Rehab Doll

A short story about a D-list celebrity battling her inner demons in the first few hours after leaving detox.

I went to detox again. Fifth time. It always makes the news and embarrasses my parents, but you can’t be famous, make a spectacle of yourself, and fall off the wagon without the world noticing. No rehab program ever worked for me. The gaggle of shrinks at this last place said I am the problem, but they just don’t want to take responsibility for their failures. They’re supposed to fix you, but I always went home and broke again.

Whenever I leave a treatment center, I get high before the sun rises the next day. I go on talk shows and brag about how much I love life without drugs while my assistant waits in the limo with a freshly scored batch of pills. The rehab before this one lasted three days. I bitch-slapped an orderly because the kale in my salad wasn’t organic. The clinical director shoved me out the door and told me they don’t tolerate tantrums by has-been TV stars.  

My manager dropped me off at my Malibu mansion right before midnight tonight after I completed eight days in detox hell. Alone in my house, I leaned back on my couch and stared at the ceiling fan. Now what? I scrolled through my phone contacts, looking for a number that would make life bearable again. 

As if on cue, my doorbell rang. My security camera showed my favorite fentanyl salesman on my porch shifting from one foot to another. I sprinted to the door but stopped myself before I opened it. What if this time I made a different choice? I pressed the intercom button.

“Not interested. Go away,” I said with semi-confidence.

“Hey, girl, I’m holding. Open up!” said Stan.

I knew my resolve had an expiration date of only another few seconds. “I’m serious. Get out of here,” I replied.

Stan walked halfway down my sidewalk, stopped, and turned back. He looked directly at my doorbell camera and said, “Come on, angel. Since when do you say no?” This best friend to junkie celebrities like me pulled a baggie full of pills from his pants pocket and shook it like I rattle a bag of treats to get my cat’s attention. 

I turned my porch light off, but he stood his ground. I pressed a button on my smart home panel by the door. The underground sprinkler system kicked on, and several tiny fountains coated him with a heavy spray of water.

“What the fuck?” Stan turned and ran off my property.

I turned around and squeezed my eyes shut. Did I have the strength to keep from running after the man? If I chased temptation into the street and caught it, the old reliable high would kick in within minutes, and I would lose all ability to muster a single regret. 

I leaned my back against the door and slid slowly to the floor. I opened my eyes and saw my reflection in a dressing room mirror mounted to a pillar several feet away. My legs were splayed out haphazardly, the palm of one of my hands pressed sweat into the marble floor, and the other was clapped to my forehead. I looked like a doll tossed to the side by a toddler who found a toy more worthy of her attention. Like some baby doll left on the sidewalk exposed to the oncoming rain who had no one to shield her with their love. The kind of item people would cringe at, step over, and forget about two seconds later.

The silence in the house washed over me like a wave in danger of pulling me out to a choppy sea. I didn’t do well when left to my own intentions. My rehab case manager told me I should immediately transfer to a residential program without going home, but I knew better than her. I needed a sanity break before I hauled my Louis Vuitton luggage to another set of walls that held newly sober zombies in pens. Now, I regretted this choice. I had never felt so enveloped in loneliness as I did at this moment. Who would come to save me now? I had turned away Stan, the medicine man, and if I gritted my teeth and strained hard enough, I could feel some pride in that decision. Yet, it felt like jumping off a ship that was on fire with no lifeboat in sight and zero ability to swim. 

The grandfather clock by the staircase startled me when it chimed the news that it was one o’clock in the morning. Bong! For years, this beautiful wooden antique sat on the living room set of my old sitcom and was gifted to me by the producers when the show got canceled eight years ago.  I got on all fours and crawled like an infant to the clock. I sat cross-legged in front of it and started up at its face as if it would surely develop the ability to speak and impart the wisdom I desperately needed.

One minute after one o’clock. Four minutes after one. Nine minutes after one. Each minute ticked away, and with it, I banked one more minute of sobriety. By the time the half-hour approached, I could feel my eyes drooping. I didn’t want to leave the clock, which had now taken on the presence of a sentient being who had hypnotized me into not sabotaging myself yet again. 

My body began to ache for sleep, and my eyes filled with sleepy tears that kept me from seeing the time anymore. I pulled my hoodie off, wadded it into a mound, and set it down next to me. I laid down on my side and let the flannel strawberry-colored fabric cradle my head. I vaguely registered the Bong! that announced the arrival of two in the morning. Sleep took me like a lover in the night.

Tick tock. Tick tock. 

Just after dawn, I woke to see a stout woman in a grey dress standing over me. “Miss, are you okay?” 

Oh Jesus, had I OD’ed again and the paramedic was about to load me up on a stretcher? I sat up and tried to shake off the fog in my head. I stared at the woman until I recognized her as Marissa, my housekeeper, who had let herself in with her key to start her regular Tuesday routine. 

“I’m fine, yeah. Is there maybe some coffee?” I asked.

The woman nodded and headed for the kitchen. I stood up and felt overwhelmed by the aches in my bones built up from sleeping on a hard floor.

Bong!

I looked at the clock. It was eight a.m., which meant I had spent eight straight hours in my home sans a single pill. Sober, and I lived to tell the story. 

Marissa banged some cabinet doors in the kitchen looking for the coffee beans I favored. She called out, “Where do you want me to start today, Miss? Do you want me to clean the bedrooms first?” 

The question baffled me. What in the hell was I going to do today? I couldn’t ask her to sweep and mop around me while I pulled up a chair and stared at the grandfather clock like a talisman that willed me to stay clean.

“Just a minute,” I replied with obvious impatience in my voice. Several minutes later, Marissa served me a cup of coffee and waited for her instructions. “Hang on,” I said and took the cup of coffee to the half bath by the front door. I concentrated on my morning pee while I stared into the ornate oval mirror above the sink. My hair looked like a Halloween witch’s wig and the bags under my eyes could carry groceries. I flushed, pulled my phone out of my pocket, and scrolled names until I found one that looked promising and tapped the call icon. 

I spoke in a hushed tone because I felt embarrassed by my decision. “Be here in twenty minutes. Do not let me down, I fucking need you.”

I stepped out of the bathroom and ran smack into Marissa. “Start anywhere you want. I’m leaving,” I said.

“Will you be back soon? I can scrub the grout in this area but you have to stay off the floors for a couple of hours.” Marissa replied.

“Strip all the floors, I don’t care. I’m gonna be gone a long time. Probably a month,” I said. I chugged two molten mouthfuls of coffee, picked up my suitcase I left by the front door, and headed outside. I stood on the sidewalk and an OCD-like pattern of Bong! sounds played in my head while I waited. Right on time, my manager pulled up, and I folded myself into the front seat of his tiny sports car. 

“You want to tell me where I’m chauffeuring you?” he asked.

“Ocean… Shady Beach… um, shit, I don’t remember the name. The place that rehab quack wanted me to go,” I replied.

“The residential place? I thought you were blowing that off.”

“Change of plans,” I said. 

“You realize they require you to stay thirty days minimum, right?” My manager seemed to enjoy telling me things I originally told him. I didn’t respond. “It’s about an hour from here, you know.”

Bong!

“Just shut up and drive,” I said and slapped my sunglasses in place as he pulled into traffic.