Lullabies For Suffering: Tales of Addiction Horror

by Mark Mathews (Ed)

  Trey's arm was so easy to inject. His virgin veins popped in vibrant blue, his flesh eager to be punctured. The blood she drew back was a rich shade of red. He flashed her one last look of gratitude before his eyes rolled in the back of his head and then closed. She boiled up another batch of dope, plunged the syringe into her own crusty vein until she was engulfed in warmth. She swore she wouldn't nod off to sleep the way Trey had, but soon her eyes were closed, and both of them drifted off to the same lullaby for suffering, and suffered no more.

  She awoke to the hazy image of her daughter bedside, looking over them, standing there for who knows how long—hours, minutes, days, her whole life. Standing like a dead child with shoulders hung slack as if her bones had been dissolved, her spine and spirit sucked right out of her body.

  “Come here,” Kate said and pulled Lizard to bed with her. She held her close, smelled her hair, her skin, remembered her as an infant and how the scent of hope and freshness in each pore of flesh held such promise. But now her daughter was trembling, not from a seizure this time, but from fear.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I'm so, so sorry.”

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  Lizabeth at Amy’s Front Door

  I knocked on Amy’s front door with a tiny rap of my knuckle. I wanted a friendly entry. Nothing alarming. I heard footsteps moving in all directions, pattering quickly one way then the other. Cabinet drawers slammed. Finally, I heard steps coming to the door.

  Amy’s fingers cracked the window shades, eyes peeked through into mine, leering at me with suspicion. Facial recognition finally hit her.

  “Agent Baker. You’re here,” she said as she opened the door.

  “Random visit time. Amy, sorry to interrupt, but you knew it was coming. Just need to look around.”

  I stood my ground. Never go in unless invited. Amy needed to invite me inside and into her life. Drug court is voluntary. She could say no and opt out of the program at any time and instead serve her full sentence for writing bad checks. The alternative to five years in prison for her charges was drug court, a program specifically designed for those whose crimes were committed within the scope of their addiction.

  “You bringing the man in with you?” Amy asked and nodded towards the police car parked curbside. The shadow of Officer Renfrew sitting behind the wheel was evident.

  “He’s on standby just in case he’s needed.”

  Amy opened the door wide and waved me inside.

  The rental house was new, and Amy hadn't yet stamped her brand upon its hide. A solitary, faded green chair sat where a couch might be. Cable wires snaked out of a TV into one wall, and a broom rested against the opposite wall. A pile of recently swept dirt lay neatly on the hardwood floor below. Across the main room, dish rags were stacked and folded on the kitchen counter, not yet packed away, as if Amy wasn’t sure she wanted to commit.

  Joshua, her six-year-old boy, sat at the dining room table. He wore a gray sweatshirt, Mackinaw Island written in orange letters across the front. He peered towards me, certainly one of many strangers to come into his life.

  “Say hi to Agent Baker.”

  Joshua didn’t say hi as his mom requested. Clearly not sure if he was supposed to. His eyes seemed broken, like shattered marbles that had been glued back together and stuck back in his sockets. He had that frozen look boys get, not trusting his instinct, hoping he was invisible, that the request to say hi would be forgotten and the two grown-ups could go on with their business that didn't concern him.

  But what was best for Joshua—keeping his mom clean and sober—was my business.

  “Can I take a look at that?” I asked, stepping towards the kitchen table and motioning to the picture he was drawing. He kept his head bowed in deference and slid the picture towards me.

  “He’s been drawing this same cartoon character he calls Piper-Pippen, over and over and over,” Amy said, her hands stuffed deeply into her back pockets.

  Piper-Pippen had a long, lanky body, and even longer, skinnier arms. His wiry hair stood up straight, waving wildly in the air. In each one, Piper was smiling—smiling so big and confident that the mouth and lips extended beyond the shape of his head. His eyes were little twists of metal, the barb on the barbed wire, and his arms the metallic strings. I didn’t recognize this cartoon, but Joshua had clearly invited him deep inside his private world.

  Why cling to Piper-Pippen, why him? This Piper-Pippen, who had certainly been there for him when his mom wasn’t. Piper had been his friend, his dad, his God even, comforted Joshua while he lie in bed, maybe hungry, never sure what will come through the door after his mom scored her morning dose of heroin—her sickness like a humid mist, her cure like an ominous storm. Joshua knew truths nobody else would ever know, the secret camera into Amy’s world. He’d seen the things she’d done to fill her golden arms that had now rusted.

  You are the one I am here for, Joshua. Artist, dreamer, admirer of Piper-Pippen, but I know you can’t speak of things yet the way you might like to. Someday you will say so much. The scream you’ve been holding in will demand to be released, and on that day, others will hear and feel your power.

  “I just need to check out a few things, Amy.”

  We made the rounds. I had her open the fridge to make sure there was no beer inside, and had her open the cabinets, checking for contraband. I didn’t expect her to be stupid enough to leave heroin lying around in full view, but where addicts get high, they always leave a trace—the plastic tips of syringes, the bits of cotton, the tiny baggies or tin foil.

  I checked the bedside dresser, always a popular spot. I found one pill bottle on the ground next to the mattress.

  “Melatonin bottle. Need it to sleep. Swear I haven’t slept for real in months.”

  “I hear it helps,” I said. I opened it up to make sure the pills inside were as advertised.

  Back to the kitchen, where I looked in the sink for spoons with brown, burnt marks underneath. Nothing but two dirty dishes soaking.

  “I hate getting ketchup off plates, so I let them soak. Josh dips everything in ketchup.”

  I searched the bathroom, easily the most dangerous room in any house, where the blades are kept to cut oneself, the pills to overdose on, where you can run and hide at any moment and do private things you would never confess. Not a trace of any contraband.

  “The garbages—I need to look inside all of them."

  A garbage is the mirror to the soul. She took me on a tour to the discards of her life. The white plastic bucket in the bathroom was full of tissues, the silver bin in Joshua’s room scattered with colored pencil shavings. In the kitchen, I got a whiff of fried chicken from the discarded bones, but no human bodies buried inside.

  The last place I checked was the basement. We descended the stairs together, side by side. The basement was just an unfinished, empty tomb—a washer and dryer against one cement wall, old furnace churning nearby. Even the spiders had no place to hide. Her house was clean, I was done here, but a few questions remained.

  “When was your last Narcotics Anonymous meeting?” I asked.

  “I went today. Joshua drew five Piper-Pippens while I was there.”

  “You going to counseling?”

  “Therapist canceled on me yesterday. I showed up, and she wasn't even there.”

  “Your last drug test?”

  “I got tested three days in a row this week. All my random urine drops are happening right in a row, like I’ve done something wrong. Like something is creeping up on me.”

  Amy stuffed her hands in her back pockets, curled her feet toward each other, and then did a subtle hop on her toes. She looked to the ground, then back at me.

  “You can see I’m doing everything I'm supposed to do, and the judge has proof. I’m good. I’m clean. So why is a cop on standby just in case he’s needed?”

  She was still thinking of the police car.

  “It’s just a precaution. He won’t be needed.”

  “But does someone thin
k he is needed?”

  “Amy, my purpose is to help you, not make you nervous. I’m sorry.”

  “I know. It's not just you. Anyone with a badge makes me nervous. They can do anything they want. Bring me in, violate my probation. It's just instinct. When I see a cop car I wonder what I’m doin’ wrong—I wonder what they think I'm doin’ wrong. My hands jump to my pockets to check where my bag of dope is. That’s not gonna change. You seem like you really do care and give a shit, but you don’t know what it’s like to be an addict. It’s a life you’ll never understand.”

  All of us got quiet. Joshua’s broken marble eyes looked up at me from the table. I wanted to respond to his mom with all the raging memories in my soul. My reply churned inside me, heating and boiling and ready to blow. Amy must have felt this burning and wanted it doused.

  “It's okay, it's fine. I know I need this. I love my new life,” she said. “Drug court is a second chance to be a better mom. I’m so grateful. I really am. Little things are starting to make me happy, like the taste of licorice or the sound Joshua makes when he sneezes twice, never once. People like me don't know how to be happy, but I’m learning, and the best part is, Joshua is growing to trust me. I have drug court to thank for all of that.”

  Her words swung like a pendulum inside a grandfather clock, one side then the other, to believing what she said, to wishing it were true.

  “Just keep doing everything you’ve been doing, string some clean time together, and soon people like me will have no power over you. You’ll find that when you aren’t using, we can’t hurt you. We don’t hurt you.”

  That felt like a perfect conclusion, instilled a touch of fear, but mostly hope, and it was time for me to leave. This little family would grow. Amy would meet a partner who cherished her in the same way I cherished Rebecca, not despite her battle wounds, but because of them.

  “How did you get that scar?” Joshua asked before I could get out the door.

  “The monkey bars,” I gave my patented lie.

  He thought of my answer. He looked to his drawings and shuffled them. He wasn’t satisfied. He had more questions.

  “Will you be coming back here?”

  “Well, that all depends. What does Piper-Pippen think?" I asked this knowing that Piper would speak of hidden truths that Joshua wouldn't.

  “Piper doesn’t talk to other people, only to me,” Joshua said.

  “I understand that. And what does he tell you?”

  “Well, Piper says you should come back soon. It’s when you leave things happen,” his eyes darted to his artwork on the kitchen table.

  “What things happen with Piper?” I asked.

  “Nothing with Piper. Not him. His arms are so skinny there’s no room to poke a needle inside.”

  Something deflated in the air. Whatever was holding Amy up, spirit and spine and dignity, was hacked at with an ax, chunks flying, insides oozing, but Amy stood tall.

  “Well, then, I won’t come back for Piper, I’ll come back just for you.”

  I gave him a wink on my way out the door.

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  Amy After the Visit

  Agent Baker had winked at Joshua as if speaking some silent language only the two of them could hear. A secret code they alone could understand.

  Amy shut the front door and waited for both the cop and Baker to leave her street.

  Don’t watch them drive away. They can see you. They know what you do.

  She reached her hands into her back pockets and flicked at the packet of heroin with her fingertips, again and again. Each time her nails made contact she was comforted that the dope was still there. Each time a soothing warmth, like a blood transfusion, swept over her. The snake bite of the needle that was coming soon would wash away the cold shame for buying a pack of heroin in the NA meeting parking lot.

  God, just get rid of it, she’d told herself on the drive home from the meeting while Joshua mumbled to himself in the back seat. Having heroin in her possession changed her chemistry. Every cell reacted as if a fire alarm had been pulled. Her body hadn’t had dope in months. Her veins were rested and healed, but they had not forgotten.

  Soon as she had heard the knock on her front door she knew it was Agent Baker. She feigned surprise, but knocks from people with power such as hers hit an octave easily detectable, a dog whistle warning, so she’d dashed about the house thinking of hiding the dope, but finally decided to keep it on her body. Safest bet. If the agent was smart enough to search her body, she knew how to reach inside her pocket and palm it, or worst case scenario, beg for forgiveness and understanding if the deception failed.

  Agent Baker was an odd mix of cold and kind, but she'd never gotten high, Amy could tell. She'd never once felt the beautiful pierce of a needle, never knew the sick desperation. The only evidence she’d ever felt genuine hurt was the scar left above her ear from the monkey bars.

  Amy had passed the random home inspection and Baker was gone, leaving Amy holding heroin in her pocket, her son drawing pictures. His habit seemed just as obsessive.

  Joshua was waiting for her reaction about the surprise guest, anticipating her mood to crack, wondering if his mom was going to get upset. Amy refused to get angry. Joshua and her could survive everything. They’d survived worse than this. Nothing could separate the two. A cord still connected them, from her blood to his.

  She took some Ritz crackers out of the pantry, carefully ripped open the sleeve, put peanut butter on each cracker, one by one, until a circle of crackers filled a paper plate. Next, a glass of milk, topped off with a kiss on Joshua's forehead before he started eating his favorite dish.

  “You don’t need to be scared of Agent Baker. She’s a friend of ours.”

  “Is the agent coming back?” he asked, cracker dust coming from his lips.

  “Doubt it. Probably not for a month, no surprises until then.”

  And no drug testing for a week, Amy guessed. After getting called in to pee in a cup for three days in a row, there would certainly be a gap before she was tested again. Her addiction knew this and spoke to her.

  The time has come. This is your window. You made it. You did all they asked, you can get high today. You deserve it. Just this once. Then you can stop again.

  She had four months clean. She was finally doing something right. Strange as it felt, she had prayed to be at this very moment. Out of jail, in her own place, Joshua with his own bedroom. She couldn’t fuck it up. She was living inside an answered prayer, and needed to remember the hurt that her sickness caused.

  You will always be sick. I can cure what ails you. You will never quit. You’ll always come back to me. Always. Go ahead and pretend you’re happy, but you can’t fool me. I’m the only one who has what you need.

  Everyone was just waiting for her to relapse anyway. Think of how smugly satisfied they’d be. All those questions they ask her with a cynical tone and their subtle disappointment when she answered that, yes, she was doing what they asked, staying clean, following her drug court orders. Getting high again would restore order to their world-view. Ah-ha! I knew it, she is just a junkie. Why did we ever think she could change?

  She pulled the pack of dope out of her back pocket and transferred it to her front. She gave a comforting tap-tap to her jeans.

  “Does Agent Baker know where Dad is?” Joshua asked.

  “No, she doesn’t work in the jail, she works to make sure people don't go to jail. When you see Agent Baker it means your mom must be doing well. It means we’ve got nothing to worry about. We’ve got nothing but blue skies ahead.”

  She wished she could fill his head with futures so fantastic he’d be forced to draw pictures of carefree families having picnics on green grass, brilliant yellow sun overhead, checkered-red blanket, one magnificent tree for him to climb. Instead, he was brooding, his neck craned over his manic drawings, his black bangs dangling above his eyes. Occasionally, he pulled a Ritz to his mouth and licked off the peanut butter before crunching on the
whole cracker. She felt her own tongue get dry watching him until he finally washed it down with milk.

  Remember the beauty when you are high. Remember what a happy mom you are. Your smiles. Your charm. Not this lifeless sack you’ve become. Your son needs you happy. He deserves it. You deserve it. You’ve worked so hard. Just one time. What are you waiting for? Let’s go.

  Amy grabbed the broom resting on the wall and swept the pile to the corner, moving it yet again. She didn't have a dustpan to pick it up. The place was supposed to be clean when she moved in, but it was filthy, and there was so much work to do to make it her own. New furniture, a lamp or two, curtains. And more cleaning. And it was always so still and quiet. No creaks, no settling, no tick of some forgotten clock in the other room. Nothing. It was empty, lonely, like it had no past, and it was going to take a long time to carve her new life into its walls.

  “Joshua, do me a favor? Draw me a Piper-Pippen, your best one yet. I’ll frame it and put it up as the first picture in our new house. But take your time, okay? This is the big one. I’ll be right back.”

  She walked with urgent steps to the bathroom. The fight was over. Resistance vacated her body and sweet relief filled its place. Why fight it? It was inevitable since the moment she let herself purchase the heroin after the NA meeting. She’d been fending off men giving tightly held hugs with octopus arms in the parking lot, most of them pleading with her to go for coffee. She rejected them all, except the offer from Chuck Hartzel, who offered a pack of something so premium she just had to try, and she paid him with crumbled-up singles.

  She shut the bathroom door behind her but didn’t lock it, just in case. Remember what happened at Burger King. She was finally safe and alone. Her heart thumped in her chest, drum beat booming. Leftover works, needle, spoon, and cotton were all tucked away where Agent Baker wasn't smart enough to look (panel behind the bathtub faucet).