Crystal Lies

by Melody Carlson

  “Right.” I bit my lip. “I’ll get back to you on that, Mom.”

  “Okay But Sarah already said she’d like to come down here.”

  “Yes, that’s not surprising.”

  “Do you mind if I invite my Bible study ladies to pray for you, dear?”

  “Not at all, Mom. Why should I mind?” I took in a sharp breath. Remain in control, I was telling myself. “But I need to go now, Mom. Good talking to you.”

  “And you, too, dear. And don’t worry, honey. It’s always the darkest before the dawn.”

  “Right.” And then I hung up the phone and went into the living room where I pushed a chenille pillow into my face and suppressed a primal scream that was coming up from a deep, dark place within me. Why on earth had I called my mother?

  I never finished turning Jacob’s mattress that day, or even cleaning his room for that matter. In fact, I pretty much let everything go after the conversation with my mother. Why bother, I wondered. What difference did it make anyway? And so I did nothing more than fret and worry all day long, waiting for Jacob to come home so I could confront him. I was almost as angry at him for lying to me about the first needle I’d found as I was about finding his entire collection.

  When midnight rolled around and he still hadn’t shown, I realized he was probably pulling an all-nighter again. Why should that surprise me? And so I took two Tylenol PMs and went to bed. Sleeping aids were new to me, and I had convinced myself that these little blue pills helped me to rest at night, but I think it was really just another one of my delusions. It seemed I had been wrong about most everything.

  However, they must’ve worked that night because I woke up out of a dead sleep with my heart racing as the overhead light flashed on in my room. I could see someone standing in the doorway, but my eyes, unadjusted to the light, couldn’t focus.

  “What did you do to my room, Mom?” he demanded in a hard, cold voice that didn’t sound like my son.

  I sat up in bed, blinking and rubbing my eyes. “Jacob?”

  “Why were you snooping in my room?” he snapped.

  “Cleaning. I wasn’t snooping,” I said as I reached for my robe and made my way out of the bed.

  “Yeah, sure.” He punched his fist into the wall in the hallway, so hard that I saw a hole when I went out to talk to him.

  “Jacob,” I said. “Look what you did.”

  “Stay out of my stuff, Mom!”

  Now I looked into his eyes and realized that this was a stranger. Oh sure, he was Jacob’s height and build, same hair color and facial features, but his eyes were different. His eyes were cold and hard, and I hate to admit it, but they were dark. Clouded and, well, evil looking. I clutched my bathrobe more tightly around me. “Jacob,” I said in what I hoped was a calming voice,“I was only trying to flip your mattress so your bed would be more—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Mom!” He punched the wall again, resulting in another fist-sized hole. “I know ’ you were snooping. You and Dad used to do it all the time. You guys have never trusted me. No wonder I’m so screwed up.”

  “Maybe you should just go to bed,” I told him, sensing that it was quite possible my son was under the influence of drugs even at this moment.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was going to do, Mom. But then I come home and find my bedroom all ripped up into some big freaking mess. Like the KGB’s been here. What is wrong with you anyway? Why can’t you just stay out of my life and leave my stuff alone?” His fist was raised again.

  I blinked and stepped back, afraid that he was aiming at me this time, but wham. It went through the hallway wall again. And now I was mad. “Stop putting holes in the wall, Jacob!” I yelled. “Don’t you know I’ll have to pay to have those fixed?”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” He laughed. “Money? Why not go back to Mr. Moneybags and ask him for a little handout. In fact, why don’t you pick up some for me while you’re there?” He smiled, but it was a twisted smile. “I’ll take mine in tens and twenties, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s late,” I told him. “We need to go to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  “No,” said Jacob. “I want to talk about it now.”

  I shrugged, knowing I wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight anyway. “Fine, Jacob. Let’s talk about it now. Are you hungry? I didn’t have dinner, and it’s been a pretty cruddy day. Maybe if we both ate something and talked this over…”

  He seemed to soften. “For you, too?”

  “Yeah.” I looked at him more carefully. “Was your day bad?”

  He nodded. “And now that you mention it, I’m hungry too.”

  So that’s how I found myself in the kitchen fixing French toast for the two of us. And it was weird as I put together our three-o’clock-in-the-morning meal. It was like something in Jacob was unhinged. He began to talk and talk. Some of the things coming out of his mouth were really amazing and slightly profound, but a lot of his words and ideas were confusing and mixed up. Despite my growing suspicion that he was high, I tried to listen, thinking that perhaps it would provide a clue for why he was like this. But by the time he quit talking long enough to eat about a half-dozen slices of French toast smothered in maple syrup and butter, along with about a half gallon of milk, I really had no idea what his conversation had been about. Maybe it was due to my being exhausted or under the effects of Tylenol PM, or perhaps my stressed-out life was getting to me. But when Jacob started talking again, I felt like everything in my world was just spinning around me. Like I couldn’t hold on to anything—not my marriage, not my children, not even my own life.

  As I bent down to scrape the remnants of my soggy French toast from my plate into the garbage can beneath the sink (since we have no luxuries like garbage disposals), I totally fell apart. I lost it. I started sobbing so hard and uncontrollably that I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. And there I sat, knees pulled up to my chest, hunched over in a heap of flannel pajamas and bathrobe, and I cried.

  “Mom?” I heard his voice. It was smaller now, more like the old Jacob or maybe even the little boy who used to pick me surprise bouquets of flowers when I was feeling down. “Are you okay?”

  Despite my need to reassure him, to pull myself together so he wouldn’t feel bad, I was unable. I just kept crying.

  “Mom?” he said again, his hand on my shoulder now. “Should I call someone?”

  I continued sobbing.

  “Should I call Dad?”

  At the sound of that question, which felt more like a threat or a rude awakening, I looked up and shook my head. “No, I…I’m going to…to be o…okay I’m…just upset.”

  “Yeah.”

  I started to stand up, and he reached down to give me a hand. Then I stood and looked him in the eyes. “I can’t take it anymore, Jacob,” I told him. “I think I’m really losing it.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  Then I saw my brown paper bag, still sitting under the sink where I’d stashed it earlier. Out of sight, out of mind. I wished. I reached for the bag and pulled it out, setting it on the counter. “I believe these are yours, Jacob.”

  He looked puzzled but then slowly opened the bag and looked in. I could tell by his expression that he was surprised. And this was a little confusing since he’d obviously seen that I’d looked under his bed. Surely he knew that I’d discovered them.

  “Where did you find these?” he asked, still staring at the bag in fascination. Almost as if he liked what he was seeing in there, as if he was proud.

  “Underneath your futon mattress.” My heart was beginning to pound. I knew I was getting in way too deep right now, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t pretend like this was nothing. Still, what if Jacob got angry? What if he was under the effect of some chemical even as we spoke? I’d read stories about people who’d done crazy things under the influence of drugs. How could I be sure he wouldn’t do something violent now? I glanced over to the phone, not far from his elbow.


  “So you think they’re mine?”

  I pressed my lips together. “Jacob, they’re not mine.”

  “But someone else might’ve put them there, Mom.”

  “Jacob, please, don’t lie. I don’t think I can take it.” I was trying to keep my voice calm, but it was hard to breathe, hard to think, infinitely hard to reason.

  “But there are people who’re trying to get at me,” he continued. “They might’ve planted them there.”

  “Jacob,” I said slowly. “Please, I need you to be honest with me this time. I can’t take any more lies today.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Okay, you’re right, Mom. They’re mine.”

  But here’s what took me by surprise. Instead of being relieved that he was finally telling me the truth, I felt my knees growing weak and my stomach knotting. I wondered if there were times in life when the truth was just too much to bear. Would I rather hear lies?

  “Let’s go sit down,” I told him as I made my unsteady way into the living room, then collapsed on the couch. Jacob sat in the old rocker across from me. He looked uneasy, perched on the edge of the chair like a flighty sparrow, as if he was ready to bolt at any given second. I leaned back, picked up a pillow and clutched it to my midsection, and took a deep breath, bracing myself for honesty. “Okay,” I said,“tell me what’s going on.”

  He looked down at his feet and said nothing. “Jacob,” I continued,“I need you to talk to me. Tell me why you have hypodermic syringes hidden beneath your bed.” Still nothing.

  “Jacob,” I tried again,“I know you have a drug problem, okay? There’s no point in pretending like everything’s okay. I admit that I was pretty shocked to find out that you—that you’re using hypodermic needles though. To me that makes everything a whole lot more serious.”

  He looked up now. “Why?”

  “Why?” I was taken aback by his nonchalant response. Wasn’t it obvious? We were talking about needles!

  “Why do you think using needles makes it more serious?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure.” I was getting that blurry feeling now, like Jacob was going to muddy the waters again. “It just seems pretty serious to me,” I finally said.

  “The needles are safe,” he assured me.

  “The needles are safe?” I studied him, wondering how this messed-up kid could actually be my child. Had aliens kidnapped him, taken him to the mother ship to perform a lobotomy, then returned him when no one was looking?

  He nodded. “Yeah, I don’t, like, reuse them or anything. And I’m very careful about everything. I sterilize stuff and make sure—”

  “Wait,” I told him. “Wait a minute. You think that injecting yourself with…with… What do you inject yourself with anyway?”

  He sighed.

  “Jacob, please, I need you to tell me. It’s not as if I’m a policeman. I’m your mother, for heavens sake. I love and care about you more than anyone else on the planet. If you can’t trust me, you can’t trust anyone.”

  He nodded. “Meth,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Crystal meth?”

  He nodded again.

  “As in methamphetamines?”

  Again, the nod.

  “As in the drug that people manufacture out of fertilizer and chemicals?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You’re shooting that into your body?” I tried to suppress the hysteria I felt rising in my voice. I tried not to imagine the little boy I’d worked so hard to care for and protect and how I’d fretted and worried about him when he’d caught the latest flu bug. How could this child of mine have been shooting chemicals and fertilizer substances into his flesh?

  “What’d you think I was using?” He laughed then, but it was a sad, hollow laugh. “It’s not like I have a lot of money, you know. Pump monkeys don’t get paid a whole lot. And Daddy Big Bucks isn’t being too generous with me these days. Crystal meth is the poor man’s cocaine, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, now you do.”

  Fresh tears slipped down my cheeks.

  “Oh, crud, don’t start crying again, Mom.” He stood up and started pacing. “It doesn’t help anything when you get all upset. In fact, it just makes me want to go out and get some more—”

  “I’m not getting all upset,” I said quickly and wiped my wet face. I took a deep breath and sat up straighten I wasn’t about to give him any excuse to go out and get high. Not that I thought he wasn’t already high. Whether he was on his way up or down, I had no idea, but I knew something about him was not right.

  “Look, Mom.” He sat back down on the chair. Then leaning forward, he looked intently at me. “It’s not like I’m hurting anyone. It’s my own thing. It makes me cope with life better, you know? I mean it’s like my medical treatment. I can function when I have it. Without it…” He looked down at his hands. “Well, I’d rather be dead.”

  I thought about this. In a way it was a somewhat convincing argument. I’d heard about addicts that “self-medicate.” Maybe that was what was going on here. Maybe I should just let it go at that, go back to bed, and deal with this crazy thing in the morning. But then, I reminded myself, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly at the moment. “But what if the crystal meth kills you?” I asked.

  He laughed. “No one ever dies from meth.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. “I read something in the paper almost every week about somebody overdosing or dying as a result of drugs.” Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but I knew I’d read a few stories. And they had chilled me to my soul.

  “Well, it’s probably not crystal meth.”

  “But how do you know that?” My voice was getting loud again. “Because I would know, that’s all.”

  “Do you even read the newspaper?” I challenged him. “Do you watch the news? What do you really know about this crud you’ve been shooting into yourself, Jacob? What do you really know?”

  “I know it makes me feel good.”

  I sighed. “It’s ruining your life, Jacob. Can’t you see that? And it’s hurting everyone around you. Can’t you see it?”

  He looked back down at his feet again.

  “Jacob,” I quieted my voice. “I talked to my counselor today, and she told me I have to give you an ultimatum.”

  His head jerked up. “An ultimatum?”

  “Yes.” I steadied myself, and I think I even breathed a little God-help-me kind of prayer. “You can only live here…in this apartment…if you’re willing to seek treatment.”

  “Treatment?” He jumped to his feet now. “What kind of treatment?”

  “Drug-rehab therapy. I have the phone number of a place right here in town called Hopes Wings.”

  “You want me to go into rehab?” He shook his head and walked over to the front door. “No way.”

  I sighed. “Then, I’m sorry, Jacob, but you can’t live here.”

  “Fine!” He turned and glared at me with angry brown eyes. “I won’t miss this crappy place anyway.” Then he walked out and slammed the door so hard that a candlestick on the window sill fell over.

  I took a deep breath, then went over to pick up the candlestick and look out the window. Dawn was just beginning, but the street still looked grim and gray and cold—bleakly cold. And, of course, Jacob had stormed outside without bothering to get a coat. But, I reminded myself, he had a sleeping bag in his car. He would probably be okay…at least for now.

  As I trudged down to the laundry room, I felt as if I were carrying my entire life on my shoulders. My backpack of laundry items felt like it was filled with heavy stones, stones of guilt, and the laundry basket contained every single mistake I’d ever made. By the time I reached the laundry room, I was out of breath and couldn’t even remember what I’d come down here for.

  “Hello, Glennis,” said a cheerful voice.

  It was the old man I’d met down here a couple of weeks ago. But my mind was so weary it took me a moment to remember his name. “Jack,”
I finally said, as if I were giving the answer on a game show. Perhaps I should’ve said,“Who is Jack?”

  “You feeling all right?” he asked with a creased brow.

  I shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”

  “How’s Jacob doing?”

  I was surprised that he remembered the name. “Not so well,” I admitted as I set my laundry basket on the washer next to his.

  He nodded as if this wasn’t too surprising. “Reckon he doesn’t want to come to AA with me then.”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t want help of any kind.”

  “That’s too bad.” Jack turned back to his task of moving wet items from the washer into the dryer about ten feet away.

  I just stood there watching him, as if I were hypnotized. He moved back and forth between the two machines, carrying just a few items at a time, until the dryer was full, and he, one by one, loaded in his quarters. Finally, his task completed, he turned and looked at me, more closely this time. “Now don’t take no offense at this, Glennis, but you really don’t look too good.”

  I sighed. “I don’t feel too good either.”

  “You wanna talk about it?” He scooted a white plastic lawn chair from across the room and set it next to another one, then sat down and patted the empty seat beside it.

  I sank into the seat and shook my head. “I had to throw Jacob out last night,” I began. “Or rather this morning.”

  He nodded as if this was a completely normal thing for a mother to do, then waited for me to continue.

  “I discovered a lot of hypodermic needles in his room yesterday. And after I confronted him, he admitted that he’d been using crystal meth.”

  Jack shook his head. “That stuff will kill you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly what I told him. But he said that’s not true. He said it’s perfectly safe.”

  Jack rubbed his chin. “I reckon this is your first lesson about addiction, Glennis. You can never trust an addict.”

  “But he’s my son, Jack. I told him he could be honest with me.”

  “Honesty is something an addict just don’t get. Take it from me, I used to tell one falsehood after the next. I’d say anything to get folks off my back, anything to get me my next drink. It’s just the way the mind of an addict works.”