From Smoke To Flames— Amazon: A West Brothers Novel

by A. M. Hargrove

  I sipped a glass of wine as I went through the new cases I’d be seeing on Monday. There would be three. The first two were alcohol related. They would be in for thirty days. When I got to the last, I almost cracked the wineglass I was holding. The name Pearson West in bold letters showed up on the file.

  “I can’t believe this.”

  Reading through the file, my anger mounted until I lost it. I threw the file across the room until it slammed against the wall. I completely lost my Zen, so I took some deep, calming breaths. Too bad they didn’t help. Deep down, I knew there wasn’t anything on earth that would help calm my nerves unless someone shot me up with a horse tranquilizer.

  How in the hell was I supposed to be objective and give this man the best care? He was in for a minimum of thirty days. Alcohol, opiates, specifically heroin addiction. Oh, how the mighty do fall. It took a long, long time before I could tear my eyes off that.

  How could I possibly pull this off? How was I going to be empathetic and counsel the one who was responsible for taking my daughter away from me? He was the bastard who represented my ex-husband in our nasty divorce.

  Chapter Four

  Pearson

  * * *

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?” I groaned from the passenger seat as Hudson drove up the winding road to my new home for the next thirty or so days.

  “Everything we read said it was the best,” Grey said from the back seat. “And I had several lengthy discussions with Sylvie.”

  “Sylvie. I haven’t seen her since she was eight.” What the hell does she know?

  “Don’t be so harsh on her, Pearson. She came highly recommended by Dr. Martinelli,” Hudson said. “And just because you haven’t seen her doesn’t mean she’s not good at what she does.”

  He had a point. I was just being an asshole. That’s what detoxing off alcohol and heroin will do to you.

  “True, but look at this place. Have we been hurled through a time machine and dumped out in Haight-Ashbury in the late 60s? Flower Power Serenity Pavilion? The only thing missing is the VW van with the peace symbols painted on it.” I spoke too soon. We rounded another curve and there it sat, painted with flowers and peace symbols. “Oh shit.” Hudson started laughing. Wooden flower signs and old hippie art dotted the drive all the way to the building. When we arrived, the welcome sign was done in letters reminiscent of that era.

  Grey chuckled. “You do have a point. Maybe it’s to put you at ease.”

  “Wasn’t that the culture that brought drug use to the forefront? It seems a bit counterintuitive.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. This was getting old. The counselors at the other rehab center said I’d experience periods of profuse sweating for weeks to come.

  “Reserve judgment. They haven’t earned a stellar reputation for nothing,” Hudson said.

  I kept quiet. I didn’t need to keep adding any more snarky comments. They’d had enough of them during the hour drive up here. Flower Power Serenity Pavilion was located on the river away from the city, fairly close to where my parents and Grey lived. There wasn’t one bad review to be found on the place. My brothers had done intensive research on it. And my cousin who worked here had also given her side of the story. We’d soon see.

  Hudson pulled up to the entryway and immediately someone appeared to assist us. Her name was Starr.

  “You must be Mr. West.”

  How did she know that? “Yes, I’m Pearson West.”

  “Welcome.” And she stuffed a large potted plant of lavender into my hands. “This lavender is to soothe you and help you sleep. Put some under your pillowcase each night.”

  My brows lifted. “Er, thank you.”

  Hudson grabbed my bag out of the back, and we all followed Starr inside. We went into the office where we filled out some paperwork. I sat there like an idiot with that pot in my lap as she asked me questions.

  Starr told my brothers, “You are allowed to visit on Sundays from twelve to four. Mr. West will be allowed to send emails once a week, but any other phone correspondence must be done through the main office. We strongly encourage letters, but we don’t allow any packages of any kind.”

  When we were finished, my brothers said goodbye. I wanted to beg them to stay. I felt like the reluctant kid getting dumped off at camp for the first time.

  We hugged and they left. This was the second time we’d been through this, although this time I wasn’t going through severe physical withdrawals, other than the periodic profuse sweating and cravings. The psychological part was still an issue though.

  Starr showed me to my room and then gave me a tour of the facility. Meditation music was piped throughout the place and there were hanging beads in every open doorway in the building. Even Starr was dressed in the hippie fashion. She wore a halo of flowers around her head and a bohemian gown. As far as I could tell, she was barefoot.

  “Our goal is to have you as relaxed as you can possibly be. We know that coming off of substance abuse is very stressful which is why we strive to create a peaceful environment here.” She walked me outside where there was a courtyard and then a huge garden area. “We encourage our patients to take part in gardening. It can be very therapeutic.”

  “Uh, I see.” There were several people out there digging around in the dirt, but I noticed one man in particular who seemed to be excavating a rather large area. I wondered if he was trying to dig a tunnel somewhere—maybe to a different rehab center that wasn’t so flowery.

  “Do you by any chance have a gym?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. Follow me.”

  That was where I’d rather be expending my extra energy rather than digging giant holes in the earth. I was pleasantly surprised to see the workout facility.

  “We have everything you might need here,” Starr said.

  “Yes, this is very nice. Is it open any time?”

  “Not between ten thirty and five in the morning. We require our patients to be in their rooms then. Sleep is an important part of your recovery.”

  “Right.” Except sometimes, sleep was an impossibility because all you were thinking about was using.

  “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Yes. When do I meet with my counselor?”

  “Oh, right. You’re scheduled for tomorrow at ten with Rose. Breakfast is at seven thirty. You’ll go to your first group session at eight thirty.”

  “Thanks.”

  That afternoon I met a few other people in the main room, but then settled into my room. It was small, with a twin bed and bathroom. There was a built-in desk, a small closet, and some shelves. It was perfectly compact, but it suited the purpose well. The bathroom was well outfitted with nice fluffy towels, unlike the other place. The walk-in shower was spacious, and the sink had plenty of counter space to store your items on. I was surprised I didn’t have a roommate, like I did at the other place. But I certainly appreciated the privacy here.

  Dinner was at six, which was surprisingly tasty. It consisted of baked chicken, some potato concoction and vegetables with a salad and dessert. At around eight, I went to work out. I needed to exhaust myself in order to sleep. After an hour on the treadmill, I lifted weights. Working out had been my salvation in the last rehab center I was in. I could barely walk when I got there, but my determination had pushed me and now I was up to an hour of running. Not like I used to, but I was running nevertheless. My body was thinner than it had been, but my muscles stood out more, because there was less fat that covered them.

  By the time I got back to the room, I was dripping with sweat and weary as hell. I guzzled some water and after a cool down, I took a shower. It was ten thirty on the nose when I crawled into bed. If sleep came, it would last for about six hours at the most.

  At five thirty, I was back in the gym, doing the same workout. This was what I did every day. Except I worked out different body parts with the weights.

  Breakfast was excellent. I scarfed down eggs, toast, oatmeal, bacon, fruit, and juice. It was a buffet, tha
nk God. I had extra helpings of everything.

  My first session was awful. I hated standing in front of everyone as the newbie, but I’d better get used to it.

  “My name is Pearson West and I’m a drug addict and an alcoholic.” Everyone listened to my story and clapped when I was done. I never could figure out why they clapped. It was an awful thing. But they say it’s because I had the strength to come forward. It wasn’t strength, it was weakness, in my book. It was a brush with death. If it hadn’t been for that, I would still be using.

  Ten o’clock came and I waited for Rose. I sat outside her office until she called me in. She was a much more attractive than I would’ve liked. Tall with long black wavy hair, she was dressed like a hippie. She had on wide-legged pants and it was hard to tell if it was a skirt or not. Her top was one of those long flowy gauzy things that hid everything. She had one of those flower wreaths on her head.

  “Hi, I’m Rose Wilson, and I’ll be your counselor for the next thirty days.” She scowled.

  “Yes, you probably know my cousin.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Sylvie.”

  “Sylvie is your cousin?”

  “Yes. I’m surprised she didn’t say anything.” Her scowl deepened to the point I was worried it would be permanent.

  “So am I. Well, shall we proceed?” she asked brusquely.

  Her attitude took me aback. I expected a warmer greeting than that.

  “I’ve had a chance to review your records and you’re a lucky man, Mr. West.” She flipped through papers in a folder as she spoke.

  “Pearson.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, looking up.

  “My name. It’s Pearson.”

  “Very well,” she clipped.

  I imagined this place to be less formal than this. Evidently, I was off base.

  “I realize that, which is why I’m here.”

  “Realize what?”

  Jesus. Was she that ignorant? “That I’m a lucky man. Didn’t you just tell me that?” My tone conveyed my annoyance.

  Her eyes lasered into mine as her lips pursed with suppressed fury. What the hell had I done to this woman to piss her off so much? “Yes. So how did you find your first thirty days?” Her tone was now icy.

  Now it was my turn to frown. “Seriously?” She should know this, I would’ve thought.

  “Yes, I am very serious,” she huffed.

  “It was awful. Coming off of alcohol and heroin was no picnic.”

  She scribbled something down. “And what about now?”

  “Are you asking if I still have cravings?”

  “Yes,” she huffed again. She acted as though I was putting her out being here. Wasn’t it her job to be my counselor?

  “Of course I do. I’m only thirty-one days out.” I was getting angry now. What kind of counselor was she?

  She glared at me. “Look, Mr. West …”

  “Pearson.”

  “Pearson, I’m trying to get a feel of where you are.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Then let me fill you in. I just went through hell. I’m still craving drugs and alcohol. I’d probably chew off my arm if I could for a hit. How’s that? Do you have a feel now?” I fumed.

  “You don’t have to be rude,” she sputtered. Her eyes grew stormy, and I thought again, why the hell is she angry. I’m the one who should be pissed.

  “Neither do you. I’m the one who’s here for help,” I growled.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have done drugs in the first place,” she snapped back.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. What the fuck! “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone into counseling either.” Now we were glaring at each other.

  She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve had a difficult morning. Maybe we should begin again?”

  I released the breath I’d been holding and stared at her for a second. I finally said, “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “Tell me about how you’re feeling.”

  What little wind I’d had in my sails was gone. I was totally dejected by that interchange. My tone was glum as I answered, “I have to work out twice a day. It helps the urges. The nighttime work out helps with sleep otherwise I lie there and have intense cravings.”

  “I see from your chart that Dr. Martinelli suggested an antidepressant, but you refused.”

  “I don’t want a band-aid.” Adding another drug seemed to only defeat the purpose in my book.

  She scribbled something down on her pad of paper. “They can be very helpful in getting you across this bridge.”

  “That’s what she said, but I don’t believe any drug is the answer.” I went to rehab to get clean and I want off all drugs. Period.

  “Then we’ll begin by working on coping mechanisms, things to occupy your mind, to fill the void that the drugs created. But I do strongly suggest the antidepressants. They help calm your brain down by binding with the receptor sites there. And they’re not addictive like opiates or alcohol are.”

  “That’s exactly what Dr. Martinelli said. You must work with her a lot.”

  She finally smiled. “We talk some. But that’s a common issue with abusers. They find that drugs fill a void. We need to uncover the void your using filled too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No, never have been.”

  “In a relationship?”

  “Never been in one of those either.”

  “Now that’s significant considering your age. Care to explain that?”

  “I’m an attorney. I’ve seen my share of divorce cases and I don’t think I ever want to walk down that messy road.”

  She bristled when I answered. It made me wonder if she was divorced. I didn’t dare ask her.

  “I see. Not all marriages end up that way.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” I said. Now it was me who was bristling.

  “Your childhood. Tell me about it.”

  “It was idyllic. My parents are the most loving couple I’ve ever seen. I was raised not wanting a thing. I’m the youngest and was spoiled.”

  “Maybe that’s the issue.”

  I shrugged. “Dr. Martinelli mentioned the same.”

  “Siblings?” she asked.

  “Two brothers and yes, we all get along extremely well.”

  “Did you growing up?”

  “Yes, I idolized them both.”

  “Can you explain?”

  “They were both really smart and great athletes.”

  “Better than you?”

  “I wouldn’t say so. They were older so we never truly competed, except for fun.” She was writing constantly as I spoke. I’m not sure how she listened and wrote at the same time.

  She paused for a moment and tapped her pen on the pad. “Were you ever abused?”

  “Never.”

  “Molested? By an older uncle or family friend?”

  “No! Isn’t that in my chart? I asked. Dr. Martinelli and I had been through all of this too. I guess she hadn’t taken the time to look over my background. “I had a very pristine upbringing. The drugs happened because of the shoulder surgery. I got hooked on Lortab and when I couldn’t get off of it, I moved to street drugs. I’m sure this is a scenario you’ve heard before. Did you bother to read my chart?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. And unfortunately, you are among many who find themselves in this situation. I’m only trying to uncover things, something that maybe precipitated all of this. This is my information gathering session with you. I’m sorry if it seems repetitive, but it really is necessary.”

  “As my chart should state, I thought I could stop, take control of it. I’d tell myself all the time—this is my last one. And then the first time I did heroin, I thought, just this once. That didn’t turn out so well. But the thing is, I never would actually take that final step and admit I was addicted. Not until I woke up in that hospital and they told me I almost died.”

  Her abrupt res
ponse had me wondering about whether she enjoyed her job. “You’re not the first and won’t be the last. Here’s the question you have to ask yourself. In here, you’re in a controlled environment and you can’t use. There are no drugs or alcohol. What about when you get out? How will you handle that?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Then we have our work cut out for us.”

  “That’s why I’m here. To get that kind of help,” I admitted.

  “And that’s why I’m digging into your life. I’m not going to lie. This won’t be easy. But nothing worth fighting for ever is.”

  Chapter Five

  Rose

  * * *

  Dropping Montana off was brutal. Those tiny arms clung to me as I took her out of the car seat. Her dipshit father stood with a smug smile that I’d come to despise.

  “She can walk, you know.” His voice was like fingernails on a blackboard. I held back a shudder.

  “I do know, but I enjoy her hugs. I’m wondering if you do.”

  His smugness was replaced by a stormy expression. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Do I really need to explain it?”

  “Come here, Montana,” he barked.

  I bit my tongue to keep from calling him an asshole.

  Montana wore a forlorn expression as she walked toward him, head down.

  “As her mother, I’d like you to furnish me with her play schedule.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid she’s not getting enough activity here.”

  His jaw clenched and a muscle twitched on one side. “Montana, inside now.” He snapped his fingers. I wanted to yell, “She’s not a damn dog, you ass.”

  My daughter gave me a quick glance before scurrying inside the expansive home.

  “It’s come to my attention that Montana spends an awful lot of time in her room,” I said.

  “Oh, and this comes to you from a four-year-old?”

  “Yes. She’s a very bright four-year-old and can talk. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “I’ve noticed. I’m with her the majority of the time, or have you forgotten? Can I ask you, what do you propose to do about this situation? Take me back to court?” Then he emitted a nasty chuckle as he eyed me disdainfully. He had a way of making me feel very insignificant.