MARTHA LOOKED AT her black leather-covered diary. She dreaded all the pencilled-in dates, the crowding out of her time, the hour by hour meetings and sessions and lack of freedom that such organization had brought. The kids were complaining about it too and the weekends were sacrosanct, only for her family.
Checking the date and time, she realized Joshua Harris was late. She’d seen Joshua several times over the past few weeks, and was convinced they were finally making progress. He looked stronger, healthier and had told her he was eating again. Diseases of the soul and spirit were a lot harder to heal and treat than the relatively simple ones of the body and she was much gladdened by his recovery.
She was concerned when Joshua failed to show up for his session. She sat waiting for him for over an hour and a half, imagining the worst, and when she finally got through on his phone was greeted by an indifferent apology about forgetting the time. She swallowed her annoyance and rescheduled. Four days later Wendy Harris called her at home and confided that she was desperately worried about her son and asked her to see him immediately. Evie, Kim and Martha were due to go to the movies to a special showing of Breakfast at Tiffany’s and then for a drink.
‘Say no!’ mouthed Mary Rose, listening to her conversation.
‘I can’t, I can’t!’
Mary Rose got up and tossed the magazine she was reading on the floor, as Martha ended the call and took Wendy’s home address, promising to be there within an hour.
‘Mom, what about Evie and Kim? They’re expecting you to go with them.’
‘Listen, Mary Rose, it’s no big deal. I’ll phone them. I can catch it again another time. OK?’
Crossing the Mass Turnpike she drove for more than a mile and a half, taking the next exit and following directions for the turnoff to Wendy Harris’s home. Pressing the silver button on the automatic gates she gained entry.
Joshua’s mother was more beautiful and petite than she had imagined. Her white blond hair pulled up off her face, she wore a simple knitted sweater and denim jeans.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you so much for coming and giving up your Saturday night, Martha. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that but when Joshua talks about you he always uses your first name.’
‘No, that’s fine. How is he?’
His mother looked like she was going to cry.
‘He moved back in with me about three weeks ago, he’s always had his room here naturally, and it was just so good to have him back. Seeing you has helped him enormously and he was getting back to the old Josh, the one before . . .’
‘And what happened?’
‘I don’t know, he went out last night to meet one of his friends at some nightclub. It was nearly breakfast time when he got back.’
‘And?’
‘And he had that look – the pupils dilated, that white tone to his skin, that stupid mellow expression on his face, I’ve seen it so many times before. I said it to him. He denied it of course!’
‘Mrs Harris, surely you should be talking to one of Josh’s counsellors or the clinic he was in,’ suggested Martha, feeling well out of her league.
‘He just wanted to see you, Martha, that’s all.’
She followed Wendy Harris upstairs and knocked lightly on Josh’s door before she entered.
He looked awful: skinny and pale, he was lying on the bed in a crumpled T-shirt and a pair of shorts, strung out, his eyes bleary.
‘How you doing, Martha?’
She said nothing, torn between anger and disappointment in him.
‘So Mohammed came to the mountain!’ he joked, scratching his head and greasy hair.
‘Josh – why?’
He laughed.
‘I got high, and it’s good, you know!’
‘I can’t help you when you’re like this,’ she insisted, staring at him. ‘Why did you ask your mother to phone me?’
‘I wanted you to touch me,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s the only way to take the pain away, I need you to heal me.’
‘Heal you? Joshua, I can’t heal you, the only person that can heal you is you.’
‘I can’t do that,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Yes you can, you know you can,’ she cajoled.
He stayed silent, considering. Martha hoped that he would at least try again.
Wendy came into the room. ‘His father wants him to go back into rehab again,’ she said nervously, pressing her arms and looking out into the dark. ‘They have a place for him.’
‘What do you want to do, Josh?’ enquired Martha.
He turned his face to the wall, his eyes welling with tears.
Martha moved forward to comfort him. Putting her arms around him she could sense his disappointment in himself and his need to regain some independent control of his life. Her hands picked up that he was bloody and torn and battle weary. She tried to lift the gripping pain from him, only succeeding in creating a small chink of light in such darkness.
‘I’ll still be here, Josh,’ she promised. ‘We can take up where we were and I’ll work with you for as long as it takes, but first you have to sort out your drug problem.’
‘Josh baby, you need help!’ pleaded his mother. ‘Your father has it all set up, we just have to call him.’
‘Joshua, listen to your mom and dad, they both love you and want what’s best for you.’
Finally he agreed to be readmitted that night. Wendy phoned his father to arrange it. Glenn Harris was insistent that he would drive his son to the clinic in New Haven himself.