by Meg Ripley
“My band mates sent me. And the label.” I held her gaze for a long moment.
“That’s not really an answer, you know,” Mary countered, and I broke away from looking at her; I couldn’t quite meet that level, knowing gaze. If she ever took her glasses off I’d fry inside my skin.
“It’s the only answer I feel like giving right now,” I said, peering down at my hands once more. I smirked at myself at the sight of the ink staining my fingers, my arms; memories of better days, that this place couldn’t take away from me even if they did manage to wash everything else out of my system.
“You know, you always look at your art when someone challenges you,” Mary observed. I glanced up quickly; she was still watching me with that attentive, all-absorbing stare. I picked up my fork; we only had about thirty minutes to eat before the schedule of daily activities started. “If I was a shrink, I’d think that you look at the tats as a shield to keep from looking at your actual self.” I glanced up again as I took a bite of toast, to see the slight curve to Mary’s lips, the twitch of one corner.
“You are a shrink,” I pointed out, gesturing to her with my fork. “So why not just say it outright?” Mary’s smile grew broader.
“Counselor, not shrink,” she corrected me. “There’s years of education between me and a shrink. I can’t tell you what’s going on in your head; I can only tell you what it looks like to me.” She rose and I breathed a sigh of relief, turning my attention back to my food. “If you’re not ready to talk, I don’t know what you expect to get out of this,” she told me, walking away from the table to continue her rounds. I was glad she was gone—and I glanced in Mary’s direction to watch her go. Definitely glad to watch you leave. I wondered if she had any tattoos of her own and smirked down at my bacon and sausage. Probably would only get them to be able to empathize with lowlifes like me. I drank some juice and turned my thoughts to the upcoming and deeply thrilling group session that was always the first order of the day.
****
I groaned as I rolled out of bed on the first day of week two of my little stint in hell. Why are we all here? What was your personal moment of revelation? The words had become like a fucking rite in church; every morning, first thing, we talked about what had brought us to this particular slice of purgatory. I had finally convinced them at the end of the previous week to take me off of the fucking benzos they put me on at admission. They had been concerned, they told me, with the need to support me through withdrawals. I needed something in my system to cushion the shock. “Well if you just switch me from one cocktail of drugs to another what the hell am I supposed to do when I get out?”
For a wonder, Mary had backed me. “He’s out of the withdrawal period. He hasn’t been on the benzos long enough to have formed a habit. Cut him down and then take him off, before he does.” The shrink in charge of the operation had hemmed and hawed, but as I watched, Mary transformed into a little flirt, smiling at the old man and saying that she respected his opinion so much, but she had read a recent study by one of his rivals that suggested that long-term treatment of addiction with benzos only led to transference of addiction—not resolution of it.
I decided to skip breakfast and headed directly to the group room, throwing myself onto the couch. As if my very thoughts had been a summons, Mary walked into the room a minute later, looking flustered and irritable. Oh goody, I thought with a little rush of guilty pleasure. Something had gotten under the poor girl’s skin. “Having a bad Monday?” I asked, wearing my best shit-eating grin.
“Alex, if you don’t keep your mouth shut right now, I’m going to slap it off your face,” Mary said, opening a file cabinet. She grabbed something out of it and slammed it shut, rattling the whole cabinet in the process.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked her, unable to help the smile tugging at the corners of my lips. It was something; to feel like I had a little smidgen of power, lounging on a couch in my jeans and tee shirt, the same jeans and tee shirt I’d worn the day before. Mary turned on her heel and stared at me, and if looks could kill I wouldn’t have lasted a second. Her hands clenched and unclenched, and I saw her nostrils flare as she took a big, deep breath.
“Okay,” she said, her voice carefully level. “Okay, you want to hear from me about this? You want to know what’s wrong?” She rushed across the room, the papers in her hands rustling from the force of her grip. “My mother just had another relapse. Yes, that’s right, another one. This makes four. She landed herself in the hospital with alcohol poisoning because the dumb bitch couldn’t do herself the favor of buying wine to slake her stupid thirst, and instead went straight to the liquor store and bought herself a handle of vodka which she finished in six hours.”
I stared at Mary; I had known she had to have some kind of connection to an addict. Most people didn’t become counselors unless they either had overcome addiction themselves or were close to someone who had. But as much as I wanted to take pleasure in what she admitted, I felt a little stab of pain at the barely-controlled rage in her voice. “So right now I’m not sure if she’s even going to manage to stay alive long enough to get clean again. Yes, I am having a shitty Monday. That’s exactly how I feel right now.”
“That sucks,” I said, since I knew I had to say something. What I really wanted to say was that it wasn’t her fault; what I really wanted to say was that she’d probably be better off in the long run if her mom didn’t live long enough to get clean again. “Your mom ever go here?” Mary closed her eyes and took another breath.
“No,” she said slowly. “She never went here. Obviously I couldn’t act as a counselor to her.” It was as if her rage left her all at once; she sank down into one of the folding chairs, bringing her hands up to her face. “So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not in the best mood today. I’m preoccupied.” I sat up on the couch and worried at my bottom lip; there was a little patch of scar tissue just below my lip, from where I’d had a piercing, and it soothed me just a little bit to work it between my teeth.
“Want to know why I’m here?” I asked, finally. Mary looked up from her lap, frowning at me.
“Seriously? This is when you decide to open up?”
I smiled weakly. “Hey, you shared. Can I help it if I’m not into one-sided sharing? Just take the gift.” Mary licked her lips and sat up, crossing her arms over her chest. I tried not to look at the way that her posture pressed her gorgeous tits up, making them strain at the fabric of her tee shirt even more.
“Fine,” she said. “Tell me about it.” I scrubbed at my face with my hands, rubbing at my stubble-rough cheeks.
“I’m not here to actually get treatment,” I said, looking down at my hands. The words FREE and BORN looked up at me from the backs of my fingers, along with a sparrow in full color on my right hand. “I mean, the band and the label both thought it would be good for me to get clean, but that was kind of secondary.”
“So if you’re not here to get treatment, then why are you here?”
I looked up at Mary. “I’m in trouble with some people. The label and my band figured this would be the safest place for me to cool off.” Mary’s eyes widened slightly as she absorbed what I said.
“So you’re not interested in getting sober,” she said, making it not quite a question.
“Yes and no,” I admitted with a shrug. “Obviously anyone who’s getting in trouble with their dealer could probably use a break from the grind.” I laughed. “Mostly I’m just here to keep from being killed.” Mary rolled her eyes.
“You know, I kind of hate people like you,” she said, shifting in her chair. “People are here to get help, because they can recognize that they’ve fucked up their lives beyond repair.”
“And you think I don’t realize the same thing?” I raised an eyebrow. “Fuck, Mary, I just told you my dealer wants me dead—how much more fucked up can my life be when I’m stuck here to keep from ending up on the news tomorrow: ‘Molly Riot Front Man Alex North Found Dead, Shot Twelve Times
on Brickell Ave.’” I shook my head.
“What’s the issue with the dealer?” Mary asked, uncrossing her arms and folding her hands on her lap. I tried not to think about her thighs underneath the jeans she was wearing, about the spot between her legs just inches away from where her hands rested.
“He thinks I stole half his product,” I said with a shrug. Mary raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t,” I added. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Mary continued to stare at me in silence for a moment.
“So you’re just killing time until what—he gets arrested?” she glanced at the door; the rest of the inmates would be filing in soon, ready for their daily dose of affirmation and the sharing of the tales of woe.
“Arrested, killed, or finds out who actually stole his stash, I don’t fucking care as long as he’s not on my back anymore,” I said, shrugging again.
“Have you considered the fact that if you weren’t involved with him in the first place, you wouldn’t be here? And that probably you’ve been in the ‘wrong place at the wrong time’ a bit frequently for a guy who claims to have no problem?”
I clenched my teeth. “The drugs themselves are not the problem,” I said slowly. “I like to have a bit of fun, take some E on the weekends, smoke some pot during the week. It gets the creative juices flowing.”
“You were detoxing from coke, Alex,” Mary said sharply.
“Before I landed here I was playing five shows a week; you want to tell me you wouldn’t take some fucking recreational chemical help for that yourself?” I glared at her. “I did some coke. I did some E. I smoked pot. I drank. Yes, I’m a filthy, disgusting wreck of a human being.”
“Never said that,” Mary said with a little, wry smile. “Just wanted to point out that pretty clearly you don’t have your shit as under control as you think.”
“I know that,” I told her, looking down at my hands. The “Free” inked on my fingers was mocking me; I wasn’t really free, even if the pamphlets for this place said that I could, technically walk out on my own whenever I wanted. I had to stay until the situation cooled down a bit, at least. “But the drugs aren’t the problem. My life is.” Mary shrugged. People started filing into the room, looking jumpy or zombie-like, depending on their stage of detox and whatever they’d been on.
“We’ll talk more later,” Mary told me quickly. “I’m not finished with you yet, and that’s a fucking promise, Alex.” I made myself smile; there was something so cute about the glare at the back of her dark eyes, even though I knew for a fact that I would probably stop smiling the minute she got me alone again. Mary turned to the new arrivals and I watched her assemble her trademark sardonic grin, the welcome beacon that had brought so many of us addicts over to her side, confiding everything. Hell, I just confided in her. She’s fucking converted me, even. I decided that no matter what anyone said or did for the two hour group session, I was keeping my mouth shut until lunch. My stomach lurched inside of me, reminding me how shit-stupid I was for skipping breakfast when we’d probably have to hear all about Ben’s issues with his mom, or how Claire’s dad never really loved her in spite of the fact that he’d put her through school and grad school and bought her not one, but two Mercedes-Benz SUVs in the last three years. I moved to give Gerard the spot next to me on the couch, and when Mary’s gaze fell on me I tried not to react at the rush of cold and then hot that flowed through me, the promise in her stare. I knew she wouldn’t forget her threat; I could only wait for her to spring the trap on me.
****
A few hours later, before Mary could waylay me or get me alone, it was visiting hours; since I’d managed to last my first week, I was actually allowed to have visitors—not my parents, who’d retired to the Gulf Coast and who didn’t want to dirty their hands in my life, but my band mates. “North!” one of the orderlies behind the front desk called out. “You got some folks here for you.”
I’d been sticking with the group, hanging with Gerard and his newfound buddies, overseeing their game of dominoes; anything to avoid being in a situation where Mary could comfortably pull me aside to talk about my reasons for rehab. “Been a good boy, Alex?” one of Gerard’s friends, a fifty-something man named Juan, asked me archly.
“Must’ve been, if they’re letting me see something other than your ugly mug,” I said with a smirk. “Maybe one of my adoring fans is here to show me her tits and remind me of what I’m missing.”
“Or smuggle you some coke,” Gerard commented, clinking dominoes on the table.
“I’m not that fucking lucky,” I replied, standing and walking to the front desk. On the other side of the security glass, I saw Mary at a desk, working on some paperwork. She glanced up and from the dark look in her eyes I could tell she hadn’t forgotten her earlier promise to me. “Where do I go?” I asked the orderly who had called me up.
“Outside,” the man said, giving me a little grin. “Hot as hell out there, so grab a bottle of water. You get an hour.” I nodded. The orderly searched me quickly, giving me a pat-down to make sure I wasn’t trying to smuggle anything out and I didn’t have anything like cash on me to pay for drugs someone might have sneaked in. After a minute or two, I was able to go down the hall, through the doors into the little courtyard area, my pack of smokes in my pocket with the scarred lighter I’d brought with me.
“Yo,” Nick said as I came into the sauna heat and bright sunlight. The other guys in the band looked up, waving me over to the table they’d taken. It was one of only a few that offered any shade, so I rushed over to it gladly.
The guys stood up, slapping me on the back and squeezing my shoulder as we exchanged hellos. “God I’m glad you assholes came,” I muttered, reaching into my pocket for my pack.
“Missed us?” Jules asked, smirking.
“Extra cig break,” I replied, bringing a Parliament up to my lips and flicking my lighter to life. I took a drag and exhaled, looking from one face to another. They all looked the same as they had a week before, but also weirdly different; there was a look of fear in Nick’s eyes, and Mark glanced around, tapping the edge of the table in an unsteady staccato. “So, tell me the news,” I said, taking another long drag of my cigarette.
Jules shrugged. “The label put out something about the canceled shows last week, and supposedly we’re in the studio culling songs for the album,” he said, looking away from me. “Bunch of people on the site have figured out you’re in rehab though, and they’re putting together a care package for you.” I rolled my eyes, though I had to admit that it was at least a little bit touching that the hardcore fans we had hadn’t abandoned me.
“What else?” I asked quietly. Nick fished his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up.
“Big J has people out looking for you,” Nick told me in his quiet, slightly accented voice. “He doesn’t believe you’re in rehab; thinks the label’s got you socked away in some hotel like they’ve got us.”
I nodded. “What happens if he finds out I’m here?”
Dan, my bass player, gave me a level look. “He flips the fuck out is what happens,” Dan said reasonably. “Probably sends someone in to kill you.” I swallowed against the dry, tight feeling in my throat. I wanted to say that there was no way a guy like Big J could smuggle someone into the rehab place the label had sent me to; but I knew better. Big J was in charge of meth, coke, and E for most of Miami. He hadn’t gotten that position by being afraid to flip off the system.
“I almost wish I had taken it,” I muttered, finishing my cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray before lighting another one. “Then at least I’d have had a good time before I got locked up here.” Nick rolled his eyes.
“You’d have OD’d and we’d be without a lead singer,” he countered. “You’re sure you didn’t steal it, North?”
I shook my head. “No idea who did, but it wasn’t me. I had just bought enough to last the weekend; what the hell would I want to go stealing more for?”
“Germany,” Jul
es said flatly. I cringed; he was right. We’d played a few festival shows in Germany the year before, and I had nearly landed myself in the hospital on cheap, easy coke.
“I learned from that,” I told him, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t overdo it anymore.”
“So you mean you’re not getting clean in here,” Dan said, his voice making it almost but not quite a question.
I shrugged. “I’m sober now. They gave me benzos for the first week and took me off ‘em two days ago.”
“Not a bad place to clean up,” Nick said, looking around. I saw his gaze come to a stop and followed it as his lips curved in a smile.
“Fuck.” He was looking at Mary, who was seated oh-so-innocently at another one of the tables, paperwork laid out in front of her. Nick glanced at me with a grin.
“You don’t like her? Looks good enough to eat to me.”
I rolled my eyes. “She wants to get me alone and plumb the depths of my addiction,” I said, taking a hasty drag of my cigarette. “I’m not interested.”
Nick glanced at her again and then looked at me with wide eyes. “Maybe sobering up was a bad idea, if it makes you turn down something that good.” Mark snickered and Jules smirked.
“She’s my counselor,” I protested. “She’s not even interested in me like that, and even if she was, she’s a total basket case.”
“So then you wouldn’t mind if I got her number to keep personal track of your recovery?” I glared at Nick.
“How do you know she’s a basket case?” Dan asked, and I realized every single member of my band was staring at Mary. I rolled my eyes.
