He could go back to New York and continue being a workaholic, funding dopamine-pumping, brain-rewiring products. But Cord had to acknowledge that he was a wreck, freely using booze to avoid his misery. Was it profitable? Oh, yes. Was it sustainable? Maybe. But Cord was worn down. Adding to his mushed-to-a-nub feeling was a wild, uncomfortable hope that there was something more for him—a surprise ending, a plot twist.
He could go back to rehab. Cord had worked the Twelve Steps and he could work ’em again. He could call Handy or find a new sponsor. This would get him out of immediate danger.
Cord knew he should choose rehab over Manhattan. He went into Charlotte’s kitchen where—he guessed correctly—she had a big, fat phone book. Cord licked his thumb and turned to “R.”His local rehabilitation options were slim: Men’s Rez, Health Qwest, and Front Porch for Men, which sounded sexy but was assuredly not.
Cord put his head in his hands.Uuuuugh:the thought of intake, of a sterile room, of the twinge in his back that came when he sat in a metal chair. He didn’t want to hear about other alcoholics’ childhood traumas!Fuuuck.
The landline rang. “Yello?” he answered, slurping a microwaved mug of soup.
“Cord?”
“Regan,” he said. “Hey. You’re home?”
“I’m out of the hospital, yeah,” said Regan.
“How are you feeling?”
“I can’t stop,” whispered Regan.
“What?” said Cord.
“I can’t stop messaging him.”
Cord closed his eyes. “You mean the guy?” he said. “The guy on the internet?”
“Yeah.”
“OK,” said Cord. “I get it, Reeg. I can’t…”
“What?”
“I can’t stop drinking,” said Cord.
“Oh no,” said Regan.
“Yeah,” said Cord.
“Wait, Cord—why are you at Mom’s house?”
Cord paused. “I have no idea.”
Regan started to laugh. “We are a fucking mess,” she said.
“No, we’re not,” said Cord, reflexively. He added, “I saw Oprah being interviewed on TV. She wrote a book and she said something really smart. Something about, don’t ask what’s wrong with you, askwhat’s happened to you.”
“Hmmm,” said Regan. “Deep.”
“No, but seriously.” Cord sat in Charlotte’s wood-and-rattan dining chair, the last of a set, and rested his elbow on Charlotte’s little white desk, which had a great view of her bird feeder and the golf course. “I found your diaries in the bonus room,” said Cord. “Or scrapbooks, whatever you call them.”
“Collage,” said Regan, with a hint of pride.
Cord opened an album, looked at a photo montage of his own young face. Regan had created a circle of Cord pictures around a photo of herself, sleeping.
“François tells me I can be an artist,” said Regan. “He always texts back. I don’t feel alone. And he’s educated. He knows about art, helps me see what I’m doing. Without him…there isn’t anyone. Who sees me.”
“You said the same thing about Mr. Fucking Ragdale, your pedophile art teacher,” said Cord.
“What?”
