The sun is blinding. The tips of my light-up sneakers disappear into white fire as the swing carries me up, up, up. I shut my eyes, pushing backward against the wind, as I swoop back down into my dad’s waiting arms.
“Higher!” I yell. “Higher!”
Dad grips the metal chains, and I jerk forward, suspended in midair. My back presses against his chest; his breath is warm on my cheek. “You sure?” he asks. “You won’t let go, right?”
I shake my head furiously. “Under-duck! Under-duck!”
Dad’s laugh rumbles through me. He pulls back on the swing until his arms are straight, and my legs are dangling nearly over his head. “Hold on tight!”
And then he’s running, pushing me forward like wind in the folds of a paper kite.
“Under-duck!” I turn up my face to the warmth of the sun, so certain that I’m flying, that I forget my promise to my dad. My fingers uncurl from the chains that hold me in flight, and I let go.
A spasm shutters through my body, and I jerk awake, my heart throbbing against my ribs like I just ran laps. I push myself upright, rub my eyes. The dream slips away.
I peer up at the clock on the wall—8:05. Red’s bed is unmade, and the bathroom door’s shut, the shower running. I flop back against my pillows.
The water turns off in the bathroom, and the door opens. “Dude. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
Red’s standing in the bathroom doorway, a white towel wrapped around his skinny waist and water dripping into a puddle around his feet. Tattoos mark geographic regions on the pasty terrain of his chest and ribs—his arms are riddled with track mark scars.
“8am, right? The hippy biker?”
Shit. I groan and roll over to my side. The Step One folder stares at me from the bedside table where I left it last night, unread. I run my hand across my face and squint up at Red. “Do you think I have time for a shower?”
He glances up at the clock. “Depends, I guess. You going for sorry-I-overslept late or complete-and-total-asshole late?”
I reach for my dirty jeans, crumpled on the floor at the foot of my bed. “More like this-is-an-absolute-waste-of-my-time late.”
Red laughs, shrugging his arms into a clean blue t-shirt. “Sure. I bet that’s gonna go over real well.”
Richard Fisher is pissed off. His fingers drum his desk beside an empty paper coffee cup, and he scowls up at the clock when I drop onto the faded brown sofa. “8:30,” he announces.
I shove a chunk of cream cheese slathered bagel into my mouth. “I had to get breakfast.”
Richard Fisher’s voice is tightly controlled. “Look, Eli. I’m not exactly a morning person. As a matter of fact, I’m on my third cup of joe, and it’s still taking every ounce of self-control not to toss you out of my office.”
“I could leave if it’s easier.” I thumb the last bite of bagel into my mouth and push up off the couch.
“Sure, that sounds like a brilliant idea. Walking away from a get-out-of-jail-free card sounds like the kind of grade-A thinking that got you here in the first place.”
My spine stiffens. The chunk of bagel goes down like concrete. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The way I hear it, you walk out of here, your first stop is the courtroom. The judge decides where you go after that. Does that sound like a good idea to you?”
Richard’s sarcasm nips at my self-control; heat pricks the back of my neck. “What’s your problem, man?”
“No problem. I’m just calling your bullshit.” A pair of reading glasses hangs from a chain around Richard’s neck. He sits them on the end of his nose and flips open a manila folder, all casual, like he’s reading Newsweek in a waiting room.
The couch cushions crunch as I sink back down. I eye the lopsided diplomas on the wall behind Richard Fisher’s desk. “What kind of a therapist are you, anyway? Are you sure you’re qualified for this?”
Richard glances at me over the rim of his glasses. “In more ways than one.”
“Then help me out. Everybody keeps saying I need to get better, but there’s nothing wrong with me. All this work you want me to do, it’s a waste of time.”
Richard leans back in his chair and takes off his glasses. “You got friends sniffing heroin?”
The question takes me off guard. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Just curious. I mean, you OD’d at a party, right? I’m thinking there was booze there, probably pot, maybe even a few pills getting passed around. But according to your intake report . . .” Richard Fisher holds his glasses over the open folder on his desk and peers through them like a magnifying glass. “. . . you were alone when the EMT pulled you out of the car.”
“And?”
“And I’d bet a fifty that most of your friends at that party, maybe even a few of the ones popping pills, woke up for church Sunday morning, worked a lawn mowing gig, crammed for Monday’s test, whatever. But not you. You overdosed and woke up in the hospital.”
“That was an accident . . .”
“Sure, it was. An inevitable accident. You’re not reinventing the wheel, Eli. I’ve been working this job for twenty years. You snort, you smoke, whatever. First, it’s only at parties, but then you’re doing it every weekend, alone, while your friends are out having lives. You use in the afternoon, in the mornings before school. When snorting doesn’t get you there anymore, you turn to needles. Sure, your family’s got money, but eventually they get sick of this shit—everybody does. They kick you out, or you run away. Next thing you know, you’re blowing some crack head on a street corner for your next score.”
My stomach twists in revulsion; my fingers curl into fists. “That’s fucked up.”
“Sure, it is,” Richard Fisher says. “But it’s the path you’re on. Just because you’re hovering at the starting line doesn’t mean you’re going to finish any different. You’re on the cusp of a serious addiction, but you’ve been given an opportunity to choose a different way. If you’re happy with the direction your life is taking, then by all means, go on home. But if you want things to be different, you’re gonna have to show up and do the work. My office, every morning, on time.”
The old brown couch has folded up around me like it hasn’t had springs for decades. I’ve heard this before. Savannah sitting next to me on the hospital bed, her cheeks streaked with dripping mascara: You need help, Eli.
Richard’s staring at me, waiting for my decision. There’s a smear of cream cheese on my thumb, and I wipe it on my already dirty jeans. If showing up here and talking about my “feelings” with this headshrinker is the only way to make it up to Savannah and get back to my life as it was, then I might as well get it over with. “Fine,” I say. “When do we start?”
Richard’s mouth curls into a crooked smile, and he shakes his head a little. “Like I told you last night, the only place to start is the beginning. I’m guessing you didn’t look at your packet.”
I stare at him.
He sighs, glances at the clock. “And we’re almost out of time for today. Tell you what, fill out the Step One questionnaire by our meeting tomorrow, and we’ll get started with the rest of the packet then. In the meantime, they tell me you’re relocating today.”
“Relocating?”
“To Unit 8. Phase Two. We need to get your schedule squared away.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, as Richard and I go through a pile of pamphlets and paperwork, I gradually figure out that the next 24 ½ days of my life are going to be occupied in hour long increments, including daily meetings with Richard Fisher, large group lectures, small group counseling, art therapy, and “personal reflection time,” whatever that means.
By the time I’ve left Richard’s office, I’ve got a printed schedule, a map of the facility, and five minutes to get to my small group. But all I want to do is go back to bed.
“Remember,” Richard says, as he walks me to the door, “Step One questionnaire by our meeting tomorrow. 10am, right after group. No bullshit. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, squeezing sideways through the half-open door and almost bowling over Libby, who’s standing in the hallway like a deer caught in the flash of headlights. She clutches a purple spiralbound notebook to her chest; the skin around her fingernails is puffy and red.
“Sorry,” she squeaks. Her eyes trail past me to Richard Fisher. “I didn’t realize you were in session.”
“We don’t meet until three, Libby,” Richard says. “Everything okay?”
Libby shakes her head. Bleach-fried hair spills out of her ponytail and frames her face in subtle waves. “Something came up in group that I need to talk about.” Libby’s voice is scratched and sweet. It sounds like an ink black night with stars that go for miles. “Can I have fifteen minutes?”
“Of course,” Richard says. He steps back, and Libby slips into his office.
I turn away from the door. Richard’s voice catches me up from behind. “10 am, SHARP.”
“I heard you the first time,” I shoot back, but the office door has already closed.
My small group meets in the rec room. There’s a Ping-Pong table and a couple of dingy couches that face a huge flat screen TV. In the center of the room, a few guys are already gathered. They lounge on metal folding chairs and slurp coffee from steaming white Styrofoam cups.
I spy the coffee on a table against the far wall. I’m adding a third sugar to my cup when a heavy hand claps me on the shoulder. “Eli, right? Nice to see you again.”
I look sideways at Mo, who’s beaming at me like we’re old friends. I remember how he laughed at me, and I shove his hand off my shoulder. “Wish I could say the same.”
Mo seems to take it in stride. “This your first group?”
I take a short draw of my coffee, testing its heat. “Yep.” I turn away and reach for another sugar packet.
“Glad to have you.” Mo waits while I stir my coffee with a red plastic wand and toss the empty sugar packets in the trash. “C’mon over,” he says. “Meet the guys.”
Mo says it like we’re on a ball field or at a poker game—like the rag-tag group of junkies nursing black sugar water are his friends. “This is Eli,” Mo tells the group gathered in the center of the room. “Just started Phase Two today.”
I sink into an empty seat while the guys around me nod in acknowledgement or mutter introductions I can barely hear. I avoid eye contact.
“So what did you guys think of the speaker this morning?” Mo asks the group. A couple guys start talking. I sink lower in my chair and hope nobody asks for my opinion.
“The speaker was a counselor, ten years sober or some shit like that,” the scrawny dude next to me says, filling me in. He’s sporting a Kool-Aid blue faux hawk that looks fluorescent against his brown skin, and he reaches a skeletal hand to shake mine. “I’m Will. Just moved up yesterday.”
“What do you think so far?” I ask.
Will gives me a crooked grin. “Too much talking. Everybody wants to tell you how they feel, and they want to know how you feel. I feel like I’d give my left nut for a stamp bag. You?”
I laugh. “I hear ya.” Will’s leg is bouncing up and down like he’s working on his 18th cup of coffee. This kid’s a junkie through and through.
“Got a roommate yet?” Will asks.
I shake my head. “I’m moving today—not sure where yet.”
“Preppy over there’s my roommate.” Will points across the circle to a clean-cut dude with a popped collar. “He graduates in two weeks, and then I’ll get a newbie.” Will coughs out a crunchy sounding laugh. “Poor guy.”
“Morning, folks.” A tubby guy in a yellow button-up shirt and khakis strides across the room, legal pad in hand. His mousy brown hair is combed to one side, like how Mom used to make me wear mine for school pictures. “For those of you who are new,” his eyes flicker toward me, “my name’s Howard. I’m a counselor here at LakeShore, and I run this group.” Howard drops onto a metal chair, his bulk protruding over the sides. “We usually follow a similar format to a 12-step recovery group. Each morning, I’ll introduce a topic, and then we take turns with individual shares. Sharing is expected, not optional.”
Will elbows me.
Oh no, I don’t think so. I’ll do the freaking worksheets, and I’ll show up wherever to prove to Savannah and her dad that I’m “better.” But showing up and participating are two completely different things.
As if reading my mind, Howard continues, his voice stiff and monotone, likes he’s reciting a script. “If this is your first group, you may be feeling nervous about sharing, or even unwilling to do so.”
That’s the understatement of the century.
“I encourage you to keep in mind that each person here, including myself, was at one time in the exact place you are now. That’s why we come together in this way, to learn from each other’s experiences, strength, and hope. Don’t worry about what you’re going to say, just speak from the heart and try to keep an open mind. Okay?”
Several guys in the circle nod. I try to picture this straight-laced group leader toking a blunt or, for that matter, even drinking a beer that didn’t come in a frosted glass.
“A couple things stood out to me during Cynthia’s testimony this morning,” Howard begins. He crosses one leg over the other, thick brown hair peeking out over the hem of a navy-blue tube sock. “Primarily what she said about finally facing her fears without relying on drugs as a crutch, and how that was a turning point in her recovery. Can any of you relate to that idea? Can you recognize any of Cynthia’s avoidance behaviors in your own life?”
At this point, I go deaf. I don’t know who Cynthia is, I didn’t hear her “testimony,” and I don’t give a crap what she’s afraid of. Mo raises his hand to answer Howard’s question, and I let my mind wander. I think about Savannah, who’s probably sitting in second period Anatomy right about now, and I wonder if she’s thinking about me. I wonder what kind of hoops I have to jump through to get to use the phone.
And then I think about Libby.
What was in that notebook she was holding onto so tight? And what was so important that she couldn’t wait a couple hours to talk to Richard about it? And, most of all, why the hell do I care?
“Eli?” An annoyingly nasal voice interrupts my thoughts. The whole group is staring at me, waiting for the answer to a question I didn’t even hear.
I sit up straighter in my chair, feeling like I just got busted sexting Savannah in Pre-Calc. “Huh?”
Will snickers into his coffee.
Howard gives me a thin smile. “Seeing as this is your first time joining us, it’d be nice if we could get to know you a bit. Would you be willing to share your story with the group?
“My story?” My mouth has gone dry, and my tongue feels like beef jerky.
“Yes,” Howard urges. “Tell us about the journey that brought you to LakeShore.”
My journey? Is this guy for real? Who talks like this? I glance around at the room full of strangers waiting for me to speak.
I hunch my shoulders and shake my head. “No, thanks,” I say. “I’ll pass.”
“Sharing is an important part of the recovery process,” Howard presses.
I shift forward in my chair and meet Howard’s gaze, my voice a hard line that I dare him to cross. “I said I’ll pass.”
Howard blinks. “Maybe next time,” he says.
After group, I carry my half-empty cup of now cold coffee back to my room. I should dump it, but it feels good to have something in my hand, like the red Solo cup at a party that magically makes you feel less like a loser and more like you belong.
Red’s leaving our room when I get there. He looks more awake than I’ve ever seen him; his legs are sturdier, and he’s shaking a little less. “I’ve gotta check in with the doc,” he tells me. “Hopefully for the last time. I think he’s gonna clear me for Phase Two any day now.”
“There’s no rush,” I tell him. “It’s no party up there, trust me.”
Red laughs, bumps my shoulder with a loose fist. “Isn’t that kinda the point?”
He shuffles down the hall, and I head into our empty room. The quiet is stifling, and the last place I want to be is alone. But there’s nowhere else to go.
I drop onto my bed, prop a few pillows between my back and the headboard, and stare at the Step One folder in my hand. Might as well flip through it.
The Twelve Steps, written in the same cheese ball language as the books in the detox lounge, are printed right inside the front cover: Step One: We admitted that we were powerless over drugs and that our lives had become unmanageable.
I consider ditching the packet and hitting up that Ping-Pong table instead, but I promised Richard Fisher I’d do the stupid questionnaire. So I read on.
It’s a load of psychobabble bullshit; the papers inside the folder read the way Howard talks. I can almost hear his post nasal drip as I skim a paragraph about the importance of answering the questions honestly. “This packet is an opportunity to explore the effects of drugs on the various areas in your life,” Howard/the folder says. “Be honest in your answers. The only person you hurt by lying is yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say out loud as I rifle in the drawer of my bedside table for a pencil. The packet is several pages long, broken up into sections with headings like Taking Risks, Self-worth, Relationships, and School. The first section lists every drug under the sun (some I’ve never even heard of) and wants to know whether you’ve tried it, when you tried it, how old you were, and (my favorite question) how often you use it.
Under the column titled I’ve used, I check the boxes next to pot, alcohol, cigarettes, acid, and opiates. It’s weird thinking back to the first time I tried all that stuff—it’s like trying to remember your first kiss or the first girl you ever had a crush on. Twelve years old for cigarettes and alcohol, if the time Chase snuck a half-empty box of pink wine from his parents’ fridge counts, and thirteen, I think, for pot. Fifteen for acid (that one terrible night when I freaked out at my own reflection, green-skinned with horns, and then watched South Park reruns for the next fourteen hours because I was afraid to fall asleep). But it’s the opiates section that makes my chest get all tight.
My mind flashes back to the morning after Winter Formal, after the phone call from Savannah’s dad, when Mom realized, maybe for the first time, that I was doing more than drinking. “Where are you even getting this stuff?” she’d shrieked, gripping my neck beside the bathroom sink and splashing cold water into my bleary, red eyes.
“Around,” I’d told her. Had it been that long since Mom had been in high school? You only have to go to one party before you figure out exactly which lunchroom table to visit anytime you want to score. Once Chase ran into a supply-and-demand issue with his mom’s medicine cabinet, he started tapping the neighborhood resources and went into business on his own. Lucky for me, Chase offers a Friends and Family discount.
The first time I’d tried pills had been in Chase’s basement. I remember the chalky taste of the pills on my tongue, the burn of vodka as I washed them down with a swig from Chase’s Red Bull can.
The fuzzy warmth that crept up my body like a plush blanket until every inch of my skin tingled with bliss.
I write ‘14’ next to the word opiates. That time’s not hard to remember at all.
It’s almost noon when an orderly sticks his head through the doorway and tells me it’s time to pack up so I can move to my new room. I glance down at the page, where I’ve checked the box marked “occasional usage” next to opiates. I flip the pencil over and erase it, my hand hovering over the box that says “regular usage.”
“I’m kind of working on something,” I tell the orderly. “Can you come back later?”
“Sorry,” he answers, wheeling a service cart into my room. He hands me a black plastic bag for wet towels and dirty clothes. “Doc says you’re good to go, and we need the bed. Got a rush case coming in this afternoon.”
A rush case. An image of my hospital room flashes through my head, my mom hovering over me, and later, Savannah’s tears. I wonder if I was a “rush case.” I check the box marked “regular usage” and tell myself I’ll explain to Richard later.
I glance over at Red’s side of the room. He hasn’t made it back from the doctor’s, and I won’t get the chance to tell him I’m changing rooms.
“Do you have a piece of paper I can use?” I ask the orderly. He’s in the bathroom, gathering my “personal effects,” and emerges with a bottle of shampoo and a toothbrush.
“What for?” he asks suspiciously.
I roll my eyes. “Unless there’s a drug craze I haven’t had the pleasure of trying, I doubt paper’s contraband. I just want to write a note.”
The orderly drops my stuff on the bed. “Pack up,” he says. “I’ll see what I can find.”
By the time he’s returned, my zippered duffel’s waiting on the floor beside the trash bag with my dirty clothes. He hands me a piece of printer paper. “Will this work?”
I snatch the paper, scribble a hurried note that I leave on Red’s bed before following the orderly out of the room.
No more nightmares, ok?
See you soon-
E
My new room looks a whole lot like the first. Both beds are neatly made, and clothes hang in a color-coordinated row inside the narrow closet beside the dresser. No sign of my new roommate, but he’s obviously a neat freak.
The orderly drops my stuff on the second bed and tells me I better hurry up and unpack if I want to make it to lunch. I empty the black trash bag of dirty clothes and wet towels onto the floor of my own closet. The picture mom sent along stares up at me atop the pile of clean clothes in my duffel. I set the picture on my dresser, then dump the rest of my stuff into a single drawer.
I nose around the room to see if I can figure out who my roommate is. The small mirror hanging over the dresser is covered in pictures. They look to be pictures of a big family. A big Hawaiian family.
Oh. Hell. No.