Leggy Blonde: A Memoir by Aviva Drescher Read Free Book Online Page A

parents sat my brother and me down in our den. “Your mother has a drinking problem,” said Dad. I honestly did not understand what a “drinking problem” meant. I thought it meant drinking too many liquids. (Annnnnd . . . another blonde moment.) The tone reminded me of the time he told me I was going to have a few toes removed and I woke up with no foot. I thought he was downplaying the problem.
    “She’s going away to a treatment center for a few months to get help,” he said.
    “What treatment center?” I asked.
    “Phoenix House. It’s in Arizona.”
    I’d had enough geography to know that Arizona wasn’t within driving distance of New York City. Okay, so Dad was not downplaying the situation. It was serious.
    “Are we going, too?” asked Andre. He was seven.
    “We’re staying here,” he said.
    Andre looked crushed. He’d been passed between baby-sitters and relatives during the year following my accident. Mom and Dad had, by necessity, given me so much more attention. He was second born and second fiddle. I couldn’t blame him for any resentment he might have for me.
    I felt as devastated as my brother to lose Mom to rehab. Shewouldn’t be home for months? That was a long time for a kid, especially one as needy as I was.
    During the family meeting, Mom sat quietly, her hands in her lap, staring at the carpet. She let Dad do all the talking. I wasn’t sure if this was all his idea, but she certainly didn’t look happy about it. She was resigned. Maybe she thought it was a good idea, or she was just going through the motions to please Dad.
    I don’t remember exactly how her departure for rehab at Phoenix House went. She must have said good-bye, but I can’t recall. It did seem like she was home, and sick. And then she was gone. Disappeared. The house still smelled like her, which underscored her absence. I ached for her.
    A few days later, Dad came home with a golden retriever puppy. When I suffered a loss, be it limb or parent, Dad bought a dog. I named her Sandy. Clever had died a year or two earlier.
    My anxiety episodes got worse in severity and frequency. If Mom were home, she’d rush me to the doctor. But she wasn’t there. Those trips must have been a huge pain in the ass for her, and never amounted to anything but a dismissal by the doctors. My mom was my panacea. My rock. With her gone, I was more vulnerable. When my mother was in Arizona, we relied on our baby-sitter. As cool as Carmen was, though, her attention wasn’t remotely comparable to Mom’s. She also favored my brother. So I would go to my room, lie down, and struggle to breathe until I could.
    A week or so after Mom left, Carmen sent me on an errand to Pioneer Supermarket for milk and bread. It was on Seventy-third Street and Columbus, a five-minute walk from our apartment building. I’d made that walk hundreds of times. The avenue block between Central Park West and Columbus was long, with no stores to populate it, and empty of people that afternoon.
    Suddenly, I felt outside of myself and very weird. Nothing specific triggered the sensation. I wasn’t reacting to a car horn, a loud noise, or a bolt of lightning. I was fine, and then, in the snap of a finger . . . not .
    My hands turned clammy, my heart raced, my breathing became rapid and shallow, I broke out in a sweat, and I thought I was going to die. The fight-or-flight reaction hit me full force. My instincts were screaming run! I took off at full speed (for me), sprinting to Columbus Avenue, toward stores and pedestrians. Being among people felt better. I put my hands on my knees and bent down. Slowly, my heart quieted. My breaths deepened. The panic passed. I never thought it would pass and I seriously thought I was going to have a heart attack or die.
    I got the bread and milk at Pioneer and went home. I didn’t tell anyone what happened. I thought I’d gone crazy for two minutes and felt ashamed. Those two minutes felt like an hour. I definitely didn’t