44 Mending Fences
FORTY-FOUR
Mending Fences
I’d hidden away, afraid of others’ judgment, while Brian and I were together, but I decided I was ready to come out of my shell and see my family.
Mom and Jansen told me they were in Florida visiting Aunt Jana and my Grandma Vogel—who was in her late eighties and was living with Jana—and Mom asked if I’d like to come visit.
“I’d love that, Mom,” I said. “I’ve missed you guys.”
The day before I was supposed to get on the plane, Mom called.
“Hayden, I need to warn you that shit’s going down here,” she said.
My optimism about the trip suddenly faded. “What kind of shit?” I asked.
Mom entered stage whisper mode. “Jansen and I are fighting.”
“I’m so sorry, Mom. What do you need? How can I help?”
“I need you to talk with him. Please.”
I agreed, and a few minutes later I heard the sound of my brother’s voice.
“Uh, hey,” Jansen said. “You coming down here to visit?”
“That’s the plan,” I answered. “But can you please tell me what’s going on with you and Mom?”
Jansen sighed. “We got in a fight, and she got in my face, and one thing led to another.”
Visions of Mom and Dad after the Whaleman party flashed into my mind, and I immediately pushed the uncomfortable memories away. “What does that mean, Jansen? Can you please tell me?”
“Okay, fine,” Jansen answered, and then he let the words spill out. “She was up in my face, and I didn’t like it, so I grabbed the back of her head to push her away. Mom started squirming, and then she slid forward and fell. I grabbed at the last minute and stopped her from getting hurt, and—”
“You did what?” I interrupted, suddenly triggered by the thought of a man laying his hands on a woman.
“The head grab was sort of a Krav Maga move,” Jansen said. “I just reacted. I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, but you do not lay your hands on Mom.” Jansen was one of the kindest souls I’d ever met, and this wasn’t like him. He and Mom were so close—sometimes closer than I was with either of my parents. But nothing justified what he’d done.
“I know,” he answered.
“I don’t care what Mom did,” I added. “Apologize to her. And get your act together.”
I hung up the phone and tried to figure out what I should do.
I realized had two choices: 1) I could fly down to Florida to see my family, who was in the midst of yet another crisis, or 2) Newly sober me could put the gas mask on and breathe pure, clean oxygen while the plane made an emergency landing.
Whatever happened outside of my personal space was completely out of my control.
The only thing I could control were my own thoughts and actions.
If Jansen and Mom wanted to Krav Maga themselves off a cliff, that was up to them.
I called Mom back.
“Hey, how are things going?” I asked. “Are you feeling okay?”
Mom sighed. “I’m fine, sweetie. Whatever you said to your brother made him apologize. It’s just… I worry about your brother. He’s just not himself.”
“I know, Mom,” I answered. “Jansen is the heart and soul of this family, and when he’s out of sorts, we all are. I’m sorry he hurt you. That’s the bigger issue.”
“Well, moving on,” Mom said, ready to muscle through tough times as always. “When can we expect you?”
I hesitated before I started talking. “I’m so sorry, Mom, but I can’t come. I’ve been out of treatment for, like, five days. I just can’t be around this kind of chaos. I love you all, but I just can’t handle it right now.”
I braced myself, waiting for Mom to let me have it.
“It’s okay. I understand. You have to take care of yourself.”
This was a new side of Mom I hadn’t seen in a long time.
While I’d been in treatment and we’d grown distant, she had clearly been doing just fine without me.
I wasn’t disappointed. I loved her, so I’d set her free.
What came back around was the calm Mom. The Mom in control.
The Mom who—when shit hit the fan—wanted to act to make things better.
I had missed this Mom.
The truth was it wasn’t just Mom who was worried about Jansen.
Dad was, too. After Jansen left college, he’d moved back in with Mom.
When he got a job, he moved out, taking all his belongings with him.
One of those belongings was a four-foot bong.
I had no problem with Jansen smoking weed, but a four-foot bong seemed like overkill.
We lived in California, home of legal recreational marijuana since 2018.
Anyone over eighteen could smoke marijuana on the street using a four-inch vape pen—and believe me, they did, all the time.
Why, then, would anyone in their right mind need a four-foot bong?
After a few years in LA—during which time I met Brian—Jansen floundered.
First, he fell in with a group of friends Mom, Dad, and I weren’t crazy about, including one woman who “borrowed” his car and didn’t bring it back until I called her up and read her the riot act.
He also didn’t have much money, so Dad footed the bill for almost everything, including his rent.
One day, Dad got a call from Jansen’s landlord, who said she was concerned that Jansen was spending too much time inside, all by himself. So, Dad called Jansen up.
“Jan, why don’t you just come home and live in New York, okay? We can figure things out here.”
Jansen said yes, and we all crossed our fingers that going home would make his life right again.
So far, things weren’t looking good. Jansen had been doing odd jobs to make money and was hanging out with all the wrong people—again.
One day, while Jansen was in the shower in his apartment, one of these friends overdosed on heroin in his living room.
When my brother dried off and went out to talk to him, he saw his friend lying on the floor.
Jansen called 911 and performed CPR, and—by some miracle—the friend lived.
Jansen was a hero, but he was also late to work, and his boss gave him hell for it.
On the bright side, Jansen was painting more than ever, and the work he produced was extraordinary. But other than that, my stomach was constantly in knots that he was messing up his life.
I FaceTimed Jansen one day to check in. When he answered, he didn’t seem like himself.
“Jansen, are you okay?” I asked. “You seem kind of… I don’t know… jumpy.”
“I’m fine,” he answered, “I was just up way late last night and had a little too much coffee this morning. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I’m sorry I didn’t go to Florida.”
“Yeah well, Mom and I were fighting, so I get why you didn’t want to come. No big deal…”
There’s that fidgeting again, I thought, noticing how he shifted and twitched. Something’s up.
“Jansen, please be straight with me,” I said.
“No judgment. I just spent eight months living with drug users—myself included—so you’re not going to get shit from me.
Please tell me, are you taking that Adderall again?
” Jansen had a new therapist who’d prescribed him Adderall for ADHD.
The last time I’d come to New York to visit, I discovered that he sometimes crushed the pills and snorted them up his nose.
Jansen stared at the screen, positively bug-eyed, and I stared back. I knew he didn’t want to lie to his big sister. Our relationship had always been built on trust.
“Look,” he finally said, “you and Mom worry about me too much. I’m fine.”
“Be honest.”
Jansen paused. “Okay, Jesus. You never give up. I smoked some crack. There, I said it.”
My stomach hit the floor. “You fucking what? Did you say ‘crack’?” I yelled. “How often do you smoke crack?”
“Don’t get mad at me!” Jansen protested. “I only smoke it sometimes.” Then he looked down, and I could tell he was embarrassed.
“Jesus, Jansen. I’m not mad at you. I’m just worried. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
He got quiet. “I also snorted heroin a couple times.”
My mind exploded in a thousand different directions.
Crack was an upper, heroin was a downer.
Together, they were a lethal combination.
I didn’t even want to think about fentanyl, the drug that every dealer in America was mixing into other drugs and killing tens of thousands of people a year.
Chances were that if Jansen kept getting heroin from one of his shifty friends, he was going to OD on fentanyl.
“Jansen, you can’t do this,” I pleaded. “Seriously. Let me help you.”
Jansen looked back into the screen and broke into a smile. “Okay,” he said. “You know I don’t think those drugs are a good idea. I just… well, you know. Life hasn’t been what I expected it would be.”
“I know,” I answered, my heart breaking for my brother. “But we’re counting on you. Mom, Dad, and I love you more than you can possibly know.”
Jansen paused. “I hear you. Thank you for calling. I love you.”
I hung up the phone, screamed into a pillow, and called my dad right away.