and I have twin brothers who are ten. One is so beaten and fucked up that I think he’s going
to shatter like the china cup I threw at the window last week, so I’m just supposed to accept that my mother is an
alcoholic?
James: Yes.
All: Yes.
James: Try that on this week—I
All except me: —didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it, I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it—
James: Just try it on—
All and me: I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it.
I slump in my chair while Alyssa tells her acceptance story through a “poor you” look that makes me sick; although, I
guess that maybe she just wants to be sympathetic so I start to think that even if half the people were junkie alcoholics
themselves I could come here again because their shit was as deep, maybe deeper than the elephant shit piled in
the middle of my family’s family room.
I sigh and I say the stupid Serenity Prayer, and get my Dad, who appears in the doorway at the end of “the meeting,” to
buy me a book of sayings. As we walk to the van I say, “the jig’s up you know, my mother is an alcoholic.” His lip
trembles, and the corners of his eyes sprout tears when he says, “I know,” in a little boy voice that makes me put my
arm around his waist.
Check out Poor, Sad Pears, a related story by the same author that was featured in the last issue of Eleventh
Transmission.
The Secret
by Anne Sorbie
Hillary: Halloo—my name is Hillary and I’m an addict.
All: Hi Hillary.
Hillary: My substance of choice is crack cocaine.
I listen to her and I think… I’m in the wrong place, because I’m not an addict. I’m only here because my Dad sort of
made me come. Because I let him think he could make me come here. I’m the one who decides, not him. The room
is dingy and doesn’t feel like it’s in a church basement. To me, it’s exactly the kind of hole that the junkies outside on
the street would love to come to party. There are people from the families of addicts and alcoholics. Some of them
here are also addicts and alcoholics. Most of them are teenagers. No one looks at me and I don’t look at anyone.
John: Hi—I’m John.
All: Hi John.
I wonder why John has his chin in his hands. His words are chopped off when he speaks. John doesn’t say
anything, even after everyone else speaks, but when I say, “hi,” he starts to sob, and I hate that he does that because I
suddenly feel like I want to do the same thing. A noise comes out of me and snot escapes from my nose. I want to get
up and run out into the hallway. Nobody says anything. They are all waiting for John. He burrows his head in the
shoulder of the person with her arm around him and I stand up, then I sit down. The person next to me speaks.
Alyssa: Hi—I’m Alyssa.
All: Hi Alyssa.
Things get quiet and I know I should say something, but my face is screwed so tight that I hide under my hair; there’s
a pain in my chest and in my throat. I can’t say anything, so I blow air out as if I’ve been holding my breath for an hour.
Me: I’m Linda and I’m not—my mother is—
All: Hi Linda.
Me: My mother is an alcoholic.
My voice is high and squeaky when I say those words. After they come out, I start to laugh uncontrollably. So
uncontrollably that I can’t even think about stopping, and I keep laughing until six other people talk about themselves,
and when they’re done, I’m bent over. Alyssa rubs my back, and as soon as she touches me I stop, I’m holding my
breath again, and my body is stick-rotten- brittle. I think that if I turn my head too much it’ll just fall off. So I rock. I rock
over my arms that are folded across my stomach and every time I go forward my arms press against my thighs. Then
someone passes me a book, and I’m supposed to read the next step in it, but Alyssa takes it and reads it instead of
me.
And I want my mother. I want her in this room so that she can see and hear all of this, but I know that she’d just look
through these people and not even see me; unless I could do something for her, as in get her a drink or answer the
door and get the bottle that the delivery man is not supposed to hand over to a minor. Even though I hate her guts and
I can’t stand being here, I want her in the room.
James: Our topic of discussion tonight is acceptance. And for those of you who are new, you can take up the
theme if you want, you can speak about it if you like, but you don’t have to. Does one of you, longer time attendees,
want to say something about acceptance and why we come back to this topic from time to time?
I look at James from my red eyes, which are set in my puffed up, purple, bloated face. I’m looking at him out of the
corner of my eyes because I’m doubled over, looking into my purse mirror, and I think he’s ugly cute behind his
glasses and just newly in charge because he’s nearly twenty.
The John person who couldn’t talk before decides to take up the torch, and he goes on and on about his lost brother,
because today is the third anniversary of when he came home and found his lost brother swinging from the rafters of
the family garage, and I want to vomit. I want to vomit the way my mother has been vomiting for weeks, not quietly or
politely the way this John person is talking, but hugely loud as in when there’s no vomit left and all you hear is a sort of
a long belch as if her insides are coming out and she’s dragging them along the hardwood floor to get to the phone
and call for more booze. And I can’t help myself, so I spit hiss the word: ack—ssssssssssssssssssssss—cept—
an—ssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
I try to ask, politely, why we have to, or why we should, and how we can, when the stupid person in our family is
causing all that pain. I go stick-rotten again after I shrug Alyssa off. I listen to James ask someone to write something
called the three C’s on the ancient blackboard; I sit up, reading the words, ‘cause-control-cure.’
All: You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.
You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.
You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it.
Me: But this is not The Wizard of Oz. I’m not Dorothy so I can’t just go, there’s no place like home, there’s no place
like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, while I click sparkly red shoes together—I can’t just
magic myself or IT away, and I have twin brothers who are ten. One is so beaten and fucked up that I think he’s going
to shatter like the china cup I threw at the window last week, so I’m just supposed to accept that my mother is an
alcoholic?
James: Yes.
All: Yes.
James: Try that on this week—I
All except me: —didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it, I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it—
James: Just try it on—
All and me: I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it.
I slump in my chair while Alyssa tells her acceptance story through a “poor you” look that makes me sick; although, I
guess that maybe she just wants to be sympathetic so I start to think that even if half the people were junkie alcoholics
themselves I could come here again because their shit was as deep, maybe deeper than the elephant shit piled in
the middle of my family’s family room.
I sigh and I say the stupid Serenity Prayer, and get my Dad, who appears in the doorway at the end of “the meeting,” to
buy me a book of sayings. As we walk to the van I say, “the jig’s up you know, my mother is an alcoholic.” His lip
trembles, and the corners of his eyes sprout tears when he says, “I know,” in a little boy voice that makes me put my
arm around his waist.