Dave had no choice but to thrust his head upward, catching her just below the bottom lip. She shrieked in pain and finally rolled off him, covering her lip with both hands. “You bastard,” she cried, looking up at him, the blood from her lips pooling into her hands. “You hit me.”
“I had no choice, Angie. You made me do it.”
“I hate you,” she screamed. “You’re a fucking pig.”
Dave stood up and knocked the snow off his jacket then hobbled over to his shoe and picked it up. He lifted his foot and wiped the snow off the bottom, then pulled back the tongue and slipped it back on. “I’m sorry,” he said, as he looked back at Angie, rocking back and forth on her knees like she was a Muslim in prayer. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody, I just—”
“Screw you, you bastard. I hope you burn in hell.”
Dave tried to think of something else he could say that would calm her, but couldn’t think of anything, and so he just left. He spit the blood from his mouth then limped back towards the patio, leaving Angie crying in the snow, alone.
Chapter 32
Mother and Child Reunion
THE phone began to ring. Angie could barely hold the receiver steady. She was shaking so bad, she had to clutch it with both hands. One ring, two rings, three rings, four. Sarah’s voicemail picked up. The soft, teenage girl’s voice was like a rusty nail being hammered into Angie’s soul. “Shit.” She jammed down the hook then shoved in another quarter, punched in the numbers, and waited for it to ring. Again, after four rings, it went right to Sarah’s voicemail. She hung up the phone and tried again, then, again and again, until she only had one more quarter. After saying a quick prayer, she kissed the quarter and dropped it in. “Please, pick up Sarah. Please baby, I need you. I love you so much. Please pick up.”
After two rings, Sarah finally answered. Her voice was soft and drowsy. She must’ve been asleep. “Hello?”
Angie’s heart ricocheted against her ribcage. She wiped her tears and moved her hair from her face. “Sarah, is that you? Is that you, baby?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s me, Sarah. It’s me, mommy.”
“Mom?”
“Yes. It’s me, baby. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Where have you been? Why haven’t you been answering?”
There was a long pause. Angie could hear Sarah crying, her sniffles like maggots worming their way through the phone. Were they tears of joy? Was she happy to hear from her? Or was something wrong? Did somebody hurt her?
“Sarah, is everything okay? What’s the matter? Are you alright? What’s wrong?”
“Mom, what are you doing?” Sarah’s voice was rough and splintered like a broken broom handle that had been left out in the snow. “Why do you keep calling here?”
“What do you mean why do I keep calling? You’re my daughter. I love you. I missed you so much.”
“You can’t keep doing this, mom.”
“What?”
“You can’t keep calling here.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s just not right.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re sick, mom. Something’s wrong with you. You’re not healthy. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Angie gasped. “Sarah, don’t say that. I’m your mother. That’s who I am. I’m your mom.”
“Then where have you been? Why did you just leave me?”
“I didn’t leave you, baby.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, it wasn’t my fault. It was your father’s. He did this. He drove us apart.”
“That’s a lie. Daddy only tried to help you. But you wouldn’t take it. You were too busy getting high.”
“That’s not true. Is that what your father told you? He’s lying to you. He’s trying to turn you against me.”
“He’s not lying, mom. I saw you. I saw you out there in that trailer. I saw you with him. I saw you with Rick.”
“What? What are you talking about? When did you see me? When, Sarah, when?”
“Two weeks ago, I drove out there to try and find you, and that’s when I saw you. That’s when I saw you doing those disgusting things.”
“But that’s all over with now, honey. Rick’s history. He’s gone now.”
“Yeah and you killed him.”
“No, honey. No, I didn’t. Rick’s a big boy. He did that to himself.”
“Yeah right. You expect me to believe that? Rick was a sweet guy. He loved me. And I loved him too, and you fucked him.”
“No, honey.”
“Do you realize how twisted that is? How sick and perverted? You seduced him, mom. You fucked your daughter’s boyfriend.”
“No, baby.”
“How could you do that? How could you be so selfish? I can’t even talk to you anymore. You make me want to puke.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to do it. It just sort of happened. It was beyond my control.”
“You mean like my volleyball coach?”
“What?”
“I talked to him today. What? Are you fucking him too?”
“Please don’t talk like that, Sarah. It’s unbecoming.”
Sarah laughed. “Unbecoming? You’re a meth head, mom. Look who’s talking.”
“Sarah please. I said, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? What about me? I’m the new school joke. Everyone knows about you and what you did with Rick in that trailer and now they’re going to know about you and my coach.”
“There’s nothing to know about, sweetie. Nothing happened. We didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah right, you’re full of bull. You’re sick, mom…you’re a sick person, and I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You’re not my mom anymore.”
“Don’t say that Sarah. Please don’t say that.”
“I hate you. Stop calling me. I never want to speak to you again. Get out of my life!”
“No, wait, please don’t hang up. I love you, baby. I love you so much. Please don’t hang up the phone.”
But it was too late. The phone went dead and Sarah’s voice vanished, replaced by a repulsively cheery operator speaking on the other end: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need assistance, please hang up and dial your operator.” Angie’s knees buckled and she sank down against the concrete patio, letting the receiver fall from her hands. She dropped her head in her hands and sobbed there quietly as the phone swayed back and forth in the cold, winter wind.
Chapter 33
Dave’s First Step
THE sun looked like a blister bubbling up from the earth’s surface, its blood red beams oozing out across a bruised and cloud-swollen sky. Dave sat completely still on top of the backyard balcony, staring down at the dozens of cigarette butts scattered out by the legs of the metal folding chair. He’d been up there all night, hunched over in his green and gold Catholic High Crusader’s warm-up jacket, thinking of his past, present, and future, going over his options, going over his life. The way he saw it, there were two alternatives and two alternatives only—either he could turn himself in and go to prison or he could keep his mouth shut and finish out this program. No one would ever know that he was the one responsible. No one would ever know that he was the one who ran those kids off the road. But what about Monty? What would happen to him if he never found out? He didn’t even know there was another driver. Didn’t he say he thought it was just a reflection off the guardrail? How could he let him go on living like that—blaming himself for the death of his fiancé, punishing himself for something that he didn’t even do? He was a young kid, a good kid—he had his whole life ahead of him. Didn’t Dave owe it to him to at least tell him the truth? What if it was his one of his own kids that this happened to? What if it were his daughters, Megan and Mary? What if it was Larry? What then? Wouldn’t he want justice for the person responsible? Wouldn’t he want them to be punished for the crime they
committed?
But what good would it do if he turned himself in and went to prison? Wouldn’t they just lock him behind bars and throw away the key? What would happen to Larry if he wasn’t home to take care of him? Who would bathe him and take him to school in the mornings? Who would read him stories at night and put him to bed? Cheryl couldn’t do that, could she? No. She’d be too busy, with court, with cases, with clients, with meetings—hell, she’d have to work overtime just to be able pay the premium on the kids’ health bills. He couldn’t do that to her, could he? Just abandon her and go to prison, leaving her to take care of three kids on her own? And what would that do to his kids knowing that their father was in prison? What would it do to Larry knowing that his father killed someone? The kid had enough strikes against him already—did he really need to grow up knowing that his father was nothing but some out-of-control, crack-addicted piece of scum?
How could he have let this all happen? How could he have let everything get so fucked up? He had everything any man could’ve ever wanted—a wife, a life, a family, a home. But he screwed it all up. He let it all slip away from him. He let that fucking rock define who he was. He forgot about the one thing in his life that actually gave him purpose—the one thing in his life that actually made him who he was. It wasn’t the training or the races or the god damn medals—it was his wife, his daughters, his family, his son. They were the ones who made his life worth living. They were the ones who made him who he was. Who the hell was he if he didn’t have his family? Who the hell was he if he didn’t have someone to love? Without them, he had no purpose, no point, no function. Without them, he was just another beat-up, burned-out, cracked-out bum.
Dave sucked down the last of his cigarette then flicked it from his fingers and watched it fall to the ground. He checked his watch. It was nearly six-thirty. Another ten minutes and everyone would be getting up. He couldn’t stay up here. He had to get out of here. He didn’t want to have to talk to anyone or look them directly in the eye. How could he? He was a fucking criminal. He killed an innocent girl and left her alone to die. But where could he go? Where would it be quiet? Where could he just sit and think and be alone?
He turned in his chair and looked back toward the upper floor atrium, then down at the patio, and out across the lawn. Wait—he had an idea. What about the basement? Yeah. It was perfect. It was dark, empty, and probably even had a bathroom. He could hide down there forever until he figured this thing out.
He nodded his head as he got up from the folding chair then walked down the stairs and out across the lawn. When he got inside the house, he closed the sliding glass door behind him, then tip-toed up the kitchen steps and took a left at the end of the hall. He was lucky. The place was still quiet. Not even the sound of running water could be heard from the upstairs showers.
When he got to the foyer, he bent beneath the staircase and went to pull open the half-size basement door. But just as he opened the door, he was stunned by the piercing sound of a girl screaming, coming from somewhere on the woman’s floor. The screaming was so loud that it caused Dave to flinch backward, knocking his bad knee against the basement door. He stepped away from the door and wandered out into the foyer, peering up the winding staircase, trying to see what the hell was going on. Some of the other patients, awoken by the screaming, began to wander out into the hallway from their rooms.
With one hand on the banister, Dave cautiously limped up the main staircase, the screaming so intense that he had to plug one ear. As he got closer to the fourth floor, some of the other female patients began screaming, some even running away and shouting for help. They stormed by Dave, knocking him against the banister then spilled out into the foyer like a stampede of elk. When he got to the top of the stairs, he approached a crowd of patients all gathered around the bathroom, looking inside. As Dave pushed his way to the front of the crowd, something appeared before him, something so horrific it looked like it belonged in a snuff film.
It was Angie. She was curled in the fetal position next to the toilet, lying in a puddle of her own vomit and drool. Her feet were bare, her legs uncovered, her breasts drooping from the neck of her fuzzy, pink bathrobe. And on the floor beside her outstretched fingers were two empty pill bottles with their caps screwed off. One was Suboxone and the other was Dilaudid—the same bottles that he had stolen from the detox trailer the night before.
Chapter 34
The Ninth Step
SOMETHING awoke him, shrill and intrusive, the sound of a siren wailing right outside of his room. Monty opened his eyes and let the light come to him, then turned on his elbow and looked towards the window. There was something bright red shining through the curtains whirling around the walls like some kind of hellish disco ball. He kicked off the sheets and swung his legs out over the mattress then planted his feet into the cold, trailer floor. He lumbered across the room and parted the curtains then looked across the yard towards the main house. There was an ambulance parked outside in the semi-circle driveway, its lights splashing red against the side of the house. He strained his eyes and pressed his forehead against the window and saw what appeared to be a stretcher being wheeled down the steps of the front porch. He couldn’t tell who was in it, but it had to be a woman, because the only thing he could see was a head of wild, blond hair. It was sticking out of the top of a clean white hospital sheet, bouncing up and down as the stretcher was wheeled out across the cobblestone. There were two paramedics, one on either side of the gurney, bracing the rails to keep the woman from falling out. They said something to one another then lifted the gurney and, in one fluid motion, pushed it into the back of the swirling red ambulance. One medic stepped on the bumper and jumped into the back with the gurney, while the other shut the door behind him, and walked around to the front. A few seconds later, the engine started and the tires spun forward and the ambulance took off down the driveway wailing its frenetic, two-note song.
Monty crouched to the floor and pulled out his green gym bag then unzipped the zipper and pulled out his jeans and a fresh long-sleeve shirt. He pulled them all on and slid into his tennis shoes then grabbed his black snowboard jacket along with his gloves.
Once he got outside, he walked briskly towards the cobblestone driveway, the wailing of the ambulance now a distant murmur muffled by the insulation of the mountain snow. When he got to the front of the house, he noticed something perplexing—there appeared to be tiny droplets of what looked like vomit dribbled out across the boot-trampled lawn. He did his best to avoid stepping in any of it, by playing a game of hopscotch across the crunchy snow. Once he made it through, he ascended the steps of the front porch and walked into the main house through the front door.
As he walked through the foyer, he noticed something even more perplexing—a group of people, all huddled together in a tight little circle. They were embracing one another and talking very softly, as if they were at a funeral bereaving the dead.
“What’s going on?” Monty said, as he approached them. “What happened? Who was in the ambulance?”
One of them looked up, a bald man with the earrings, an expression of sorrow worn into his face. He was about to speak when someone called out to Monty from the opposite end of the foyer. He turned and looked. It was Dexter, standing in the light of the kitchen doorway, his hand extended, waving him in. Oh great. What did he want? Thought he was done with all of his bullshit.
Monty reluctantly slid past the group of mourners and walked across the foyer towards the kitchen. “What do you want?” he said, as he approached the kitchen, his stomach beginning to turn at the sight of Dexter’s face.
Dexter sighed and took off his glasses then began to rub his nose with his forefinger and thumb. Something was wrong. Dexter wasn’t laughing, smiling, or even scowling. In fact, he seemed to have no emotion at all. “Hey Monty,” he finally said, as he put back on his glasses, the bags under his eyes like they’d been stuffed with coins. “You got a minute? We need to talk.”
“What’s it
about?”
Dexter hesitated, like he was about to answer, then shook his head and just said, “You’ll find out.”
When they got to his office, Dexter fished his keys from his pocket. “Monty?” he said, in barely a whisper, as if he didn’t have the strength to use his vocal chords.
“Yeah?”
Dexter opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but couldn’t find the words and just dropped his head. “Never mind,” he said, then turned away from him and pushed open the door. “Please come in. Have a seat.”
Monty took a deep breath and stepped in through the doorway, hesitating when he saw Dave hunkered in the corner with his head in his hands. He was sitting on the green couch, slightly hunched over, his feet wide apart, his elbows on his knees. “Hey Dave,” Monty said, as he stepped into the office, his heart beating faster, his hands starting to shake. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”
Dave looked up at Monty, for only a moment, then quickly dropped his head as if it was too heavy to hold up. He looked like shit. His eyes were drawn, all puffed up and haggard, and his hair looked like it had gone through a wind tunnel.
“Please have a seat, Monty,” Dexter said, as he shut the door behind him then walked around the desk and slowly sat down.
Monty looked at Dave, then over at Dexter. Something was definitely going on. “What’s this all about?” he said, standing by the doorway, preferring to stay there in case he needed to get out. “Is everything alright?”
“Just have a seat, please.”
“Look, if this is about the damage to the trailer, I’m sorry, I’ll pay for it. I was just pissed off—”
“No.” Dexter cut him off. “This has nothing to do with that. Please, just, have a seat.”
Some Are Sicker Than Others Page 36
