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Authors: Ali Wentworth
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travel?”
John was quick. “They wanted her to see the doctor here.” Well, that made no sense, and the last thing you want to do when you’re strung out on illicit drugs is be prodded by a medical professional and given a blood test.
My mother came over and felt my forehead. “She’s cold!” She pulled the goose-down duvet up to my chin. Apparently, hyperthermia is a symptom of an overdose. That, or I was already dead.
My mother immediately took charge. She insists on antibiotics at the first nose drip. When she’s sick, her side table is spilling over with bottles and Kleenex boxes, potions and remedies. Sleeping pills were placed in our mouths like the body of Christ when we were home for school breaks. They were to help us catch up on our sleep, even though that’s all we did anyway.
She walked into my bathroom and inspected my medicine cabinet. She gingerly rearranged the contents, removing a bottle of Nyquil, some Tylenol, and something that’s been recalled by now. “Here we go!” She extracted a prescription vial that had sat in the medicine cabinet since I had my tonsils out at twelve. She held it up to the light and smiled. “Amoxicillin will knock out any virus.”
A mother’s power is hypnotic. I offered not a whisper of protest as she lovingly fed me pill after pill, shot of Nyquil after shot of Nyquil. I knew the dangers of administering even more drugs to my toxic body, but I was willing to play Sunny von Bülow if only to be cuddled and coddled that day, far from the rat race of defective teens.
And for my daughters reading this: I experimented with cocaine just once so you won’t have to. By the time you’re reading this I will have already shown you an unlimited number of drug documentaries, HBO’s Addiction , Celebrity Rehab , Heroin: The Next Generation , Intervention , photos of drug-related overdose autopsies and the film Valley of the Dolls . I will have stamped out any need for experimentation (not to mention my photographic scientific textbook on sexually transmitted diseases). Besides, knitting is so much more fun!
Chapter Seven
Mi Familia!
A s kids, we were shipped off more times than a Pottery Barn catalog. I had sleepaway camp at nine, boarding school at thirteen, and then Spain the summer of my fifteenth year. It was called “the experiment in international living.” Disconcerting title, I know. Like they just parachute you down in Kazakhstan and see what happens. Well, actually, they kind of do.
I packed what any sheltered preppy in high school would when setting off for a European tour: seven Laura Ashley skirts, Bloomingdale’s days-of-the-week undies, a tennis racquet, and my collection of Bonne Bell lip smackers.
I found myself standing in the Madrid airport with a group of gum-smacking teenagers in a sea of monogrammed L.L.Bean tote bags, lacrosse sticks, and duffels with old claim tickets from St. Kitts and Vail. I scrutinized the crowd and, as if picking out the least-expired lettuce from the salad bar, chose a girl named Jennifer to be my summer friend. Jennifer had long, chestnut-colored hair, eyes that looked perpetually stoned (because they were), a Rolling Stones tour T-shirt, dolphin shorts, tube socks, and Dr. Scholl’s. She was never without a Walkman blaring from her ears. Even when we had our most private conversations, I could hear the dull roar of classic rock. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if she was giving me genuine advice or just regurgitating the lyrics assaulting her at that moment. I mean, why would I want to fly like an eagle?
Lucky for us, we were both placed in the same town five hours outside Madrid, a desolate desert town called Zamora. I couldn’t wait to charge Arnold Palmers at the beach club, shop for souvenirs, and meet a sun-kissed Spanish surfer (even though we were hundreds of miles from water). I even brought tubes of Clinique’s fake tan mousse to jump-start my Mediterranean glow.
The bus we took to Zamora
John was quick. “They wanted her to see the doctor here.” Well, that made no sense, and the last thing you want to do when you’re strung out on illicit drugs is be prodded by a medical professional and given a blood test.
My mother came over and felt my forehead. “She’s cold!” She pulled the goose-down duvet up to my chin. Apparently, hyperthermia is a symptom of an overdose. That, or I was already dead.
My mother immediately took charge. She insists on antibiotics at the first nose drip. When she’s sick, her side table is spilling over with bottles and Kleenex boxes, potions and remedies. Sleeping pills were placed in our mouths like the body of Christ when we were home for school breaks. They were to help us catch up on our sleep, even though that’s all we did anyway.
She walked into my bathroom and inspected my medicine cabinet. She gingerly rearranged the contents, removing a bottle of Nyquil, some Tylenol, and something that’s been recalled by now. “Here we go!” She extracted a prescription vial that had sat in the medicine cabinet since I had my tonsils out at twelve. She held it up to the light and smiled. “Amoxicillin will knock out any virus.”
A mother’s power is hypnotic. I offered not a whisper of protest as she lovingly fed me pill after pill, shot of Nyquil after shot of Nyquil. I knew the dangers of administering even more drugs to my toxic body, but I was willing to play Sunny von Bülow if only to be cuddled and coddled that day, far from the rat race of defective teens.
And for my daughters reading this: I experimented with cocaine just once so you won’t have to. By the time you’re reading this I will have already shown you an unlimited number of drug documentaries, HBO’s Addiction , Celebrity Rehab , Heroin: The Next Generation , Intervention , photos of drug-related overdose autopsies and the film Valley of the Dolls . I will have stamped out any need for experimentation (not to mention my photographic scientific textbook on sexually transmitted diseases). Besides, knitting is so much more fun!
Chapter Seven
Mi Familia!
A s kids, we were shipped off more times than a Pottery Barn catalog. I had sleepaway camp at nine, boarding school at thirteen, and then Spain the summer of my fifteenth year. It was called “the experiment in international living.” Disconcerting title, I know. Like they just parachute you down in Kazakhstan and see what happens. Well, actually, they kind of do.
I packed what any sheltered preppy in high school would when setting off for a European tour: seven Laura Ashley skirts, Bloomingdale’s days-of-the-week undies, a tennis racquet, and my collection of Bonne Bell lip smackers.
I found myself standing in the Madrid airport with a group of gum-smacking teenagers in a sea of monogrammed L.L.Bean tote bags, lacrosse sticks, and duffels with old claim tickets from St. Kitts and Vail. I scrutinized the crowd and, as if picking out the least-expired lettuce from the salad bar, chose a girl named Jennifer to be my summer friend. Jennifer had long, chestnut-colored hair, eyes that looked perpetually stoned (because they were), a Rolling Stones tour T-shirt, dolphin shorts, tube socks, and Dr. Scholl’s. She was never without a Walkman blaring from her ears. Even when we had our most private conversations, I could hear the dull roar of classic rock. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if she was giving me genuine advice or just regurgitating the lyrics assaulting her at that moment. I mean, why would I want to fly like an eagle?
Lucky for us, we were both placed in the same town five hours outside Madrid, a desolate desert town called Zamora. I couldn’t wait to charge Arnold Palmers at the beach club, shop for souvenirs, and meet a sun-kissed Spanish surfer (even though we were hundreds of miles from water). I even brought tubes of Clinique’s fake tan mousse to jump-start my Mediterranean glow.
The bus we took to Zamora
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