Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  Thank you, Lieutenant Stanton. I was surprised to find your note when I got home. We must’ve just missed each other. Honestly, I thought about calling you. I really did. But I’m afraid that I’m beyond anyone’s friendship or kind words right now. I’ve tried to pick up the pieces of my life and move on, but I’ve found it to be harder than I could have ever imagined. I know that might be difficult for you to understand. There are so many things about me that you just don’t know. You were right when you said a doctor never treats his own illness. I simply couldn’t treat mine either.

  I wish you all the best. The world needs more people like you.

  God bless,

  Cathy

  P.S. Please find my sister.

  For a moment, Allan didn’t move. Then he handed the note and envelope back to Jim for processing.

  “We found the bathtub full of water,” Sergeant Malone was saying. “There is a razor blade on the rim.”

  Allan half listened. He began to move toward the bedroom, numb.

  “We can only surmise what her intentions were,” Malone continued. “Had she decided to shoot up before ending her life in the bathroom?”

  Only when Allan stood in the open doorway did he see Cathy Ambré. She lay supine atop the bed, arms flung out across the sheets. Her face was turned to one side. Her mouth was partly open. Her eyes were closed, as if asleep. Beside her was a drug user’s paraphernalia—a short length of rope used as a tourniquet, a box of alcohol swabs, cotton balls, a lighter, a spoon with a tinged underside, a needle and syringe. On the floor next to the bed lay a tiny clear bag, its inside marred with a talcose residue.

  “Are you receiving treatment?”

  “I went cold turkey…”

  “It’s still hard to do without professional help…”

  “I can do it. I will do it.”

  Slowly, Allan shook his head.

  Why? he mourned. Why did you do this to yourself?

  Emotions, he realized, were jeopardizing his train of thought. He forced himself to step back, observe things professionally. His eyes hunted details. Drawn blinds veiled the outside world. The lights were on in the bedroom and living room. Two nights ago when he had stopped by, the apartment was in darkness.

  When had she come home?

  The bedroom itself, he saw, was plainly furnished—a bed, a crucifix above it, a night table, a dresser with mirror. The single window faced Brewer Street. The overhead light cast a yellow tone on the floral papered walls.

  Harvey Doucette, Jim’s partner, was busy measuring key distances.

  “It’s safe to come in, Lieutenant,” he said, glancing over. “It won’t take long to wrap up things here.”

  Allan stepped inside. He didn’t move directly to the note on the dresser. He walked around the perimeter of the bedroom instead, looking along the floor. He opened the blinds to check the window. Locked.

  After turning to a blank page in his spiral, he stood off to one corner and began to rough out a sketch of the room. When it came to draw the crude stick figure of Cathy Ambré, he found it awkward.

  He moved to the dresser and picked up the note by one corner. The handwriting reflected the jagged scrawl of grief.

  How long will thou forget me, O Lord? Forever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

  How long shall I take counsel in my soul having sorrow in my heart daily? How long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?

  Psalms 13:1-2

  Forgive me, everyone. Forgive me.

  Will there be a place in heaven for me? Or will they close the gates and turn me away?

  I won’t write a lengthy explanation for doing this. Just look at me. I have no one to blame for all of these problems, but myself. This cross is too heavy for me to bear any longer. Having said that, I never thought this day would come so soon for me, or that it would all end this way. I would’ve preferred for it to end peacefully, years from now, at a ripe old age, surrounded by my family and friends. Anyway, but like this: alone in an apartment, alone in life. It is easy to sit and judge someone for choosing suicide—a coward’s way out, a permanent solution to a temporary problem. But these people don’t understand the darkness you can sink into. No hope can be a terrible thing.

  How can this be easy for me? There is no coming back. Even at this moment, I’m afraid and torn apart. There is no calm; there is no inner peace. Sad I had lived in life; sad I will die.

  For Mom and Dad, Grandpa and Grandma, I love you with all my heart. I’m sorry I let you down. For Trixy, ditto. I pray you’re safe.

  I only ask one thing from all of you: remember who I was, not what I became.

  Good-bye,

  Cathy

  Once more, Allan read over the note. Cathy’s anguished words burrowed right to his soul. The guilt he felt was sudden and powerful. If he hadn’t procrastinated about coming over when she had called two nights ago, he might’ve caught her before she left. He might’ve saved her from this end. Biting his lip, he put the note back on the dresser.

  It was a moment before he turned to face the room again. He mentally itemized the evidence for Jim and Harvey to gather up—the suicide note, the empty packet, the spoon, and the needle and syringe used for injection. For good measure, he decided the pillows, pillowcases and bedding should be packaged as well and sent to Hair and Trace. He knew the totality of the evidence indicated suicide. Still, the finding had to be made official.

  From the hallway came the sound of hard wheels rolling across the wooden floor and soon Doctor Coulter appeared in the doorway, signing Malone’s clipboard. Lawrence Sodero stood behind him with his hands on a gurney.

  Allan looked down at his watch. 10:36 p.m. Coulter was later than usual.

  Coulter acknowledged him with a curt nod. For a couple of minutes, he remained in the doorway, studying the scene.

  “An accidental overdose, Lieutenant?” he asked at last.

  “Right now, it looks like suicide by overdose.”

  “No signs of a struggle or forced entry?”

  Allan shook his head. “No. The front door was locked from the inside. All the windows are secure.”

  Coulter stepped into the room now, carrying a black bag. He put it on the floor by the bed.

  “Looking at what’s here,” he said, “I’d guess her drug of choice was heroin.”

  “That’s my guess, Doctor.”

  Coulter put a hand to his chin. “Strange.”

  Openly curious, he searched around the room, under the bed.

  “Is something wrong?” Allan asked him.

  “I’m looking for what I don’t see, Lieutenant. Empty alcohol or pill bottles. Products that can tax the central nervous system prior to taking the heroin.”

  “You don’t think she overdosed on heroin alone?”

  “I have doubts. But toxicology will tell the tale.”

  “What if she took an extraordinarily high amount?”

  “Street heroin is so diluted, the user really has no idea what dosage they’re taking to begin with. And it would take a large amount of heroin to kill someone. Even in a non-user. More than what would’ve been in the bag found on the floor here.

  “Addicts develop a tolerance to opiates. Increasing one’s normal amount does not produce significant side effects and in some cases because of the dilution, none at all. And it most certainly does not guarantee death.”

  Allan called over Jim.

  “Can you check the apartment for any empty alcoholic beverage containers, empty glasses in the sink that smell of alcohol as well as medicine bottles?” he asked.

  Jim pulled back the hood of his coveralls. “Sure thing, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.” Allan said, watching Coulter go to work.

  With slow deliberation, Coulter began his examination of Cathy Ambré. He flexed her arms, felt her jaw and face for stiffness. He checked her hands, paying special attention to the fingernails. Then he reached into the black bag and removed a probe thermometer. He lifted the blouse of th
e young woman to expose her abdomen.

  “There are signs of early decomposition in the lower right quadrant,” he noted.

  Coulter positioned the thermometer over the area of the liver. Before the probe was inserted, Allan turned away.

  Moments later, Coulter spoke again. “Core temperature has lowered to the ambient temperature of the room. Rigor has passed. There’s secondary flaccidity in the joints.”

  “About thirty-six hours?” Allan asked.

  “There are variables, Lieutenant. Right now, that’s my guesstimate. Thirty-six hours minimum.”

  To Allan, the chronology seemed to be about right. He left Coulter to do his work and walked over to Harvey.

  “Is it all right to look around?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Harvey said. “Go for it.”

  Allan started his own search of the bedroom. First, he went to the dresser. He found a jumble of bras, underpants and T-shirts in the drawers. Nothing more. The closet came next. There were blouses and slacks on hangers, two rows of shoes on the floor.

  But what stopped him was a white box neatly tucked away in a corner.

  On top of it rested a black purse. He knelt, put the purse aside, and took out the box. Inside was a large amount of hypodermic needles. On the side of the box, the quantity was listed at one hundred. From the amount remaining, Allan guessed the needles had been purchased recently. The purse had one five-dollar bill, loose change, and a wallet containing Cathy’s driver’s license, birth certificate, bank and credit cards. Lastly, he removed a card of emergency contacts, listing the names and address of Cathy’s parents. Allan wrote down the information in his spiral.

  He stood up and looked around the bedroom. Only one piece of furniture left to check. He slid open the drawer of the night table to reveal the Old Testament and another book with sunflowers on the cover. A pen lay next to that. As he looked at the locking clasp on the second book, Allan realized it to be a diary.

  Slowly, it opened in his hands.

  Flipping through the pages, he saw the entries were dated from December 25 to May 11. At random, he began reading some of the more salient entries, skipping over the less important ones.

  Soon he found himself deep in the private sanctuary of a young woman, whose life seemed to be an uncertain journey through a minefield, never quite reaching the safe clearing on the other side.

  24

  Halifax, May 12

  10:58 p.m.

  December 25. My first entry.

  Christmas time is family time. No snow this year. Just cloudy.

  My fondest memories are of Christmas. As a little girl I loved going out with Dad and Trixy to pick up a tree and bring it home to decorate. On Christmas Eve, Trixy and I would stay up late, too excited to sleep. Mom and Dad would allow us to open one present. It seemed only to add to our excitement for the presents to come the next morning. At daybreak, we would sneak downstairs before Mom and Dad were up. We would go through our stockings first, then move onto our presents that Santa had left.

  Those special times seem so long ago now. So much has changed. Mom still puts up a stocking for me. Even at 22. God bless her. I got this diary in it this year. This will be a new experience for me. I’ve never catalogued my thoughts and activities before.

  Everyone was over for turkey dinner, sticking to tradition. Grandma and Grandpa brought pumpkin and apple pies. Uncle Baxter and his family brought a gingerbread house. Aunties Sable, Angela and Ann brought different sweets. The house was full with their families.

  Like last year and a few years before that, something was amiss… Trixy. I thought about her during dinner. No one even mentioned her. It was like she never existed. I wonder if they knew about my problems, would I be snubbed the same way?

  Later, when everyone crowded into the family room to reminisce about the past year, I made up a turkey plate with all the fixings and snuck it over to Trixy’s. Mom knew what I was doing, but didn’t stop me. Actually I think she wanted me to do it. I really think she misses her other daughter.

  Trixy seemed sad to me, unusually quiet. I noticed she gets like that this time of year. Well, since she left home anyhow. She just picked at the plate, not really eating anything. She didn’t have a tree up or any decorations at all. I felt sorry for her. I think a lot of things that happened bother her now. She just won’t open up to anyone. She’s like Dad in a way.

  If I had one wish, it would be for the family to be back on speaking terms…

  Allan jumped ahead into January where the entries talked about the new job Cathy got as a chambermaid. The tone grew in doubt and frustration about the choices she made in her life. She hated her new job and regretted her decision to leave university only to fall into a rut. Heroin seemed to be her refuge from it all.

  When Allan came to the 26th, he paused a moment. Here the handwriting was different, lacking the smooth penmanship of the other entries. It was replaced with a loose scribble not unlike a child first learning to write.

  I’m so fucking high right now. And I don’t care. The outside world doesn’t exist. I can deal with it later. God, don’t let this feeling go away.

  Allan shook his head, feeling a deep pity.

  Shame, he thought.

  Then he came to January 31st.

  Sunny, but too cold to go outside. –20.

  Dad found the spoons I’d been using as cookers. Thank God he never found my needles or better yet, the stash I had in my purse.

  He made me pull up my sleeves and gasped when he saw my needle marks. Mom burst out crying. God, what have I done? I never wanted this to happen. To upset them like this. I hurt my parents and disgraced myself.

  I told him that I will quit and not to worry. He and Mom want me to rebuild my life, to go back to university next fall. I promised I would. This has all gone too far.

  February 2. Groundhog’s Day. Brrr, it’s cold. –24 in the sun.

  The little marmot saw his shadow, so winter won’t be ending soon.

  I’ve been clean for three days now, but it’s been hard. No, not hard. I’ll say impossible. So much so that I went out this afternoon and bought a bindle. I haven’t taken it yet. But I don’t know if I can continue to fight these cravings. I have no energy at all. The withdrawals have really debilitated me. This must be what they refer to as the super flu. Do I have what it takes to escape this? I’ve been using rum to help combat the withdrawals. It seems to work, but only a little.

  February 3. Warming a bit from yesterday. -12.

  What is the punishment for breaking promises? Especially to your parents?

  I never thought the cravings and withdrawals would be so strong. I only took enough to make them go away. Oh, but it was instant pleasure. The heroin put me back on top of the world.

  Can I wean myself off? Do I really want to? Maybe that’s where my problem lies.

  Allan leafed through pages. The first couple weeks of February were nothing more than prosaic entries—Cathy still talking about her disappointment with her job, about how she got high on her birthday. When Allan reached February 16th, he slowed down.

  – 5 and cloudy.

  Missed a vein today. The blister that formed under my skin took hours to recede. God, the burn was painful. That’ll teach me.

  I’m so tired right now. I should call in sick. But I need the money. Not looking forward to going into work. Do I ever?

  At February 22nd, Allan soon became engrossed in the story again.

  Sunny and –4. It feels and smells like spring outside.

  The walk home this morning was pleasant, until I walked into the house. This just might be the worst day of my life.

  Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with my needles splayed out across it. He had found them hidden in the back of my closet. God, he was so angry. Mom was crying again in the other room. What excuse could I come up with? I told him again that I would quit. That I did quit last time, but found it difficult and only took a small amount to relieve the cravings. He didn’t bel
ieve me. He thinks I lied to him. He gave me an ultimatum—seek help or get out. All this was becoming too stressful on him and Mom. Watching their daughter kill herself. I told him that I wasn’t doing that. That he was overreacting. That he just didn’t understand. He told me to look at myself. What is it he sees that I don’t? And how did he know I was still using?

  I found my room ransacked. Like a burglar had gone through it. I keep my diary key with me, so I don’t think he’s gone through it. The lock doesn’t look tampered with.

  I don’t know how this will all play out now. Do I try to get clean again or do I move out? I hate the thoughts of rehab. It’ll be like a prison.

  Why can’t they just leave me alone? After all, it’s my life. I can do with it what I want.

  February 23. Cloudy.

  I told Trixy what happened. She said she knew I was on something all along. She could see it too. Funny, she never brought it up. She said I should check out rehab or call Nar-Anon. I thought it strange to hear her agree with something Dad said. Is it because she’s having regrets for her own decisions in life?

  February 24. The weather’s a repeat of yesterday. –7 and cloudy.

  Dad is watching me like a hawk now. He won’t stay off my back. He again asked to me to seek help. I told him that I quit for good this time, even knowing that I had done the unimaginable at work last night…I shot up in the bathroom. I was afraid someone might walk in, but didn’t. I don’t think anyone noticed either that I was high. I kept to myself, but nearly drifted off many times. It took all I had to stay awake and finish my job.

  February 25. The white stuff is coming down today.

  I talked to Trixy this afternoon and told her what was going on at home with Mom and Dad. She told me I could move in with her, but said again that I should seek help. Have I lost all trust with everyone? No one seems to believe that I can quit. They just don’t realize that my problem isn’t that serious. Why don’t they all just get off my back?