A month after Sarah told me she thought she could change her life by having a baby, things started to disappear: Sharon’s pain pills, $500 from my wallet, our cars. Sarah claimed she had errands to run, friends to meet. She would run to the grocery store in Sharon’s white Volvo but not return until the next morning. She borrowed Tess’s truck to take the short drive from their cabin to Sharon’s house, and by the time she brought it back, the previously full gas tank was nearly empty. She would visit my mother but make an excuse to leave right away. My mother lamented how skinny she was, but still said Sarah looked like a young Kate Moss. When my money went missing, Sarah suggested I must have dropped it out of my purse on the walk down the hill to my car. She was sympathetic and spent an hour with me looking for it.
Sarah told Sharon and me that sober meant everything: no pot, no booze, no drugs. She told Tess and friends that sober meant no hard drugs. She told Tess she was worried Sharon was taking too many pain pills, but then told Sharon she should ask for stronger pain medication. She told all of us she and Ryan were getting married, and started nodding off while showing me the engagement ring he was going to buy her online. She said she was exhausted, sick, on her period, suffering from anxiety attacks, working too much.
Tess found heroin in Sarah’s wallet. Sarah claimed it was someone else’s, said she was helping that person get clean by holding on to it. Things blew up when the three of us decided to talk to her together.
“You need to get help, let us help you.”
“You can’t live here if you are getting high.”
“Do you think we are fucking stupid?”
“We are worried about you.”
Her response was a tirade, a confusing jumble of half truths and accusations that no one believed in her. She held up her phone to me.
“Do you see this?” she screamed. “Every phone call is my sponsor, and I text her every day.” She was right; I could see that “Lynn, Sponsor” was on her call log, over and over again. “Would I be talking to her if I wasn’t clean?” She stomped outside to smoke a cigarette while Tess, Sharon, and I hovered in the living room, trying to figure out what to do next.
I went and sat with her. She blew smoke angrily toward the expanse of trees down below us. “You guys never fucking believe me.”
“Would you believe me if you found coke in my purse and I said I was keeping it for a friend?” I asked gently. A few years of sobriety and therapy had made me realize that I needed to work on my critical spirit. I was trying to fold tenderness into the way I loved my family.
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Because you are my sister.” She gave a hacking cough. “Doesn’t fucking matter, no one ever believes me. I’m the fucked-up one in the family, and no matter what I do, you guys will always think so.”
I tried to stay calm. “I don’t think you’re a fuckup, Sarah, I think you’re an addict. Which I get, remember? I’m sober, and I know how hard it is.”
She snorted with derisive laughter. “Right, says the person who has never detoxed or gone to rehab.”
“What can I do to help right now?”
“You can believe me.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Then fuck you guys, and fuck this place.”
Sarah drove off with a friend, furious with all of us. She texted me a day later that she was shooting up in a Motel 6 and that it was all my fault, since I hadn’t believed she was clean. I picked her up, convinced her to try and detox at my house.
The first day, she lay on the couch, tossing and turning, trying to distract herself from the pain with bad TV. She told me she was craving Chinese food, and I ordered all her favorite dishes. She could only manage a couple bites before running to the bathroom, retching. Her legs shook, and I could see muscle cramps take over her body. She took baths every hour or so; the hot water soothed her spasming body. She chain-smoked on my front porch and texted furiously on her phone. She was restless and angry. I sat next to her on the couch and took her hand. “If you die,” I said, “it will ruin my life.” She knew, she said, and turned away from the conversation.
With Sharon
By the third day, I had figured out her passcode so I could break into her phone. I scrolled through her messages, looking for any sign that Sarah had been using for as long as we suspected. Finding nothing, I guiltily clicked on a text thread between her and “Lynn, Sponsor.” I realized that it wasn’t her sponsor, it was simply what she had named her drug dealer in her phone.