She wasn’t happy, no she wasn’t. All this time trying to cope with the family problem – that’s what they called Randy’s addiction to coke these days – and at the same time, trying to study enough not to flunk the chemistry quizzes that came every day, relentless and unyielding, like a black boxing glove straight to the jaw. How was she ever going to make it? Why did she think she even had a chance at medical school with a brother who couldn’t stay out of the hospital long enough for her to ever actually relax and an out-of-control chemistry professor who seemed to take his subject far too seriously for anybody’s good, least of all, hers.

“No, Mother, you can’t fix him,” she had said on the phone for the hundredth time just that morning. “You know what they said in the meeting: ‘You didn’t cause it, can’t cure it, and can’t control it.’ It’s part of the disease, remember? Our lovely family legacy.”

She’d heard the clink of the ice in the glass and knew that her mother was mixing herself a stiff drink. It was 9 am. Yes, that lovely legacy.

So, how was she ever going to pass chemistry with Professor Nutcase and all of this family drama? Wasn’t this exactly what they talked about at the meetings – letting your family’s madness completely take over your own life?

She called Marsha, her best friend. “I could be the poster child for co-dependence, “ she said. “Just tell me you have a problem, and I’ll spend more time worrying about what you can do than you will.”

Marsha sniffed. “I can’t talk now. Harold just called and demanded I come into work even though it’s my day off. He’s a jerk, I know, but if I don’t jump when he says to, my job will be floating down the river like one of those houses we saw after the dam broke last year.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, “Go! We’ll talk later.”

She went instead and stared at herself in the mirror. “Get a grip,” she said aloud as she noted a wrinkle deepening on the bridge of her nose, right between her eyebrows. “And stop scowling! You’re only twenty-five. This is not good.”

Her dog ran into the room, his toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. “I’m not talking to you,” she said, reaching down and patting his head. “You won’t get wrinkles.”

The phone rang. This time, it was Randy, talking fast and way too cheerfully.

“Remember, I told you never to call me when you’re high. Good-bye.” She snapped her phone shut, then adjusted the ringer to silent. She knew he would call repeatedly and then decide to drop in to see what the problem was. He was so dense.

She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. It was time to get out of there before her brother came and demonstrated one more time just how dysfunctional they all really were. He would cry, she would pat; then he’d get pissed, and she’d get even madder before he stormed out to go use again, and she sat and cried and blamed herself ad nauseum while she listened to her mother tell her if she had only done this or that differently than precious Randy wouldn’t have had to go get high again.

“Screw that,” she said and opened the door. A spectacular sunset cast a pink-orange glow on everything in her sight. She stopped and took a breath. “Wow,” she muttered, feeling her shoulders relax.

Glancing at her watch, she realized that she could make it to Professor Horrible’s evening office hours if she hurried. She smiled and raced to her car.