I wake up with a jolt—panicked and confused.
Grey light streams in through the window. I’m still in Libby’s room.
My arm’s asleep where Libby’s head rests on it, and I crane my neck for a glimpse of the clock on the bedside table.
5:10 AM.
Shit.
Libby’s face is nuzzled peacefully against my chest; her breathing is steady and deep. But I am freaking out.
From the hallway comes the sound of the nurse’s med cart; she’s making her last rounds. I ease my arm out from under Libby, careful not to wake her, and sit up, wracking my brain for a way out of this mess.
I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s on the other side. I ease it open and peer out. The nurse’s cart is parked outside of the room next door. I can hear her talking to the kid inside. “Good morning, Jerry,” she crows. “You’re looking better already.”
Libby’s room is next.
I slip out into the empty hallway. Sleepy chatter trickles down the hall from the nurses’ station. The night shift is wrapping up. I know I’m fucked, but desperation makes me brave, and I do the only thing I can.
I walk down the hall and out to the nurses’ station like I belong there.
There’s an open box of donuts behind the counter, and two nurses hover over it, their backs to me. I’ll never make it through the doors without them hearing me. So I make a balls-to-the-wall irrational play and step forward until I’m facing the nurses’ station.
“Excuse me,” I say.
The nurses startle and turn around quickly. One of them is chewing a bite of donut. She has powdered sugar on her cheek. The other looks at me, confused. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. You had a patient come in last night? Her name’s Libby. I was hoping I could see her.”
The donut nurse blinks. “Are you a resident?”
I nod.
“How’d you even get in here?” the other nurse demands. “That door’s supposed to stay locked.”
I shrug. “It was open, and I just walked through.”
Donut Nurse mutters under her breath. “If I’ve told housekeeping once, I’ve told them a thousand times. They have to pull that door closed all the way.” Her chubby fingers reach for a pen, and she scribbles something on a yellow Post-it pad. I hope I didn’t get anybody in trouble.
I clear my throat. “So, about Libby . . .”
Exasperation edges the nurse’s voice. “Of course you can’t see her,” she snaps. “Detox patients are on blackout. No phone calls, no visitors. She’ll join the program in a few days. Now get out of here before I call an orderly.”
Gladly.
I point toward the double doors I snuck through last night. “Should I let myself out?”
Donut Nurse rolls her eyes. She punches a button behind the nurses’ station. The doors crank open like a drawbridge, offering safe passage.
“Thanks,” I say, and then I remember that I’m supposed to be disappointed. “I mean, thanks a lot.”
The nurses ignore me, already clucking to one another about the irresponsible housekeeping crew. Leaving their grumbling behind me, I haul ass through the empty lobby.
Red’s taking forever to answer his door. I knock again, a little louder this time, all the while casting nervous looks over my shoulder for the orderlies I’m sure are about to come barreling around the corner after me. “Red,” I whisper. “Red, open the damn door.”
Finally, the door cracks open. Red’s eyes are squinty with sleep, and he wears a white t-shirt with boxers. “What time is it?” he grumbles.
“Morning,” I tell him, and I push the swipe card into his hand.
His fingers close around it, and his eyes widen with recognition, with relief. “You did it.”
I nod.
“Did you get caught?”
I throw another furtive glance down the hall. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” Red’s voice rises. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?” Behind him, Red’s roommate stirs in his sleep.
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I had to improvise to get out, that’s all.”
“Improvise?” Red’s eyes narrow as he takes in my appearance. “Aren’t those the same clothes you had on yesterday?”
I glance down at my shirt. “It’s probably better if you don’t ask questions.”
“I’m going back to bed.” Red takes a backward step into his room.
“Red?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“If they find out, I swear I won’t say it was you. I’ll keep your name out of it 100%. Okay?”
Red nods, his mouth curling into a sleepy smile. “Tell me one thing: was it worth it?”
I pause, searching for an answer.
Red means seeing Libby. He means maybe getting caught.
But when I finally answer him, I mean more than that. I mean the last 23 days. I mean cracking open, over and over again.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It was worth it.”
“Good.” Red retreats into his room and shuts the door behind him.
Back at my room, I’m antsy. There are two hours until breakfast, and I know I can’t sleep. I need to do something. I pull on a pair of gym shorts and my sneakers. Screw doc’s orders. I need to run.
The lights are off when I get to the gym. I find the switch, and the overhead bulbs flicker on. The room is eerily silent, except for the steady hum of fluorescent lights. I choose a treadmill in the middle of the long line and crank it up to 6.0 mph—a relatively easy jog, but after three weeks of no running, my legs feel cast in iron.
One foot in front of the other. My feet find a steady rhythm. Left foot. Right foot. Inhale. Exhale.
I try to focus on my pace, my breathing, but I can’t stop thinking about Libby.
Alone in the bathroom, the pills in her hand, the razor against her wrist.
Didn’t she know that there are people who love her? People who would miss her? Didn’t that matter to her at all?
My fingers jam the speed button. 7.0 mph.
My breath quickens. My legs burn.
I think about my dad.
How he left me. How he died.
8.5 mph. My lungs ache, and my muscles are screaming.
My feet pound my story into the treadmill. Left foot. Right foot. Inhale. Exhale.
He left me. He left me. He left me.
And then I think about myself, about the people I’ve hurt, the ones I’ve left behind.
Savannah’s tear-streaked face in the hospital the morning after I overdosed.
Mom’s weary head on my chest.
Benny, who still believes in magic and is too young to know the truth.
Benny.
9.0 mph and I can’t breathe.
I can’t go home. I can’t face up to everything I’ve done and everyone I’ve hurt. The pain is too much. Red was right. Feeling is the hardest. And I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.
And then I think about Chase, the pills I left on the floor of the Tahoe. And I’m wishing I could rewind, scoop them up, and hide them in my pocket. I’d lock myself in the bathroom, and I’d let the whole world fall away. I’d disappear all over again.
And then what? Would I end up like Mo—rehab my second home? Or Red, with a needle in my arm and a gun to my face? Would I end up like Howard, a homeless, panhandling junkie, plunging used needles for a leftover high?
Would I end up like my dad?
I pound out the miles, trying to outrun this gaping hole inside me that nothing, nothing can fill. I grip the dashboard, willing my legs forward until I can’t . . .
. . . can’t
. . . can’t
run anymore.
I jam the emergency stop button, and I lurch forward, barely catching myself before I sink to my knees.
There’s not enough air in the world.
I bend over, clutching my sides, heaving in and out until finally, I can breathe again.
Inhale. Exhale.
My breath comes in gasps and wheezes.
And I wonder if Richard Fisher is right—if addiction really is a disease. A disease that doesn’t give a shit about love, loyalty, or willpower. No matter how much you love your girlfriend or your family. No matter how much they love you.
Maybe Howard’s mom had it right. Addiction is the monster, not the person.
Maybe recovery can be a long and broken road.
Maybe, like Mo said, sobriety is a daily decision.
“Fuck addiction,” I mumble out loud.
I pull myself up and ease the speed up to 6.0 mph.
Inhale. Exhale.
One foot in front of the other.
“Fuck addiction,” I say again, louder this time. My voice echoes in the empty gym.
“FUCK ADDICTION!” My words graffiti the cement walls.
I’m sitting on the old brown couch in Richard Fisher’s office, picking at the worn patch of denim over my knee.
Richard Fisher is reading my purple notebook, the list he’d asked me to write about the challenges waiting for me at home. Every few minutes, he comments on something he’s read, but I’m barely listening. All I’m thinking about is Libby, and whether or not I’m going to tell Richard Fisher the truth.
“It seems like going back to school is your biggest concern,” Richard Fisher says.
I nod weakly—sure, it’s my biggest concern, second to getting kicked out of LakeShore. With only four days left, I finally want to make the most of it. And I’m pretty sure sneaking into detox would be the final nail in my coffin. But I want to know what’s going to happen to Libby. I want Richard Fisher to tell me she’s going to be okay.
“There are options, you know?” he continues. “You only have a trimester left. We could talk to your mom. There are cyber-schools . . .”
I glance at the clock, the second hand that’s maybe frozen because I swear to God it hasn’t moved since I got here.
Richard Fisher clears his throat. “Something bothering you, Eli?”
I meet his gaze, and it’s so open, so familiar, that I decide to tell him the truth. Sort of.
“Libby’s back.”
Richard Fisher sinks back in his creaking swivel chair. “You’ve heard.”
I nod.
Richard takes a deep breath. His face gets all serious, like he’s about to talk me down from a ledge. And rightfully so. It’s a ledge I’ve been on a few times since I came to LakeShore. Wanting to give up. Wanting to go home. But not this time. This time is different.
“Eli . . .” Richard begins.
“Relax,” I tell him. “I just want to know what’s going to happen to her.”
Richard Fisher taps his pen against my open notebook. “She’s going to finish detox, and then she’ll rejoin the program.”
“And then what?”
Richard raises his eyebrows.
“You know what I mean,” I say, fighting the rising urgency in my voice. “How are you going to keep her safe? How are you going to keep her from going back home? Don’t you have some sort of long-term program or something? What are you going to do?”
Richard Fisher lets out a heavy exhale. “You know I can’t discuss that with you, Eli.”
“But I need to know!” I slap the coffee table, and the sound echoes in the tiny office, surprising us both.
I take a deep breath. “I care about her, Richard. I’ve changed since I got here, you know? I know Libby and I aren’t . . . Look, I get it, okay? But I can’t handle not knowing what’s going to happen to her. I have to know she’s going to be okay.”
Richard Fisher gives me a small, sad smile. “One of the hardest parts of getting sober, Eli, is finding out that life isn’t perfect. There are no guarantees. And for the first time in your life, you’re going to have to deal with that kind of uncertainty without using drugs as a crutch.”
I sink back into the lumpy cushions, thinking of the pills in Chase’s car. The What-If’s buzz through my brain like hungry mosquitoes, and I know exactly how Mo felt that night before he left. What if I can’t stay clean? What if all the self-control in the world isn’t enough? What’s going to keep me from coming right back here? Anxiety shoots through me, and my palms grow slick with sweat. “What if I can’t?” I ask. “What if I’m not strong enough?”
“None of us are strong enough on our own,” Richard Fisher says. “That’s what Step Two is all about.”
I stare down at my empty hands. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”
Richard Fisher leans forward, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Sometimes you have to fake it until you make it. Act yourself into a new way of thinking. You’re not the same kid you were before. You have the tools to stay clean. Whether you use them or not is entirely up to you. But you and I aren’t done, you know? We still have to finalize your aftercare program, which is going to involve lots of NA meetings and outpatient counseling. We have a long way to go, kid, but if you’re willing to do the work, you’ll find that there’s another way to live. Eventually, it won’t matter how crazy or unfair life is—you can be peaceful inside anyway.”
I consider his words. That kind of peace feels a long way off.
“When you say lots of meetings, how many are we talking, exactly?”
Richard Fisher rolls his eyes.
“Seriously, give me a ballpark figure.”
Richard throws his pen at me. “Get outta town.” He points down at my purple notebook. “Are we going to talk about this entry, or not?”
I glance up at the clock again—there’s ten minutes left to my session. And I don’t want to waste any of them. “Yeah,” I say. “Tell me more about cyber-school.”