Read Online The Empty Room by Lauren B. Davis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lauren B. Davis
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stern, implacable and just a little hungry. Oh, yes, how everyone loved to stick the knife in, to wiggle it. They were untouchable on their moral high-ground, where the air was so very fucking rarified and a thick shiny gate, made of money and privilege, and the kind of education Colleen deserved but didn’t get, protected them from having anyone do to them what they were doing to her.
“Do you,” she said. “You need an answer this very minute?”
They nodded, like bobble-heads.
She knew what the right answer was. She understood she should take their help in her trembling, grateful palms; she should break down in girlish tears and thank them for their concern and consideration and tell them how long she’d been drinking against her own will (which might be true but was none of their fucking business) and she understood this was probably the moment when her life could be saved. She looked down at her hands, clutching the cheap package of tissues. There was a stain of some sort on the hem of her turtleneck. She hadn’t noticed it when she dressed this morning. It was something yellowish and crusty. Colleen imagined Moore and Minot—their names sounded like some snotty law firm—congratulating themselves as the taxi took her off to a rehab centre. She imagined Moore talking to his skinny, buck-toothed wife over a wine-and-candlelight dinner about poor Colleen Kerrigan and what an awful mess she was. She imagined the narrow cot in the shared rehab room, the linoleum floor, theshoddy dresser, the communal showers, and group therapy with droopy losers whining about finding a higher power and turning their lives over to God and heaven help her she’d slit her wrists with a fork.
“I’m very sorry my work hasn’t been up to snuff. I promise you’ll have no further cause for complaint, for any reason,” Colleen said.
“So you’ll take the help we’re offering?” asked Minot.
The woman must watch those reality shows on television with the snot-flying, tearful interventions for hopeless addicts, thought Colleen. She had the vocabulary down. Colleen had seen a few of them herself, enough to know that if you watched to the very end, the drunks and dopers all got thrown out of rehab, or left early, and ended up back on the bottle or the needle within months. What was the point, except to make the snivelling family members feel better, if only briefly?
“I’ve told you my work won’t be a problem. I think that’s all I should have to say.”
Moore blew out his cheeks and said, “So, you’re telling us you won’t go into treatment.”
“I’m telling you you’ll never have to worry about me and alcohol.”
“That’s not good enough at this point, Colleen. Your choice is rehab or having your employment here immediately terminated.”
“So, you’re telling me you care about me so much you’d fire me, leave me without a paycheque or references, with my mother in extreme difficulty and me her only caregiver, with no one to help me. That’s what you’re telling me and you think that’s right, thatit’s moral?” She heard the steely control in her voice, and she knew herself well enough to recognize the fury saddling up and getting ready to ride.
“Will you go to rehab, Colleen?” said Moore. “Say yes now, or I’m afraid this interview is over and you will be escorted from the building. Am I right, Ms. Minot?”
Minot’s expression of concern was like that of a bad soap-opera actress. So much care in it. So much practiced compassion. It felt as though something very heavy, like stones or bags of wet sand, lay over Colleen’s shoulders and chest. The weight held her down, made it hard to breathe. Screaming was an option. Baring her teeth and snarling like a cornered leopard was an option. Spontaneous combustion was an option. And for one swift second it occurred to her there was another option: she might merely toss the bags and the sand and the stones right off her shoulders and let them hit
“Do you,” she said. “You need an answer this very minute?”
They nodded, like bobble-heads.
She knew what the right answer was. She understood she should take their help in her trembling, grateful palms; she should break down in girlish tears and thank them for their concern and consideration and tell them how long she’d been drinking against her own will (which might be true but was none of their fucking business) and she understood this was probably the moment when her life could be saved. She looked down at her hands, clutching the cheap package of tissues. There was a stain of some sort on the hem of her turtleneck. She hadn’t noticed it when she dressed this morning. It was something yellowish and crusty. Colleen imagined Moore and Minot—their names sounded like some snotty law firm—congratulating themselves as the taxi took her off to a rehab centre. She imagined Moore talking to his skinny, buck-toothed wife over a wine-and-candlelight dinner about poor Colleen Kerrigan and what an awful mess she was. She imagined the narrow cot in the shared rehab room, the linoleum floor, theshoddy dresser, the communal showers, and group therapy with droopy losers whining about finding a higher power and turning their lives over to God and heaven help her she’d slit her wrists with a fork.
“I’m very sorry my work hasn’t been up to snuff. I promise you’ll have no further cause for complaint, for any reason,” Colleen said.
“So you’ll take the help we’re offering?” asked Minot.
The woman must watch those reality shows on television with the snot-flying, tearful interventions for hopeless addicts, thought Colleen. She had the vocabulary down. Colleen had seen a few of them herself, enough to know that if you watched to the very end, the drunks and dopers all got thrown out of rehab, or left early, and ended up back on the bottle or the needle within months. What was the point, except to make the snivelling family members feel better, if only briefly?
“I’ve told you my work won’t be a problem. I think that’s all I should have to say.”
Moore blew out his cheeks and said, “So, you’re telling us you won’t go into treatment.”
“I’m telling you you’ll never have to worry about me and alcohol.”
“That’s not good enough at this point, Colleen. Your choice is rehab or having your employment here immediately terminated.”
“So, you’re telling me you care about me so much you’d fire me, leave me without a paycheque or references, with my mother in extreme difficulty and me her only caregiver, with no one to help me. That’s what you’re telling me and you think that’s right, thatit’s moral?” She heard the steely control in her voice, and she knew herself well enough to recognize the fury saddling up and getting ready to ride.
“Will you go to rehab, Colleen?” said Moore. “Say yes now, or I’m afraid this interview is over and you will be escorted from the building. Am I right, Ms. Minot?”
Minot’s expression of concern was like that of a bad soap-opera actress. So much care in it. So much practiced compassion. It felt as though something very heavy, like stones or bags of wet sand, lay over Colleen’s shoulders and chest. The weight held her down, made it hard to breathe. Screaming was an option. Baring her teeth and snarling like a cornered leopard was an option. Spontaneous combustion was an option. And for one swift second it occurred to her there was another option: she might merely toss the bags and the sand and the stones right off her shoulders and let them hit
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