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“I am a good person with a problem. I am going to eventually get rid of this problem, and then everything will be okay.”

I have told this story before, or part of it. Or one side of it. The story of my friend Lisa Weber, her long struggle to balance her life as a methamphetamine addict with her life as a good wife and mother, the way the former made the latter possible until it didn’t, her subsequent long struggle to quit meth, her eventual embrace of alcohol as a substitute, and her even more eventual decision to join her loving and supportive husband Ted in a life of sobriety. I ended the story with Lisa’s declaration that “I am a good person with a problem. I am going to eventually get rid of this problem, and then everything will be okay.”

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This isn’t a sequel, although parts of it take place after the events of that account. Rather, it’s an acknowledgement that I knew what I knew and could write what I wrote not because I was a dogged journalist or probing interviewer, but because I was her friend. We had — we have — a relationship. That means I am part of her story, and she is part of mine.

In that first account, I wrote, “About those field trips she chaperones: the school banned her from driving after another mother smelled alcohol on her breath. What I did not write was that it wasn’t her first time drinking and chaperoning, and more importantly, that I knew this. Before that, I had through Lisa was a weekend drunk, the sort who works her way through a bottle of white wine on a Saturday night while watching a true crime documentary, not the sort who hides vodka in her water bottle while she’s running errands.

Our kids go to the same school, and on this occasion, we had both been roped into driving a bunch of students for a fun-time field trip. Let’s say it was mini golf. A couple teachers, a couple other parents — including one we knew as Hot Dad — the two of us, and a hot mess of kids. It was a fun day, and I got a kick out of the way she flirted performatively with Hot Dad, asking for his advice on proper putting posture. I knew she was doing it to make me laugh, to make our mundane outing entertaining.

At one point, she purred to Hot Dad, “I’ll be right back. I need to get something from my car.” And then I watched as she headed to the parking lot, popped open her minivan’s trunk, pulled out a bottle of vodka, emptied it into her Hydro Flask, and took a large swig. No one else noticed — why didn’t anyone else notice? — which meant I had to deal with it.

My first thought was to tell one of the teachers. We needed to send her home. Then my brain started spinning — what happens next? We’d have to call someone to pick up the kids who had ridden with her. Would the police be called? Would one of the other moms blab to the yoga pants brigade back at school? Of course she would. Would Lisa be forced to pull her kids out of the school? Suddenly, she was at my side, grinning. “I’m going to ask Hot Dad to help me get a hole in one,” she said.

I was too stunned to speak. But even after I stopped being stunned, I didn’t say a thing. There’s no excuse for that. Thinking about it now fills me with shame. The old term for it is “sin of omission.” In that moment, I was a bad friend and a worse chaperone. I told myself that I didn’t want to blow up Lisa’s life, but I kept silent at the expense of other people’s children. While they made it home safely, they might not have. When we left mini golf, I tailed her car, thinking that if I followed her, I could somehow keep the kids safe. That was nonsense, of course.

At home, the full guilt of what I had done sunk in. Then came the anger — at myself, and at Lisa, for putting me in that position. I called her, furious. “I saw you dump vodka into your water flask today, and it is not okay. It’s selfish and reckless.”

She was silent for a long time before saying, “I drink more than that for breakfast. That was nothing, believe me. Nothing.”

“That is insane,” I managed, before adding, “Don’t drive on another field trip…ever. If you do, I will tell the school.”

“You are not better than me,” she said.

What an odd thing to say, I thought. Of course, I was not better than her. I let her drive a bunch of kids home while she was drunk, just to avoid conflict! She has a disease, I thought. What was my excuse?

Months passed before we spoke. The next year, she drank on a field trip again. That time, another mother saw her and reported it. Lisa was the talk of the school.

Maura

Alcoholism seems to run in some people’s families. What runs in mine are alcoholic friends. My mother wasn’t a drunk, but my godmother Maura was. I could not fathom why she was friends with my mother. My mother did not smoke or wear dresses that cinched in at the waist. Her movements were not feline. Was it their shared Irishness, or my mother’s endless patience and co-dependent tendencies? No, wait, don’t answer that. But I certainly understood why my mother liked Maura. If Maura had invited me to abandon my family and come live with her, I would have accepted happily, even though her home was not a home for children. Everything was modern and mirrored; the furniture was angular and uncomfortable. Everywhere, there were ornate crystal ash trays for her lipstick-stained Virginia Slims: in the kitchen, in the den, in the living room, even in the bathroom.

Maura’s fingers were delicate. Her hair was ink black and fell in a heavy curtain below her shoulder blades. She wore it long and straight and parted in the middle. As she aged, it became peppered with gray that made her look even more elegant. When she rode in our car, I would sit behind her and reach out and touch her beautiful hair. I could not help it. It looked like a glossy lake at midnight. Eventually, she would whip around in her seat and say, “Stop yanking my hair with your sticky hands.” I didn’t think she cared for children, and I was certain she hated me. I did not blame her. My hair was dishwater blond, my face as plain as a dirt road, and my skin so pale it was nearly translucent. I also did not care. I just wanted to be near her, so that some of her glamour would rub off on me. I wanted to move like her, to dress like her, to decorate my house with absurd angular furniture.

I was less taken with Maura’s husband Mike. He was a car salesman, and the only cool thing about him was his blue Corvette. Even that he managed to make uncool by doting over it — waxing and shining it in the driveway as if to announce to passersby, this beauty belongs to me. Mike spoke with a nasally accent, and wore glasses like Jeffrey Dahmer’s. He had curly ginger hair, a matching mustache, and sideburns. He was short and paunchy.

I’m telling you all that about Mike because I want you to understand how fierce was my love for Maura — or rather, my image of Maura. When I was not yet 10, my mom told me that Maura’s first husband Tony was handsome and rich — and a wife-beating drunk. He and Maura lived in downtown Chicago — probably an apartment. But when I pictured their home, I saw a brownstone on a tidy street, framed on either side with black antique streetlamps. One day, Tony beat Maura so badly that she jumped out of their bedroom window in an effort to escape him. She landed in the yard, naked and bloody, and ran through her neighborhood until an older woman saw her and pulled her inside. Maura called my mother, who showed up and picked glass out of her hair and skin until an ambulance arrived. After that, she lived with my parents for a time until she got back on her feet. My mother ended the tale by adding, “Had she stayed with Tony, I am certain he would’ve killed her.”

Maura and Tony divorced, and Maura eventually started dating. She had two boyfriends: Mike and a handsome guy. Both offered to marry her. Maura chose Mike because he was safe. He owned his own home and had a steady job. But none of that mattered to me. No doubt, Mom told me about her terrible past in order to warn me against being fooled by a bad man’s looks and money. But it only made Maura’s story more cinematic, more glamorously tragic. In my mind, Maura wore a full-length mink, and the cuts on her face accentuated her cheekbones. I was certain that, had I been in her place, I would have chosen the handsome guy.

Lisa

“Everything hurts,” complained Lisa over the phone. “It hurts to walk. It hurts to move.” There was a hint of panic in her tone. I suspected she was doing drugs and drinking heavily again, but I did not come right out and say that. Instead, I said, “You need to get out of your house. Walk around your neighborhood. Move your body. You will feel better.”

We agreed to meet up. I wound up waiting for half an hour. When Lisa finally arrived, she was wearing a knee-length parka with a fur collar. A pair of yoga pants sagged off her in a way yoga pants are not meant to sag. She had lost weight. Her face was gaunt. She was holding a water bottle that looked more like a jug than a drinking vessel. “Let’s get this party started, biiiitttttccccchhhheeeessss,” she shrieked, shoving a Styrofoam container at me. “I got fish tacos from the original Rubio’s! I saved you one to make up for being late.” She was so close to my face that her spit sprinkled my forehead. I could smell her breath: sugar and booze. She collapsed into the lounger beside me and declared, “I have margaritas!” Her eyes were hidden behind big black glasses.

“You look like a mob wife,” I said. “What’s with the getup? It’s like 70 degrees outside.”

“I’m cold,” she said with a shrug.

“You need to see a doctor.”

She pushed her Stanley cup in my face, “Taste it!” she demanded.

“You said margaritas; that implies plural, not singular.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “This thing is 64 ounces, we can share. Take some.”

I shook my head. “I’m good.”

She took a big swig, jumped to her feet, and cried,“Definitely not enough tequila!”

Before I could say a word, she was heading to her car for more tequila. And that was how I spent my night: next to my tanked friend Lisa, worrying over her weight loss and drunkenness. But worried or not, I laughed at her jokes. As drunk as she was, Lisa was still funny! I have spent 15 years watching her comedy act. Over those years, I have spoken up about the drinking and drug use. I have nagged; I have urged her husband to consider an intervention; I have attempted to admonish, to encourage rehab. But every time I do, I am met with anger on her part and avoidance on his. When I push too hard, her replies get sharp and mean spirited — aimed at my many insecurities. A few times, when I passed serious judgment, we stopped talking.

Years ago, in the beginning stages of our friendship. I took Lisa to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Back then, I was optimistic, hopeful that hers was a habit that could be kicked. I lured her in with the promise of excellent people-watching. “This is an opportunity to share a room with people who might be more fucked up then we are,“ I said.

The meeting was in a dusty old church in North Park. They made Lisa deposit her hydro flask in the narthex. Good call. We took our seats in the wooden pews and took in our fellow attendees. “That guy definitely has a toupee on,” Lisa said in an audible whisper, indicating a man sitting within earshot. Then she indicated a woman in a green tracksuit. “And she definitely owns a family of gerbils — and they do not belong to her children. They are hers, and they have outfits!”

Despite her quips, that day was the closest I came to understanding Lisa’s addiction. When people began to introduce themselves and share stories, I was surprised to hear Lisa speak up. “My name is Lisa, and I drink because there is always so much to get done. All the responsibilities fall on me. When I wake up in the morning, I feel a sense of doom. I start the day thinking I can get through it without using, but it becomes so depressing and unmanageable. I medicate to make it easier. Sometimes I think that drinking makes me a better version of myself. I am shinier. I make people laugh.” While she was speaking, she was looking over everyone’s heads — looking at the gruesome figure of Jesus hanging on the cross.

I wanted to squeeze her hand and reassure her, but I didn’t want to spook her. I wanted her to say more. I wanted to understand her better. But that was all she said. On the car ride home, we were silent for a long time. The only thing I could think to say was, “You make me laugh when you are not drunk.”

“When have you ever seen me sober?” she replied. I looked at her face, expecting a smile, but it looked like she might cry. I couldn’t think of a way to respond. So I said nothing. I think about that conversation often. I wish I could have a re-do.

Maura

I may have thought that Maura didn’t like children, but she had them anyway. Her first, Sean, was a beautiful baby. He had dark hair like Maura and warm hazel eyes. I felt a tinge of betrayal over his birth. Michelle came soon after; she was less beautiful: her hair was tinted orange like Mike’s, and her skin was as pale as mine, almost anemic. For a while, Maura stopped smoking and wearing cinched dresses, and started using the shiny appliances in her kitchen. When I got to tag along on Mom’s visits to Maura, it was never more than five minutes before she would look at me and say in an exasperated voice, “Please go outside, and take the children with you.”

I didn’t mind; I liked to climb the tree near the fenceline or roll down the sloping hill in the front yard. Sean felt otherwise. “I don’t know if we should do that,” he would say, his voice high and whiny. (Even as a toddler, he spoke earnestly and in full sentences.) He was constantly scanning his environment for danger. “Our clothes will get dirty. We might get hurt. That doesn’t seem like a good idea. Mommy won’t like that.” I found him exhausting — a tiny buzzkill in khaki shorts and loafers. Meanwhile, little Michelle stared at me with her huge pale eyes. If it weren’t for Sean, she would’ve done anything I told her to.

I would leave them both on the grass, Michele staring after me longingly as I climbed the tree near the community pool. I liked to climb to the highest branch and scurry across it until my feet dangled over the chlorinated water below. Sean would yell, “You are supposed to be watching us!” but I knew they were okay. He was a 40-year-old trapped in a 6-year-old’s body. I knew he was much more capable to taking care of his little sister than I was. He guarded her with a fierceness only a fearful child could muster.

Only once, after much prodding, did I convince Sean to roll down the hill in front of his house. Michelle gleefully followed behind. We spent the afternoon climbing up and rolling down that hill. I had never heard Sean laugh so hard. It was the freest I’d ever seen him. Afterward, we were painted green and brown, the stains from grass and dirt forming a colorful testament to the fun we’d had. But when we finally went back inside, Sean became a mass of nerves, and rightly so. Maura was horrified. Her mouth dropped open, and she hissed, “Your clothes are ruined! Into the bath, you holy terrors.” She wasn’t looking at her children when she said it. She was looking at me. My heart sank.

I did not see much of Maura after that. I was getting older and was less interested in gaining her approval. I stopped tagging along on those visits to Maura’s house. Sometimes, she asked me to babysit, but Mom wouldn’t let me go over there alone. What I did not know was that by then, Maura was at the peak of her alcoholism. Her cinched dresses had been replaced with robes; her glossy hair had dulled. Sometimes I would overhear Mom on the phone, pleading with either Maura or Mike. One time, I heard her say through her tears, “But Mike, you can’t just bury your head in the sand, she needs help. If not for her, do it for the kids.”

Lisa

In early May of 2024, Lisa decided to check herself into rehab. “I’ll be gone for six days,” she told me. I was ecstatic, but I knew six days was not enough. You don’t break a decade-long vodka habit in under a week.

When she sent me the rehab’s website, I took screenshots of the counselors. One guy was bearded, waif-like, with long hair. “Please make this guy cry,” I texted her, “I am begging you.” She responded with a photo of another counselor, this one in a sweater vest. “I’m going to make this guy my bitch,” she wrote. Another photo showed addicts doing the limbo. I sent that to Lisa too, writing “The idea of you limbo-ing with other degenerates fills my heart with joy.”

As the day of her departure approached, I got nervous that she would change her mind. She called frequently; sometimes, her voice was so slurred I could barely decipher what she was saying. On the day of check-in, she called at 7 am and asked, “Do you think I’m going to be the only person in the history of this rehab to check in shit-faced?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “Everybody does it.” She seemed annoyed at being so unoriginal. When we said our goodbyes, I was still not certain that she would go. But she did, and she even stayed five additional days. She called when she got out, and sounded upbeat, almost like a new woman. I felt cautiously optimistic. But the next time we spoke, her voice was slurred. I told myself it was from her medication. She couldn’t possibly be drinking again. But over the next few days, her calls became increasingly incoherent, filled with swearing and belligerence. I didn’t call her out. I just kept answering the phone. What else could I do? But I was consumed with worry.

Then, early one morning, she called again, sounding sober this time. Her voice was clear and bright. “I am going back in,” she said before even saying hello. “This time for a month.”

“That is great!” I replied. “You need more time to recover. I am so happy about this.”

“I’m going to wait until Sunday, because Sam has prom.” With that, the worry returned. There would always be something. On Monday, she told me. “I didn’t end up going. It’s too expensive,”

I was silent for a moment before asking, “What’s the alternative?”

She let out a dry laugh. “I don’t know.”

“Do you have a sponsor yet?”

“Not. Yet.” I could feel her annoyance through the phone. “I gotta go,” she said and hung up before I could say goodbye. I tried not to cry. But I was so frustrated. Over the next week, she called multiple times a day. She was angry all the time. I couldn’t always make sense of what she was saying. One Tuesday night, she called, frantic, and asked if she could stay at my house for a little while. I knew it was not a good idea. I did not want her to do it. I said yes.

Still, I thought her husband should know where she was, so I asked mine to give him a call. “Let him know that we are going to let her stay here for a bit to dry out.” After he did, Lisa called in a rage. She did not want her husband to know her plans. I had crossed a line by reaching out to him. She was screaming at me, bringing up moments from our friendship when I had let her down. She listed them off, one after another, on and on. I knew that she was drunk and sick, but I still felt incredibly small. I did not want to listen anymore.

“I don’t need you!” She finally shouted before hanging up. I texted her a few times, telling her she was still welcome if she wanted to stay, that I was worried, that I cared about her. She did not respond. Instead, she found her keys — the ones her husband had hidden, the ones to the minivan — and took off. When she called the next day, I did not answer. I was raised by a woman who believed that you do anything for your friends, but I made the decision to let Lisa go for a little while. I couldn’t watch her self-destruct.

Maura

Even though she was my godmother, Maura did not attend my First Communion or my Confirmation. Not did she come to any of my birthday parties or graduations. She did, however, make an appearance at my high school grad party. I was shocked to see her. She wore a buttery silk top and a full, pleated skirt. Her beautiful long hair, by then more gray than black, was pulled into a tight bun. But while her clothing was immaculate, she was almost unrecognizable. Her teeth had yellowed, and her eyes were sunken. She offered a stiff greeting, the kind reserved for an acquaintance you run into unexpectedly on the street when you have other, more important places to be. I reached over and hugged her. She accepted the embrace awkwardly before turning to enter the kitchen. My friend Anne came up behind me. “How do you know her?” she asked, her face pinched with confusion.

“She’s my godmother.”

“Get out!” she said. “I lifeguard at her community pool. She is a nut, a total drunk. Her daughter spends all day at the pool, no food, no sunscreen….neglected.”

“But where is Sean?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Her brother.”

“I didn’t know she had a brother. Sometimes, that lady goes to the pool wearing just a bathrobe and screams at Michelle to get into the house to clean up some mess she has made.” Anne wanted to tell me more, but it was far too sad, so I made up an excuse to exit the conversation. That was the last time I saw Maura.

When Maura’s daughter Michelle was 21, she jumped, or perhaps stumbled, in front of the Burlington Northern train that was en route to Aurora from Chicago, right at the stop where my dad waited every morning to catch his train to work. He was not there at the time, but my parents heard about the accident. Her death was ruled accidental. When I think about her, I wish I had been more present, more patient, more willing to include her.

Maura had died a few years before Michelle. Cirrhosis. Mike did not bother telling my mother, instead she found out at the grocery store from a mutual friend. She and Maura had been estranged for years. “It’s a shame about Maura,” the friend said, and Mom, not normally one for public displays of emotion, broke down sobbing in the produce section.

My mom stuck it out with Maura, unwavering in her attempt to help her. It was Maura who let go of Mom. In a spectacularly drunken stupor, Maura had fallen in her driveway. When it happened, Mike was out of town on a fishing trip with Sean, leaving her alone with Michelle. Maura hit her head hard, and lay there, unable to move, her blood pooling on the cement. Michelle, who was around ten at the time, thought her mom was dying. She ran to a neighbor’s house. An ambulance was called. Afterward, the two of them stayed with my parents until Mike returned a week later. Yes, a whole week later. Cutting his trip short was clearly not on his agenda.

When Mike got home, he and Mom had an argument. Mom was adamant that Maura check into rehab. She begged them. Mike said he could handle it. “No big deal, just a silly accident,” he claimed. My mom called both Maura’s family and Mike’s family, explaining the situation, telling them something had to be done to help Maura. She was worried about Michelle and Sean’s safety. Maura told my mother never to speak to her again. She had crossed a line, invaded her privacy. And that was that. Thirty years of friendship, gone like Mike on a fishing trip.

That was my real cautionary tale: not the one about Maura jumping out of a second-story window to escape a violent man, but the one about my mother in the grocery store, sobbing because no one had bothered to tell her that her best friend had died. Maura was 56 when she died. Lisa is 57. I am full of dread.