The next few weeks passed in hues of gray. The physical symptoms of withdrawal subsided, but Vanna’s emotional state was shaky. Bouts of listlessness during which she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed alternated with irritable, manic periods. She didn’t want to live; she didn’t want to die. She spent most of her time in her room, wondering how her life had come to this.
One morning she was lying on her bed when she heard a voice. “Vanna.”
She sat bolt upright. The voice was her father’s. She knew it better than she knew her own. She gazed around the room in a panic. Where had it come from? How was it possible? She slid off her bed. It took only about two seconds to search the tiny room—there was only the bed, a chest of drawers, and an empty closet. She looked under the bed. Nothing. She threw open the closet door. Empty. She sucked in a breath. She’d been so sure.
She lay down again, trying to make sense of what she’d heard. It must have been a dream. She must have been dozing. But it was so real. His inflection, his tone, the underlying warmth in his voice. Was it just a heroin dream? Or was it something else? If felt as if he’d reached down from heaven—or wherever he was—to let her know she was on his mind. That everything was okay. That he was there and he loved her.
She blinked back tears.