Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Chapter 12

  Angie

  ANGIE lay motionless on the grimy twin-size mattress, eyes wide open, following the blades of the fan as they slowly rotated around and around. She was completely naked, except for a pair of pink, fuzzy bunny slippers that were hanging precariously off the ends of her feet. Her bones ached, her muscles were tender, and the stench of stale smoke emanated from her skin. Where was she? And how long had she been here? Had it been days? Maybe weeks?

  She sat up on the mattress and looked towards the window. The soft glow of sunlight was seeping in through the shades. Cradling the back of her head with one hand, she thrust her chin up with the other. “Ah.” The cartilage in her neck made a grinding sound like a fork lodged in a garbage disposal’s blades. As she shrugged off the pain, she moved her eyes across the floor of the bedroom. It looked like a garbage truck had driven right through the place. There were playing cards and aluminum foil scattered all over the brown shag carpet. Empty mason jars and two liter Pepsi bottles stained with a reddish brown residue, lay nearby. The mattress was speckled with splotches of red, brown, and yellow that made it resemble the back of a toad. As she breathed through her nose, she got a whiff of something strong and chemical, like some kind of cleaning fluid, maybe acetone.

  Just as she was about to get up, she felt something stirring beside her, tickling the flesh of her left knee. When she looked down, she saw a lump of bare flesh underneath the bed covers, rising and falling, twitching and churning—was it an arm? Or maybe it was a leg. She leaned over and carefully peeled off the blankets. Oh, it was just Rick. His eyes were shut, but his mouth was wide open—he looked like an overgrown baby breathing in short, shallow breaths.

  She leaned over him and put her lips within an inch from his ear. “Rick sweetie, time to get up.”

  Rick just groaned and rolled over, revealing his pasty-white butt cheeks. She sighed and reached over him, her breasts like pink udders draping across his back. She grabbed the remote and powered on the television, cranking up the volume and sitting back against the bed. “Hey Rick,” she said as she flipped through the channels, trying to find the one with the list of shows.

  Rick’s legs twitched underneath the covers. He let out another deep groan.

  “Rick, please wake up.” She grabbed the sheets and ripped off the covers, exposing his scrawny, hair-covered legs.

  His eyes shot open. He looked up at Angie. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “Where’s the menu channel?”

  “The what?”

  “The menu channel.”

  “What in the world is the menu channel?”

  “You know, the thing that tells you the time of shows and stuff.”

  “You mean the channel guide?”

  “Yeah, whatever it’s called. What channel is it on?”

  Rick sat up and rubbed his eyelids while taking in a long, persistent yawn. “Crap, I don’t know, Angie. Try fifteen.”

  Angie punched in the numbers, but the screen just turned completely blue. “What the heck?” She looked down at the remote and slapped it against her thigh. The fat jiggled like a dropped carton of cottage cheese. “I don’t think there is a fifteen.”

  “Well then try thirty-three.”

  She hit the channel button up a couple times and unlocked it from the blue screen. “Oh wait. Never mind. I found it.” Straining her eyes, she leaned forward and read the time from the bottom of the screen. “Hey Rick?”

  “What do you want now?”

  “Is this right? The TV’s saying its Thursday, but that can’t be right, can it? I thought we went to bed on Tuesday? Didn’t we go to bed on Tuesday?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know Angie. If it says Thursday then it must be Thursday.”

  “You mean to tell me we slept through the entire day yesterday?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Oh no.” The remote slid out of Angie’s hands and clunked on the floor. “That can’t be right. That just can’t be right.” She straddled Rick and reached for his cell phone from the nightstand beside the bed.

  “Ouch,” Rick shouted. “Watch the nuts, Angie. Jesus.”

  “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”

  Angie opened the cell phone and read off the numbers. Her stomach began to tighten. She was gonna be sick. “I can’t believe it. I can’t frickin’ believe it.”

  “What?”

  “It is Thursday.”

  “So?”

  She slammed the phone down against the mattress. “I was supposed to go to Sarah’s volleyball game last night.”

  “Who?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Who in the hell’s Sarah?”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Rick. You know damn well who I’m talking about. Sarah, my daughter, the girl you used to date.”

  Rick smirked coyly. “Oh right. That Sarah. Sorry, I forgot for a minute.”

  “You didn’t forget. You’re just trying to be a prick.” Angie picked up a pillow and hurled it at Rick’s face.

  “Well shit Angie, don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one who made you miss her damn game.”

  “Screw you Rick. If you didn’t get me so god damn high I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  Rick laughed and sat up against the headboard. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail and grabbed his cigarettes from the nightstand. “That’s hardly my fault. I didn’t force you to smoke.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it. I told her I’d be there. I made a promise.”

  “Just call her up and apologize. I’m sure she’d understand.”

  “Oh yeah right. I’m sure that would go over real well”—Angie lifted her hand like she was placing an imaginary phone call—“Hi Sarah, I’m sorry I missed your volleyball game, but I was too busy getting high with your old boyfriend, Rick.” After she put the phone in its imaginary cradle, she turned to Rick and said, “Yeah, right, I’m sure she’d understand.”

  “Well shit Angie, don’t tell her you were with me. Just make up some bullshit story. Tell her you had a doctor’s appointment or something.”

  “I’m not gonna lie to my own kid.”

  Rick laughed and reached for his lighter. “A little too late for that, don’t you think?”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  “Oh, come on now baby, I’m just teasing you.” Rick scooted forward and wrapped his arms around Angie’s soft belly, but his breath was so vile it made her cringe. “Hey,” he said, as he inched in closer, one hand in between her legs, the other massaging her left breast. “Since you’re not gonna be doing anything today, maybe you can give me a hand with a few things.”

  She sighed and removed his hand from her nipple then got up from the bed and pulled on her robe. “Just tell me what you want me to get. And write it down this time. I’m not a frickin’ mind reader, you know.”

  “Don’t worry baby, I will.” Rick leaned back, playing with himself underneath the covers, a sly smirk on his twenty-nine year old acne-scarred face. “Hey Angie.”

  “What?”

  “You know I love you right?”

  “Uh.” Angie made a gagging sound as she tied the robe around her waist. “You make me sick.”

  “That’s not what you were saying the other night.”

  “Yeah, well I was high.”

  Angie pulled back her hair and stomped through the hallway, her steps sounding hollow against the trailer’s cheap, fake wood floor. When she got to the kitchen, she had to plug her nostrils. The smell was so revolting it nearly made her puke. The sink was piled high with empty mason jars and plastic bottles, covered with that reddish-brown residue and lumps of uncooked meth. There were half eaten pizza slices, rotten banana peels, and pieces of bread covered in a thick layer of furry black mold.

  Angie took a deep breath and put her hands on the sink counter. The coffee decanter was wedged underneath a frying pan at the bottom of the sink. That’s what she needed—a cup of steaming hot coffee to warm her
insides and revive her soul. She reached in and pulled out the decanter then opened the overhead cabinet and stood on her toes. She pulled down the can of Folgers and set it on the counter. It looked like there was just enough for a few fresh cups. She scooped up the grounds and threw them into the little paper basket, poured in some water, and hit the power button on the bottom of the percolator.

  After a few minutes, she pulled out the decanter and poured herself a fresh cup. She took a small sip and walked over to the kitchen table, stopping at the counter to grab her cell phone from the wall charger. She flipped the phone open. Damn, no missed calls. Should she try and call Sarah? Would she even pick up?

  She took another sip and sat down at the table, staring at the phone’s display glowing green in her palm. Screw it. What did she have to lose? She punched in the numbers and brought the receiver to her ear. It went right to Sarah’s voicemail. Shit. Should she leave a message or should she just hang up? Sarah’s message ended and the phone went beep.

  Angie cleared her throat and set down her coffee. “Hi sweetie, it’s me, uh…it’s mom. I’m sorry I missed your game last night. I know I said I’d come, but I uh…I had a doctor’s appointment in the city and by the time I got out, it was too late to drive all the way up to Estes Park. Anyway, I hope you girls had a good time. Give me a call back when you can. I love you sweetie. Bye.”

  Angie put down the phone and began to sob softly. What the hell was wrong with her? How could she do that? How could she lie to her only daughter? She only had one thing to do this week and that was to make it to that frickin’ volleyball game so she could show her ex-husband, Bill, that she was capable of staying clean. But she couldn’t even do that, could she? She couldn’t even go one day without Rick and his meth and this godforsaken trailer. What the hell was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she just stay clean? Now, there was no way Bill was going to let her visit Sarah. She’d be lucky if she could get him to drop that restraining order.

  A few minutes later, Rick stomped into the kitchen. His hair was wet from the shower and his skin reeked of cheap aftershave. He grabbed a ballpoint pen and tore off a sheet of yellow notepad paper, then sat down next to Angie and began to scribble. “Alright, you know the drill. No more than three boxes per store. Spread it out. Hit the Walgreens on Broadway, the CVS on Speer, and the Super Target in Glendale. And make sure you get the right stuff this time. Not that crap that says PE on the label. Make sure it says Pseudoephedrine, not Phenylephrine. Got it?”

  “Yeah I got it. I know what to do.”

  “You sure? Because you didn’t know last time.”

  “It was one time, alright? I was in a hurry.”

  “Yeah, well, because of you, I wasted an entire day on a batch of shit.”

  “Look. I’ll get the right stuff this time.”

  “You better.” Once Rick was finished scribbling, he dropped the pen, folded the sheet of paper then looked up at Angie and said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  Angie sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? You don’t look fine.”

  “I said, I’m fine.”

  Rick snorted. His eyes moved from Angie to underneath the kitchen table. “Well, take off those slippers and wash your damn face. You look like a meth head.”

  “Screw you!”

  Angie went to get up, but Rick grabbed her wrist and pulled her in close to his face. “Hey, do you want to end up in jail? You remember what happened to Greg don’t you? Ten years up in Cañon City. They don’t joke around with this shit.”

  “You think I don’t know that? Just give me the list.” Angie pulled away and snatched the grocery list from Rick’s hand. She unfolded the paper and laid it flat on the table. “What the hell’s all this other stuff?”

  “We need to restock.”

  “Lantern fuel?”

  “Yeah. Make sure you get the Coleman brand. It’s the best.”

  “Where the heck am I supposed to find that?”

  “It should be in the camping section with all the sleeping bags and tents and shit.”

  “What about this?” She pointed to the next item on the list. “Drain cleaner?”

  “Yeah. Be sure to get the kind with the skull and cross bones on it.”

  “How much should I get?”

  “Christ Angie, I don’t know, like two bottles a piece, whatever we can afford.”

  “Well, what are you gonna be doing?”

  “I’m gonna be busy doing the batteries. Look, do you wanna cook this stuff or not?”

  Angie nodded.

  “Well then stop asking so many jack-assy questions and hit the road, would ya?”

  “I hate you Rick.” Angie flicked him the bird and shoved the piece of paper into her pocket then walked to the bathroom and began washing her face.

  “You better not be taking a bath back there!” Rick shouted from the kitchen. “I told you to wash your face, not your damn ass.”

  “Stop bullying me. I’m not a punching bag, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just hurry up. We’re losing daylight.”

  When she was done rinsing her face, she dried it off with a bright yellow Coppertone beach towel then went into the bedroom and took off her robe. She threw on some jeans and one of Rick’s flannel, long-sleeve hunting shirts, then exchanged her slippers for a pair of snow boots. She stomped back into the kitchen and grabbed the keys from the bowl on the table then stuffed them into her pocket along with her cell phone.

  “Better get going sweetie,” Rick said, as he laid out a box cutter and a couple packets of lithium batteries.

  Angie stuck out her tongue and headed towards the front doorway, stopping to grab her white and red candy cane striped ski jacket from the living room floor.

  “You sure that jacket goes with your boots honey?”

  “Go to hell, Rick.”

  When she got outside, she stomped across the yard towards Rick’s old, blue Chevy Camaro then unlocked the door and hopped inside. The seats were wet and rotting with mildew and the icy water shot like thorns through her jeans. That idiot. He forgot to roll up the frickin’ window. What kind of moron was she dealing with here?

  She sighed and stuck the keys into the ignition then cranked on the engine, but realized she couldn’t see out the front or the back. As she slid on the defroster, she reached beneath the seat cushion, and pulled the little lever that popped open the trunk. She got out, walked to the back, and pulled open the trunk. All she saw was a bunch of empty mason jars and two liter bottles of Pepsi stained with a chalky white crust. Oh real frickin’ smart, Rick. Makin’ her drive around with a bunch of bottles caked with meth residue—what the hell was he thinking? Was he a frickin’ idiot?

  She shut the trunk and jumped back behind the steering wheel, reached behind the seat and felt around in the back. Her fingers wrapped around the ice scraper’s plastic handle. She pulled it out and inspected both ends. There was a metal scraper on one end and a thistle brush on the other. This oughta do the trick.

  She got out of the car and leaned across the windshield. The ice was about an inch thick, but was already starting to melt from the defroster. She finished the windshield, did both side windows, and a little of the back. That was good enough. Hopefully, it would melt by the time she got on the highway. The last thing she needed was to get into a frickin’ car wreck.

  She hopped back behind the steering wheel and chucked the scraper into the backseat behind her then took a moment to catch her breath. As she pulled down the sun visor, she happened to glance into the vanity mirror and was completely horrified by the skin on her face. Her forehead was freckled with little red lesions that were bright in the center from droplets of blood. What the heck? She took off her gloves and lightly felt them with the tips of her fingers, but quickly pulled away when they began burning to the touch. “Ouch.” What the hell were they? Were they mosquito bites? Was it an allergic reaction? Did Rick do this? What the hell was going on?


  She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a little, wool beanie, then carefully fitted it around the circumference of her head. She checked the mirror to make sure the sores were hidden. They were. She looked almost normal, except for a bloody blotch in the corner of her left eye. Good God. What the hell was happening to her? Was it from the meth? Did she have some kind of disease?

  She shut the mirror and began sobbing, the tears dripping down onto her jeans. No, wait, she couldn’t cry. She had to be stronger. The sooner she got the supplies, the sooner she wouldn’t have to feel any more pain. She wiped away the tears and put on her seat belt then threw the car in reverse and stepped on the gas.

  Chapter 13

  The Ingredients

  AS Angie merged onto Highway 6, the tall buildings of downtown Denver began to appear in the distance, her daughter’s favorite towering above them all. It was the one that was shaped like an old-time cash register, curved at the top, and dropping down to a flat façade. Sarah had drawn a picture of it when she was in kindergarten. They had it up on the fridge for the longest time. Wonder what happened to that picture? It probably got thrown out after the divorce along with everything else.

  She shook her head as she popped in the cigarette lighter then pulled out a cigarette and wedged it in between her lips. As she looked in the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of the mountains behind her. They looked like giant vanilla ice cream cones, their peaks covered with a layer of fresh, milky-white snow. Aw the mountains. She couldn’t remember the last time she went up to Breckenridge, or Aspen, or Copper, or even Vail. She was always trying to get Rick to go up there with her, but that lazy bastard never wanted to go anywhere. All he cared about were those god damn fertilizer tanks. He was obsessed with those frickin’ things, totally paranoid, scared that if he left them for just one second, they wouldn’t be there when he got back. What a jerk.