Generous Lies

by Robin Patchen

  He hadn't been the cause of her addiction, and he wasn't the cause of Aiden's, either.

  Maybe if he kept saying it, he'd convince himself it was true.

  At least he and Aiden had a peaceful place to figure out the next step. But figuring out anything would require a lot more sleep than he'd allowed himself. Sure, the king-sized bed in the master had been very comfortable, but he hadn't been able to shake the worry that Aiden would wake up and take off. Finally around two a.m., Garrison had given up, propped himself on the sofa in the living room, and watched TV, dozing here and there. Aiden had hardly moved since he'd fallen into bed at dusk. Amazing, considering how much the boy had slept the day before.

  There'd been no talking to Aiden on Saturday. Too many drugs in his bloodstream. Maybe today, he'd be normal again.

  Garrison returned to his seat and opened his laptop, closed it again. He couldn't think about work, couldn't figure out what their next step should be, couldn't seem to make himself do anything he needed to do.

  Fine. There was one thing he could do, call Charlene.

  He braced himself and dialed. She picked up on the second ring.

  "Why are you calling me so early?" she said. "It's practically dawn."

  "You have time to talk?"

  "I'd rather sleep."

  "It's about Aiden."

  A pause. He heard rustling, then, "What happened?"

  Much as Charlene had blown it as a mother, she still loved their son in her own halfhearted way. Maybe the two of them could repair some of the hurt between them and work through this together. "Friday night, he was taken to the ER. He'd been at a party and using drugs. The doctor thought—"

  "Wait a minute. Did you say Friday night? Friday, as in two days ago?"

  "Yeah. They called me, and—"

  "Why are you just calling me now? I can't believe you didn't call me yesterday. How could you—?"

  "That's why."

  "What's why? What are you talking about? How dare you...?"

  He moved the phone away from his ear and waited until the shrieking stopped. "I didn't call you first, because your first thought is always for yourself. He's fine, by the way."

  "Well, I mean... Obviously he's fine, right? Of course he's fine."

  Garrison took a deep breath. "He took LSD, and the doctor thinks he had a bad trip. They did a blood test to see what drugs were in his system."

  "Why? You said it was LSD."

  "And alcohol, marijuana, and opiates."

  Silence.

  "Like the painkillers you take."

  "You think he got them from me?"

  "Do you have any pills missing?"

  "I wasn't born yesterday, Garrison. My medications are locked in a box and hidden."

  "Could you check, just in case?"

  She sighed. "Hold on." A minute later, "He didn't take my pills."

  "He's getting them somewhere. Whether it's from you or not doesn't matter. He had enough in his system that the doctor thought he's probably built up a tolerance, which means he's been taking them often, and for a while."

  "This isn't my fault. I know you think it is, but it's not. I take those pills because my back hurts. I have to take them."

  "Again, this isn't about you."

  "I know you blame me. You think that if I'd quit and live my whole friggin' life in pain, we wouldn't be having these problems. But how did you expect me to do that, huh? How was I supposed to live without them?"

  Having a mother who was an addict had obviously influenced Aiden. But having a barely-there father for so many years of his life hadn't helped. "Charlene, this isn't about you, and it isn't about me. We've both made mistakes. Right now, we just have to figure out what to do next."

  "Bring him over this afternoon."

  Garrison looked at the lake. Charlene would lose it when he told her he'd left the state without telling her. Not that he needed her permission.

  Charlene continued, "We'll sit down and talk to him."

  "I've talked until I'm out of words. This is beyond talking."

  "What does that mean? You going to write him off like you wrote me off?"

  "I didn't..." He ran his hand over his hair. The woman was utterly irrational. He was tempted to remind her one more time that this situation wasn't about her.

  "So what is your brilliant plan?" she asked. "You gonna ground him, take his phone?"

  Garrison still had Aiden's phone and intended to keep it for the time being. That was nothing compared with what he planned to do. "We need to consider rehab—"

  "No. No flippin' way you're sending my son to one of those...those prisons. You have no idea what those places are like."

  "And you do? You never went."

  "I looked into it, to appease you. No way are you doing that to our boy."

  "What's your bright idea?"

  "You need to keep a better eye on him. You work from home most of the time. How is he getting away with all of this with you there, anyway? You need to watch him better."

  You, you, you. She wasn't about to take him back in her house—not that Garrison would let his son live there again.

  "It's not that simple, which you would know if..." He stopped when he heard a noise. He turned to see Aiden pushing the door open. "I have to go."

  "We're not done talking about this, Garrison."

  "We are for now." He hung up in the middle of her angry tirade, set the phone down, and smiled at Aiden. "You need some coffee?"

  He shrugged and sat at the table. He stared at the lake. "Nice place."

  "It is." He followed his son's gaze. A pontoon boat puttered by pulling a couple of kids on a tube. A man drove the boat, a woman and a younger child watched the tubers from the back. He couldn't see their faces, but he imagined they were all smiling.

  He glanced at Aiden. The expression on the boy's face—longing and sadness—had Garrison rubbing a tingling sensation from his eyes. Grown men weren't supposed to cry, especially not multiple times in the same weekend.

  "You ever been tubing?"

  Aiden looked at him, looked back at the lake. "Nope."

  "I thought, maybe with a friend or something." Garrison studied Aiden's profile, the dark circles under the boy's eyes, the faded skin tone. His too-long hair was messy and greasy. He still wore the clothes he'd had on Friday night.

  How had his son drifted so far? He thought of the boats out there on the water. The good thing about drifting was what drifted away could be brought back. One way or another, he would bring his son back home. "How about water skiing? Ever done that?"

  "Nope."

  "It's not easy, but you're strong and coordinated. I wonder if we can rent a boat on this lake. What do you think? You want to give it a try?"

  The tiniest flinch, maybe even an almost-smile. And his eyes had brightened for a moment before they dimmed again. "Whatever."

  "I'll take that as an enthusiastic yes."

  Aiden turned to face him, opened his mouth, closed it, and stood. "I think I will get some coffee."

  "Help yourself. Then come back outside. We need to talk."

  While Aiden went inside, Garrison stared at the water and wondered if Charlene was right. Were rehab centers like prisons? Could they help his son? He'd tried to do some research the day before, but there were so many places, so many different options. Outpatient or inpatient. Thirty days, sixty, ninety. Close to home, far away, luxury or state-funded. Twelve-step or not. There were rehab centers for teens only, some for boys in their late teens and early twenties. Some all male, some co-ed. When he'd tried to get Charlene to go to rehab, the research hadn't been so hard. Maybe because she was a grown woman and not a child, his child. And maybe because, deep down, he'd known she wouldn't go.

  Garrison needed to talk to somebody who knew about this kind of thing, but who? He couldn't think of a soul he'd trust with this. Not anybody who knew about addiction, anyway.

  Way back when Charlene had started using, someone had suggested he go to thos
e Al-Anon meetings. Maybe if he'd done that he'd know how to handle things now. At least he'd have some connections. As it was, he had nothing. No idea what to do. No support whatsoever.

  Aiden returned, sat beside his father, and stared at the lake. "Can I have my phone back?"

  "Not right now."

  "Dad, there are people who must be wondering if I'm okay. My friends will be worried."

  "Matty called me yesterday to ask how you were doing." The kid had sounded off, even after Garrison had told him Aiden was fine. But Garrison couldn't worry about Matty, too. "I told him we're going to be out of town for a while."

  "But... What do you mean? How long?"

  No idea how to answer that. Garrison said nothing.

  "I have work," Aiden said.

  "I called them yesterday. They're not expecting you."

  "I don't go, they're going to fire me."

  "It's not like there aren't other fast food joints on Long Island."

  "I like that job."

  "I guess you should have thought of that—"

  "Here it comes." Aiden crossed his arms and focused on the water. "This is where I get the lecture."

  Garrison could do without the attitude. "I was thinking this might be where I got an apology."

  Aiden shrugged. "Sorry."

  He studied his son's profile. "You'd make a lousy politician."

  Aiden turned to give his father a smirk.

  "Politicians sound sincere even when they're full of crap. It's a skill you should work on if you ever decide to run for office."

  "You're so not funny." Aiden turned back to the lake.

  They watched a speedboat pulling a skier. The skier wiped out, and the driver turned to pick him up. When the engine slowed, the people's laughter rang across the water.

  He glanced at his son. No smile there, but the anger had faded.

  "You okay?"

  Aiden shrugged. "I just wanted to try it."

  "Was it the first time you'd done acid?"

  "Of course."

  Sounded like a lie. Garrison had enough experience interrogating criminals that he could pick up lies like desperate guys could pick up ugly girls at last call. At least with most people. It wasn't so easy with Aiden.

  "What about the other drugs in your system? First time you did those, too?"

  Aiden turned now. His face paled a little. "What other drugs?"

  "They did a blood test."

  A pause, then, "Oh."

  Garrison waited.

  "I was just having a bad day. I wanted to—"

  "Have you ever considered telling me the truth?"

  "I don't want...I don't want you to worry about me."

  "So you're lying for my sake. How very generous of you."

  "It was the first time—"

  "Let's try this. Why don't you quit lying? I already know more than you think I do. Remember, I am an investigator." He hadn't investigated anything yet, but it wouldn't hurt to let Aiden believe he was way ahead of him.

  Aiden turned his gaze back to the lake. The skin around his mouth was tight. His hands were clenched into fists. Garrison could practically see the gears spinning in the kid's head, could imagine the thoughts in there. What does Dad know? What can I say to get out of this?

  Aiden's hands relaxed, and his mouth softened. He'd come up with a plan. Aiden turned to face him. Took a deep breath.

  His eyes filled with tears.

  "I've been smoking pot for a while. Like on the weekends and after work."

  "Never at work?"

  "Not that it would matter. A monkey could make tacos, but, no, I don't usually go to work high."

  Not usually. Which meant not always, but probably often enough. Garrison waited, hoped his son would admit to the rest.

  Aiden sipped his coffee. His hands were shaking. Good. He should be nervous. It meant something that he still cared what his dad thought.

  "I drink a little at parties, but I don't really like alcohol. Makes you feel like crap the next day."

  Only if you over-consume, which Aiden obviously had.

  "Okay." Garrison waited.

  Aiden looked down, took a breath, looked back up. "I've taken some oxy, too. Sometimes."

  "Define 'sometimes.'"

  He shrugged.

  "Every day?"

  He shrugged again. So yes, every day, at least once a day, probably more.

  The truth of it hit him. He'd feared it, but to have Aiden confirm it, it all seemed that much more real.

  Garrison should ask how Aiden had paid for the drugs and where he'd gotten them. He could wear his son down, get the information. Interrogations hadn't been his specialty at the FBI, but he could do them. He'd honed his powers of observation. But Aiden wasn't a suspect, and the details weren't that important right now.

  Garrison took a deep breath. When he blew it out, he forced away all the questions, the need-to-knows his mind was demanding. This wasn't about catching the kid in his lies or proving a case in court. It was about getting him help.

  "Thank you for being honest with me."

  Aiden nodded, ducked his head.

  Garrison reached out, grasped the boy's shoulder, and squeezed. "Nothing you said, and nothing you've done, changes how I feel about you. You're my son, and I love you. I'll always love you."

  Aiden's shoulders slumped.

  Garrison crouched beside his son and reached for the boy's shoulders, drawing him close. He barely noticed the rank odor of unwashed hair as Aiden's tears fell on his T-shirt. His fingers brushed the sharp outline of bones on a frame that had lost muscle mass in the last weeks.

  How had that happened? How had he not noticed?

  The feeling of his son in his arms felt so right, so pure, and so terrifying. The boy was here, but his heart was still elsewhere. His heart was focused on the drugs that would eventually destroy him, if he didn't get help.

  Garrison wanted his son back.

  Not until Aiden pulled away did Garrison take his seat again. He turned his chair to face Aiden's. "The thing is, I think it's time for us to get some help."

  Aiden sniffed. "What do you mean? Like a counselor or whatever?"

  A counselor might have been a good idea six months or a year before. Aiden had seen one when Garrison and Charlene split, but not for long. He'd been fine. He'd said he was fine. But nothing about this was fine. "I think we're beyond that."

  Aiden narrowed his eyes.

  "We need to consider rehab."

  Aiden pushed back his chair. "No way."

  "I know it's not what you want. It's not what I want, either. But we need help."

  "It's not that bad. I can quit on my own."

  "Last month when I caught you smoking pot, you told me you would quit. Yet here we are."

  "I'll really do it this time."

  "I hope you do. And I'm going to get you help."

  "I'm not going to rehab. Mom won't make me go. I'll go live with her."

  The threat hung in the air between them. Garrison wasn't about to tell Aiden his mother wouldn't take him back. The last thing the kid needed was to learn his mother's love didn't extend quite that far. Charlene did love Aiden. She just loved her drugs and her freedom more. A lot more. "You're not going back to live with your mother."

  "You can't stop me."

  "I can, actually. You are my responsibility."

  "She has rights, too. She'll fight for me."

  No, she wouldn't. And Garrison had full custody, not that it would make much difference in another six months when Aiden turned eighteen. All the more reason to get the boy in rehab now when he had no choice in the matter.

  "Here's the deal, son. You're a minor, and you're an addict."

  "I am not an addict."

  "And we're going to get you help. You can be a part of the process of choosing a place, or you can sulk and stay out of it. Either way, you're going."

  Chapter 8

  After church, Samantha went home to change her clothes and then h
eaded toward the lake. She was turning off the main road when it occurred to her that she should have called. Of course she should have called. Any idiot would know that. She was so accustomed to dropping in on her friends unannounced. Rae and Brady, her oldest friends, were used to it, and their son Johnny squealed in delight when she showed up. He was almost one now and crawling all over the house.

  When she stopped by Marisa's new place, her friend always acted as if Sam were a long-lost sister. Marisa, her fiancé, Nate, and her daughter, Ana, had only moved to Nutfield a few months before, but they'd become dear to her already.

  Even Eric, one of the cops in town—a single guy a few years younger than she was—would hardly lift an eyebrow if she stopped by his house unannounced.

  But Garrison... She should have called first. Even though she felt closer to him than to any of the others, he wasn't a drop-by-whenever kind of friend—not that he lived close enough to find out. Besides, Aiden was there, and Sam figured the teen would want her around about as much as he'd want a zit on his nose.

  Fine, she'd call.

  She pulled over on the narrow road that circled the lake and dialed Garrison's number. It was nearly noon. Surely he was awake.

  Just when she thought it would go to voicemail, he picked up.

  "Hey," he said, "I'm glad you called."

  "How was your night? Did you sleep okay?"

  A pause. "The bed was very comfortable."

  "That wasn't the question." She waited a beat, then said, "Worried?"

  She imagined him running his fingers through his cropped hair. "Yeah."

  "I just got out of church," she said. "I added you and Aiden to the prayer list. I hope you don't mind. I didn't use your names of course."

  "Yeah, okay. That's fine." His tone sounded dismissive.