Mad Max: Unintended Consequences by Betsy Ashton
Authors: Betsy Ashton
reached for the abandoned brandy and took my first sip. I thought about what Merry said. More, I thought about what she didn't say, what I observed. My daughter was in deeper trouble than I imagined. Between the booze and drugs, she couldn't function. The physical therapy center taught Merry the mechanics of living, but not the essence of living. She was relying on too many crutches. Drugs. Booze. Me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With my mind churning over my middle-of-the-night conversation, I lay in bed in the predawn darkness. One by one, I thought about the problems as I understood them. I formulated a series of baby steps to save my daughter. If one worked, I could go back to New York. When dawn was little more than a fingernail of light, I rose, took a quick shower, and went downstairs.
I was in bed less than four hours and asleep perhaps one. I'd have dark circles under my brown eyes, but I couldn't worry about them. Besides, worry produces wrinkles.
While the coffee brewed, I rooted through the kitchen desk for the list of psychiatrists Merry got at the therapy center. Three were affiliated with VCU and one with County: All were accessible. It was too early to call, so I puttered around the kitchen. I set breakfast on the table. The kids wouldn't be down for at least an hour and who knew when or if Merry would show up.
I carried my first cup of coffee out to the patio. Time to call Raney, who was a dawn riser like me.
Raney picked up on the second ring. After the usual round of pleasantries, Raney got to the point. “You talked with Merry, or you wouldn't be calling me before the garbage trucks finish their morning deliveries.”
A New Yorker's joke: Garbage trucks made deliveries rather than pick-ups because piles of trash were stacked on curbs some place in the city every day. I was so homesick. Birds chirping in the backyard seemed insipid to someone who'd grown accustomed to the hubbub of a big city.
“I did. Didn't do a bit of good.” By habit, I gave Raney the blow-by-blow of what happened. “You can scratch off one of the halves.”
“Tough love, huh?”
“I didn't actually threaten to leave, but I told her she has to behave like she did before the accident.” I sipped more coffee.
“The result was?”
“A freaking failure. She's as obtuse as the proverbial brick wall.”
A cacophony of horns violated the quiet-zone ordinance where Raney lived. She must have the sliding glass door open onto Park Avenue.
“I'm a crutch, but leaving could damage Merry more than I can live with. I gnawed that bone all night. All I came away with was the urgent need to get her into therapy.” I stared at the bottom of my cup and flip-flopped my way back into the kitchen for a refill.
“I agree. So your next step is a psychiatrist?”
“I have a list in my hot little hand. I'll start calling at nine.”
“Call between seven and eight. Psychiatrists see their first patient at nine. The earlier you call, the more likely they'll answer the phone.”
“Good idea.”
“What about commitment?”
“I don't know how to go about it.”
“The psychiatrist will.”
“Merry promised she'd go if I find her another plastic surgeon.”
I reminded Raney about Merry's obsession over her face.
“Do you think she'll remember?”
“Doesn't matter. I will. Whip can deal with the plastic surgeon. I'm more worried about what's going on inside her head.”
“All the plastic surgery in the world won't help if she continues drinking too much and downing pills like M&M's.”
“Let me know what happens.”
“Thanks. I'll call you soon. Hugs to the rest of the Great Dames.”
Footsteps padded down the stairs. I turned. Emilie rubbed sleep from her eyes. She was getting up earlier and earlier. I suspected she was sleeping as little as I was.
“I heard you fighting with Mom last night.”
“I tried to be quiet, but she kept yelling.”
Emilie shook her head. “You were both so miserable, I couldn't tune you
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With my mind churning over my middle-of-the-night conversation, I lay in bed in the predawn darkness. One by one, I thought about the problems as I understood them. I formulated a series of baby steps to save my daughter. If one worked, I could go back to New York. When dawn was little more than a fingernail of light, I rose, took a quick shower, and went downstairs.
I was in bed less than four hours and asleep perhaps one. I'd have dark circles under my brown eyes, but I couldn't worry about them. Besides, worry produces wrinkles.
While the coffee brewed, I rooted through the kitchen desk for the list of psychiatrists Merry got at the therapy center. Three were affiliated with VCU and one with County: All were accessible. It was too early to call, so I puttered around the kitchen. I set breakfast on the table. The kids wouldn't be down for at least an hour and who knew when or if Merry would show up.
I carried my first cup of coffee out to the patio. Time to call Raney, who was a dawn riser like me.
Raney picked up on the second ring. After the usual round of pleasantries, Raney got to the point. “You talked with Merry, or you wouldn't be calling me before the garbage trucks finish their morning deliveries.”
A New Yorker's joke: Garbage trucks made deliveries rather than pick-ups because piles of trash were stacked on curbs some place in the city every day. I was so homesick. Birds chirping in the backyard seemed insipid to someone who'd grown accustomed to the hubbub of a big city.
“I did. Didn't do a bit of good.” By habit, I gave Raney the blow-by-blow of what happened. “You can scratch off one of the halves.”
“Tough love, huh?”
“I didn't actually threaten to leave, but I told her she has to behave like she did before the accident.” I sipped more coffee.
“The result was?”
“A freaking failure. She's as obtuse as the proverbial brick wall.”
A cacophony of horns violated the quiet-zone ordinance where Raney lived. She must have the sliding glass door open onto Park Avenue.
“I'm a crutch, but leaving could damage Merry more than I can live with. I gnawed that bone all night. All I came away with was the urgent need to get her into therapy.” I stared at the bottom of my cup and flip-flopped my way back into the kitchen for a refill.
“I agree. So your next step is a psychiatrist?”
“I have a list in my hot little hand. I'll start calling at nine.”
“Call between seven and eight. Psychiatrists see their first patient at nine. The earlier you call, the more likely they'll answer the phone.”
“Good idea.”
“What about commitment?”
“I don't know how to go about it.”
“The psychiatrist will.”
“Merry promised she'd go if I find her another plastic surgeon.”
I reminded Raney about Merry's obsession over her face.
“Do you think she'll remember?”
“Doesn't matter. I will. Whip can deal with the plastic surgeon. I'm more worried about what's going on inside her head.”
“All the plastic surgery in the world won't help if she continues drinking too much and downing pills like M&M's.”
“Let me know what happens.”
“Thanks. I'll call you soon. Hugs to the rest of the Great Dames.”
Footsteps padded down the stairs. I turned. Emilie rubbed sleep from her eyes. She was getting up earlier and earlier. I suspected she was sleeping as little as I was.
“I heard you fighting with Mom last night.”
“I tried to be quiet, but she kept yelling.”
Emilie shook her head. “You were both so miserable, I couldn't tune you