22
TATUM
AUGUST 2009
The lobby of Commitments is hushed, with a waterfall fountain nearly the only noise, the receptionist and intake nurse working soundlessly behind the desk. Sunlight from the skylight on the ceiling illuminates the eggshell walls, photographs of the ocean and landscapes adorning them. Fresh flowers spill atop the side tables next to the cozy couches where only a solitary family sits, looking both gray and grave, clutching the arm of a young man who is obviously on his way in.
Dr. Wallis greets us with a firm handshake that evolves into a bear hug.
“One of my best success stories,” he says, grabbing my dad’s hand, wrapping him in his arms as well.
“You guys saved my life,” my dad says, his eyes tearing as they always do now. Some people drink and get emotional. My dad got sober and now has never been more in touch with his softer side.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Good, good.” Dr. Wallis nods, ushering us through the glass door, out of the lobby into the facility. “We are making real progress. This extra time was a gift for him.”
We point ourselves down the silent hall, our heels clicking against the hard wood, toward his office, where my father and I have spent so many hours rehabilitating ourselves, our relationship too. We’re here for Leo today, but when you return to a place that, well, “saved your life,” it’s hard not to be awash in gratitude for much more. My dad wipes his cheeks and shakes his head as Dr. Wallis guides us into the family meeting area.
Ben doesn’t know we’ve come. His last time down here, two weeks ago, hadn’t gone well, and Leo had requested just me this time. Leo’s thirty days had evolved into sixty, and Ben hadn’t understood why he wasn’t just . . . better. It was surprising coming from my husband, whom I’d fallen in love with at least in part because of his kindness, his expansive heart: his devotion to Monster, his patience with Joey, who favors me. Yet Ben still tries to feed Joey most nights, though the boy mostly throws the food against the wall. Ben doesn’t get angry; he doesn’t flip the high chair tray in frustration like I might. He just points to the wall and tells Monster to start licking, to enjoy the buffet, and then he kisses Joey’s forehead and says: “I get it, Joe. Dads are complicated. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
But with Leo, he is different, clinical. There is none of the patience I’d expect, little of the compassion. Not brotherly like he used to be, but paternal in the way that I imagine his own dad was. Namely, cooler, less affectionate, less tolerant of speed bumps too. We argued about it when Dr. Wallis had first called, explaining that Leo felt too fragile to leave after just a month, explaining that another few weeks would make him less likely to relapse.
Of course Ben understood that. That we wanted to do everything we could to ensure Leo would stay clean. It wasn’t like Ben was unfeeling, but he seemed to think that you could work your way out of addiction, that if you put in enough effort, like maybe you would on a script, then you’d get the end result you desired. And if you didn’t—if you didn’t commit yourself in the way that was necessary, then of course you’d fail, and you’d have only yourself to blame.
“He’s been clean, he’s been through the program,” Ben said when he hung up with Dr. Wallis last month. “He should get back to the stability of his life, the structure. It’s what my dad was always saying about him: Leo had too much freedom, too much time on his hands, which never led to anything good.”
“That’s not how it works,” I said. “He needs to feel ready. They’re giving him the tools there. And you’re selling him short, Ben. He’s done well with his life—it’s not like he’s destitute.”
Ben sighed, and though his back was to me while he chopped a pepper, I could almost sense him rolling his eyes. I retrieved the chicken breasts from the fridge, dropped them on the counter, grabbed a mallet to pound them. This was our new ritual—cooking dinner together, our way to spend time together. Between my time on set and the time at home when I had to read scripts or run to a junket or prep for a photo shoot, we were losing track of each other. On the rare days I had off, Ben was either in the Alcatraz writers’ room or tweaking Reagan, which he had once asked me to read—I used to read all of his early work—but now said wasn’t ready for review. I knew it was: I knew he’d shown it to Eric, had a draft out to Spencer, and I wondered if, with my success, he somehow wanted something just for himself. But I didn’t ask, I didn’t press him. It was easier not to point out the growing divergence in our power and acclaim, as if not illuminating it meant it wasn’t there in the first place.
I unwrapped the chicken, laid it on the cutting board. “God, you work in this industry, Ben, you’ve met a million people in recovery, how are you not at least a little more sympathetic?”
“I am sympathetic, Tatum.” The knife rattled against the counter. “I just think . . . listen, Leo’s never wanted to do the work with anything, and I just think it’s probably the same here.”
“Do you hear what an asshole you sound like?”
Ben squeezed the rim of the counter until his knuckles turned white; then he faced me.
“Yes, I hear what an asshole I sound like, OK? But you didn’t grow up with him, you weren’t there when he was busted for cheating his junior year or when I found his pot stash and covered for him with my parents.” He waved a hand. “I just think he needs to take responsibility for himself. And when he’s in there, he’s not.”
“You don’t get this at all.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he snapped. “I don’t ‘get it’ because you and your dad are like, the gurus? I’m not saying it’s a fucking vacation in there, Tatum. I’m just saying that you don’t know my brother like I know my brother, and if he can get a helping hand so he doesn’t have to do the really gut-wrenching difficult work, he will.” He shook his head. “And if my dad were here, he’d say the exact same fucking thing.”
“Ben, your dad’s not here, and you don’t have to act like you are somehow his replacement.”
He stared at me for too long a beat, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to explode or weep. He did neither.
“Listen,” he said, his voice rising only to a low tremor because neither one of us wanted to wake Joey. I had an early call time, and Ben wanted to use the evening to write, so these child-free hours were precious, too valuable to wreck even for a fight. “In fact, I did promise my dad that I’d look after him, and God knows even as an adult, Leo needs a minder, a keeper. And my mom has been through e-fucking-nough, so even if I don’t want to be a hard-ass with him, even if I didn’t exactly ask for this, that’s what I’m doing.”
“Ben—” I interrupted.
He kept on. “Leo’s not your dad, Tatum, and Leo’s not your blood, and it’s not your responsibility to look after him. It’s mine. So with all due respect, you can’t, like, therapy your way to happiness in this one.”
“What does that even mean? What are you even talking about?”
“That you and your dad seem to think that you know everything here, that I can’t do what’s best for my own brother. You go down there, to Commitments, have this cozy relationship with the staff, hell, your dad is practically on their brochures . . .”
“And that’s a problem for you?”
He turned back toward the stove, clicked on the burner, rattled the pan on top.
“No,” he said. “It’s only a problem for me when you try to tell me how to deal with my own brother, when I’ve let you deal with your own father without butting in.”
“I didn’t realize that you wanted to butt in,” I said.
“I don’t. But it was never discussed with me: him living in our guesthouse for a year, him being such a new and heavy influence in our marriage.”
“He’s my father, Ben!”
“And he’s my brother, Tatum. Don’t you see how you can’t have it both ways: make these decisions without me for your dad, and yet insist that you know best with Leo?”
Ben sliced off an enormous pat of butter, though he knew I was on a rigid diet for As You Like It, and plopped it in the pan. He stood there frozen, waiting for this to drive the wedge further into our evening.
Finally he said: “Tate, you know me. You think I want to be like this? You think I am the type of guy to not give him the benefit of the doubt if it was at all reasonable?”
I considered this, and it was true. If anyone could make room for empathy, it had always been Ben. But before I could reply, he said:
“So you have to do this my way. That’s it. I’m not negotiating on my own brother.”
And so I swung up the cutting board, dumped the peppers onto the pan, and said: “Since we’re doing everything your way, I’m going to read my lines. Just leave me dinner in the fridge.”
Our child-free evening turned into an adult-free evening as well.
Today, at Commitments, Leo greets us with a hug that is tighter than the one from Dr. Wallis. He is skinny and disheveled, but his skin glows and his smile fans all the way to his eyes. He sinks into the white couch in the family meeting area.
“Thanks for coming all this way,” he says. Then: “Does Ben know you’re here?”
I shake my head.
“Thanks for that too. I don’t want to fight with him.” He rubs his eyes, and it occurs to me that Ben is fighting so many of us these days. I think of my husband, alone in the kitchen chopping peppers, and part of me wants to race home, lean in and listen, try to figure out what’s ailing him too. It’s not like I wasn’t angry with my father for a long time, it’s not like I can’t remember what it feels like to be furious at someone for wrecking their life. It’s just that giving in, being less obstinate, was probably easier for me because I was always more malleable than Ben, like I have an emotional spigot that I turn on and access. I’m an actor, after all. Being malleable is my calling card.
“I should probably tell him when we get back,” I say. “I don’t want him to think that I’m keeping things from him.”
“OK,” Leo says, nodding.
“But we’ll do what’s best for you,” my dad says in his best sober coach voice.
“I don’t want him to be angry with me,” Leo says. “It’s not helping. Like, he comes down here, and it’s just all You need to get back to work, or Take responsibility for this. It stresses me out. Like he can’t understand that he’s not my dad.”
A small voice in me wants to say, Stop blaming your brother for your own choices, but I’m pretty sure that’s Ben’s voice from a few nights ago, so I say instead:
“It’s fine, Lee, don’t worry. I won’t tell him anything you don’t want me to. What matters is getting you better.”
“Thanks, Tate. Thank you.” He eases back into the couch. “Then let’s keep this between us right now. I hate to ask, but maybe it can just be our secret?”
I nod. “Sure, OK.”
And with that, I learn how easy it is to betray my husband.