Finally, Jake came back out, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his head hanging down. His eyes were edged with red.
“Molly?” Rebecca called. “Why don't we sit down together for a few minutes?”
Molly looked back anxiously at Jake, but he avoided her gaze. She turned and hurried down the hall to where Rebecca was waiting.
The office was not small, but it felt full. Rebecca's desk was piled high with papers, and books left face down and open. There were a few chairs and a loveseat clustered around a small coffee table, where an ashtray overflowed. Rebecca perched on one of the chairs, and Molly sat on the loveseat. They were silent for a long moment while Rebecca looked at Molly and Molly looked out the window. Molly got the distinct impression that Rebecca was struggling to decide what to say.
“Molly,” she said at last. “Can you tell me how Jake went through detox?”
The question took Molly completely by surprise. She cursed herself silently for not anticipating these questions and thinking up reasonable answers. She could, of course, use her voice on Rebecca if she wanted to. But she feared it would make Jake's treatment fail.
“Well,” she said slowly, “he hurt his hand.”
“Okay,” Rebecca answered carefully, nodding, with her face impassive, “and while he was recovering, he wasn't able to get the drugs he wanted?”
“I guess,” Molly answered uneasily.
“And how, exactly, did he hurt his hand?”
Molly pressed her lips together and didn't answer.
Rebecca let the silence hang uncomfortably for a moment. Then she leaned forward.
“Molly, has Jake seen a doctor about that injury?”
“Sort of. A medic bandaged him up.”
“But he didn't go to the hospital? See a specialist about any long-term nerve or tissue damage?”
She smiled reassuringly at Molly's horrified expression.
“It's okay,” she said quickly. “It isn't uncommon for patients to come here with injuries or other health problems that have gone untreated. One of the first things we'll do is get Jake to a doctor who can determine what kind of help he needs. It does seem to me that he has lost a lot of function in that hand. He can barely move those fingers. He will certainly need some reconstructive surgery, and after that physical therapy, to get back as much movement as he can.”
Molly's vision blurred for a split second, as a wave of horror flooded her.
“But it isn't hurting him at all!” she protested, trying to push back the shame that threatened to overwhelm her.
Rebecca smiled softly as she took out a notebook and began to jot down notes. “Well, that may be part of the problem,” she said, still looking down at her paper. “Pain can be an awful thing, but it is the way our bodies tell our brain something isn't right. When that doesn't happen, it is easy to ignore an injury that desperately needs attention. Jake may be experiencing some nerve damage, or even possibly some brain damage from his drug use, which may prevent him from being aware of the pain in his hand. The doctors will try to figure it out.”
Molly put a hand over her eyes. It wasn't nerve damage that kept Jake's hand from hurting. It was her. Her voice. It had never occurred to her that he might need more medical attention. He hadn’t said anything, and once his pain had gone away, it had been so easy to forget . . . to pretend that the burn had been nothing more than a minor injury.
“Since Jake recovered from hurting his hand, how has he kept from relapsing?” Rebecca continued. “After my conversation with him, I have to admit I'm surprised that he's lasted this long.”
“I've been with him most of the time,” Molly answered evasively.
“And you help him to resist the temptation to use?”
Molly nodded.
“So, what made you decide to come here? Did something happen?”
“I realized that he isn't better,” Molly said bleakly. “I had thought . . . really thought . . . that once the drugs were out of his system, he'd be okay. Once we were together, you know? I thought that I could . . .” She stopped, biting her lip.
“You thought you could keep him from relapsing?”
Molly nodded. Rebecca sighed and put down her notebook. “The families who come in here go through so much,” she said. “So many of them truly believe that love should make it all better, that if they loved hard enough, the addiction would just go away. They're desperate to 'fix it.' Convinced that they can somehow force the person they love to get better. But, at some point, they all have to accept the same thing.” She lay a hand over Molly's. “You can't. You can't make Jake better. I can't make Jake better. We can offer him support, tools, love, and encouragement, but ultimately Jake's recovery is up to him.” Rebecca straightened up, pulling her hand away and clearing her throat delicately.
“Molly,” she said. “I don't know exactly what kind of hold it is that you have over Jake . . .”
Molly started to protest, but Rebecca held up her hand. “I'm not judging. And if you think you're the first person to sit in my office who has more than one secret they want to keep, you're wrong. I once had a mother who hired a bounty hunter to forcibly remove her son from a crack house. A wife who shot her husband in the kneecap, and then promised to shoot him in the other leg, too, if he didn't swear to go into treatment. Loving someone, watching them destroy themselves . . . it can make us do crazy things. But if this is going to work, you have to accept the fact that Jake is an addict. And he always will be. No matter what you do, you can't force him to stay clean. This is his battle. His choice.”
Molly shook her head. She liked Rebecca, and she was impressed by how much she seemed to have guessed. But she still couldn't agree.
“You're talking as though the drugs are part of who Jake is. Like, if suddenly all the drugs in the world disappeared and he couldn't take them anymore, it wouldn't make it better. Like they're part of him,” Molly protested. “They aren't.”
“But his reliance on them is,” Rebecca answered firmly. “Jake's been using addictive substances since he was fourteen years old. At this point, they are hard-wired into his system. Using is a fundamental part of how he deals with the world around him . . . the way he copes with stress, with sorrow, even with joy. But I don't want you to be too discouraged.” She lay her hand on Molly's knee. “He may never stop wanting the drugs. But he CAN learn to stop needing them.”
Molly shook her head. “That isn't good enough,” she said sharply. “I want him better. Healed. I want him to not be an addict anymore.”
Rebecca leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Molly,” she said gently. “Jake will be an addict for the rest of his life. A recovering addict, a sober addict, yes. That's what we can hope for. What we're going to fight as hard as we can to achieve. But it won't change the fact that he is an addict.”
“I can't accept that.”
“Why not?” Rebecca countered. “Being an addict doesn't have to be such a horrible thing.”
Molly looked at her, her eyes full of disbelief.
“How can you say that?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Because I am one. I've been an alcoholic since I was sixteen years old. When I was twenty-two, my mother dragged me, half-dead, into detox. But I don't feel any shame when I say that I'm an alcoholic. Because the second half of that sentence is, and I've been sober eight years. Do you have any idea how much strength that takes? Do you have any idea how many liquor stores I've walked past in those eight years, how many bars? And each and every time I've wanted to go in, to have a drink . . . and every time I've resisted. Every. Single. Time. Recovered addicts are some of the strongest people I know. The most determined, the most focused. Bodybuilders, Olympic athletes . . . they don't even begin to compare. It's why I love my job, the reason I keep doing it even though I don't get happy endings nearly as often as I'd like. Because the ones who can do it, the ones who can find the will to make life different for themselves . . . they're the most beautiful, most inspiring people I know. Yo
u have to believe in Jake, Molly. This is his chance to find his strength, to prove to himself that he can do it. He has to realize that he has that ability. If he does, it will change everything for him. Life is never the same again, once you find strength like that inside yourself.”
Molly's fingers strayed to her forearm, tracing her tattoo. Is that what she'd been doing? With all her power, all her love, all her desire to protect him? Had she somehow robbed him of the chance to protect himself?
“I think I understand what you're saying,” she said. “But if you could do something for someone that you loved . . . if you could take a burden from them . . . wouldn't you have to do that? Wouldn't you have to try?”
“You're already doing the right thing, Molly,” Rebecca said softly. “You're giving him love, support. You've brought him here. So many addicts don't have anyone like you pulling for them, someone who accepts who they are and hopes for who they might grow to be. Your love can't fix it, can't just make everything the way you want it to be. But it helps. It helps very, very much.”
“You say that,” Molly said slowly, “but I’ve seen the statistics. I know the relapse rates. Most people never recover from addictions like Jake’s. Even with the best care in the world, how often do your patients really stay clean for their whole lives?”
Rebecca stood up and smiled sadly. “Not as many as I’d like,” she admitted. “That’s why we call our facility ‘Hope.’ Because it’s what we have for each and every one of our patients. No matter what the statistics say. Let's go talk to Jake,” she said, motioning for Molly to follow. “If he'll agree, I'd like him to start treatment here today.”
Jake was sitting, drinking coffee on one of the couches in the front, and Molly sat down next to him. They held hands. “Jake,” Rebecca began, “I'd like you to sign yourself into one of our residential treatment programs. I don't want to put too precise of a time limit on it right now, but I'd like you to stay with us for at least thirty days. How does that sound to you?”
Jake was nodding as Rebecca spoke. Without even looking in Molly's direction, he replied, “I'll do it,” with a speed that took Molly by surprise.
“Great.” Rebecca smiled warmly. “Did you bring some things with you?”
“No,” Jake started to answer, but Molly interrupted.
“Actually,” she said, “I have a duffel bag of stuff for you in the trunk.”
“Great,” said Rebecca. “Will you come and sign the paperwork now, Jake?”
“Can we have a few minutes to say goodbye?”
“Of course. Take as much time as you like. I'll go check with our in-house physician, and see if he can see you about your hand today.” She stood, and Jake and Molly stood too.
“I'll see you in a few minutes, then,” she said brightly. “I'm excited for you, Jake.”
“Thanks,” he said, “for everything.”
She reached over and squeezed his shoulder before walking away.
They pulled the bag out of the trunk and then walked to a bench nearby, sitting silently, watching the wind push the bare branches of the trees back and forth above them.
“Molly,” Jake said, “I’ll do this. I’ll try as hard as I can. Now, please . . . tell me you won’t go along with Andrew's plan.”
Molly took a deep, shaky breath. “I'm still going,” she said quietly.
Jake turned to her, his eyes wild.
“I love you, Jake,” Molly said, the words rushing out. “And I’m going to take care of you in every way that I can. It’s as simple as that. That's why I needed to bring you here. I needed to know that, if I don't come back, you'll at least have a chance.”
“Molly . . . what are you saying?”
“I'm saying . . . stay, Jake. Stay here, and get better. Heal as much as you can. And take all the things that won't heal, and turn them into muscle. You know that, as long as I'm alive, I will always come to you, right? You know that.”
Jake nodded.
“So if I don't come back . . . you'll know. I will love you for my whole life. Whether that means for the next few days, or for the next eighty years, it'll still be just as true.”
She leaned in and kissed him. He kissed back desperately, pressing his hands to the back of her head, pulling him hard against her.
“I won't let you go,” he stammered. “I can't.”
“Goodbye, Jake,” Molly said and pulled his hands away. She heard him call after her as she turned and ran to the car, but she didn’t stop or look back. She didn’t pause to wipe the tears away as she pulled the car out of the lot and tore away down the street, leaving hope behind.
Bea
It was a strange sort of fairy tale that she had fallen into, Bea sometimes thought, as the days passed. One shot through with sadness. But she would take it . . . she wanted every second she could get. Bea seized hold of the fantasy that had caught her by surprise and hung on tightly. She walked through her days gingerly, willing the magic not to break.
She refused to wonder about the mystery of the lighthouse that had so quickly become her home. When footsteps scuffled somewhere far below, Bea did not look up. When a pot clanged late in the night, Bea rolled over and went resolutely back to sleep. She wanted to keep dreaming.
It was harder to pretend that her body wasn't changing. She and her angel both knew that she was getting worse; both had eyes open enough to see how quickly her strength was diminishing, how desperately tired she now was, all the time. Days passed, and the moon edged closer to fullness. Bea and her angel wrapped their heartbreak in silence, and loved each other with a fierceness that bordered on despair. And for a brief, precious time, they lived in a world that was entirely their own.
Until one day.
That day her angel woke up early. Bea had been sleeping, but he roused her, something he had never done before. The sun was just rising. As soon as she looked in his eyes, all sleep fled from her.
“What?” Bea whispered, reaching up to catch his face in her hands. But her angel shook his head, taking her hand and pulling her with him to stand across from the red door. Watching it.
Bea stood motionless beside him, glancing worriedly between his face and the door. Her angel was avoiding her eyes, but the hand that gripped hers was clammy. He was trembling. There was a loud thudding noise downstairs, and a knock. A door creaked open, and then shut with a bang. Her angel turned to look at her—and his eyes were full of fear.
It felt wrong to see someone so powerful shaking and afraid. Bea was shocked, but the shock somehow steadied her. A rush of adrenaline swept through her veins, and the frantic beat of her heart slowed. Bea felt stronger. She squeezed his hand.
There were footsteps on the stairs.
In that moment, Bea understood several things quite clearly. She knew that she loved this creature, the one who had pulled her from the water, who saw beauty in her scars, who had filled this last chapter of her life with beauty. She loved him fiercely. And Bea knew the truth: her sickness had reached the fullness of its measure. The trajectory of her life, plotted by some hand other than her own, had run its course. And underneath that sickness, or even wrapped tightly around it, Bea knew herself. Knew her strength. Knew the toughness that she had shared so proudly with her grandfather, and felt it, like unvarnished steel, still sharp and steady deep inside her.
The tread of footsteps came closer, and Bea's angel let go of her hand. The door creaked on its hinges, and her angel slid to the floor, falling to his knees, pressing his face deep into the blood-red carpet.
“Shit!” Bea hissed, shocked to see him fall. Instinctively she moved forward, stepping in front of him. Shielding him. As the door swung open, Bea closed her eyes for half a second and took a deep, deep breath.
And Bea knew that her fairy tale was ending.
The figure that entered wore a tunic, not much different from the one Bea wore but made of deepest gold. His hair was shoulder-length and wavy brown. His great wings, coated in snow-white feathers, furled out behind him li
ke great white sails riding the crest of the wind.
He looked at Bea as she stood, her legs braced shoulder-length apart, her eyes burning.
“Who the fuck are you?” Bea demanded, “What do you want from us?”
“I mean you no harm, Beatrice,” the King said, holding up his hands, as though to show that he carried no weapon. “You are honored and welcomed among us. Neither do I mean any harm to your love.” He looked over her shoulder, to where her angel still knelt, prostrate, on the rug. “Rise, Malachi,” he commanded, and her angel stood.
It was the first time that Bea had ever heard his name.
“My name is Gideon. I am king of our kind, and I have come to speak with you. Malachi, you must leave us for a while.”
“No.” Bea reached behind her, and wrapped her thin hand around her angel's arm, stopping him mid-stride. He had already started to leave, obeying his king, but at Bea's touch, he froze, looking at her with surprise. “Whatever you have to say, you say to both of us.”
The King raised one eyebrow, displeasure plain on his face.
Bea took a step toward him, and spoke in a whisper, “You think you can walk in here, scare the man I love half to death, and then start ordering us around?” Bea shook her head. “You may be his king, but you sure as hell aren't mine. Tell us what you want, and then get out.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don't have time for this shit.”
The King rocked back on his heels, his eyes taking her measure. Bea met his stare, daring him to test her.
“Very well,” he said icily, the words forced and choppy on his lips. “He may stay. But that will not make what I have to say any easier to hear.” He closed the red door behind him and strode to the center of the room, standing with his back to the windows. For a second, Bea's eyes wandered over his shoulder, to the beckoning blue of the ocean. She thought of white sand beaches, of water skimming under her fingers as her angel carried her through the air.
Magic Cries Page 13
