Drink: The Deadly Relationship Between Women and Alcohol. Ann Johnston Dowsett

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      I dug in hard. Senate documents, issues of governance, fat background packages on donors: these were the easy files. What was confounding was the management challenge, picking up where the Stanford woman had left off. At bedtime, I’d close the day with a few emails, place my BlackBerry on the pillow beside me, and struggle through a few pages of The First 90 Days: Critical Success Strategies for New Leaders at All Levels, a farewell gift from a seasoned manager back home.

      Shutting off the light, I’d review my day in terms of the “monkey rule,” advice I’d received from a renowned university president. “There is only one way you can fail at your new job,” he had warned. “Your key reports will come into your office with monkeys on their shoulders. When they leave, make sure their monkeys are on their shoulders, not yours.” Great advice; tough to follow. I’d fall asleep, visions of monkeys dancing in my head.

      By spring, the light of Montreal was transformed. Patio season had arrived, and my assistant’s agenda was full. Each morning, she’d bring me a fresh installment of romance along with my coffee and documents. As she rushed out each evening, glowing with possibility, I would crank open the latches of the leaded glass windows behind the Bronfman desk and let the sounds waft up from the back alley. The popular Peel Pub, a rowdy favorite with undergrads and their out-of-town visitors, was only doors away. So too was Alexandre, a cozy local. In the morning, my assistant would frown at the open windows: “Why on earth would you want to look at a brick wall?” How could I explain that I found the nighttime sounds strangely comforting? The staccato chatter of busboys on their smoking breaks, hauling buckets of empties to gray bins, grabbing a quick smoke before they headed back to work; the occasional burst of laughter; furtive snatches of a melody, a bit of bass.

      It reminded me of what a friend once said of sex on antidepressants: “I can manage an orgasm, but it seems to be happening to someone down the hall.” Life, once removed.

      My sweetheart Jake—a writer living thousands of miles away—had just proposed to me. One week before my move, we had escaped to a remote island in the Bahamas. There, on a deserted beach at sunset, he had asked me to marry him. I had said yes.

      Over the years, Jake and I had had many honeymoons. For a decade, we had spent as much time together as possible, summering at Jake’s octagonal wooden houseboat in the wilds of northern Ontario, wintering in each other’s homes. In between, we traveled: Paris, London, Mexico. We each had one child: a daughter, Caitlin, for him; a son, Nicholas, for me. Born six months apart, they had been eleven when we met. We had raised them with dedication and delight, in tandem with our former partners, and each other.

      For years, it had been a perfect arrangement. In summer, we moored by pink-streaked granite and woke to otters stealing from our minnow bucket; on our morning swims, there were occasional moose or bear sightings. At night, nursing glasses of Irish whiskey, we would sit under the stars on a handmade driftwood bench, our personal playlist wafting across the water. In winter, we read and stoked the fire and wore flannel fish pajamas while we cozied up to watch classic movies. “We have something better than everyone else,” Jake would say, and I was certain he was right. In Jake’s presence, I felt like Grace Kelly in Rear Window—the cosmopolitan girl, head over heels in love with the globe-trotting Jimmy Stewart. More often than not, it was bliss.

      For the first two months in Montreal, I was buffered from the full-frontal blow of my decision to move, living two minutes from Martlet House in an executive apartment hotel. In many ways, it felt like an extended business trip. Jake—whose nickname was Jackrabbit—had shipped a package to the front desk for Valentine’s Day: I am sure I was the only person in that hotel with a stuffed jackrabbit on her pillow.

      Each night, Jake would tell me about his writing day, a world I understood intimately. “Feels like cracking concrete with my forehead,” he’d say. “Tell me about your day, baby.” Holding on to that rabbit, I’d try to entertain him with the complexities of my new world. I’d always end the same way: “Looks like someone forgot to book my return flight,” I’d joke. Neither of us ever laughed. There was a peacefulness to our nightly calls. He had just had an unexpected hip replacement, and I had flown out to nurse him. He was anxious to heal, to come to Montreal, to take a crack at the city. I was keen to have him by my side: I was growing more lonely by the day.

      By June, I’d stopped spending evenings in the stuffiness of my office. Night after night, I’d lug my work to the warm glow of Alexandre, settling in at the same cozy table with my BlackBerry and my reading. I could see other people, and it eased the deep sense of isolation. Night after night, the same waiter would bring me the first of three glasses of crisp Sauvignon Blanc, a warm chèvre salad, and a baguette. Every evening, he did his best to change my habits. “Escargots, madame?” “Non, François.” “Steak tartare?” “Non, merci, François. Un autre verre.”

      With that first sip, my shoulders seemed to unhitch from my earlobes. With the second, I could exhale. I loved the way the wine worked on my innards. That first glass would melt some glacial layer of tension, a barrier between me and the world. Somehow with the second glass, the tectonic plates of my psyche would shift, and I’d be more at ease. Jake used to say it this way: “When you drink, that piano on your back seems to disappear.”

      I had always taken my work seriously—maybe too seriously. Somewhere between the first and second glass, I’d take a fresh look at a problem, or find an answer to some complex question. Suddenly, it all looked simple. By the third glass? Well, that one just took my clarity down a notch, and I’d know it was time to go home.

      Did my evenings at Alexandre count as drinking alone? I tried to fudge it in my mind, thinking of it this way: I wasn’t exactly alone. There were people at neighboring tables. Besides, I had no one to have dinner with. But in my heart, I knew the truth: I was breaking my promise—not only to Jake, but to myself. I was drinking because I was lonely. I was drinking because I was anxious. This wasn’t Grace Kelly pouring a glass of Montrachet for Jimmy Stewart. This was something else, something I had never encountered, and it felt wrong.

      I don’t know what month I began picking up another bottle on my way home, in case I wanted a glass before bed. But I do know exactly when I began sleeping through two alarms.

      One fateful June evening, after a particularly difficult interchange with a senior employee, I headed off to Alexandre. Here is my journal:

      Four. I had four last night. Maybe it was five. One was vodka. And I slept through both alarms.

      My boss’ car left for the country and the annual executive retreat, and I missed the ride. The car came to pick me up, with her in it, and found no-one waiting. I will have to resign. In 30 years of professional life, I have never made an error like this one.

      I made it by 11:00, but there is no mending what is broken.

      My boss asked me: “Did you take a sleeping pill last night?”

      “No,” I said.

      “I was hoping you’d say you had.”

      Two weeks later, in one of our regular meetings, she asked me how I was doing. I surprised myself with the answer: “I don’t know how to explain it, but I am losing my voice.” And somehow, this was true. I was losing myself in Montreal. And missing journalism—my writing, my world—was only part of the story.

      That summer, Jake bought me a beautiful gold engagement ring, hand-carved with delicate leaves—or were they bird feathers? Either way, it spoke to our love of nature, and of our time in the woods together. I stole two weeks at the houseboat. We swam each morning before breakfast, and indulged in our long morning meals, sitting on the driftwood СКАЧАТЬ