I saw the movie “The Girl on the Train” twice last week. I had read the book – it was a gift from my dear friend Nick, who is not alive anymore to give me gifts, so it has special meaning. Special meaning too, as the main character is a female alcoholic. It would be simplistic to say the movie is a murder mystery. Although, there is a murder and a surprise ending, I suppose. I think of it as more of a coming of age story. An alcoholic who has lost everything – home, husband, looks, job, self respect – begins to find herself again.
I Relate to the Resiliency…
There is a marvelous scene, where Rachel, the main character who is resisting drinking, has a tumbler of vodka thrown in her face. It goes into her eyes, nose, presumably mouth and I could actually feel it. Taste it. She is able to sputter strong words through the scrim of alcohol, however. And it is a turning point in the action. There is so much I want to say about this movie. I am writing a proper review. But the main thing I want to say today, is that I relate to the battered, resilience of this character.
For the uninitiated, it may seem unlikely that a frail woman could get punched, thrown, bashed in the head (a few times) and choked and keep coming back for more. But that’s what alcoholics do. There is a blackout scene in the movie where Rachel wakes, covered in blood. She surveys her room, her grave digger’s hands, the spot of gore on her phone, her underwear in a wad and you see her mind turning. What happened? Oh God what did I do? She grabs for her phone to get a clue and goes into the bathroom to clean up the damage to her head. She says the thing every alcoholic says the morning after, “Oh no.”
Who Needs an Emergency Room?
If you do the math, you realize this woman had some sort of horrible accident and somehow, made her way home. In a complete blackout. Under the obviously dire circumstances, most people would have gone to the emergency room…
That scene brought back the worst kind of memories of the time I crashed my golf cart on Staniel Cay. I was drunk, leaving the Yacht Club at closing time, and my golf cart was fast. One of the guys had jerry-rigged the speed controller and it did not slow down on hills. I was tearing around a corner on the darkest part of the island and lost control. The cart flipped into the mangroves. I flew into the ditch. My shin and forehead hit golf cart metal on the way out. The glass of wine in the cup holder spit into my face. I was wearing my favorite Pucci slides (sweet multi-color kitten heals) and they were jettisoned into the swamp. Forever gone.
No phone. I lived on a deserted ridge. There was no one to help me. But I did not really want help. I remember that part. I crawled out of the ooze like something created by Dr. Frankenstein and walked home barefoot over sharp gravel. In the morning I woke with blood and stones on the white sheets. My shin and forehead had matching hematomas the size of golf balls. My feet were torn apart and my hair was stiff with dried wine. Lovely. I had only a vague recollection of what had happened.
Loose Limbed or Low Expectations?
Oh no. I went to the window to look out and my golf cart was sitting in the driveway. I had a moment where I thought Maybe I dreamed it… but then I looked at my feet, trailing blood and saw the front end of the cart was smashed. There were jaunty sprouts of mangrove branches sticking out like waving arms. One of the guys had towed it up the hill…
How do we alcoholics survive these catastrophes? Are we so loose limbed that we don’t stiffen at impact? Are we so anesthetized we do not feel the pain? Or is it, that addiction makes us so powerless we do not expect any better? We plod along with our injuries and our slights as if it is our mantle: a KICK ME sign we wear.
In “The Girl on the Train” Rachel is sober in the end. She looks out a different train window, at a different landscape and says, “I am not the girl I used to be.” But she rests her head on the glass in the same way. She is still alone. There are scars. I can relate to her battered resilience…
