by Ashley Smith
Brian Nichols was still in the bedroom. On the long counter to my left were the three black handguns, the pepper spray, my cigarettes, the soda bottle, the wad of bills from his pants pocket, and his red baseball hat. The framed picture of Paige and me was just in front of where I stood beside the sink. I pulled the small tin—it was on a key ring—out of the pink zipper pouch and set it on the counter right in front of the photograph. I could just hear Paige’s voice on the phone: “Mommy, when are you going to get better so I can come and live with you?” God, I totally trust you. You do your will tonight. But you know she’s expecting me to be there in the morning. You know how much she needs me.
I opened the tin—the top read “You’re a Loser, I’m a Goddess”—and took out the little Ziploc bag with green 7’s on it. In the bottom of the bag were the tiny crystals, like tiny pieces of glass—an amount about the size of my fingernail. I opened the bag and shook the ice out on the counter. I remembered being so good with this stuff, I could break it down and lay out a line on the armrest between the passenger and driver seats in my boyfriend John’s car and then snort it up as he was driving. Either that or I’d hold the tray the ice was laid out on and snort it from there. I did that who knows how many times back and forth to Atlanta when we were making drug runs. I did it right after I got asked to leave my first recovery program for bad behavior. John came and picked me up at the place, and we went straight to Atlanta to the drug dealer’s.
Now I opened up the twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and laid it flat on top of the ice. Then I picked up the Kroger card and started sweeping it back and forth over the bill to break the ice down into powdered form. As I worked, I heard Brian Nichols in the hall.
“I like your style,” he said behind me suddenly. You like my style? I turned around and saw him looking into the living room. I guessed he meant he liked the style of my apartment, the way I had decorated it—my furniture or something.
“Thanks,” I said, still holding the Kroger card.
Then he asked, “Have you ever dated a black guy?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t.” He must be pretty relaxed now if he’s asking me that. I thought back to high school, how some of the black guys I played basketball with seemed to like my style. I was stylish in the way I dressed but pretty conservative, a typical preppy girl. I wasn’t all into hip-hop like some of the white girls I knew who wore their pants hanging off their rears. I listened to rap a lot, but I was preppy and athletic. That was just me. Maybe those boys liked me for it. I didn’t know.
Then, still facing the hallway, I noticed the way those khakis were fitting Brian Nichols. “Dude, you’re wearing high waters!” I pointed down and started laughing. He looked ridiculous with those huge shoulders busting out of my tee shirt and the tight little khakis hitting him above the ankles. And now he was wearing a pair of my white socks too. I laughed really loud—just a free, bold laugh. This feels great! It feels awesome to let this laugh out. I felt myself relax for a minute for the first time in what felt like hours.
Brian Nichols didn’t say anything, but I could see the corners of his lips turn up just a little as he looked down at his feet. “This is good,” I thought. “I must be getting somewhere.” Then he walked over to where I was breaking down the ice and stood in front of the sink at my right arm, watching me.
I lifted the twenty off the powder and set it to the side.
“That’s all you got?” he asked, looking at the powder spread out flat on the white countertop. “Can you get any more?”
He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. “I promise you this is enough,” I said. What I had lying there on that counter could last somebody who wasn’t an addict at least twenty-four hours, maybe double that. Plus, what was he thinking—could I get him some more? Was he out of his mind? Did he think I was just going to leave him holed up in my apartment while I went out to make a drug run? Sure! I can just hear it now. “Excuse me, I need some drugs for Brian Nichols. He’s at my place waiting for it.”
I used the Kroger card to chop the ice up a little, and then I laid it out into one long line.
“Whoa,” he said, raising his eyebrows. The amount looked bigger, now that it was laid out. Then he asked, “Now what?”
“Just do what you want of it,” I told him, stepping back from the counter. “It’s your choice. You can roll up that twenty sitting right there and snort it up if you really want to do it. But that’s your choice, dude.”
10 awakening
He looked over at the twenty-dollar bill, then back to the line. “You’re really not going to do it with me?” he asked. He was still standing to my right at the sink.
I broke the one long line down into three smaller lines for him so he wouldn’t try to do all of it at once. Then I leaned back against the long counter with the guns on it, and I looked him in the eye.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t think you understand. I told you that stuff right there has ruined my life. I’m a drug addict. Are you hearing what I’m saying? A drug addict. I’m weak to that stuff. If it’s there, then I start thinking, ‘Well, I might as well do it,’ instead of finding a reason not to.” I looked down at my feet for a minute, trying to control my emotions. For some reason I just wanted to start yelling, “Don’t do it!” at this guy.
“You know,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t even believe that stuff is sitting here in front of me right now. I’m not doing it. And I really wish you wouldn’t, either. I wish I hadn’t even offered it to you. It’s just—it’s just a really bad idea. Trust me on this.”
He stood at the sink, looking into my face and listening.
“Actually,” I said, “it’s amazing I’m even standing here in front of you in this bathroom and not dead in some cemetery somewhere because of that stuff.” Now I was looking him in the eye again. I wanted him to hear what I was saying. Those drugs were serious, and he needed to know.
I remembered coasting down that long hill on Hereford Farm Road after having met Aunt Kim at Paige’s doctor appointment. That was two years ago now. It was just a week after I’d been released from the mental hospital, just days after I’d signed those custody papers for Aunt Kim. I had gone to Paige’s doctor’s appointment clean that day; I wanted to be in my right mind to see my daughter. And I had begged Aunt Kim, “Please let me take Paige with me for a little while—just let me take her to the park or somewhere and be with her. Please!” But Aunt Kim told me no, and she wasn’t giving an inch.
“Okay,” I thought, pulling out of the parking lot. “I’ve gotta do something here. I’ve just signed those custody papers. I’ve gotta get my child back. She won’t even let Paige ride in the car with me. Something’s not right about this. I have to take some action.”
Right then it occurred to me that I should start looking for a job. That would help. At least, with a job I would be on the way to providing a “stable home” for Paige like the custody papers said. The idea seemed brilliant. That’s exactly what I was going to do. Look for a job. “I’m clean,” I thought. “I’ll go right now.”
I knew one of my tires was low on air, so I decided to stop first at a gas station on the top of a hill on Hereford Farm Road. I cranked up my music and drove on that smooth, winding road, thinking about where all I would go to put in job applications. Then, about a mile from the gas station I heard that voice in my head. It was so real. I was driving down a long hill. I wasn’t even high. But I heard that voice—I was in a state of psychosis. Suddenly I started thinking I was hearing God tell certain people to come to heaven and others to stay on earth. Then I heard something say, “Let go and let God.” I heard it so clearly. I thought it was God telling me to let go of the steering wheel.
“Okay, God,” I said. “I’ll test you. If you really are God, then I can let go and nothing’s going to happen. You’re going to drive this car for me. I’m supposedly your child, so let’s see if you can do it.” I was mocking God in a way, but in my heart I really wanted him to drive
that car. I thought I would open my eyes and find my car stopped in the road down at the bottom of the hill.
Taking my hands off the wheel, I closed my eyes and put my head back. I remembered maybe the next half-second—the feel of the headrest and the way my arms felt in the air as I took them off the wheel. But I could never remember anything else. Nothing. I woke up two days later in the trauma unit at the hospital looking at my mom and my boyfriend John. They told me my car had crossed the median at a curve and gone off the road headlong into a ditch. I had been air-lifted to the hospital. Both my arms were broken. I had three broken ribs and a severed pancreas. I could’ve been dead.
“That stuff makes me crazy,” I told Brian Nichols now, pointing at the lines on the counter. “My nickname used to be ‘Crazy Girl.’ Literally, there were times I thought I was losing my mind because of those drugs and doing permanent damage to my brain. Once my mom and my aunt had to put me in the mental hospital—that’s how bad it got. I thought I was having a complete breakdown. I hear voices when I’m on ice. I think people are after me. I get scared. Scared of what? I don’t know. Scared of anything.”
Fear. I had written that down during one of my morning devotions not long ago. I was answering a question in my Purpose-Driven Life book about what drove my life—or what my family and friends would say drove my life. Fear, I put down. Fear and drugs.
“The reason I don’t have my little girl right now is because of those drugs,” I said, pointing at the photograph of Paige and me on the counter right behind the lines. “I can’t even provide a stable home for her. Can’t even raise her. My family doesn’t trust me. And why should they? I’ve lied to them so many times.” Now I felt disgusted with myself.
“I’m not doing that stuff anymore. I mean, it’s over! Those drugs make me miserable. It’s just a total state of misery. I think I’m going to have all this energy to get things done, but then I just get confused and paranoid and miserable. I stay up all night and I can’t think. I keep asking myself, ‘Why, Ashley? Why are you doing this to your self? Your child deserves better. You’re destroying your life, and she needs you.’ But then I just keep doing it. And I stay scared. Really scared.”
I thought back to February—just last month—sitting in Aunt Kim’s church with that dollar bill I’d used to snort drugs, getting ready to drop it in the offering basket for my Purpose-Driven Life book. Something had to change for me right then, and I knew it. I felt like God was pounding on my door. I was terrified. The fear was just huge. I kept asking myself, “What’s going to happen to me?” I could hear Satan whispering, “It’s okay. You can do those drugs. Now and then won’t hurt.” But God was saying, “No! It’s not okay. It’s never okay. I’m right here. You can stop.” And yet I wasn’t stopping. I could go weeks without it. I could flush the stuff down the toilet. See, I can stop. But I couldn’t stop. “Just this once,” I kept hearing. “It won’t hurt anything.”
I put my left hand on the counter by the sink and leaned on it, glancing down at that photograph of Paige and me. Brian Nichols had not moved. He was standing in front of the sink, and his eyes were fixed on my face. So I started again.
“This right here—this whole thing with you being here in my apartment right now and wanting this stuff—this is God’s way of telling me, ‘Look, Ashley, stop now. I’m giving you one more chance. You better stop right now, little girl, or I’m bringing you home. You are my child, and if you can’t stop right now—right here when you’re in this kind of situation—then you’re never going to stop. And then what would be your point on earth? I’m giving you this challenge. If you can do this, then you can stay here and do my work here on earth. Or you can choose this other way of living, being miserable, and I’ll just go on and bring you home with me. It’s your choice.’ ”
I noticed that I had stepped away from the counter and was using my hands as I talked. Brian Nichols had his arms crossed over his chest now. The sleeves of my tee shirt were pulling around his biceps. “What’s he thinking,” I wondered. “Have I blown this guy away?” I hope it’s making him think, and think hard, about the choice he’s about to make.
Looking at him right then, I suddenly realized I didn’t feel afraid anymore. I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t afraid of what might happen to me in this apartment. I truly felt peaceful—as if God was just next to me. I couldn’t believe it. There was no fear. I’m not scared right here. I’m okay. I had already made my decision—I knew I wasn’t touching those drugs—and right now that seemed like all that mattered. That was what God wanted. I was doing what he wanted, and he was right here with me. It’s okay. I’m right here. You can stop. God was helping me. I was stopping like he said. And I wasn’t afraid.
Just then a phrase popped into my head from the twelfth step in my AA book: “Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps.” A spiritual awakening. I could remember Miss Kate, our instructor in recovery, talking about the spiritual awakening in our meetings. She always told us that our spiritual awakening might not be some huge, incredible moment. Most people, she said, came to a gradual understanding of who they were as addicts and how they needed to live. But I had read some really powerful stories in my AA book about people’s eyes being opened, and I always wanted the big moment. I wanted something amazing to happen for me that would open my eyes and change me for good.
Standing in my bathroom now, with Brian Nichols and those lines of ice on the counter, I realized I was having my spiritual awakening right here in this apartment. Tonight—this was it. The spiritual awakening. Right here, as a hostage, my eyes were finally being opened: I was a drug addict, just like I had told Brian Nichols. I really was a drug addict.
Maybe I wasn’t ever truly convinced of that before, even when I was at recovery. Leaving the program, I didn’t want to do drugs any more, but I didn’t completely close the door, either. I thought maybe I would be able to use ice again. Maybe once in a while. Maybe on the weekends. And I tried that. But tonight I was seeing the stark reality of who I was. Drugs and I could never mix. I would never be able to do them, not on the weekends or any other time. I had to close the door—close it for good. And I was doing it. God was helping me. I had already decided. I was standing in my apartment with my life on the line, having my spiritual awakening, and saying, “No. I’m done. It’s over.”
I watched Brian Nichols for a few seconds. What’s he going to do? He cleared his throat but didn’t say anything. Is he still going to do it? After everything I’ve said? Then I saw him look at the three short lines on the counter. Lord, let your will be done.
“You know,” I said again, pointing at that counter, “I really wish you would just leave that alone. It’s gonna ruin your life. The first time I tried that stuff I was hooked—just gone. If I were you, I wouldn’t go near it. It’s not worth it. It’ll be a huge mistake.” Forgive me for offering it to him.
But Brian Nichols didn’t answer me. He was still looking at the lines.
“Okay,” I said. “It’s your choice. Do what you want. But I’m not staying around for it. I don’t want you to do it. I don’t think you should do it. But I can’t stop you.”
Tucking my hair behind my ears, I turned and walked out into the hallway.
11 spiritual warfare
I leaned in the hallway doorframe facing the living room and could hear him moving things around on the bathroom counters. I heard him fumble with something. Is he rolling up that twenty? Then I heard his deep inhale. He had snorted a line up his nose. He really did it. I just hope it doesn’t make him crazy. Thank you that it isn’t me in there.
I could almost feel what Brian Nichols would have felt right then—the awful burning in his nostril and sinuses, the tears coming out of his eyes. It was really, really painful snorting that stuff. It was just miserable.
I turned back toward the bathroom now and looked over at him. He was standing up by the counter, facing the tub and looking down. I tried to read his face. He didn’t look like h
e had even flinched. His eyes weren’t running. His face was still. He wasn’t gasping. Usually that burning lasted for a while. Well, man, it sure hurts me to snort those drugs—not him, I guess. When he looked over at me, I saw a little trace of white powder on the rim of his nostril.
Without saying anything, Brian Nichols walked past me out of the bathroom and turned into the living room. I glanced over at the guns lying on the counter and went to sit down on the vanity stool. I just hate guns—hate those things lying there right now. Two lines were still laid out near the picture of Paige and me; the rolled-up twenty lay off to the side near my pink zipper pouch and the tin. I looked at the lines and thought to myself, “When I was free to do whatever I wanted, I was a total prisoner to that stuff. Now I’m a hostage and I’m freer than I’ve ever been in my whole life. I’m really, really done.”
Then I thought: “Okay—I’m stuck in this apartment with this guy. So I guess I can really be myself now. I can let out that person inside of me, the one I’ve been afraid to be. Right here I can live proclaiming the name of Jesus. Who cares if God isn’t popular or what ever? So what if people would call me a holy roller? They’re not here right now. It’s just me and this guy and you, God. We’re in here. And I’m done with those drugs. All of that is over. I’m living for you.”
I heard Brian Nichols walking in the living room and then the kitchen. I stood up quickly right then and stepped toward the shower. The curtain was partially open, so I leaned forward and looked into the tub. No blood in there. Good. Thank you. I just didn’t want there to be blood in my bathtub. I sat right back down and waited. I didn’t see his sneakers or dirty clothes on the floor anymore, so he obviously moved those somewhere else. I wondered what time it was—I just had no idea. Maybe an hour or two had gone by. Maybe less. I couldn’t gauge.
Brian Nichols walked back into the bathroom now, carrying a twelve-ounce can of Coors Light and another pack of cigarettes—Marlboro Lights. He must have gone out to the truck and gotten those.
