It’s weird and uncomfortable and I have never been these things with her. A moth makes a miscalculation and ends up swooping into Carolina’s hair. The tension is broken by a lot of screaming and hopping around and eventually I pick through her mane and assure her it’s gone, and we both ignore the fact that I started crying for no reason.
I drive home sad.
But I go to bed happy.
Mom insists on coming with me to the doctor’s office. I’m still really mellow in the morning so I’m okay with it, and don’t even correct her when she keeps calling it my “moment of truth.” If I did have one such moment, it was probably last week when I ended up facedown on the plate, mesmerized by a softball and overwhelmed by a mix of heroin, Benadryl, and Red Bull. That was ugly, but there was nothing dishonest about it.
We stop for coffee and doughnuts and have to wait forever in the drive-through because it’s Saturday. Mom’s thumbs keep tapping on the wheel and I’m trying to sort through all the bumper stickers on the car in front of us when she says, “I feel like we haven’t talked much lately.”
She’s not wrong. Part of managing my heroin habit is keeping my door closed.
“I’ve got a lot going on,” I tell her.
“Yes, I get that,” she says, handing over my coffee when we finally get to the window. “But you know you can talk to me, right?”
I do know. I know I can talk to Carolina, too. That last, unanswered text from her assuring me of that very thing has been pushed down toward the bottom of my messages, bumped by updates from Josie with Patrick’s ever-changing number, and a few from Luther when he needed a ride to Edith’s. There are a couple from him asking if I want to hang out, just me and him. I evade him with half lies about homework and being exhausted.
“Yes, Mom,” I say, sounding bored. “But I’m fine.”
Right now, I really am. It’s hard to be anything else when you’ve still got a decent dose in you.
“Okay,” she sighs. We drink our coffee, carefully popping our lids and blowing on it at a red light. I drink mine too fast, burning my tongue and the roof of my mouth. My tongue is fuzzy as I check in, my voice a little scratchy when I answer the few questions Mom tries to ask in the waiting room.
Even if I had something to say it’s too hard to talk in here. All the parents trying to get through the week without taking off work have dragged their kids in on a Saturday morning. There are snotty noses and fevered cheeks everywhere and if I get out of here without contracting something it’ll be a miracle. We’ve got Ridgeville on Monday and all my pistons have to be firing for that game.
“Mickey Catalan?”
I follow the nurse and Mom tails me through the halls. I am weighed, and I watch carefully as she taps something into her laptop, her face unreadable. My blood pressure is a little low—no surprise—and again the nurse makes a note in the laptop. I play with the cuffs of my long-sleeve shirt, trying to remember where all my bruises are at the moment.
A tech comes in to walk me down to the lab, and I leave Mom behind when I go to change into the little gown with blue and teal triangles all over it. It doesn’t cover much, and there’s no mirror in here to see if the holes in the back of my knee are healed, or if the vein I blew last week on my bicep is showing. I twist my head around to get a better idea, pulling something in my neck only to determine it’s not showing, and I go to sit next to Mom on an uncomfortable chair, my tongue swollen and burnt in my mouth, my neck tight.
Another tech comes to get me and I walk down to the X-ray room with her, glad that Mom can’t follow. I’m too aware of my skin, how the back of my gown slides up when I hop onto the table, tense as the tech positions me just right. She’s not looking for bruises though; all her concerns are with my bones, almost as if she’s looking straight through me and I don’t even have skin at all.
I’m fine with that.
The familiar warning to hold still comes, along with a series of buzzes and a metallic taste in my mouth. I get to put my clothes back on and we’re sent to a room to wait for Dr. Ferriman, where I see that someone has scratched an eye off one of the smiling teddy bears.
Mom keeps messing with her purse and I’m dangling my legs from the table, kicking them and letting them swing back so that my toes connect with the crossbars underneath, filling the room with a tiny ding every second or so. Dr. Ferriman finally shows up with a yellow folder under his armpit and a big smile on his face.
“Mickey,” he says, giving my name a congratulatory edge, and Mom perks up immediately.
“Good news?” she asks.
“Very,” he agrees, holding my X-rays up to the light so that everyone gets a good look at my pelvis.
The screws are so easy to spot, dense white fingers that hold me together. I lean in, curious about these things under my skin that I’ve managed to touch, which one I can feel boring into bone the most.
Ferriman talks to Mom about things like adequate fixation of the hardware and good reports from physical therapy, but the upshot is that I’m fine. I’m better. I’m healed. He says he’s never seen anyone recover so quickly, and that I should be damn proud of myself. Ferriman blushes when he says damn, something I’m sure a pediatrician doesn’t get away with very often.
I smile and say the right things, but the truth is that my gut just bottomed out. Because if there’s nothing wrong with me anymore then there’s no reason to text Josie, to update Patrick’s number, to go to Edith’s. Ferriman just took away any pretense I had, any excuse I could make to myself about what I’m doing and why. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and it hurts to swallow. There’s a sharp pain in my neck when I look down, focusing on my toes, no longer swinging my legs. I’ve got tears in my eyes and they both think it’s for the wrong reason and nobody has any idea.
The thing is, I thought my hip didn’t hurt because I wasn’t going to let it, that I kept the pain at a distance as a form of self-care, preempting the agony with pills and then a needle. The thing is, I can’t tell the difference between honest pain and withdrawal anymore.
I just know that I hate both and I’ve learned I don’t have to feel either one.
Except now, if I keep using it’s not because I’m fighting off an injury or for some noble self-sacrifice to keep the team going strong so Carolina can shine. If I keep using now, it’s because I want to.
And yeah, I want to.
So when we go home I tell Mom I’m tired from the late game and I need a nap. She smiles at me and says that sounds great, like I just said I came up with a cure for cancer. I’m her golden child, the miraculous recovery, the strong one.
I shoot up and nod off, blissed out and warm in my bed.
Because if I’m an addict I might as well go ahead and just be one.
Fuck it.
Chapter Forty-Five
abandoned: forsaken, deserted—or—given up to vice
It’s easier after I embrace it.
There’s still shame as I head over to Edith’s on Friday night, but I’ve ditched any self-justification or rationalization, which makes room for anticipation. I spent all last Sunday cleaning up Mr. Henderson’s half acre, dragging dead limbs, raking up yard waste, and burning it all before the sun set. Mom complained, saying that our neighbor has two grown children and a few grandchildren and there’s no reason why his family couldn’t help him out, instead of me volunteering my time. I don’t tell her Henderson paid me sixty bucks.
That’ll all be going up my arm.
I’ve developed affection for the process, my mind fixating on the spoon, the water, the flame. The end result is ecstasy, but getting there is part of the pleasure, the steps forming a ritual that I know will deliver me.
I get religious people now.
We’re chatty when we’re high, Edith still relying on her pills, not willing to make the leap with us but happy to be there to catch us when we come down. She brushes Josie’s hair, my friend’s pupils tiny as she stares at the TV, her words coming out in a never-en
ding stream.
“I can be smart and pretty,” she says. “Everyone acts like their minds are totally blown when they find out I’m going to pharmacy school. Why is it surprising? I mean, Marie Curie was cute when she was younger and Ada Lovelace was flat-out hot.”
Luther is on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Try going to Baylor Springs without being rich, I mean just try it,” he says. “I get free lunch. Did you guys know that? My little sister can’t take it. She pays for hers anyway, doesn’t want her friends to know. What I just shot up would cover her for a week. Fuck. What am I doing?”
Derrick itches. That’s his thing.
“Guys, seriously. My skin is coming off. I want to unzip it and just step out of it right now, like a skin suit. A Derrick suit. It needs to happen. I can’t take it. Guys.”
He is digging pretty hard, leaving red streaks up and down his arms, dried skin flaking off. I borrow Josie’s phone and call Jadine. She says to give him Benadryl. I find some in Edith’s cabinet, expired. I give Derrick two and he washes them down. I tell him it’ll make it better and whether it actually does or just because I said so, he stops itching.
“Betsy is dead,” Edith says, her voice joining ours. “Bob and Helen and Betsy and Tom and Erin and Carter and Grant and Hayley.” She names off her loved ones, destroyed by time and fire. “Everyone dies,” she says. “Everyone leaves me.”
“I don’t fit,” I tell them. “I’m not good at being a girl. I’m not actually my mom’s daughter. My real parents are out there somewhere and if I saw them I might know what I am. If I was supposed to be smart or funny or strong or stupid or mean. I just don’t know.”
We’re all talking and listening at the same time, one hundred percent dedicated to each other while simultaneously lost inside our own heads.
“Jane Goodall was pretty too, in that natural way.”
“My coach paid for my shoes last season. Nobody knows that.”
“I hate my skin. Not just when it itches.”
“Don’t ever be alone, kids. Die before your friends do.”
“I don’t know who I am.”
The words come so easily here, in this place. Everyone else fades, Josie’s head resting on Edith’s knee, a half-finished braid abandoned in her hand as the older woman stares at a commercial for denture cleaner. Luther is pointing at the ceiling fan, his finger trying to follow its circular route. Derrick is out, unconsciousness delivering him from the torture of having skin.
I leave the others behind, no longer invested in their words, not interested in the warm hollow of Luther’s arm. I’m restless and prowling, making Edith’s house my own. The regular dose isn’t taking me where it used to, and I’ll have to pop another hole in my skin if I want to feel good tonight. But for now I’m wandering around, up the stairs to the second floor, somewhere I’ve never been.
It’s tidy but unclean, beds neatly made with covers that smell musty when I sit on them. I picture Edith sleeping in her chair every night, the stairs a journey she can no longer make, osteoarthritis robbing her of half her home. I wonder when someone was up here last, and who it might have been. I go to another room, one with a larger bed and family photographs lined up on the dresser, a fine layer of dust covering them all. I swipe my finger across the glass of the largest one to see Edith’s wedding picture, the same one used in Bob’s obituary.
I rest on the bed and find a crossword puzzle book from 1992 next to the lamp. It’s half finished, yellowed pages brittle under my fingers as I flip them. Bob’s name is on the front cover, written in cursive. Under the crossword book is a dictionary—Bob, you cheater. It’s huge and heavy, with an inscription inside from Helen, wishing them the best in their marriage.
Helen, you gave them a dictionary as a wedding gift? Weird.
Still, I pull it into my lap, fascinated by the heft of it, the tiny print inside and the seemingly endless, almost translucent pages. All the words must be in here, every single one I’ve ever said and a million I’ll never use. In here is the right combination to tell Mom, to confess to Carolina, to come clean to Dad. If I knew all these words and could teach my tongue to say them, maybe I could make things right. I press it to me, hugging the book deep into my chest as I curl around it, willing the words inside of me.
Chapter Forty-Six
pride: a sense of one’s own worth; lofty self-respect; noble self-esteem
I’m out.
The balloons have felt smaller since I had to up my dose, and I’ve found myself weighing them in my hand each time I get them from Josie. I did a shit job of rationing myself this week because I bobbled a perfect throw from Bella Left in the sixth inning when we played Radley. It’s something we’ve done together a hundred times at least, since we were kids. She cleanly fielded a hard shot on the bounce, throwing it right down the third baseline so that I could peg the runner at home.
Left is a genius at this, winging it at a spin so that it bounces just right, timing it so that it hits directly behind the heels of the runner before she goes down into her slide, the ball hopping over her to my glove before her toes can touch the plate, my glove tapping her hip almost gently. No need to rub it in.
But this time I didn’t do it. This time I flubbed the snag, my reflexes too slow. Coach practically dragged me behind the dugout and tore me a new one. I kept my eyes on the ground the whole time, thinking of nothing but the needle. That runner scored, and we would’ve lost the game if Nikki hadn’t subbed in for me and punched a nice double in the bottom of the seventh, getting two RBIs and clinching the win.
Fucking Nikki.
I came home ready to forget about everything. Coach’s eyes boring into me, Left ignoring my back slap when we came off the field, Carolina picking up Nikki and spinning her around when we won.
But what I have left in my shoebox isn’t enough to make a kitten high. I call Josie but her mom is home and she doesn’t want me just showing up. She gives me Patrick’s new number, and he says he’s close and will be over in five.
I haven’t even showered and I’m still in my uniform. I strip down fast, pulling on sweats and a hoodie, but I don’t have time to wash my face before I hear Patrick’s polite knock on the door.
“Hey,” I say, pulling it open. “Come on in. Mom’s not here.”
Patrick follows me inside and I’m all arms and legs, big and awkward in my own home. I’m so flustered I didn’t even remember to get my cash around and there’s a long moment of silence before I realize that’s what he’s waiting for.
“Shit,” I say. “Sorry, hold on.”
I run upstairs and rifle through my drawers, but I blew everything from Henderson last weekend, and Mom only carries cash in her purse, which is with her. I come back down the stairs, face red.
“So, I don’t actually have any—”
Patrick waves me off, dropping two balloons on the kitchen table. “Pay me later,” he says. “I trust you.”
“Seriously?” I swipe them up fast, partly because I’m afraid he’s teasing me, partly because I can’t stand seeing them on Mom’s table, or the rings of his spit that are left behind. I wipe them off with my sleeve.
“Yeah, you’re a good customer. And we gotta keep you well. Last game of the season next week, right?”
“Right,” I say, heart lifting. “You follow us?”
“I follow you,” Patrick says. “There’s a weird kind of pride in it for me.”
“Huh,” I say, curling the balloons in my fist.
His phone goes off, and he glances down. “Let me know what you need, when you need it,” he says. “Catch you later, Catalan.”
He leaves and I go upstairs, feeling oddly accomplished. I just did a whole drug deal on my own. My dealer even fronted me the stuff. Patrick’s right, there is a weird sort of pride involved in it, and I imagine him following my stats in the newspaper. It sends its own sort of warmth through me, a pleasant precursor before the needle goes in.
I get a text from Josie be
fore I nod off. Her mom’s been suspicious lately, and she thinks she’s been going through her phone. She deleted Patrick’s last text with his new contact info, and needs his working number. I send it to her, pleased that I have it and she doesn’t. I tell her he’s close by because he was just at my place and she doesn’t answer, and that makes me smile because her being jealous of me is something that would never happen in any situation except this one.
Mom comes home and sticks her head in my door to whisper good night. I’m with it just enough to answer, watching as the sliver of light fades into nothing at all as she closes the door and goes back downstairs. It’s pitch-black and perfect in my room, an uninterrupted space for me to be whatever I want to be in the blank canvas of my mind.
My phone goes off, the screen bright and jarring.
It’s a group message with the Bellas, Lydia, and Carolina, something about wearing our jerseys to school before the last game next week, and maybe even painting our faces too. Lydia says no, Coach would never be okay with that. Left says she would be if we wash it off before the game. Right says she’s in if Center is. Carolina loops Nikki into the conversation.
A text from Luther comes in a few minutes later, asking me if I want to come over and watch some ESPN. I do, kind of, but there’s no way I can drive and I don’t want Luther to know that I’m using outside of Edith’s. That thought makes me feel bad, and I don’t want to feel bad.
I want to feel good.
I turn my phone off.
Chapter Forty-Seven
catastrophe: an event producing a subversion of the order or system of things; a final event, usually of a calamitous or disastrous nature
Heroine Page 21
