Sublime

At my worst, I even resented Nic because an addict, at least when high, has a momentary respite from his suffering. There is no similar relief for parents or children or husbands or wives or others who love them.

In the afternoon, Nic calls. He tells me everything—he has relapsed, is using meth and heroin. I have rehearsed my response. I shakily tell him that there’s nothing I can do. It’s up to him. I say that the police are searching for him, that his mother reported him missing to the Santa Monica police, and that the Marin sheriffs are patrolling our ho

How many nights had Sam spent in high school waiting for drugs to kick in, waiting for some promised effect to take him out of his reality into another one?

She calls me from the lounge. Nic has boarded the plane and it’s backing up from the jetway. I see her standing there with her cell phone to her ear, looking out the window. I see Nic on the plane. I see him as he is—frail, opaque, ill—my beloved son, my beautiful boy. “Everything,” I say to him. “Everything.” Fortunately there is a beautiful boy.