by Greg Barth
He was simply dressed in a plain black t-shirt and jeans. He had a black knit beanie on his head. A full, dark beard covered his face.
It was Todd.
I raised my hand at my waist and gave him a little finger wave. I smiled at him.
Todd saved my life months before when he found me on the side of a mountain in North Carolina with two bullets in my chest. I had returned the favor by destroying him.
Diane was saying something, and I turned my attention to her. “These are the nurses that will be here this evening.”
They all said, “Hello, Amanda,” and welcomed me into their care.
“Shift change is at ten tonight,” Diane said. “The overnight nurses will come by to introduce themselves. And this is where I leave you. I hope your stay here will be nice and that you feel much better soon.”
“Thank you, Diane,” I said.
One of the nurses took me back to my room. I met my roommate, a younger woman who was in to get her meds balanced. The nurse told me the woman’s name was Tracy.
“Tracy, can you say hello to your new roommate? This is Amanda.”
Tracy lay on her back on her narrow bed. She had her face covered with a pillow. I assumed Tracy wasn’t going through a manic phase at the moment.
“Well, I’ll let you settle in,” the nurse said. “I’ll come back later with some toiletries for you.”
I sat down on my bed. The room was depressing. For one thing, there was nothing to provide any white noise—no TV, radio, not even a fan running. For another, the room was institutional. No pictures adorned the walls, nothing to provide a personal touch. No books, magazines, nothing to add a splash of color.
I wanted to talk to Todd, but wasn’t sure what to say. The last night I spent with him was special to me, but we’d parted on uncomfortable terms. And I was tired. The overdose had taken some steam out of me.
I lay down on the bed.
Next thing I knew, they were waking me in the morning to see the psychiatrist.
My psychiatrist spoke with an odd accent. He was a small, friendly man. He wore a black polo shirt and khaki pants. Energetic and animated, he put me at ease with his friendly manner. Maybe in his late thirties, he had olive skin, and his dark hair curled in tight ringlets. He didn’t seem like an uptight guy at all.
“Hello, Amanda, I’m Doctor Addington. How was your first night with us?” We sat in a small room furnished with a couple of chairs and an examination table. I sat in one chair, and he sat in another close to me. He had a yellow notepad that he referred to as we spoke.
“I think I slept the entire time. I can’t believe how tired I was.”
“That’s probably a good thing, considering what you’ve been through. I wanted to meet with you this morning to ask a few questions, so I can better understand how we can help.”
“Fire away,” I said.
“To start, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“It was just a matter of partying too hard,” I said. “You skate too close to the edge, sometimes you go over.”
“Who administered the Demerol? Did you do this or was it someone else?”
“A friend.”
“I see. Do you often inject drugs into your body?”
“It’s rare. Only recently.”
“Was the injection intravenous?”
“No. Just in the muscle.” I patted my right hip.
“Well, that’s not good, but intravenous would be much worse. That could get out of control quickly.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just bit my lower lip, widened my eyes, and tilted my head to the side as though to say, I’m not claiming to be a genius here.
He asked me about depression, energy level, sleep habits. It seemed very routine.
“What kinds of things do you enjoy doing?”
I lowered my chin, raised my eyebrows, and looked up at him. “You mean besides all the things that the doctor wants me to stop doing?”
“No. You can include those. That’s okay.”
“Well, you know...I like drinking, smoking, partying. Hanging out with friends. Music. Those kinds of things.”
“Anything healthier that you enjoy? What makes you feel good about yourself besides being at a party?”
“Hmm.” I sat thinking. “Okay. I like to read. I didn’t go that far in school, so there’s a lot of things I’m not good at. I’m not smart in some areas. But I’m good at reading. It’s entertaining, and I learn some things.”
“That’s good.” Dr. Addington scribbled a note.
“I read romances mostly. Some mysteries.”
“Do you ever have thoughts about hurting yourself?”
“Hurting? Sometimes. I used to cut myself. That was a long time ago. Killing myself? No. Not since...I mean, no.” I had started to say not since I got off the prison bus, but I couldn’t let that slip.
“Are you promiscuous?” Dr. Addington said.
“You mean sexually, right?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“On a scale of what?”
“How many sexual partners have you had?”
“In my whole life? You mean just men? And me being a willing participant?”
“Sure. Just men. And only when you were willing.”
I thought for a moment. It was no use. “I have no idea.”
“Really, Amanda? Ballpark?”
“No. Jesus. Way less than a ballpark. Shit. I’d say small auditorium max. And I don’t mean, like, an arena either. I’m thinking one of those school assembly auditoriums, but, you know, smaller than that even.”
“A sense of humor is good. I didn’t mean it that way. I just wondered if you could guess at a number of partners.”
“Not a clue. It’s a lot.”
“What about women then?”
“Four.”
He scribbled a note on the pad in front of him.
“No wait,” I said. “It’s five. Five.”
He kept writing.
“Sorry. Do fingers count? Like, you know, my fingers, but not hers? Fingers do count, don’t they? I mean, that’s technically penetration even if I’m the one doing the penetrating, right? Which is sex. So it’s six. Yeah. Six is the number.”
He sat looking at me as if waiting to see if there was more.
I hung my head and covered my eyes with my hand. “Son of a bitch,” I said. “I just remembered this. It’s like seven, something like that, but...” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” he said.
“Total slut, huh?” I said, looking back up at him.
“Do you feel shame? Guilt?”
“Guilt, no. Shame? Not about this so much.”
“How would you describe your feelings about the number of partners you’ve been with?”
“Honestly? I’m good for a few more. What do you think about it?”
“I’m not here to judge you, Amanda. You don’t seem uncomfortable talking about it.”
“I’ve never had like a steady boyfriend or anything. Not for very long. And I’m not good at…turning people down.”
“Do you use protection?” he said.
“Sometimes. Probably most of the time.”
“Do you ever worry about contracting an STD?”
“Um...you know...not so much, like…during sex. But once in a while...after, I worry a little.”
“Do you wear your seat belt?”
“During sex?”
He laughed.
“Most of the time I do,” I said.
“But not all the time?”
“It’s an easy thing to forget. That’s why they put the signs up on the road. To remind people. Buckle up. It’s the law. Anybody can forget that.”
He asked about my sense of self-worth and feelings of self-hatred. He frowned at my responses.
He looked down and considered his notes.
“So, here’s what I think. I don’t think you’re suicidal. I think your overdose was an accident
. Carelessness. But I think your self-destructive behavior is something we should be concerned about. It’s that behavior that led to this accident.”
“Concerned how?”
“I don’t know yet. I’d like to learn more. Did you encounter trauma as a child? Was your parental care constant or disrupted? Who are these friends that are injecting you with a powerful opiate?”
“Some trauma. Some disruption. Childhood was...” I shook my head.
“Medication wouldn’t be good for you right now. Most of the things that might help would also require you to stop consuming alcohol. While that’s a good idea, I can’t expect you to commit to that yet. I would recommend that you see one of our counselors here to talk about the root causes of your behavior, those things in your childhood. I would also recommend that you enter an addiction recovery program. I can refer you to a very good one.”
“It’s not some church thing, is it?”
“No. But if you want something along those lines, I can refer you to an excellent faith-based program.”
“It’s not my thing.”
“Once you go a period without binging, we can talk medicine if that looks like a good option for you.”
“You aren’t admitting me?”
“I can. I shouldn’t tell you this, but we need the beds for more severe cases. I’m concerned about your overdose, but I don’t think you’re suicidal or mentally ill.”
“So I can leave?” I said.
“Do you have support at home?”
I nodded. “Yes. I have some good friends.”
“I’m going to write you a prescription for Naloxone. Get it filled, just in case. Get a couple and give one to a friend to hold for you. I hope that you’ll never need it. I want you to be careful. Take things slow. Get some fun books to read.”
I nodded.
“Next steps, commit to talk therapy sessions and addiction recovery program.”
“Sign me up.”
He nodded. “Stay off the Demerol.”
He told me the paperwork would be completed, and I could leave later that afternoon.
“That’s fine. Is it okay if I talk to another patient for a few minutes?”
“Sure. Talking is good.”
Dr. Addington gave me some brochures and shook my hand. I left the small room and wandered out to find Todd.
THREE
Selena
I FOUND TODD lined up for lunch in the cafeteria. I grabbed a tray and followed him. We didn’t speak. The food didn’t look appetizing, but I let the servers put the portions on my tray along with a bottle of water.
The dining area was small. Todd picked a table off to the side, and I sat across from him. We had the table to ourselves.
“Well hey there, Mountain Man,” I said.
“Big surprise seeing you.” He flashed a warm smile. He was still a large, strong man, but he looked softer to me, older than I remembered.
“I could say the same. I’d never expect to find you here.”
“At the Veteran’s hospital, all they want to talk about is war trauma. It was wearing on me. I had a little episode.” He shrugged. “Here I am.” He took his fork and picked at his food.
I looked down at my tray—a few breaded chicken chunks, whipped potatoes, baby carrots, a roll, and some green beans. I tested the beans and found them bland. I placed my fork back on the tray.
“Good to see you,” I said.
Todd picked up a chicken chunk and popped it in his mouth. “You, too. How’d you get out?”
“Escaped,” I said. “Shhh.”
“I’d heard that. Wondered if it was true. You’re taking an awful risk coming back here. Being out in public. Somebody recognizes you, you’d be in trouble again.”
“It’s temporary. Just ‘til we get a few details settled.” I twisted the cap off my bottle of water and took a drink.
“We?”
I nodded. “I have some friends. I mean, they don’t know who I am. They can’t know. But I have one friend who does know, and he’s helping me.”
Todd frowned as he considered this.
“You’re not going to turn me in, are you?”
He smiled. “No. Don’t worry. You look different. Totally. The hair. The makeup. That’s a big change.”
I had dyed my hair burgundy with black streaks in front. My dark roots were starting to show. I wore heavy black eyeliner. “Goth,” I said.
“Yeah. Different. Makes you look ten years younger. Not that you looked old.”
“You guys still growing?”
“Not me. Not this season. Jack’s taking care of things when he can get up that way. I’ll be going back up, though. Soon as I can. Can’t stand living in town.”
“God I miss those days living in the cabin.”
He nodded. “Good times.”
“When you get back on your feet, I could hook you up with some buyers if you ever have need.”
Todd wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “You shouldn’t be out where you can be seen.”
“I had an accident. I was in the hospital.”
“You okay?”
“Overdose.” I rolled my eyes.
He frowned. “Selena...”
“Amanda,” I corrected. I looked around. Nobody was close enough to hear. “You can’t call me that.”
“Amanda? Nice. Okay, Amanda, being in the hospital? That’s even worse. Your scars, tattoos, they can identify you.”
I pushed up my shirtsleeve and showed him my tattoo. What had once been a black swastika was now an elaborate sleeve of Celtic knotwork that wrapped my wiry forearm.
“Still. Your scars.”
I pushed my tray across the table to Todd. He picked up a piece of chicken, broke it in half, and popped one in his mouth.
“Look, Todd. I wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse treatment, alright?”
“So, you okay now?”
“Yeah. Going home today.”
“You really kicked some ass since I saw you. I couldn’t believe some of the things I heard.”
I chuckled. “You have no idea. There’s a lot I’m sure you didn’t hear.”
“I said it already, but it’s good seeing you.”
“I’m glad too. I never did get to apologize.”
He looked puzzled. “Apologize for what?”
“I didn’t know, Todd...”
“Look. It’s me that should be sorry.”
“No,” I said. I put my hand out across the table. He took my hand and squeezed it. “It’s all good. You saved my life.”
“I enjoyed spending time with you. I’m healing.” He tapped the side of his head.
One of the nurses approached our table. We stopped talking.
“Amanda, your paperwork is all finished up. You’re good to go when you’re ready. Do you have someone to pick you up?”
“Thank you. I do,” I said.
“Good luck,” she said. “You call that support line if you need us.” She left us alone.
I turned back to Todd. “Look, maybe we could...hang out sometime. You know, if things work out. I won’t be around here long, but that doesn’t mean we can’t stay in touch.”
“That would be good.”
I stood to leave. He got up from his chair. I stepped up close and leaned in to him. He wrapped his strong arms around me. I embraced him back. The top of my head came up to his upper chest. He was tall and big and his hug was the warmest thing I’d felt in months. We stood there like that, holding each other, for a long time.
In another life…
FOUR
Mozingo
WHEN JOHN MOZINGO stepped into the dark room, the fat man sitting at the table sucked in his breath with a gasp.
“I’m sorry, Mister Mozingo. I’m sorry.” The fat man’s voice quivered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He began to hyperventilate
Mozingo was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He wore a hunter-green chamois shirt with the sleeves pushed up over his elbows, fade
d jeans, and worn cowboy boots. A large hunting knife hung from the thick belt at his waist. Mozingo had long, straight, brown hair. He had a beard and mustache a few shades lighter than his hair. Early thirties, maybe younger.
“Boys.” Mozingo nodded to the men inside the room. He stepped up to the table.
“I swear, I’m sorry Mister Mozingo,” the man at the table said.
“Calm down now, Teddy,” Mozingo said. “Looks like you’re about to have a fit.”
“I just...I can’t...catch my breath.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re sorry for, Teddy.”
Teddy swallowed, tried to slow his breathing.
“Somebody got a paper bag?” Mozingo said. His voice was a soothing, rich baritone.
A man stepped forward from the back of the room. He held a whiskey bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He loosened the crumpled paper from around the neck of the bottle and extracted what remained of the 750 milliliters of whiskey. He handed the narrow bag over to Mozingo.
“Here. Breathe in this, Teddy. It’s supposed to help.”
“I think...I think...I’m gonna...pass out.”
“Just use the bag, Teddy. How this all goes down is entirely up to you. Remember that, okay? It don’t have to be that bad.”
Teddy pressed the bag around his nose and mouth. The bag inflated as he exhaled, collapsed inward when he inhaled. After a few seconds of this, his breathing returned to a more normal rhythm.
“That feel better?” Mozingo said.
“Yes. Thank you.” Teddy was a large man, four hundred pounds. He wore a light windbreaker that couldn’t cover his massive belly. Underneath the jacket was a yellow t-shirt. He had thinning, oily hair that curled up over his ears, a fat face, and a wart on one side of his massive nose.
“What’s got you so worked up, Teddy?”
“I...I know you’re going to be upset. I had no idea it was you we were dealing with. I would have handled things differently. I swear.” His voice trailed off in a whine.
