Steadfast (True North #2)

by Sarina Bowen

  “What?”

  “Have you been honest with me?”

  I snorted. “No, Sophie. When we were together, I got high behind your back every damn day. That’s pretty dishonest, don’t you think?”

  “That is not what I mean, and you know it! When I asked you about where you and Gavin were going together, you told me you didn’t remember. But there must be something that stands out. Gavin was a complete shit to you every chance he got. Why would he ask you for a ride when there was a whole house full of frat boys to do it?”

  Oh, Jesus. “You know what?” I pointed at the dismembered Prius. “I’m in the middle of a job. It’s not a good time.”

  “Will it ever be a good time? Because I feel like you’re ducking me. That makes you just another person in my life who won’t tell me the truth. You’re supposed to be the one who does, Jude. You.”

  Now my hands were sweating, and I felt a familiar itch in my limbs. “Sophie, I’ll see you at the church tonight, okay? Let me get through this.” I meant the drug craving that was suddenly making my T-shirt stick to my back and not the custom paint job on the table behind me. Hopefully she couldn’t tell.

  She peered up at me, and I saw judgment in her eyes. I’m sure I deserved it, too. “Okay. Later.” She sighed.

  “Later,” I echoed. But then I couldn’t resist closing the distance between us and kissing her forehead. With a sigh, she put a hand to my shoulder and squeezed. I never wanted any trouble between us. But life was just so fucking complicated.

  Shit.

  She left, and I paced the garage for a couple of minutes, feeling twitchy. I went over to a chin-up bar I’d installed when I was fourteen and banged out a quick set of ten. A little muscle fatigue was just what I needed to soothe the tension knotting my insides.

  I bent over for a hamstring stretch and counted slowly to ten. In my mind, I pictured the warming hut at the top of Mount Mansfield, where I used to like to snowboard. Back in tenth grade, the top of that ski hill was my favorite place. Nothing bad ever happened up there, and you could see all the way to New York on one side and New Hampshire on the other.

  Deep breaths, I ordered myself. This too shall pass.

  At rehab, they’d taught us some meditation techniques. I was pretty shitty at meditating, but one thing the psychologist said had stuck with me. “The goal of meditation is not to make you all into superhumans. The goal is to remind your brain that focus is a choice. That a place of calm is always waiting for you if you seek it.”

  I hoped she was right.

  After putting in a half-hour more work, I began cleaning up. I shut off the work lamp over my table and swept sanding dust off the Prius’s panel.

  The cravings were still going strong. Maybe that’s why I sensed the intruders before I saw them.

  The bulk of someone’s form cast a shadow in the window light. Then it disappeared again.

  Cops, my subconscious offered up. Unease coiled low in my belly. I hoped Sophie hadn’t been spotted here by her father.

  Whoever was outside my door was trying to be stealthy. I tensed, wondering what was coming. Slowly, I set the sanding block down. I wanted something heavier in my hand. Unfortunately I only had time to take one step before the door burst open.

  Leaping toward the tools hanging on the far wall, I almost made it.

  Almost.

  I was reaching for the lug wrench when someone kicked my feet out from under me. I barely got my arms up to cushion my head by the time I hit the concrete floor. Instinctively I curled into a ball, and so the first kick landed at my back. The boot hit so hard that I saw stars. When I tried to inhale, I couldn’t do it.

  “You think that’s bad? Tell us where the shit is or I will finish you.”

  Not cops.

  Fuck.

  The pain from the drug dealer’s kick was so fierce that it took a moment before I could even force the words out. “Don’t know. Never did.”

  The next blow landed at my kidney, and then the next one made me shout in pain.

  “WHERE!” shouted the goon. “Check his pockets,” he said to someone. “And the cash register. The shit has to be here somewhere.”

  It’s just pain, I told myself. I gave myself a count of three to recover, then I rolled away from my attackers. I made it about three feet before someone came at me from the opposite side. Fuck, there were three of them. But I could see a tire iron just out of my reach…

  That’s when I took a boot to the head. And everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sophie

  Internal DJ is set to: “Blue Christmas,” Jewel Version

  Community Dinner Night was the usual chaos. Everyone was in a Christmassy mood except for me. Even Mrs. Walters was singing Jingle Bells in time with the clanking of the dishwashing machine.

  Jude wasn’t at the prep station.

  I put two-dozen chicken legs into a baking dish and sprinkled my signature spice mixture over them. And I tried not to fret. He was just pissed at me, probably. Or maybe there was some rush job at the shop that needed his attention.

  There was no way to text him to confirm any of these theories. I hated how tricky it was to reach him, so I’d bought Jude a pre-paid phone for Christmas. I’d planned to give it to him tonight, after a round or two of sweaty make-up sex.

  But where was he now?

  “Exams all done?” Denny asked, grabbing the pan of chicken and sliding it into the oven.

  “Yeah. Turned in the take-home on Monday.” I snuck another glimpse of the prep station. Still empty.

  “How’s your pediatric case coming?” he asked, breaking open another package of chicken.

  I put an empty pan in front of him. “Well, the child is getting her cochlear implant soon, but they haven’t figured out the financial piece yet. I’m helping them apply to three foundations for assistance,” I said, reaching for the spices. “I think we have a good shot of finding a donation to cover the deductible for the little girl’s treatment. I want her to have it before she turns two.”

  “Cool,” Denny said.

  “Mmm,” I replied, distracted again. I couldn’t help replaying my conversation with Jude. I’d basically called him a liar. Could he really be angry enough to blow off the dinner?

  “Everything okay?” Denny asked.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Because you’ve been staring at that oven door for a long time.”

  I turned around on a sigh. “Sorry. What’s next?”

  “Are we mashing the potatoes? Or are they going to be just boiled, and tossed with butter?”

  “Um, boiled I guess. The mixer has been on the fritz, I think.”

  “We could smash ’em,” Denny suggested.

  “Okay?” My eyes made another involuntary trip over to the prep table. It was still empty.

  “Is something the matter with Jude?” Denny asked quietly.

  The question made me grumpy. “If I said there was, would you give me another lecture?”

  “Oh.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said—“

  I held up a hand. “Let’s just forget it. We have potatoes to smash.”

  Stepping around Denny, I went back to my work area, cleaning all the chicken wrappers off of it. Worrying about Jude made me feel disloyal, because I kept wondering if he’d gotten into trouble. My mind spun a scenario wherein he had a really stressful week…and then did something stupid to ease himself.

  The truth was that I’d never be able to look at Jude with the same naive eyes as my teenage self. Even if he and I were able to be a normal couple, I might always worry about him turning to drugs. If he were late to come home, or missing for a couple of hours, I’d wonder why. It would be a lot like dating someone with a history of unfaithfulness.

  And now I hated myself for thinking these disloyal thoughts. Even worse? We’d argued. If Jude fell off the wagon right this second, I’d feel responsible.

  “We’re down a man?” Father Peters asked,
surveying the kitchen with his fists on his hips.

  “Seems so,” Denny said.

  “Funny how we come to depend on every volunteer,” the priest said, frowning. “What should I do? Doors open in forty-five minutes.”

  “Peel some potatoes?” Denny suggested. “I’ll help.”

  “Let’s go.”

  I looked over the serving station, which was already set up. And then the oven timer buzzed, so I donned an oven mitt to check the first batch of chicken legs. That first night when Jude had appeared, we were serving this same meal. I’d been comically distracted by his presence. And now I was distracted by his absence. I had the sinking feeling that it would always be this way between us. Tortured.

  Damn you, Jude.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jude

  Cravings Meter: 0

  Beeping. That was the first thing I heard. I didn’t have anything in my room that made that beeping noise. So where was I?

  For a few minutes, I forgot to worry about it. I was just so groggy, and drifting felt good. Although I felt some pain in my side, the ache lacked sharp edges. And I lacked sharp edges. Everything was liquid.

  Except for that beeping sound. And the voices in the background.

  Voices?

  I opened my eyes and saw a grid of unfamiliar ceiling tiles. The walls in my peripheral vision were white. I tried to place the voices in the background, but they were indistinct. And then I heard an amplified voice over some kind of loudspeaker. “Paging Doctor Weaver. Doctor Weaver to the fourth-floor data center, please.”

  A hospital. I was at a fucking hospital.

  That woke me up enough to remember some of what had happened. Those goons at the garage had kicked the shit out of me, and now I was in the emergency room.

  Shit.

  I closed my eyes again and tried to take inventory. My head was foggy. Things hurt. My right arm, for one. It was bound up somehow, so that I couldn’t move it. I also had pain in my left side. I wasn’t wearing my clothes anymore. My legs felt bare beneath the sheet they’d put over me. And something was stuck to my left hand.

  Opening my eyes, I turned my head gingerly to the left. Indeed, there was tape on my hand. I spied a thin tube running from the taped part of my wrist and upward. By craning my neck, I could see that the tube ran to an IV bag hanging from a pole. Inside the IV bag was a clear liquid. Fluids.

  Something bothered me about this, but it was hard to say what. My focus on these problems was pleasantly blurry. I let my eyes fall closed again, floating on my own drowsiness. I felt peaceful.

  I felt drugged.

  My eyes flew open again. Wrenching my head to the side, I peered up at the IV bag again. There was a tag on it, but I couldn’t read it from here. Didn’t matter, though. I already knew what was in the bag.

  “Fuck!” My voice was hoarse from disuse. I tried to move my right arm to grasp for the tube in my left arm. But my right arm was held tightly against my body with a sling. And even trying to move it caused a shooting pain in my forearm. “Ah,” I gasped, surprised by its intensity.

  My heart began to pound, and I tasted bile in my throat. Fucking painkillers. I’d had six months! Six whole fucking months. And some asshole doctor just fucked me over. The back of my throat began to burn.

  Turning my attention to my left wrist, I gave it a good tug. But the tape held. I gave it another yank, and the result was not what I’d hoped for. The IV tower tipped toward me, hitting the bed and then slowly sliding to the floor with a crash.

  A woman in nursing scrubs came running at the sound. She looked at me and frowned. “Mr. Nickel. You’re awake. What happened here?”

  I lifted my left wrist. “Take it out. I can’t have painkillers.”

  She leaned over for the IV stand, righting it quickly. “You had surgery, Mr. Nickel. The doctor had to remove your spleen, because it was ruptured.” She put a hand over the IV tape at my wrist. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

  I yanked my wrist away. “You don’t understand. I can’t have narcotics. I’m an addict.” I could feel that shit swimming through my veins, too.

  “What’s the problem here?” A clean-cut young man came into the room wearing a white coat with Dr. Flemming stitched onto the pocket. Really? The teen doctor was going to help?

  Fuck me. “I had six months clean,” my voice wobbled as I tried to explain. “Now there’s smack in my arm.”

  Teen doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  My eyes were hot now, from anger or frustration or what-the-fuck-ever. “Get it out,” I said, lifting my head. If I sat up, maybe they’d hear me. “No narcotics for me. I’m an addict.” How many times did I have to say it? I struggled upward.

  But the nurse lunged, pushing my shoulder back down to the mattress. “Don’t do that. You have stitches.”

  Boy did I ever. Pain bloomed in my side, and I blinked back tears. “Please take it out,” I begged. “Please.” And even if she did, I knew exactly what would happen anyway. Whether I got rid of the drug in my arm now or tomorrow or whenever, I was going to have withdrawal symptoms. First I would get the shakes and feel panicky. The panic was almost the worst part. Then the nausea would come. My stomach would rebel, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep. And even if I withstood the hours of shaking and puking, I’d be left with cravings far worse than anything I’d felt in months.

  Again. I’d done this to myself by taking drugs in the first place. I’d taught my body to want it. And for the rest of my life, I was shackled to this problem.

  “Uh,” Teen Doctor said, his hand behind his neck. “You need something to control the pain.”

  “I can have ibuprofen,” I said, trying to stay calm. But I wasn’t calm. I was doomed.

  “Let me look into it,” Teen Doctor said, scribbling something on my chart. Translation: I don’t have a clue what to do for you. “I’m going to evaluate our options.”

  “Good,” I said. “Take this shit out of my arm while you evaluate.”

  Nobody moved.

  That’s when I figured out how to solve the problem myself. Raising the IV hand to my mouth, I secured the little tube in my teeth and—

  “Hey!” the nurse said, grabbing my hand. “I’ll take it out.”

  And, God bless her, she did, while my twelve-year-old doctor slipped out of the room.

  The nurse put a Band-Aid over the IV wound and then gave me an appraising look. “How is your pain for now? Is it manageable?”

  “Yeah.” The pain was the least of my problems.

  “I’m going to bring you a drink of water.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “Who can we call for you?” she asked. “You were brought in alone.”

  “How did I get here?” I asked suddenly.

  “Ambulance. I believe they said your father called 9-1-1.”

  “Did he, now.” Impressive.

  “Should we call him?” the nurse asked.

  “No,” I said quickly. “He doesn’t really drive because he’s drunk all the time.”

  She frowned. “Who then?”

  “Nobody.”

  “A friend?” she pressed. “Unless there are complications from your surgery, you’ll be out of here in a couple of days. Your arm is broken and you’re recovering from major surgery. You’ll need somewhere to go.”

  I closed my eyes and fought off a shudder. “And I’ll be detoxing. Don’t forget that.”

  She squeezed my good hand. “There’s got to be someone.”

  Sure, lady. Because addicts have so many friends. I couldn’t even ask Sophie, who would probably want to help me. But she couldn’t. And there was nobody whose job it was to look after assholes like me…

  My eyes snapped open. Actually, there was someone who did that job on purpose. “Father Peters,” I said. “At the Catholic church.”

  “Okay, honey. You mean St. Augustine?”

  No, that didn’t sound right. “The church in Colebury.” Fuck, I didn’t even know where
I was. The hospital outside of Montpelier, probably.

  “All right,” she said soothingly. “First water, then I’ll call Father Peters.”

  She walked away, and I closed my eyes again. When would I stop being surprised at the shit that happened to me? In the back of my loopy, angry brain, I knew that the IV and the broken arm weren’t even the worst of my problems. The assholes who’d beat me up were still out there, still looking for their missing stash. And I would probably get a visit from a police officer, too.

  Fuck my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jude

  Cravings Meter: Just Kill Me Already

  It took Sophie a day to find me.

  Too bad it didn’t take her longer. By the time I heard her gasp at the doorway of my hospital room, I was sweating and shaking and cursing God for my existence. Against Teen Doctor’s advice, I’d refused to continue with the IV painkillers. My big plan was to detox before they kicked me out of the hospital. I knew it was going to be bad, and I had this perverse idea that the people who did this to me should see that.

  Also, there were nurses here ready to bring me ice chips and to tell me to stop shouting “FUCK” at the top of my lungs. More than once already they’d threatened to sedate me against my wishes. They said that if my withdrawal symptoms didn’t fade soon, it would fuck up my healing and put a strain on my heart.

  But Father Peters had turned up to calmly demand that Teen Doctor listen to me. “He says he doesn’t need the narcotics. Why don’t you give him more over-the-counter painkillers?”

  “We’ll let you try it your way,” the doctor said. “But if your vital signs don’t improve soon, we’ll have to use something stronger.”

  Fuck that. Nobody who ever detoxed would do it twice in a week.

  Yet with each new wave of nausea, my determination splintered. I really do need a little something for the pain, my idiot brain suggested. Never mind that they’d given me industrial strength ibuprofen. My body was craving that floaty feeling I’d woken up with. I wanted to drift on sweet numbness again.