Copyright © 2019 by KiCam Projects
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Baker, Jessica K., author.
Title: Opiate Jane / Jessica K. Baker.
Description: Georgetown, Ohio : KiCam Projects, [2019] | Summary:
Fifteen-year-old Jane slowly becomes hopeful after she and her little
sister are reunited with their mother, until she learns that Landon, her
new boyfriend, abuses drugs, like her mother.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019017994 (print) | LCCN 2019021190 (ebook) | ISBN
9781733546256 (ebook) | ISBN 9781733546249 (pbk) | ISBN 9781733546256 (eBook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Drug abuse—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. |
Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Sisters—Fiction. | Foster
children—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.B3515 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.B3515 Opi 2019 (print) |
DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017994
Cover and book design by Mark Sullivan
ISBN 978-1-7335462-4-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-7335462-5-6 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
Published by KiCam Projects
Georgetown, Ohio
www.KiCamProjects.com
Dedication
For everyone who needs a second chance
Table of Contents
• Third time’s a charm … 1
• Off to farm school … 14
• Tornado warning and the witch … 24
• Freaky lunch friends … 35
• Paintball wars … 44
• Great! It’s party time … 57
• More stormy weather … 63
• Confessions … 72
• Missing … 82
• Lessons … 92
• Little green monsters … 97
• The truth hurts … 104
• Shut down … 119
• What was I thinking? … 130
• Stowaway … 138
• Enough … 150
• Acknowledgments … 165
Some will tell us there is no such thing as Monsters.
They are wrong.
There is a Monster in our world.
It lives in disguise.
It hides beneath the faces of our family, our friends,
and our loved ones.
Taking them over and replacing them with someone
unknown.
The Monster is Addiction.
How do I make the Monster go away?
Third time’s a charm
She was going to do it again. I knew she was. We’d been through this twice before. How could the judge even have considered placing us back in her care? Judges aren’t as smart as they think they are. Last time, we were with her for seven months before they came for us. It took them six months to check on us, and by that time, we’d been alone three-quarters of the time. It had only taken her a month to go back to her old ways. Evidently a Friday-through-Sunday weekend wasn’t long enough for Mother. She needed to spend most of her week out getting high too. I honestly don’t know how she could afford to do it like that. But this time, she’d spent thirty days in some rehab and had gotten a cleaning job at some big house in no-man’s land, where we were supposed to live in the garage apartment. Mother had said the house was really old, so I figured we’d be staying in the servants’ quarters. And of course, it was in a different school district, so I’d be starting a new school in March of my sophomore year. Great! Why couldn’t they just let me finish my school year where I was? It would be the third one this year. This was a waste of time. They’d come back for us. They always did.
So there we were in the car driving an hour away from St. Bernard, where I’d lived for the past three months. I had always lived in Cincinnati; St. Bernard is a suburb. City life was what I knew. Mother always liked to stay in the Over-the-Rhine area. It was more convenient for her that way. Now we were headed to some town called Winchester. What, did they make guns there? I’d never heard of it and I didn’t want to go. One of the other foster kids had told me it was in some really poor county that didn’t have anything and was full of farmers and hillbillies. She sure didn’t sugar-coat it.
We were about forty minutes into the drive before my mother said a word to me. She and Lizzie had been chatting in the front seat. Mother wasn’t responsible enough to realize Lizzie was too small to be sitting up there. Ohio had child-restraint laws and Lizzie should have been in the back of the car. She was only four years old and wasn’t big enough to be out of a booster seat, let alone in the front of the car. I knew I should have said something, but I really didn’t want to sit up there with Mother. Lizzie was so excited to see her mommy and to be going home. She was even more ecstatic when I offered her the front seat. I think she honestly thought I was doing her some kind of favor. The poor kid, she was just too young to realize what kind of person Mother really was. I guess I’d made sure she didn’t know what kind of mother she had. I’d spent the last year of foster care lying to Lizzie and telling her how much Mother loved her even though they weren’t together. I told her all the good stories about Mother before she’d started using the drugs. Now Lizzie barely knew her but thought she’d hung the moon. I knew I shouldn’t have done that, but the kid needed something to look forward to, and hearing stories about her wonderful mother really made her day.
I looked up to see Mother watching me in the rearview mirror. I would have to say she did look better. She must have gained about twenty pounds and she’d cleaned herself up with a new haircut and makeup. She gave me a look that was riddled with guilt and then asked me why I’d been so quiet. She might have felt guilty, but I knew it wouldn’t stop her from going back to her true love. The remorse wouldn’t last long, and Lizzie and I would be the mess she’d leave behind again. I wasn’t about to make small talk with her. I gave her a “hmph” and returned to staring out the window.
We finally came to another stoplight; I think it had been about ten minutes since the last one. We turned left into a little town. To the right were a small, older motel and a Subway. It was a strange-looking Subway that seemed more like it should have been a house than a restaurant. There was a white house that looked completely out of place in front of the motel. I saw a gas station, some other building, and a car wash. Houses lined both sides of the street. It took us about a minute to get to a stop sign. There was a hair salon on one corner and an abandoned gas station on the other. The sign at the gas station said gas was $1.03 a gallon, so clearly it had been empty for a while. We turned left at the stop sign, so I didn’t get to see any more of Main Street. Once we made our left, it was houses again, a church, some railroad tracks, and some kind of weird-looking corn-shucking building. I don’t know what it was; it had some weird, round buildings and a big barn-looking thing. I figured corn shucking was what they did around there. Hell, it could have been that Winchester shotgun factory for all I knew.
Everything was so drab. The grass was really brown, but it was only the beginning of March, so I started hoping it would green up soon. It just had to or I didn’t think I would survive in this town. Granted, the grass can be brown and the trees bare in the city too, but you don’t notice it as much with
all the asphalt around. Out in the country, all you saw was the brown. It was depressing. I would rather look at asphalt and tall buildings all day than that.
We made a right onto Crum Road. I thanked God it was paved and then I prayed to God to keep us on a paved road. If we were to turn onto anything that resembled a dirt road, I was going to start to think we had entered into the movie Wrong Turn. And sure enough, just as the thought rolled through my head, we turned onto gravel. Since technically it wasn’t a dirt road, I thought maybe I would be okay. The road was named Melblanc Road. What a strange name, I thought.
We turned onto a lane I guessed was a driveway. There was a mailbox at the end, so it had to be a driveway, right? Then I saw it. It was a monstrosity of a house. It was a wonder I hadn’t seen it from the highway. It was white and huge, kind of like one of those old plantation houses but much bigger. Oh, yay! I was pretty sure the plantation houses were the ones that had the servants’ quarters. I so guessed that one right. The house was three stories high, with one part going up to a fourth floor with a rounded roof. It almost looked like something Rapunzel’s hair should have been hanging out of. There were huge oak trees and numerous smaller trees in front of the house. That house had to be hundreds of years old. It had a very old style to it but looked as if it were brand new. The house was so white it gleamed from the sunshine that was finally poking through the clouds. The porch was immaculate. There were four high-back rocking chairs slowly rocking from the light March winds that were still blowing after the rain had passed through. It was a little eerie to see those chairs rocking as if someone were sitting in them. The house looked old enough to be haunted. Around the corner of the house was a four-car garage, and to the side of that was a small building with a little porch on the front of it. How odd; that building looked totally out of place there. Then my mother pulled our 1999 Honda Accord up next to it and I knew this was our new so-called home.
Lizzie was shouting, “Let me see my room, Mommy! Let me see my room!” Mother had been telling her all about it during our drive. Mother had been living there for three months already. She had to have a home and a job for three months before she was eligible to get us back after she came out of rehab. I was pretty sure they’d probably given her some random drug screens during that time too. At least I hoped so.
Aunt Darlene had gotten her the job with the Whitmans. Evidently they were one of the richest families in the area. Aunt Darlene went to church with them, and I think we were a charity experiment: See what happens if you take a family out of the gutter and place them with good people. That’s all they need, right? That will fix them. Aunt Darlene and my mother didn’t get along at all, but my aunt had declared herself a good Christian woman and had decided to help my mother out.
A woman who was maybe in her early forties came out from the back door of the monstrous house. She was tall and thin. She had blonde hair that was feathered into some kind of eighties hairstyle. She was dressed in a plaid pin skirt and a very expensive-looking button-up blouse. She wore four-inch heels even though she was already very tall. She was wearing way too much makeup. I had to wonder how she washed off all that black gunk from her eyes every day.
She walked toward my mother and called, “Clara, these must be your girls! I’m so glad they’ll finally be joining us.”
She looked directly at me and the ring in my nose and asked, “How was your ride, dear?”
The question was sincere, but the look on her face was one of disgust. If I’d been a mind reader, I would have said she was probably wondering what she had gotten herself into.
My mother looked at me and said, “Jane, this is Mrs. Whitman. She’s been kind enough to let us use her guest house while I work here.”
When I looked at Mrs. Whitman, I caught her staring at the worn-out Chucks on my feet. I acknowledged her anyway. Hell, I even threw in a compliment.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “You have a really nice house.”
Lizzie came running around the car to Mrs. Whitman, started tugging on the woman’s shirt, and shouted, “Can I see my room, lady?”
Mrs. Whitman stifled a laugh and told her she could. She excused herself and then headed back into her huge house.
We started unloading the trunk of the car and carrying our things into our little house. We walked through the front door into a kitchen/living room combination. It was small but very nice. There was an archway at the other side of the living room that led into a small hallway. There was a bathroom straight ahead of the hallway, a bedroom to the left, and a bedroom to the right. Lizzie and I were to share a bedroom. Lizzie wasn’t too happy about that, but I didn’t mind. The last foster home we were in, we’d shared a room with two other girls, so I figured we could survive this situation. The bedroom had two twin beds. I was sure Children Services probably made that some kind of stipulation of Mother getting us back. Last time we lived with her, we’d been lucky to have a mattress on the floor. We’d started off with beds, but it hadn’t taken Mother long to get hard up for cash and sell them. She’d sold everything we had. She’d even sold the iPod that St. Vincent de Paul had gotten me for Christmas that year. It hadn’t mattered to her that it was the only thing I had besides my clothes. She’d needed a fix and it was worth a quick twenty bucks. She told me I’d lost it, but I found the pawn shop receipt that showed she’d sold it.
Mother came into the room and asked us how we liked it. Lizzie ran up to Mother, hugged her, and shouted, “I love it, Mommy! I do, I do!”
Lizzie was always shouting. She was such a happy little girl for someone who had been through so much in her short life.
Mother was glaring at me, so I knew it was my turn to answer her question.
“It will do,” I said. “I’m not unpacking my crap, though. I’m pretty sure we won’t be here long. Lizzie can put her stuff anywhere she wants; I’ll only be sleeping in here anyway.”
I dropped my two backpacks on the bed by the window and sat down next to them.
We were lucky that what few belongings we had were in backpacks. Last time we’d changed foster homes, our stuff had been in brown paper bags. Jennifer, our last foster mom, bought the backpacks for us before we left. She said it was bad enough that we had so little, the least she could do was give us something decent to put it in.
Jennifer was a nice woman; her husband worked as a truck driver and wasn’t home much. Jennifer had kept us fed and clean. She hadn’t taken too much interest in us, though. She was too busy lingering on the internet all the time. I’m pretty sure she was addicted to Facebook, but she was nice to us. That’s a lot for a foster parent. Trust me: They can get bad.
The first time we were taken from Mother, they’d split us up. Lizzie was a baby, four months old. We were separated for eight months. I worried about her so much. I had taken care of her from the day she’d come home from the hospital. When we were placed back with Mother the first time, Lizzie didn’t even know who I was. She’d just turned one and was walking. I had missed her so much. I will never know if the home she’d been placed in had taken good care of her. I hated that I didn’t know anything about those months of her life. Thank goodness she was too young to remember it!
I’d been placed in a home I referred to as the Daniels Dungeon. The Danielses had remodeled their basement into three bedrooms, which meant they could house nine to twelve kids. They were totally into foster care for a check. The remodel consisted of slapping paneling on the moldy walls and putting carpet right on top of the concrete floor. Every time it rained, the carpet would get soaked under my bed. I spent my entire stay there with a runny nose and a sore throat. I know there had to be a ton of mold under that carpet. But the wet carpet was nothing compared to the smell coming from the four cats that stayed upstairs. We weren’t allowed to spend much time up there, but the smell made its way downstairs. We had to go to our rooms right after school and stay there until supper. We ate supper, did
multiple chores, and returned to our rooms. They had a bathroom down in the Dungeon. We weren’t even allowed to enter the one upstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Daniels must have been miserable, because they would start arguing as soon as he got home from work and would not stop until about one or two in the morning. It never escalated to the point the police needed to be called, but I think that was only because the neighboring house was empty.
“Jane, what do you two want for lunch?” Mother asked.
Coming out of my memory of the Danielses and their dungeon, I thought, Wow! She’s going to cook for us. Wonder how long that will last.
“You can fix whatever you want; I’m not hungry. I lost my appetite this morning in the courtroom,” I answered sarcastically.
“I want pancakes!” yelled Lizzie.
“Okay, little one, pancakes it will be,” Mother told her.
I followed them out of the bedroom to the kitchen, then went out the front door to the car to get the rest of Lizzie’s stuff, not that she had much. Just as I loaded up my arms, I heard the sound of an engine roaring to life and about dropped everything I was holding. I’d forgotten we were right next to a four-car garage. I went inside to the bedroom to put Lizzie’s belongings away. Again, I heard the sound of an engine. I glanced out the window to see a brand-new Ford Mustang pulling out of the garage. The tinted windows were rolled down so I could see the teenage boy driving it. I could tell by the flashy car, the dark sunglasses, and the way he shook his head when he turned toward Mother’s car that he was an arrogant ass. Great, I hope he goes to some expensive private school, I thought. I sure didn’t want to go to a school where everyone knew my mother was his maid. I guess that wouldn’t have been as bad as them knowing she was a heroin addict. Then again, depending on the school, the maid thing could have been worse.
Mother would say she was a “recovering” heroin addict. I didn’t believe that. She’d been clean before and had gone right back to it. She hadn’t always been an addict. When I was little, she’d worked hard to make sure I was cared for. It had always been just me and her. I didn’t know anything about my father and I was forbidden to ask. I’d never really thought that much about it. Mother and I had been happy. She went to work and I went to the babysitter. She came home and we would go to the park, take a walk, go on a picnic, or just hang out at home. She met Lizzie’s father, Cole, when I was eight. He was okay. He took up more of her time than I’d liked, but she seemed happy. By the time I turned nine, he had moved in. Three months after he moved in, Mother’s knee was crushed in a car accident and she was prescribed Vicodin. Her addiction started innocently. She was in pain, so she took her medication. Then she started taking more and more of her medication. Her cast was off and she was still complaining of pain and taking her medication. I realized there was a problem when I couldn’t get her to wake up in the middle of the day. That had struck me as odd since she’d been an active person and had never taken naps. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. I was only nine years old and I didn’t know anything about drugs. I didn’t know that if someone was sitting up and nodding off so badly that they dropped their cigarette, or that if they constantly had funny-looking white snot coming out of their nose, they might be doing drugs.
Opiate Jane Page 1
