Hotel Rehab was enlightening. Blinding even. Someone should put warning labels on those souls working through their steps. They could cause seizures in the rest of us.
“You had sex with Mr. Adams?” I blinked, absorbing all that Mom had disclosed. “Mr. He-Really-Could-Be-A-Member-Of-The-Addams-Family Adams? But he’s so hairy, and pervy, and there’s that whole restraining order with his ex issue. Screw, owning up to your past, I don’t care what step you is working on. I am no longer an active participant in this heinous conversation.” Mom looked like she had a lot more to say, and as we did have fifteen minutes left to my weekly visit, I took precautionary measures.
I plugged my ears. “La, la, la, I can’t hear you…”
“Oh, Charlie, you’re so funny,” Mom gushed - unfortunately I could still hear every word she said. “Why haven’t I noticed it before? I gave birth to a beautiful, comedian baby.” She gave a trill of laughter.
A freaking trill. Mom had snorted, squealed like a pig, belched, giggled, and thrown the odd slap-happy conniption while watching a movie, but trilling was new. The idea of Mom needing help to get beyond her reliance on a chemical buffer from the world – I was okay with that. But the fake laughter? The permagrin?
I didn’t like it.
“Time’s up.” I lowered my hands, but not my guard. This shiny-and-new-mommy made me nervous. The last time I saw her like this was a week after dad’s funeral when she locked herself in the bathroom with a forty of rye and a bottle of sleeping pills. My chest tightened as the image resurfaced and along with it the desperation, the fear.
The betrayal.
I hadn’t been enough for Mom to want to live. Not then, and obviously not ever. What if she couldn’t go on without the drugs? What if she tried to leave me again?
Mom’s face softened as she studied me, her eyes misted. “I love you, Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. You’re my sweet, sweet girl.”
Ugh. Where was a shank when you needed one? What was this place called Rehab? “I gotta go.” I stumbled from Mom’s room. “I’ll see you next week.”
Motivational posters lined the walls of the optimistically bright hallway, black plastic frames of sentimental graffiti.
I couldn’t escape fast enough. I didn’t even give Mom a chance to say good-bye. Was I a bad person? A bad daughter? Is that why dad didn’t come home that night?
In a flash, I am ink.
A red wash over the frame gives the graphic a violent feel.
A coat is wrapped around my thin nightgown, arms wrapped around my chest. I stand on the front porch as my mother slips mutely to the concrete. Then rocks herself back and forth, keening like a dog.
“Take the kid inside,” a police officer orders. “She doesn’t need to see this.”
But it’s too late. I have seen. I have heard. My father is dead, and so is the unknown woman in the passenger seat beside him.
I bite the hands that reach for me, drawing blood.
“What floor?”
The images are so life-like I can taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.
“I said, ‘What floor?’ Did you hear me? What floor do you want?”
The question comes from a guy around my age. Tall, cute, and wearing a faded Zeppelin T-shirt over a long-sleeved hoodie, a black fisherman’s hat pulled low over his ears, his index finger hovering over a panel of glowing moons.
I blink and the world comes into focus.
My pulse knocked in my throat. Okay, which floor did I need?
Blinking hard, I stared at the blur of people streaming past the glass windows. Why did they have glass elevators in a hospital anyway? What if someone you loved died and you wanted to have yourself a nice private little meltdown on the way to the morgue? What if you just needed a moment before facing the world?
“Hey,” his eyes narrowed, “you’re not going to pass out are you?”
The floor lurched beneath my feet.
“I don’t know.” I swayed. “Am I?”
I felt weird. My legs went numb. I staggered.
He caught me with a grunt, propping me against his chest, his hands spanning my ribcage.
We froze.
My fingers clutched the soft black cotton at his waist, grasping for additional support. Pushing his hoodie upward. My knuckles skimmed warm, taunt muscles hidden underneath. His sharp inhalation pushed his chest harder into mine.
Somewhere I felt a hammering, a construction drill cranked to life like it was trying to blast through concrete. And then suddenly, not a drill. A heart, beating out of control.
His or mine?
Love me.
The words - crazy words - raced through my head. Love ME.
We stared.
There was wariness in his eyes. A look I understood, because I was that look. He expected me to push him away, but maybe there could be a different ending, a major plot twist, the kind that got under a character’s skin.
Tangled them in knots.
Our breath mixed. I entwined our fingers, slid his hand up along my sweater. He turned his face away – stock-still, as if afraid any movement would shatter the heat we were building. I cupped his hand to my breast. His chin angled to me then, a moan on his lips, breath warm and sweet on my cheek. A gentle pressure as he gave into the urge to touch, to feel.
It was glorious until he jerked away from me. I stumbled at the loss of his body, but found my feet.
Cursing, he punched a button and the doors swished open. The blast of fresh air made me shiver. He pulled me from the elevator. “Come on, let’s get you looked after.”
His harsh tone got my back up. “I don’t need looking after.” I resisted, but my captor, wannabe savior took no notice of my ineffectual attempts at reclaiming ownership of my arm.
“Are you from the psych ward? How’d you get out?” His expression shifted. Hardened. Concern, or maybe guilt had him avoiding my gaze. “How long were you in there? I saw you make two trips before I decided to check up on you. You can’t really hide in these elevators, you know.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Glass.”
I tried to respond, but I couldn’t think. I’d been rejected. Shut down. Just like I knew would happen. We approached a semi-circular desk. Behind the counter sat a security guard with a grim expression.
“Let me go,” I said. “Let go.” Finally, my body kicked in and my brain unstuck. I pulled away, stared into the guy’s startled eyes, watched his jaw clench.
“Don’t,” he said. “I can help. Let me help you.”
I bolted for the exit.
And hoped never to see his urgent, gorgeous face again.