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 dinner, 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 like 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...

April 7. +8. Foggy with a light drizzle. In this city, you learn to like the fog or at least tolerate it.

I finally did it. I cut myself in the tub today. For a long time I just laid there, staring at the razor in my hands. On one shoulder, there seemed to be the angel of conscience. On the other, the devil of temptation. One was telling me not to do it; the other was urging me on.

I caved in to the devil.

I cut my right thigh three times. They weren’t very deep, but they bled enough to turn the water red. It was funny; I actually enjoyed it. Pain on the outside seems to alleviate pain on the inside.

Writing this entry, I realize now that I should’ve listened to the angel of conscience. Yes, I am having regrets. God, why am I doing stuff like this? Am I developing a split personality? With each passing day, I am feeling more and more worthless. My life is so screwed up. There are times now, when I’m alone, that all I do is cry.

Is heroin really the savior I always considered it? Or is it the cause of all this? How can something that makes you feel so good be so bad for you? And it seems to be the only thing that makes these miserable feelings go away.

April 12. Sunny in the morning. Cloudy now. +11.

The manager called me in to his office after my shift this morning. I was so nervous. I was wondering if Rosa told him about that night she found me asleep. I thought I was going to be fired. But it was nothing like that. I didn’t realize that I had been at Harbor View for 3 months. My probationary period was over. Hooray. The manager told me that I was doing a good job and gave me a 25-cent raise. Wow. I guess I should be happy, if that is possible for me. There was a time I thought I knew what happiness was. Not anymore. I even feel that I’m losing my ability to focus.

God, I seem so self-absorbed lately.

April 17. Snow showers today.

I need a higher-paying job. Either that, or a second one. God, I can’t believe how the price of everything is going up. Especially my score.

I just got back, and I’m a bit pissed off. I set up a meet with my dealer this afternoon. Every time I call, I’m supposed to do it from a pay phone. We were to meet down by the old bridge. He changes our meeting spot every time we get together. Sometimes it’s in different nightclubs, if I have that particular night off. Other times it could be at one of the parks or a quiet alleyway. Our swaps only take seconds. I hand him the money, he hands me my score, and we walk away without another word. Whenever I have to meet him in a secluded area, I get nervous. Who’s to say he won’t just shoot me in the back and take his stuff back?

Only today was different. He doesn’t walk away. He stands there and counts my money first, and as I’m walking off, he says, “You’ll need another twenty-five.”

“For what?” I ask.

“The price has gone up.”

I have two junior dealers. If I can’t buy from one, I call the other. It’s seldom both are out of stock at the same time. They each work under the same head dealer, or Boss, as they refer to him. I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I don’t like him. In fact, I don’t like any of them. And I surely don’t trust them.

I was so mad with this news I called the other junior dealer. I shouldn’t have. He told me the cost went up because of the higher purity of the product and because of limited availability. The police had seized a big shipment, though he didn’t say where. I never heard anything on the news about it happening here, so it must’ve been elsewhere. If the story is even true to begin with.

I have my doubts.

Reluctantly, I forked over the extra twenty-five dollars. I don’t know how much longer I will be able to keep this up. I hope the price will go down again. It’s costing me nearly every cent that I make now. What I’ve come to realize is that over the time I’d been using, I’ve had to consistently increase my dosages to get the same high as the time before. In the beginning, I only needed small amounts, now they’re much larger and more often.

April 25. Cloudy. +10. The weather is like a yo-yo.

This is my first entry since coming home from the hospital. My doctor says my heart is weak. I should allow it to heal, to limit my physical activity. He wants me to begin walking soon, however. Exercise strengthens the heart. But I feel so frail, and I’m afraid to strain myself.

My heart attack happened on the 18th. My doctor says my heroin was mixed with cocaine. I never knew it. But I knew the moment I injected that something was wrong. I just didn’t feel right. My body felt like it was being pulled in two different directions. I began sweating. Then came a crushing pain in my chest. That’s all I remember. Everything went black after that.

Next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes in a hospital room. Trixy was there at my bedside. She didn’t call Mom and Dad. And I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t want them to see me that way or to worry.

The doctor saw the cuts on my legs. I didn’t realize there were so many. He counted fifteen in all. He said self-injurious behavior is a mental health issue. He thinks I’m dysphoric and cut myself when painful feelings become overwhelming or unbearable. He referred me to a female therapist. Not only for that, but for my drug addiction as well.

I have yet to see her.

I’m too embarrassed by all of this. Where would I even begin my story?

While in the hospital, the doctor had me on a methadone maintenance treatment program. He said it would help me with the withdrawals. It seemed to help. But I stopped it when I left the hospital. Isn’t methadone just an artificial substitute to heroin? What if I became dependent on that as well? I’m seriously afraid. I chose to do this my way. Complete abstinence of any drug seems to be my best option. Am I doing the right thing? I hope so.

At this point I am unable to work. My benefits should keep me afloat for a while. By the grace of God, I will get through this.

I think a lot about the night I bought that last bindle. Had that sleazy dealer known what he was selling me? Did that really explain the sharp increase in cost? He told me it was because of the higher purity, that it cost more than the lower grade I used to buy. And because of limited availability. I fell for it. But now I wonder.

Allan stopped reading. He looked over at Coulter and Sodero. They were wrapping Cathy’s body in a sheet of polythene.

“Doctor,” he said. “How many deaths have been attributed to speed-balling this past month?”

“Three confirmed. Two are pending tox results. Why?”

Allan glanced at the diary. “We might have a dealer selling heroin laced with cocaine.”

“Who said?”

“In here.” Allan lifted the diary. “Miss Ambré suffered a heart attack because of it.”

Coulter said, “Users are never sure of what they’re taking, Detective. Do you think there’s a connection?”

Allan gave a measured shrug. “Maybe.”

Coulter regarded the diary in Allan’s hands, and an unspoken question appeared in his eyes.

At last he made a wry face and said, “Those cases will all have to be reexamined.”

Allan maintained an outward equanimity. He knew the dealer had to be found and taken off the streets.

He took out his cell phone and called the Drug Unit to convey the information. Their undercover officers, he was told, would keep an ear to the ground. Perhaps an informant knew something. One dealer was already under surveillance. For now, a public safety alert would be released to warn potential buyers of the danger.

When he hung up, Allan went back to the diary and skipped ahead to the date Trixy went missing, and Cathy’s final days.

May 8. Beautiful day.

Mom called this morning to thank me for the card and flowers I had sent her for Mother’s Day, only they arrived a day early. Actually, Trixy and I split on them. But I didn’t tell Mom because Trixy didn’t want her name on either. God, I don’t know why she is so stubborn. Let bygones be bygones.

I went outside for a walk this afternoon. Went as far as George Street this time, but that was enough. I wanted to go down to the boardwalk and stroll along the water, but I thought climbing those hills on the way back would simply be too taxing for me at this point. The doctor wants me to walk every day. My opinion is better safe than sorry. I’ll take it slow. Baby steps for now.

Technically it’s the 9th. Quarter to one in the morning. Another sleepless night. I’m doing my best to get through this. So many things on my mind right now. The Devil seems to be still knocking on my door, and he’s relentless. I know that’s my problem. So many times I just sit and stare at the phone. So many times I fight with myself not to pick it up and make that call. Trixy, I must remind myself, it’s all for her. One day I may look back at this period in my life and be proud of myself.

May 9. I don’t know what the weather is. I could care less.

Where’s Trixy? God, I’m so afraid right now. She’s never been this late coming home. Did something happen to her? I can’t even get through on her cell phone.

Just after lunch, I went down to the police station and told them. They made me fill out a missing persons report. I thought their questions were never going to end. I gave them the most recent photograph of Trixy that I had.

I didn’t want to involve the police. Trixy would be so mad. She doesn’t like them. She thinks a lot of them only serve and protect themselves.

After supper, another cop stopped by. At first I thought it was bad news when I saw him. But it wasn’t. Thank God.

This cop seemed like a nice man. He kept referring to Vice, saying that they will check this and check that. My question is, if he’s not the one investigating Trixy’s disappearance, then why was he here? Does he know something that he’s not telling me?

I won’t be able to sleep tonight. God, grant me the strength to help me through this. I’m on pins and needles right now. And the cravings are hitting me hard.

May 10. Overcast. No rain, however. Yet.

I never slept all night. When I got up, I felt queasy. Probably because I haven’t eaten since yesterday and my bad nerves. I doubt if I’ll be able to hold anything down. My stomach doesn’t feel that bad when I lie down, only when I’m standing up. So I’ll just lie here some more.

I keep praying Trixy will walk through the door. God, where is she?

My second entry under this date. It is now dinnertime. I still haven’t eaten. I can’t. Mom called me a while ago. The police published Trixy’s photo in the Chronicle Herald. They’re asking people with any information regarding her disappearance to call them or Crime Stoppers. I never even knew that they did it. I had to go down to the store and get the paper to see for myself. The picture, the one I had given the cops, was on the second page with only a short write-up underneath.

Mom sounded genuinely worried. And so did Dad. He came on the phone after Mom. It was the first time I’d spoken to him since leaving home. I told him what happened, that Trixy just didn’t come home yesterday morning, and that I can’t reach her. He asked me how I was holding up. I told him that I was finding it hard but will get through it. Was he going to tell me that I could go back home? Part of me was wishing he would. Dad always had a hard time revealing his feelings. The fact that he spoke to me after what happened at home reflects to me his genuine worry. That was enough.

It’s going to be hard to get through this day. God, I want a fix so bad.

May 11. Raining outside.

This will be my final entry. God, I can’t believe the direction my life has taken. I’ve tried to be strong, to beat this. But I can’t fight anymore. I have nothing left. I’ve given in to the worst of temptations. A dark cloak of depression has wrapped itself around me.

Trixy was the pillar of support I needed. Now I fear something horrible happened to her. I can’t live with the thought that my sister is dead. Nor can I live with not knowing. The stress of this has been killing me. And worse yet are my cravings. All this has cranked them into high gear. The heroin is calling me back with open arms to its comforting embrace. It’s using my own misery against me. That’s how it draws you back. Only I know this time how it will all end. If it wants me that badly, it can have me this last time.

Looking back over the past few months, I realize now just how often I had thought about suicide. Sometimes I would go to bed praying I would never wake up. Everything would’ve been so much better. At least for me. I’d finally be at peace. I’ve hurt so many important people in my life.

Where is the person I used to be? Before the heroin, I was so much different. I had friends, a bright future, dreams, desires, and last but not least, a good relationship with my family. Now, it’s all gone. I don’t even know who the hell I am anymore.

And how will I be remembered? The ugly person I became or the decent person I used to be? I know I could’ve chosen a different way but couldn’t think of any that would be this befitting.

God, it breaks my heart when I think of my parents. They are what truly make this so hard to do. I’ll never see them again. I can only hope they don’t feel guilty about this. None of it was their fault. I’m just glad they have each other to lean on for support. I pray they won’t hate me.

I have everything laid out on the bed, ready. So I must get this over with. At last, I will break free of these shackles. This stuff nearly killed me in April. Odds are it will this time. If not, I have a backup plan.

My dearest diary, I will now bid my final farewell to you, my friend.