Another night, another flight

It's not snowing out, it's raining. I'm working late, alone in my just-downsized office that smells of paint and newly displaced dust. Moving again, downsizing again.

Waiting for Logan to arrive from Cali again.

This time it's for the entering of the plea. I'd thought this would be the last thing: closure, at long last. Nope. Wrong-o. Yet one more after this; the sentencing. Don't know how long till that comes up.

I'm tired folks, bone tired. And now my stable Joe has crap going on, too. I just kinda feel like withdrawing: an island. That's what I want to be. Land, alone. Nothing but gently lapping waves and occasional seagulls bumping against me. Solitude: just me to take care of, no one else.

Yeah, right. In my dreams.

Nope. I wake from the image, stand up, and pick up a paintbrush. I'm here, I'm now. And this office needs one more red wall before I go home, don't you think?

##

Who knows?

Adriana said:

In my opinion, Thursday's show was a draw. They both looked bad. Oprah looked like a scorned shrew and Frey appeared a deer in the headlights. I also think the attacks are ultimately misplaced - the publishers should be the ones being crucified. Finally, last thought, I noticed today that Frey's book is still an "Oprah" book. I wonder how long before she finally pulls it?


I think I agree that the publishers should be the ones taking the blame. After all, they are the ones who advised him on how to classify the book. What's he, a pubbing expert? I don't think so.

Except. Except for his verbal professions that it was all truth, honest injun. And I didn't see him making those, just heard about it. But still. Hard to exonerate him from those claims.

Doncha bet he's lying in bed at night now going, Uh, what the hell just happened? Then again, maybe he's lying there reviewing his increased sales for the day. Hard to tell.

Update: Check out this interesting link by an agent about Frey's publisher's reaction.

##

My, my, that Frey

No comments on my own situation yet, but here's what's happening with the now-thoroughly-spanked Frey. I missed the show, goddammitt, but from what I hear, he did not come across well. At all.

##

Holding pattern

I have to apologize for being so un-bloggy lately. Something significant is going on over here...but I can't write about it. Not yet. And everything else seems trivial by comparison.

More to come, maybe in a few days.

##

A short walk from Starbucks

I've been calling Logan every couple days lately. He always seems glad to hear from me, and always wants to talk. That is SUCH a massive change. The other night when I called he sounded rushed.

I can hear, in the background, one of his former counselors. Where are you that he is? I ask. By Starbucks, he says, near the Community Club. Oh, I say, Are you going to many AA meetings? I'm on my way into one right now, he says. And sure enough, I can hear the loud chatter of the group as he enters the building. God. Nobody is requring him to go to meetings, no one is logging his vistis. Yet he goes, carryout coffee in hand. Logan, babe, I say, good job. Good job.

Entering of the plea is a week from Monday; dear god, may he not go back to jail after all the progress he's been making.

##

A busy one

Vat a veekend, folks, vat a veekend. Worked most of it, then opened the week by having to let one of my key employees go. Yikes; never had to do that before, and it sucks. For all of us.

Today I put in 12 hours, trying to do both his job and mine. I plan to hold down the fort for about a month before deciding whether I'll replace him or just trim the department. So I guess I have a few weeks of HAAAARD work in front of me. Best go to bed and rest up, I had.

Later!

##

More on Frey

Another interesting article on the Frey developments, here. What else could Oprah have said, really, and maintained her dignity? Although I thought I heard an edge of irritation in her voice. Not that I'm an Oprah expert, far from it.

##

Frey

So...who's been following the Frey mess, and what do you think? I asked Logan, fresh out of jail and rehab himself, and he'd never heard of the guy. I'm super-curious what Oprah -- and all of you -- have to say. Me, you know who I feel sorry for, don't you? Frey's mother.

##

Blue sky again

You see that, folks? That is blue sky. Blue sky. We haven't seen that around here for almost three weeks. I feel like I should go outside and roll around in it or something, to quote my oldest kiddo.

Interesting moment last night, but first, the night before: Logan, home visiting from Cali, went out with some guy friends, out to a bar to play pool. There he found other friends playing poker. I'd said he had to be home by midnight, and he'd agreed. At 11:30 I woke up, sure something was wrong. You know the feeling. I called him to say, "You must be on your way home by now." He didn't pick up. Gave me a strange mixture of panic and anger. I sat down on the couch to wait, magazine in hand. Five minutes later, the phone rang and it was him.

"Did you call me, Mom?"

"Yes. Why didn't you pick up?" Envisioning him smoking weed or worse in a crowded room, oh shit, my mom called.

"Because I didn't hear the phone." Sounding innocent, background noise evident, so not in a house.

"You must be almost on your way home." Changing tacks.

"Yeah. We're leaving right now."

He got home half an hour later, me sitting on the couch with the same magazine. We talked, he told me who he'd seen. Nothing seemed wrong or out of place, not overtly. He played with the dog, we had some light banter about her. I hugged him goodnight, he smelled smoky but nothing else.

And yet I went to bed troubled, not sure if my troubledness was due to my own suspicion or to a gut instinct you get after a while with an addicted child. See, there was something...weird...it's hard to describe. Some over-the-top-ness to his banter. Just a tiny bit, just shades of what he used to do when he was high. Some not-letting-go in the conversation. A pursuing of a topic after it's dead, after you're tired of it and want to move on. A not-knowing-when-to-stop-ness.

But it was minor. So, so minor. Like on a cloudy day: are there shadows? Not really. He could've had a hit on a joint, or he could've just been jazzed from being out with friends. So I went to bed and scolded myself for being over the top myself, suspecting anything. My last thought before going to sleep was, "But on the other hand, if you feel it in your gut, it's probably right."

And I felt it in my gut.

Okay, so fast forward to the next night, last night.

He was with his brother during the afternoon, then his dad in the evening. He came home around 9 and went to see a friend, a girl we all really like a lot, who he hadn't seen in maybe a year, a girl he couldn't see while he was dating the now-pregnant former girlfriend. He was home by 10:30, when my hubby was asleep on the couch and I was just headed to bed. Well shit, you can't just go to sleep. So I rubbed my eyes and told hubby to go to bed without me. He did, but stayed awake playing solitaire and putzing in the bedroom. Logan was in on the computer, and seemed quiet, withdrawn. I went in to sit with him: "Whatcha doin?"

"How do I register for college?" He's online, the Cali college web site up, the registration page staring at him.

"You want to do it now?" Random, but great. We've been encouraging him to register for a couple months now.

He starts going through the form, filling it out slowly. I kneel on the floor beside him, watching him fill out the form and answering occasional questions. He's slow on the uptake, and I can't help but flash back to this one time when he was working for me, high as a kite but before I knew about the heroin use, and I can't help reliving how he acted that day. Slow, slow, studying every minutiae I explained. Makes me shiver in disgust and horror, remembering and wondering how I could've not known. God.

He looks up. "What's my zip code in Cali?"

I think. "Hmm. Wait, it's written in my notebook. I'll go get it."

I get up and walk into the living room, and suddenly I am hit with a smell. Stops me dead in my tracks. Like super-sweet tobacco. Pot? Words of my sister's come back to me: once you smell that smell, you never forget it. I grew up sheltered, never smelled it until my kids used it, and even then they masked it with incense. All I know is this smell wafting through my living room is somehow associated with pot, which inevitably has led Logan back to heroin.

I'm still standing dead still in the middle of the living room, and now I step carefully to the left, the right. Where is that smell coming from? I go slowly to the car to get the notebook, sniffing all the way. It's strongest near the computer room, where Logan is. Goddamn it. Goddamn it.

I go back in to the computer room and hand him the notebook. Now I don't smell it.

Shit, I tell myself. Frankie, give it up. Nothing is going on. It's your imagination. Yet...is there some slowness to Logan's ability to fill out the form? He skips questions, asks how to answer certain obvious ones, stumbles on "birthplace; city and state/country." He knows the town where he was born, duh, and fills it in quickly, but gets stuck on what else they want in that field. I stumble too, with whether the answers are only obvious to me, whether a non-high 20-year-old knows how to answer that. God. Is that my gut talking again? God, god, god. I HATE this, this suspicion, this fear he'll slip up, this responsibility that's suddenly mine whenever he's home in my house.

Eventually he finishes the form, and suddenly seems normal again. Not slow, not weird, not over the top or depressed. Just completely normal. He asks to use the laptop, which hubby is using, to check email since the one in the computer room has an old browser and can't read certain sites. I hesitate, but know hub won't mind, so go in to ask him if he's almost finished playing solitaire.

And am hit in the face with that smell again.

I stand in the middle of the bedroom. "Why does it smell like super-sweet tobacco in here?"

Hub looks up, brightly. "Oh. You mean like incense? I lit some incense matches I had, to see what they smelled like. You can smell that?" He sniffs. "My cold must be worse than I thought. I don't smell a thing."

He hands me the laptop and I give it to Logan, feeling foolish. Thank god I didn't say anything to him. He pokes his head around me, into the bedroom and toward hub. "Hey, thanks for letting me use this."

Which bowls me over agin. Okay, forget what I said. He's not high or anywhere close to it. When he's high, he's self-absorbed and never notices anything anyone does for him. You could slit open your wrists to give him blood and he'd walk away without thanking you.

No, he's not high. He's, apparently, just bad with online registration forms.

And I, apparently, am bad with the gut.

So I guess you could say this story has a happy ending. I climb into bed and hub pulls me close, rubs circles in that spot on my temple like he does. "Did you have a nice time with Logan this evening?"

I nod into his shoulder. "Yes, love. I did." I pause. "But do you mind if I throw away those incense matches?"

The rubbing on my temple stops. "Sure, that's fine. But why?"

"It's a long story."

##

Saved by the flu

Jane asks:

"So how did Thursday night go?"

To which I reply (if you're talking about Logan going out): "There is a god." The party was canceled; the hostess didn't feel well. Whew. He went out anyway, to a girl's house he knows. Came home when he said he would -- half an hour early, in fact. He's just gone out again now, tonight, with different friends. We talked about the dangers of him screwing up before his plea is entered in two weeks. He seemed sincere when he said he'd be fine. His counselor called earlier tonight, and I asked her how she felt about him hanging with old friends. She said that he's proven himself trustworthy the last few times he's been out, so reward that. Okay, then, but boy, feels kind of scary and slippery.

##

And on, and on

The stray sits on the floor, twitching his tail, reminding me that life goes on, good things replace bad ones, and even loss is survivable.

Logan comes home tonight for what would have been his pretrial but now will be a pre-shoulder-surgery doctor visit. He just called, wants to attend a party tonight right after getting in. I know the kids -- there will be drinking and pot, fairly certain of that, but hopefully nothing harder. Made him promise he'd only stay an hour. Sigh. He's almost 21 yet I must still dictate when and where he goes? Not sure what my role is, here. "Mother of heroin addict foolishly permits kid to attend party." Or, "Mother of heroin addict releases kid on his own recognizance." I dunno, I dunno! THIS KIND OF STUFF DRIVES ME BATTY.

##

Update: Pretrial news

Just got the news: my son's been admitted to the diversionary program, the only one out of all the cases discussed by the attny/DA today. He will be a convicted felon on the drug charges for 5 years, after which, if he stays out of trouble, his record will be wiped clean. He skips the pretrial on Monday, but must fly across the country to appear for the plea on Jan 30. He may have another 30 days jail time at that time. He must pick a permanent residence by the 30th, and they might allow it to be in California, not sure. My ex told me all this, followed by how he can't be "expected" to pay for Logan to stay in CA for 5 years, so he should come home to the Midwest. Followed by a discussion about how much money has been spent on his medical care, followed by discussion about his painfully disfigured shoulder and whether he should have surgery, followed by followed by followed by.

My head is spinning. This is positive news overall, I think, but I'm sitting here stunned nonetheless. Maybe because all day I've been writing on assignment about the creepy/scary/heavy topic of teaching your kid to escape abduction, and I'm just feeling weirded out anyway. Maybe it's the "convicted felon" part, which I thought was part of the deal, that he wouldn't be one. Maybe it's the prospect of more jail time for him. I don't know. Maybe it's anger because Mr. Moneybags-Ex wants to put a limit on how much he'll spend for his kid.

* * *

Update:
Logan just called, upbeat. That was endearing, that he called me as soon as he heard the news. He sounds good, and he must've heard in my voice that I didn't, because he was trying to reassure me: "Don't worry, Mom. If I have to go back to jail I'll be okay." Then he says, all surprised, "Dad wants me to get surgery for my shoulder, now!" Which was my idea, me pestering his dad to get it done, but hey, if daddio gets credit, who am I to complain? The kid is worth the money and trouble: so, so fucking worth it.

##

How hard is it to pick up the goddamn telephone?

Goddamn freaking attorney won't return our calls. What are the possible outcomes of this pretrial? Will it help to have family there? What are the odds my kid can fly back to his home/job in Cali on Tuesday? Will he possibly be prohibited from leaving the South immediately after the decision is made? Have to find a spot to live in a new state immediately? Would it help if he enrolls in college in Cali this week? Is the damn guy still our attorney? Did nuclear war occur in his state and that's why he won't return our calls?

Sheesh.

##

In the middle of the night

I'm starting to have moments of panic about the trial, which occurs next Monday. Actually it's a pretrial, but apparently that's when everything happens and decisions are made. I laid in bed for a while last night, somewhat panicky and trying to stuff all my "other" worries back in some inner laundry basket. They tend to want to leap out at such moments, unbidden and unwanted, and force themselves into the worry scene: my god, the finances! My god, the youngest son! My god, the business! My god, my blood pressure! So the end effect is this massive, uncontrollable worry-scene where EVERYTHING looks black and awful and positively mind-boggling, to the point I'm not even worrying about my kid's trial anymore. I dunno, maybe it's self-defense of some sort, so I don't worry about the REAL, almost-here issue. I never like to wake my husband up at such times: why disturb him, too? So I lie there, staring at the ceiling and breathing shallow, panic-laced batches of night air.

What brought it on (I think), was that just before I went to bed, I reached a part in the book I'm reading where the main character goes to jail. The descriptions hit me, hard. He had a cavity-search? Oh my god, did Logan have that done? Will he have it done again if he goes back to jail? What about prison, which is so much worse, if he screws up drug court?

So I'm a little tired today. And worried.

##

Happy New One

Happy 2006, everyone! May it be for you a year of peace, joy, and resolutions actually kept (at least a few). Me, I have a house full of sleeping teenage boys left over from last night's party, so it's off to make pancakes for me.