Memoirs Aren't Fairytales: A Story of Addiction

by Mann, Marni

  I thought of Claire and how I would feel if I lost her. She was my best friend and took care of me. But I was their daughter. Was that how they felt when they thought about losing me?

  There was one more message, which I assumed was from Michael. I didn't listen to it. I hit the delete button and emptied my mailbox.

  All I had to do was call my parents and tell them I wanted help, and I'd be in rehab before breakfast. I could see the whole thing play out in my head. Claire would walk me to my parents' car, telling me how proud she was I'd decided to get sober. Michael would carry my bags inside. My parents would hug me and visit during family weekend.

  And then Claire wouldn't have to check on me anymore. My parents would stop crying. Michael would forgive me for taking his money.

  Maybe tomorrow, I thought.

  I dumped my purse onto the ground and cooked up. The hit was strong, and I threw up all over the fruit. Claire's dinner had tasted so good. But it didn't look as pretty splattered over the bananas.

  I stuffed everything back in my purse and stood up. I straightened my skirt and tightened my ponytail, walking down the alley. As I got closer to the street, I heard a guy's voice. And then a second guy spoke, and a third. They were talking in ghetto slang, as Raul had called it.

  I peeked around the side of the alley where a group of men were standing close by with their backs against the building. They were all dressed in red—a gang color. Hats dipped over their faces, and gold teeth shined in their mouths.

  I put my hood over my head and walked in the opposite direction.

  Sunshine was on the corner of the next block. Her pink fur coat looked like a big cone of cotton candy.

  A car was driving towards me, its headlights were so bright I had to squint. The car began to slow down and veered to my side of the road. It had to be a John looking to hire, I thought. I moved across the sidewalk and onto the street. I took off my hood, unzipped my jacket, and hiked up my skirt.

  The guys in the gang stopped talking and from the corner of my eye, I saw them step onto the curb.

  As the car got closer, the backseat window rolled down. Then the driver's window.

  I heard what sounded like an explosion, followed by bang after bang.

  Sunshine screamed.

  I felt a sharp pain in my chest like I'd been stabbed with the tip of a crowbar, and I reached under my tank top. I felt something wet. And when I pulled my hand out, my fingers were covered in blood.

  The sidewalk seemed to move under my feet. Maybe my feet were moving. But I was definitely falling.

  My back hit the ground first. My head was next, pounding onto the pavement. The pain made everything look white for a moment. And then all I saw was black.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I sat on our couch with my feet on the coffee table. With Sunshine at the needle exchange, I finally had some time to myself. I'd been out of the hospital for two days, and the doctor's words were still echoing in my head: “The bullet was a few inches from puncturing your heart, and still we were able to save your fetus.”

  I didn't know what he meant by fetus. Was that some organ I hadn't learned in biology class?

  “You're eleven weeks pregnant,” he said.

  A nurse had come in after the doctor left and lubed my stomach with jelly. She moved a wand over my belly and told me to look at the screen. “There's your baby,” she said. She printed a picture of the bean-shaped blob and gave it to me.

  I was eleven, almost twelve weeks pregnant. I had to get this thing out of me.

  I didn't tell Claire or Sunshine about the baby. Since they were both mothers, I figured they'd be upset if I told them I was getting an abortion, and I didn't want them to try and talk me out of my decision. I mean, how could I have a baby? I didn't even know who the father was. He could be any one of my tricks, one with a big enough dick to break the condom. Fucker.

  The clinic charged four hundred dollars. I already had an appointment set up for tomorrow morning, I just didn't have the money yet. I'd made two hundred and forty last night, and all of that was going to Richard. Claire didn't have any money and neither did Sunshine.

  I thought I'd start with Frankie and see how much I could get out of him.

  He was sitting behind the front desk, eating what smelled like fish. I wanted to hurl.

  “Four hundred,” he said. “That's how much they cost these days?”

  I assumed Sunshine hadn't been the only hooker he'd slept with over the years. He'd probably paid for several abortions, so what was one more?

  “I'll pay you back,” I said.

  He took a bite and chewed with his mouth open. “With what? After the abortion, she's going to be out of commission for a bit,” he said and pointed to my crotch.

  I hadn't thought of that.

  But hopefully I wouldn't be sore for too long. Blowjobs weren't going to pay for my dope.

  “Look kid, I'll give you a hundred bucks, but it's only cause I feel bad for you.”

  He took a hundred dollar bill out of the drawer and handed it to me.

  “Get lost and don't ask for anymore,” he said

  I went back to my room. Sunshine would be home soon from the needle exchange, and she'd want her dope. I grabbed my purse and headed for the train station.

  Walking down Massachusetts Avenue, I decided to stop at Michael's first since his apartment wasn't too far out of my way. We hadn't spoken in a year and a half, since I'd stolen his money. But he still left me voicemails and once in a while, I saw him driving down the street where Sunshine and I worked. I'd hide my face in my jacket or run into an alley so he wouldn't see me. One time, he had even asked Sunshine if she'd seen me, but she told him she didn't know anyone who fit my description.

  I asked the doorman to let Michael know I was here. He made me wait on the sidewalk while he called from the desk phone and after he hung up, he let me inside. He escorted me through the lobby and to the elevator, and didn't take his eyes off me until the door slid closed.

  Michael was waiting for me in the hallway. As I walked towards him, he said, “What are you doing here?”

  “It's been a while, huh?”

  I moved past him and went into the kitchen, leaning against the fridge.

  “Too long. I've miss—” he said and stopped.

  My foot tapped on his floor. I didn't have time for all the I-miss-you crap. “I'm pregnant.”

  He shook his head. “I don't believe you.”

  “No, I am, the doctor put that wand thingy on my stomach and I saw the baby, and everything.”

  “And you came here because you want money for an abortion?”

  “Michael—”

  “I'm not giving you a penny,” he said and crossed his arms.

  I remembered just then the picture I'd stolen of Michael and Jesse kissing. It was still in my purse. “Have you told mom and dad you're gay?” I asked.

  I took his silence as a no.

  He still hadn't told our parents? He wasn't as strong as I thought he was.

  “You want me to get clean, but you won't come clean too?” I asked.

  He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the kitchen and into the bathroom. He stood me in front of the sink and held my face towards the mirror.

  “Look at yourself, Cole. Do you see who you've become?”

  I knew exactly what I looked like.

  “You used to be my best friend, someone I trusted, and a loving daughter who made our parents proud,” he said. “What happened to you?”

  I knew what smack had done to me, I didn't need him to remind me.

  “Give me the fucking abortion money,” I yelled.

  “And if I don't?”

  “I'll show mom and dad the picture I stole of you and Jesse kissing.”

  His hands dropped from the sides of my face like my skin had burned his fingertips.

  I turned around and looked into his eyes.

  “I'm not ashamed of who I am, so show them the picture,” he said. “A
nd unless you're ready to go to rehab, don't ever come here again.”

  I walked out of the bathroom and let his front door slam behind me.

  I walked through Richard's front door and went straight to his bedroom without stopping to talk to Heather. Richard was on the floor, injecting into his stomach. I stood in front of him, between his legs.

  When he pulled the needle out, he looked up at me.

  “I need a favor,” I said.

  I told him I was pregnant and wanted to borrow three hundred bucks for an abortion. I told him I'd pay him back a little each week with interest.

  “I'll give you the money,” he said. He put his hand on my thigh and his long, dirty fingers crawled like ants until they reached the zipper on my jeans. “But I want you in return.”

  Three hundred was more than I made in a night. And if I closed my eyes, Richard would just be another one of my tricks.

  “You're going to have to wait a little while, I'm going to be sore and—”

  “I've waited this long, haven't I?” he asked.

  I told him we had a deal, and he gave me the money along with the two bundles I paid for.

  At the clinic, the secretary handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out all the sheets. The waiting room was full, but I found an empty seat and wrote my name and address.

  There was a woman sitting next to me with a big pregnant belly and her teenage daughter was on the other side of her. The daughter was reading a pamphlet on birth control.

  Some of the girls in the room had flat stomachs. And some had little baby bumps, sitting next to their men or their moms. The clinic performed abortions up to eighteen weeks and gave doctor referrals to girls who decided not to abort. Maybe they were all here to get rid of their babies too, or they were here to take the clinic's prenatal class.

  Toys were scattered around the floor—puzzles, trucks, and a playhouse. Michael and I used to play house in our playhouse. I'd pretend to home school our imaginary kids, and I'd read to them from my picture books. Michael would pretend to mow the lawn and fix things that were broken. We never pretended I'd be a pregnant junkie when I grew up.

  I pictured myself in three months, coming here with Claire with a big belly and swollen ankles to take the baby class. She'd come to the hospital too when I was ready to give birth, and she'd wipe cold washcloths over my face. She'd cut the umbilical cord.

  “Ms. Brown, the doctor is ready for you,” a nurse said.

  I handed the clipboard to the nurse and she led me into a room where she took my height and weight. I was five-five and the scale said ninety-six pounds. She wrote the numbers in my chart and brought me into another room at the end of the hall.

  “Change into this,” she said, giving me a paper gown. “The doctor will be in shortly.”

  There was a chair in the corner of the room, but I sat on the table instead and put my feet in the stirrups. The paper on the table crackled as I got comfortable.

  I heard a knock at the door, and then the doctor walked in. She introduced herself as Dr. Nina Allen and sat on the stool in front of me. She had a little teddy bear clipped to her stethoscope and a gold band around her ring finger. She was probably someone's mom too.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  I lay back on the table, and she moved around the room, getting the tools she needed.

  There were posters all over the walls, but the two by the bed stood out the most. One showed a woman getting the wand and jelly exam. Her belly was huge, and she was looking at the screen with a smile on her face. Her husband wasn't with her. Maybe she didn't have one and her mom would help her through labor.

  “This is going to feel a little cold,” the doctor said.

  The second poster showed a mom at a park, sitting on a bench and her daughter was playing in a sandbox. The park looked like the one I had always gone to with Renee and Eric. The mom was reading a magazine, but kept it low on her lap so she could watch her daughter at the same time.

  This was my chance, I thought. A chance to change my life and live like a normal twenty-four-year old girl. A chance to get heroin out of my life.

  But could I do it—raise a child, be a mother, and be responsible for something other than myself?

  The voice in my head kept saying, “You're not alone.” I had Claire and my parents, and Michael. I had people who loved me and would help me raise my baby. I could do this. And I could stop using. Not for me, but for my baby.

  “Stop,” I shouted.

  I sat up on the table and pulled my feet out of the stirrups. “I've changed my mind.”

  The doctor showed her square teeth. “Are you sure?”

  I was sure—I wasn't going to kill for heroin. Everything else, I'd figure out.

  “I'm sorry I wasted your time,” I said and got off the table to get dressed.

  “This is very common, you know,” she said. “A lot of women have a change of heart right before the abortion.”

  I hated that word.

  “And they turn into wonderful mothers,” she said.

  I put my shirt on and thanked her. I paid the seventy-five dollar doctor fee at the desk and took the train home.

  I sat on our couch again with my feet on the coffee table. Sunshine still wasn't home yet. My stomach gurgled, shooting gas into my chest. That was the baby, I thought. Kicking the heroin out of its little body like I was going to.

  I'd never had a reason to quit dope before. And now the reason was in my belly. That little bean-shaped blob was going to grow into something special. A good student, maybe even a journalist or a doctor. And when my baby got old enough, I'd share my story and how I got clean when I found out I was pregnant.

  “Mommy quit heroin because of you,” I'd say. “I loved you so much and didn't want to hurt you.”

  I rubbed my palm across my stomach.

  “Where are we going to live now?” I asked my belly. “Should we move home to grandma and grandpa's house?”

  I didn't want to live in Maine, but living with Sunshine wouldn't be good for the baby or me. I needed to eat healthy and drink lots of water. At least that was what the printouts said, the ones the secretary at the clinic gave me.

  I could move in with Claire. She ate three meals a day. And maybe I could get a part-time job to help her with groceries and rent. I had twenty-five weeks to plan until the baby was born.

  The dope I'd bought that morning was on the coffee table by my feet, staring at me. I'd shot five bags before going to the clinic, and I had five left. That was enough for a good nod. My last nod. And then I was going to be a mother. There was a new feeling inside me that I'd never felt before. A feeling that was stronger than the love I had for heroin.

  The five wax-paper packets with their stamped emblems—a skull and crossbones—were lined up on the table. I opened each one slowly and dumped the powder onto a spoon. The spoon was caked with resin, all black and dirty. I took the orange cap off the rig and filled the syringe. My foot was bruised and the tattooed fireworks were spotted with needle marks. In the middle of the inked Boston skyline, there was an open hole and a bump under my skin. The rig stabbed one of the buildings. I drew blood into the chamber and emptied it into my vein.

  In my nod, I was sitting in the park with my daughter on my lap. She had blue eyes like me, and her brown curly hair was in pigtails. She had pink pouting lips and tiny ears with pierced lobes. She was talking and laughing, and bouncing. I understood what she was saying even though she had a hard time pronouncing her r's and th's.

  She touched my face with her little hand. “Nose,” she said, touching my nose. “Lips,” she said and moved her fingers down to my mouth. “Tummy,” she said and patted my stomach.

  “Yes, baby,” I said. “You came from mommy's tummy.”

  “Wet mama, diaper full.”

  I felt her butt and it was wet. She must have leaked through her diaper. My pants were wet too. Not wet, but soaked and it didn't look like pee. It was thick and bloody.

 
I stood her up and turned her around. Her butt was covered in blood, and my hands and shirt were too.

  My eyes shot open from the nod, and I looked down. I didn't see anything on the front of my jeans, but my underwear felt wet. I went into the bathroom and pulled down my pants. My underwear was covered in blood, and when I sat on the toilet, something came out of me, something tissue-like with clots of blood.

  I reached for my cell phone and called the clinic. I told the secretary what was happening and she told me to go the ER.

  “This is normal, right? My last period or something?” I asked.

  “No, Ms. Brown, I'm afraid it's not normal. It sounds like you had a miscarriage.”

  That wasn't possible. In my heroin dream, I saw my baby. She was there in my arms and she called me “Mama.” I was going to be a mother.

  “I was wrong, there's not that much blood and…”

  But there was a lot of blood. The toilet bowl was stained red.

  “The doctor will check you out and perform a D&C if need be.”

  “What's that?” I asked.

  I heard her say words—cervix and uterus and vacuuming—and I hung up the phone.

  I got in the shower to clean myself off. Blood ran down my legs and into the tub and swirled around the drain and turned pink as it mixed with the water. Pink for my little girl.

  There was three hundred and twenty-five dollars in my wallet. I'd stop at Richard's before going to the hospital and spend it all on heroin. I'd get high and forget this ever happened. And if Richard asked about the abortion, I'd tell him I had it this morning.

  It wasn't a lie. My baby was dead. But I'd killed her. I'd given myself an abortion.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Over the years, most of my heroin dreams had been action-filled. I'd dreamt about being in planes and helicopters, flying like a bird, swimming in the ocean, and running through fields of flowers. In all of them, I'd always been alone. That was except for a few, like the one where Sunshine and I had been at Willy Wonka's factory, or when I had been with my baby girl, and the one I was having now. I was sitting in the back of a raft, floating down a river. And in front of me sat several people, men and women, even a child, but I didn't recognize them.