Breaking Faith

by E. Graziani

  I back away, struggling to breathe because every last molecule of oxygen has left my lungs and I’m startled and disoriented, trying to remember what to do.

  Help. Ambulance.

  I stumble to the wall phone and call 911. I’m crying to the lady on the other end, that Mrs. Lieberman went to bed the night before and never woke up this morning. She asks for Mrs. Lieberman’s address and then asks a few questions, and then she says to stay there until the police and first responders come. After I hang up, I go to her bedroom door and close it—I just figure it’s the right thing to do—to give her the dignity of privacy for the last time.

  Dazed, I look around and find a slim green address book on a table next to the phone, with a picture of ivy on it, and inside there’s a 1996 calendar in the beginning pages. The pages are all yellow and dog-eared. I look for her son’s phone number under the Ls but I find it under the Ns—Noam Lieberman. I should be the one to tell him, not some cold policeman or doctor, that his mother just passed. I was with her last, so I owe her that much.

  After I dial his number, I get his voicemail. It says the usual thing, so I leave a message. Though I want to tell him in person, I don’t know how long I’ll have access to a phone—I can’t stay here any longer.

  I get my backpack near the door, quickly put the rest of my stuff in it, and leave. As I’m exiting the door next to the grocer, the first responders are just arriving and unloading their gurney from the back of the ambulance. A fire truck is right behind them, and a police car is coming from the opposite end of the street. As I pass nearby stores with my hoodie on over my head, my coat buttoned, and my backpack slung over my shoulder, people are coming out to see what all the commotion is about.

  I take a last look at Mrs. Lieberman’s window on the second floor. Her plants, green and healthy, sitting on the window ledge soaking in the uncharacteristically bright November sun, are unaware that, in a short time, they will shrivel and die because no one will be there to water them. I feel grief and sadness for my loss of one of a few people on Earth who accepted me for who I was.

  As tears begin to flow I wonder why the people I cared about are always leaving me.

  Chapter 23

  I walk and walk in the cold sunlight. Tears are rising up in my eyes again, but there are too many people on the sidewalk to let go, so I duck into an alley behind some big blue recycling bins and weep. It was nice to be someone to somebody for a while, but now that is over. My tears ebb and flow as I think of her blue eyes, cloudy with cataracts, yet still brilliant with life. I hear broken English as she scolds me when I ruin the blintze dough. “Oy, girlie, why you no listen!” She pretends to be pissed, but she really isn’t.

  She gave me the keys so I could unlock my own truths.

  I promised Mrs. Lieberman I would do it, so I will. She allowed me a glimpse into her life so I could fix mine.

  Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll try.

  I get up again and walk, walk, walk around. I go nowhere but I walk for hours.

  ...

  A loud crash, then a thud reverberates in my head and I jump with a start. I open my eyes, and there’s a man with an empty plastic bin in his hands, looking down at me. My head is resting against a dumpster.

  “You can’t stay here—restaurant’s opening soon.”

  I say, “Okay.” No emotion, no anger or shame.

  My mouth feels parched and my stomach hurts for food. I consider panhandling, then decide not to—maybe the first responders left the door open to Mrs. Lieberman’s and I can go in and get some milk and latkes. My heart aches when I think of her, cold and lifeless, when only a short time ago, she gave me more hope for a life than ever.

  I will my feet to move and head back to Mrs. Lieberman’s apartment. Everything looks quiet, so I go in the white door at the side of the grocer. I walk up the stairs and stop at the top step, looking at Mrs. Lieberman’s door. I hear people inside, and figure it’s her family.

  I step closer. I want to knock and say I knew her and she was awesome, but Brian’s door opens instead.

  “Hey! It’s you again,” says Brian—he’s got overalls on.

  I look at the floor and keep silent. He’s probably thinking that I had something to do with her death, that I stressed her out and gave her a heart attack or something.

  “I heard she died, in her sleep, right?” he says softly.

  I nod, my eyes still on the floor. “I found her yesterday morning—called 911.”

  “You okay?” he asks. I shrug and look at him for a split second and keep silent. My eyes are welling up but I’m keeping it together.

  “Look, I feel like shit, the way I treated you. I was in a pretty bad space, ya know?” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You sleep on the street last night?” My gaze meets his again as I nod yes, and he breathes hard and rolls his eyes a little.

  “I gotta go to work. You wanna come in? Have something to eat maybe.” He waits for a response.

  I say, “Okay.”

  I go into his apartment, and he points out the fridge and the couch. Then he says, “I gotta go. If you leave before I get back and you’ve stolen my shit, I’ll find you and kick your ass.”

  I feel better when he leaves. I put down my backpack and find some bread and peanut butter and jam and make a sandwich and pour myself a glass of milk. Then I turn on the TV and watch talk shows, crying like a two year old and eventually fall asleep on the couch.

  I’m comatose until I hear the door open. My senses come to life, and I look around, orienting myself.

  “Did you sleep?” I hear a voice from the other side of the alcove.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, shaking my head. I look for the time and find it on the digital clock on the stove. It’s five o’clock and already dusk outside. “Thanks for, uh…letting me stay.” I rub the sleep from my eyes. He comes into the room with a pizza in his hand. “I hardly got any sleep last night—it was kind of cold and I didn’t have a heavy coat. Or…a sleeping bag or anything….” My mind is still working on being awake and connecting to my speech center.

  “Got some pizza. Hungry?” he says.

  “Yeah.” We eat in silence. I keep thinking of what Mrs. Lieberman made me promise. So I wipe my mouth after the second slice and I ask if I can use his phone.

  “I want to try to go home. This may sound weird, but Mrs. Lieberman kind of made me promise to at least try. It’s been awhile, but I think a good place to start would be to call my Gran.” He sits there, with a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand, blinking at me. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Sure. Do you want them to know where you are?” He takes a flip phone from a drawer in the coffee table and hands it to me. “If you don’t want them to, this is the phone to use. I hope it works out for you—honest, I do.”

  I take it, but my hand is shaking. “It’s to Greenleigh, so it’s long distance,” I say.

  “No worries.” He motions with his head to the phone. “Just call.”

  I’m so nervous to do it, but my hand grasps the old Nokia and I punch in Gran’s phone number. All these months she hasn’t heard from me, and here I am calling right out of the blue.

  It rings three times and then someone picks up. “Hello?” It’s Des.

  I take in a deep breath. “Hi, Des. It’s Faith.” I hear a gasp. Inside I’m trembling.

  “Faith?” she says, her voice barely over a whisper. Then, more urgently, “Did you say it’s Faith?”

  “Yeah, Des. I’m okay.” I cover my eyes so Brian can’t see me blubbering like a baby. “It’s me, Faith, and I’m okay.”

  A strangled cry and sobs pierce my eardrum. “Where are you? Oh my God, Faith, where are you? We thought you were dead. We went to the police and all that, but…nothing. Where are you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m okay. I was on the street, but then I stayed with this
amazing, little old lady, and she really helped me see things—”

  I hear muffled shouts on the other end, then sounds of the phone changing hands.

  “Faith, goddamn it—is that you?” Gran. “Do you have any fucking idea what you put everyone through?”

  My breathing escalates and becomes shallow. I bolt up from the couch and start to pace. “Yeah—I’m sorry, Gran, but something happened, and I couldn’t stay there anymore—I needed to get away.”

  Gran shouting. “Yeah, I know what happened all right—”

  Des screaming. “Gran! Stop! What are you—”

  Me crying. “If I didn’t get away, I think I would have hurt myself, Gran—I’m sorry! But—!”

  Gran shouting. “Don’t ‘sorry’ me! What the hell were you thinking?”

  Me. “I’m trying to tell you. I ran away ’cause I heard Connie say something really bad, and on top of all the other stuff going on in my head, I thought I was gonna—”

  Gran, with fresh anger. “Yeah, that’s another thing! Connie said you ran off with one of her friend’s coats and a shitload of money—”

  Des. “Shut up, Gran—gimme the phone, she’s gonna hang up—” Shuffling and something breaking. I picture the cheap pink glass vase in the kitchen toppling over the countertop in the Lego house in Greenleigh.

  Gran. “Are you taking drugs now, too, wherever you are?” I’m pacing and Brian’s watching. “Don’t you know your mother died ’cause of drugs?”

  Me. “No, Gran—Mom died ’cause she had mental health issues. She died ’cause her husband died and she couldn’t handle it.” Then I spit out a last comment that I’ve been wanting to say to her since I was able to see things as they really are. “She died ’cause of you! ’Cause you’re a mean old bitch. You drove her away and made her feel like shit, just like you make me feel like shit! Put Destiny back on the phone!”

  I hear her curse and then the sounds of the phone changing hands again.

  “Faith, don’t listen to her. You know how she is—she wants you home—”

  “I can’t take her anymore, Destiny! I’m not like you. I’m like Mom, and if I come back, I’ll either kill her or I’ll kill myself.” The words are hanging in the air between my sister and me, and I can see her as she tries to figure out how to undo the damage done by Gran.

  “Faith, tell me where you are. I’ll come get you myself.”

  I try to offer her some solace. “Don’t worry about me, Des. Promise. I’m fine.” I press the hang-up button as she starts to talk again. My shaking hand passes the phone to Brian as I sit down on the couch and let my head hang back onto the faded upholstery.

  What would Mrs. Lieberman have me do now? I screwed up again.

  Brian shakes his head and opens up the back of the phone, takes the SIM card out, and shoots it in the ashtray. “Christ, your grandmother’s a bitch.” He breathes out hard through his nose. I stare at the ceiling and wipe my eyes with my hoodie sleeve. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Would you be?”

  “No. Probably not.” We are quiet for a long time. Then he shrugs and pulls open the coffee table drawer again and takes out a joint and a lighter. “Do you wanna smoke? Looks like you could use it.”

  I look at the joint and the lighter. It’s a textbook roll, tapered at both ends and faultlessly even.

  “I think I will.” My anger has turned to hard resentment. Why should I be good if no one believes me or appreciates how hard it is to stay good on the street. Gran’s lucky I haven’t turned to prostitution like a lot of the kids do. No—she has no idea how good I was.

  Poor Destiny. Maybe I’ll call her back tomorrow.

  “Do you have anything—you know, stronger?” I hear myself ask.

  “Hell yeah,” he answers and rises to go to the bedroom.

  Chapter 24

  It’s heroin. Brian holds the cache in his hand like a pirate grasps plunder. He walks back into the living room with a plastic sack of powder that looks like sifted dirt. In his other hand he’s got tinfoil, a lighter, and a small metal tube. A sober silence stretches between us as he lights the powder, which smells like burned barbecue sauce.

  He teaches me how to chase the dragon, and soon I feel Darkness lifting. It slips away, pushed by a surge of gentle euphoria. A warm flush swells on my skin, a dry mouth, and heavy extremities—like I’m not strong enough to lift my own arm—but I don’t want to. I just want to feel it; the calm and the peace, the stillness—even the nausea doesn’t bother me. Sleepiness takes me next, and I go on the nod, an alternately wakeful and drowsy state.

  I’m not sure if it’s later that day or the day after, but Brian brings out another fold. His lips draw back as he takes in the smoke. After that, we do it again.

  I hear people outside his door, hushed voices and footsteps, like ghosts floating in and out, but I don’t react, ’cause they are in the apartment next door. I don’t care anymore that Mrs. Lieberman has died and that no one else gives a shit about me, because I feel so relaxed and blissfully apathetic, wrapped up in my cozy little cotton ball of heroin.

  Time is fluid, elegantly slipping in and out of my cup of indifference as the animal in my gut leaves me for a while and I touch peace.

  It’s like when people tell me that everything is going to be okay—this is what it’s like; this is “okay.”

  I can’t remember eating or drinking or peeing. I can’t even remember if we have sex. Maybe it’s only the heroin making me feel a gentle orgasm, the absence of fear and loneliness, plus a physical feeling in which all muscles relax. My entire body feels like it’s being cradled in a giant, supple baseball glove, or like the feeling of getting into a cool, soft bed after having walked ten miles on thorns with a burning cross on my back.

  I chase the dragon again, the white curly smoke.

  Right now, my troubles seem far away, but what I don’t know is, they are poised to get much worse.

  Chapter 25

  I marvel at how fast it happened. How easily I got hooked. As easy as walking through a forest, enjoying the wonder of nature, and then stepping into the most jagged bear trap ever created. It snaps tight around you with lightning speed and squeezes you—not letting you die, but taking your life slowly and painfully while nature still abounds within reach.

  Everything eventually gets quiet next door at Mrs. Lieberman’s, and I guess the funeral is done. I feel guilty that I missed it, but only for a minute because Brian comes back from his brother’s place and is looking really scared.

  “Faith, you gotta get outta here,” he says out of breath as he shuts the door and locks it.

  “Why?” I’m feeling pretty lucid for having only smoked an a-bomb a couple hours ago.

  “’Cause my brother’s coming and he’s a crazy fuck. He’s pissed ’cause I’ve been using with you.”

  “So? What’s he gonna do—kill me?” I smile at him, still a little floaty.

  “Well, yeah—or maybe he’ll just kick the shit out of you or beat you until you don’t recognize yourself.” I see sweat beads on his forehead. “I couldn’t get any more H from him. He says he doesn’t want me getting hooked, ’cause he’s got enough junkies around him without having a brother for a freak, too.”

  I look at him and blink. Is he telling me to leave?

  “So, you’re throwing me out?”

  “Jesus—you’ve been here almost two weeks and high the entire time. This might be a good time to…maybe you should go home.”

  “You heard what happened when I tried that…my Gran won’t even—”

  “You have to go!” He races around the apartment, gathers my stuff together, and crams everything into my backpack. “All you’ve done is get high—you need to go.”

  “Well, you gave it to me, asshole—you gave me the heroin!” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He’s pissed because I’m doing
what he wanted me to do. “Now you’re mad ’cause I like it?”

  “I gave it to you to help you get over a rough spot—not to get you hooked. And you asked for it—remember?” Brian looks panicked—I don’t know if it’s because he thinks he’s gotten me hooked or because he’s afraid of his brother. Maybe a little of both. “Look, I’ll be honest. I went to Henry’s to get more H today, and he asked what the hell I was doing ’cause he knows I only do it occasional-like. So I says to him that I have a friend staying with me and that you are having a rough time on account of your family and all, and then he blows up at me and says he won’t sell me any more ’cause you’re getting it for nothing when he should be selling it to you for street.”

  “And how much is that—like one hit?”

  “Fifteen dollars.”

  “How many hits a day have I been chasing?”

  “Five or six—sometimes up to eight.”

  “Holy shit—where am I gonna get that kind of money?”

  “Hey, it’s not my problem. All I did was help you out and bring you up.” He thrusts the backpack at my stomach. “I can give you Henry’s contact address. You gotta deal with him now.”

  Who the hell would have thought that when I came out of the nods this late afternoon, I would be thrown out of yet another two-week couch-surfing stretch. “Fine.” I’m apathetic as hell. I can’t feel anything and I don’t care. “I’ll go.” I rummage through a side pocket of my backpack and find five dollars and sixty-five cents, which I pull out and hold up to him. “This is all I have. I’m going to need a hit soon.” The words strike me between the eyes, battering my head and beating my soul. I’m going to need a hit. This is where I realize for the first time that I’m an addict—in two short cloudy, obscure weeks, my body has grown accustomed to the chemicals I’ve been putting in my lungs and is craving more.