On a Hummingbird

An excerpt from my memoir, Little Apocalypses Everywhere

The first day back at school after rehab I was in a new dorm with a new roommate. She was nice and stable and not an addict. We shared a walk-through double and I got the back room. It was a Trappist monk’s paradise, a tiny space with only enough room for a bed and a desk. No window. No phone. I had a stack of records but no record player. I had my Big Book and my Bible. I had a suitcase of clothes and a Brother word processor but no computer. I had a copy of The Rule of St. Benedict given to me by Sister Ruth when I was in high school. I would pray. I would trust. I would give myself over to God. In this tiny town in this small liberal arts college in this dusty dorm in this cramped little room, I would try.

St. Benedict’s rule was created for monastics but over the centuries it inspired the most devout Catholics to live a life committed to work and prayer. Each moment, each action, each breath was dedicated to God. I knew I wasn’t going to stay sober alone. Transcendence was only available through the Holy. Work as hard at staying sober as you did at getting high, my drug counselor Sue told me. I was going to get right with God, and I was going hard. 

But first I would have to figure out how to tell my friends. I’d have to tell Dean.

Dean was my dreamy boyfriend with the reluctant smile and squinty eyes. He looked just like Christian Slater in the movie Heathers. And I was Wynona Ryder. We were the only ones who understood each other, the only ones in on the joke, too cool for school. But we weren’t headed for self-destruction. We had found one another as kindred spirits, already destroyed. Together we drank to oblivion, smoked weed and huffed nitrous and ate mushrooms. We attempted to avoid sobriety entirely. We weren’t just dating. It was deeper than that. We were drug buddies. We kept one another alive.

I was an excellent drug buddy, willing to go to any crappy basement hole of a place and do any drug we could afford. But I was a terrible girlfriend. Once I came out of a blackout standing over Dean, kicking him in the head while he lay in an alleyway in the fetal position. We were both crying. The argument had been about the size of his ex-girlfriend’s breasts. After that, we swore we would never drink tequila again. 

Walking through campus to Dean’s dorm room the memories of my mistakes swirled around me. My legs moved like stale marshmallows. I was supposed to be on the lookout for triggers and I could feel them lurking. This whole place was a trigger. I reminded myself I could be proud. The insanity was over. I had it together. I was well.

I had tried to memorize Chapter 4 from St. Benedict’s Rule, “The Instruments of Good Works.” In it Benedict outlined a list he considered the essential tools of the spiritual arts. All I could remember was the last line. And never to despair of the mercy of God.

Dean was standing at the door to his room. Before I could enter, he stopped me. 

“Sit down here,” he said. He had a large wingback chair, threadbare and tatty, a perfect thrift store find, probably from his mom. I sat down in it. “I have a present for you. A belated Christmas, early birthday present.” I tried to protest but he held up his hands. “I saw it in the window of a shop and just knew you had to have it. After everything you’ve been through, you deserve it.” I wanted my eyes to well up with tears because I knew this was the appropriate response, but I wasn’t yet able to connect with real feeling. Sue had assured me it would return eventually. Pleasurelessness sometimes lasts for months, she said. Dean didn’t notice. He pulled a guitar case out from under his bed.

“A guitar?” Genuine emotion stirred in my chest. It was hard to breathe. I had always wanted to learn to play. For most of high school, musician boyfriends had relegated me to the front row cheering section or the backroom make-out section or the backseat fuck section. This was real. It was as if Pinocchio’s fairy godmother had appeared in her sparkling blue dress and said you have proved yourself brave, truthful, unselfish… never despair of the mercy of God.

Dean opened the guitar case and inside was the most beautiful instrument. It was a Dixon Hummingbird: steel string acoustic with a faded cherry sunburst body and an inlay etched with a hummingbird and flowers. He laid the guitar on my lap. We were both silent. I couldn’t even touch it.

“I’ve never been given something like this,” I said. 

“I’ll teach you,” he said. “But there’s another thing first.” 

He paused and took a breath. Something in the air changed. The blue fairy vanished. My soaring heart became a lead sinker. Had he looked me in the eyes once since I’d entered the room? He was avoiding them now. This was the sort of moment alcohol was made for. 

“I started shooting heroin while you were in rehab,” he said “and I need to dose. You can stay if you want. I’ll understand if you don’t.” I thought of Sue, of Johnny and Tonya and all the people from rehab. I was supposed to be aware of triggers. Maybe it would’ve been easier to identify the things that weren’t triggers. They were called glimmers. The guitar was a glimmer. It could save me.

I got up from the chair with my instrument of salvation cradled in my arms and sat down next to Dean on the bed. He put one arm around me. The guitar felt heavy on my lap. Dean’s arm felt heavy on my shoulder. Despair felt thick and heavy in the air all around us. 

“I’ll stay.” I said. Dean squeezed my shoulder and then moved to the chair. I sat on the bed and watched as he went through the ritual of pulling out his rig, cooking up the dope, tying off his arm. I looked down when he took the hit. The hummingbird had its long beak pierced deep into the heart of a trumpet flower. Dean sighed. I looked up and he was sitting back in the chair with his eyes closed, his arms outstretched to either side. The rubber tie hung loosely off one arm. The rig was on his lap. I wanted to ask him how it felt but I stopped myself. I stroked the hummingbird. The grooves of the etching were hard and deep. 

“You should learn G and C first,” he said. His eyes were still closed, and his voice was liquid. I was going to learn to play.