by Alex MacLean
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. Any way 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. The rush of 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. But that finding had to be made official.
From the hallway came the sound of hard wheels rolling across the wooden floor, and soon Dr. 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 acknowledged him with a curt nod. For a couple of minutes he remained in the doorway, studying the scene.
“An accidental overdose, Detective?” he asked at last.
“Suicide.”
“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, Detective. 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,” he said. “But toxicology will tell the tale.”
“What if she took an extraordinarily high amount?”
Coulter said, “Street heroin is so diluted, the user really has no idea what dosage they’re taking to begin with. It would take a large amount of heroin to kill someone. Even in a non-user. More than what would’ve been in that bag on the floor.
“Addicts develop a tolerance to opiates. Increasing one’s normal amount doesn’t produce significant side effects, and in some cases because of the dilution, none at all. And it most certainly doesn’t guarantee death.”
Allan called over Jim.
“Can you check the apartment for any empty liquor containers?” he asked. “Even empty glasses in the sink that smell of alcohol. Also check for medicine bottles?”
Jim pulled back the hood of his coveralls. “Sure thing, Detective.”
“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 the 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, Detective. 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 number 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.
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 had 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 on to 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 din
ner, 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.
Then he came to January 31.
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.
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 16, 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 22, 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 believe 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 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 they 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?
February 26. Rain and fog. Can’t complain, at least it’s mild. What a difference.
I took Trixy up on her offer. Moved my stuff into her apartment today. I feel awkward living here. Like I’m an intruder.
When I left home this morning, Mom shoved some money into my hand as I was going out the door. “Don’t tell your father,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. I didn’t want to take her money, but did. God, I know, will punish me for what I did with that money...took it straight to my dealer.
Dad stayed in the family room, staring into the fireplace. I noticed a near-empty bottle of bourbon on the end table beside him. Funny, I’ve never seen him drink that early in the day before or that much.
February 27. Temperature’s staying mild. +4. Fog and some drizzle. Is it a sign that spring’s just around the corner? I hope so.
I have another night off work. I need a fix, and it’s the perfect time for it. Trixy’s out working right now. She comes home at daybreak most of the time. I don’t know how she does it. It’s like nothing to her. Just a job, she says.
Allan began flipping pages. Abruptly, he stopped at March 5.
Snowing. When is spring coming? Not soon enough for me.
Nadir. That’s the point I have reached in my life. I am so ashamed.
Earlier today, I needed a fix badly. Everything is secondary when you reach that state, even your own integrity. You don’t rationalize. You only have one thought—getting that fix at whatever cost.
I was short money. When I saw Trixy’s purse on the coffee table and noticed that she was in her bedroom, I couldn’t help myself. I only took a few dollars. I knew it was wrong.
When I came home after meeting with my dealer, I saw the look on Trixy’s face. She knew I stole from her. It wasn’t what she said; she said nothing. It was the look. Betrayal, hurt. She has been so good to me, and this is how I paid her back. How could I have done that? God, I want to kill myself.
March 7. Sky is a clear blue right now. +4.
Trixy’s been acting differently around me. She keeps her purse in her bedroom now. I’ve lost her trust. I want to replace the money I took, but how do I explain why I took it in the first place? What bills would I have to pay? My Visa? I could tell her that. Would she believe me? Do I tell her I’m still using? What would her reaction be? Would she put me out like Mom and Dad? I have nowhere else to go. Sometimes I feel li
ke I’m free-falling into an abyss.
March 11. Clear and hovering around the freezing mark.
One of the girls found me asleep at work last night. God, I hope she won’t tell the manager. She swore she wouldn’t. I can’t afford to lose my job. So much has happened to me already. I don’t need that to top it off.
Allan flipped pages again, skipping ahead twelve days until he got to March 23.
Rain and fog.
Do I hate myself? I know it’s a strange question to ask oneself. But today, I did something that I had never done before. And I don’t know what compelled me to do it. After shaving in the tub, I broke apart my BIC razor and took out the blade. Then I laid back and ran the blade over my forearms. Only lightly. I didn’t cut myself or draw blood. Just a couple of scratches. But I wanted to cut myself. And deeply. Why? All the while I was doing it, I felt like I was in a trance.
Why am I having these thoughts?
Allan continued through the diary, focusing on the entries that portrayed Cathy’s declining state of mind.
March 28. Clear on the walk home this morning. Cloudy now. -6.
What is it we all seek in life? Love, contentment, success? Are those the ingredients of happiness? To me, happiness seems like a personal journey in search of a fulfillment that some of us never truly find.
April 2. Good Friday. Cloudy, but the sun is trying to come out. +17. Nice.
I have the night off. I imagine Mom and Dad are at the church service they take in every year. As with each Friday during the forty days of Lent, they will abstain from eating meat or any animal products today. They used to make Trixy and me follow the same practices when we were little. We never complained. It was something we thought everyone did. Things I was taught to believe in when I was younger, I find harder to do now.
April 4. Happy Easter. Sunny and +23. Feels like summer. Wow!
“Memory is the power to gather roses in winter.” Not sure of the author of that quote or that one was ever known. But it makes sense.
I have fond memories of Easter. Not on the same level as Christmas, but special nonetheless. Mom used to hide eggs all over the house, and after breakfast, she would have us set out on an adventure. Each egg would have a clue written on it to help Trixy and me find the next egg. And so on down the line. It was like a little treasure hunt. Waiting for us at the end was our big present, an Easter basket. In it we would have stuffed animals, candy eggs, and chocolate bunnies...
