Losing Track: A Living Heartwood Novel Page 6
There’s my cue. I stand and make for the door. “Thanks for everything…again. I’ll see you next week.”
Not even Jacquie has been able to draw that out of me. She knows the deal, has read my file. But the facts have never come from me. And today’s not the day for change.
I race down the stairway toward the rest of my day. Toward the routine that will keep all the bad suppressed where it belongs.
Melody
Screaming in the void of our decay
ONE WEEK IN—AND I’m seriously about to lose my shit.
Scooping up a soggy spoonful of mashed potatoes, I turn to say something about them to Dar...
And reality slams me full-on in the gut.
I keep doing that. Forgetting.
Damn it to hell.
I don’t know how to do this. Darla and I have been nearly inseparable since the seventh grade. We’d known each other before then, had gone to grade school together, had the same classes, recesses, but she’d been this shy little thing. While I was hanging out with the boys, beating the shit out of most and secretly crushing on the rest, she was a wallflower. Her nose always in a journal.
It wasn’t until Marcy DeLuca—the spawn of Satan and your resident mean girl (every school has one)—cornered Darla in a bathroom stall that we became friends. I’d never thought much about the shy girl, who wore the same clothes for every day of the week. Who seemed content to mind her own business. Hell, I kind of admired her for that. But when Marcy started to read her journal aloud to the cackling Marcy clones, and I watched as Darla crumpled to the floor and started hyperventilating, a fierce need to protect her coupled with my hatred for bullies and I reacted.
I ripped the journal from Marcy’s manicured fingers and pushed her up against the wall, threatening to tell the whole school about the time I caught her drunk, getting it on with Carter Lemons (your resident school troll) at the bonfire.
I handed Darla her journal. Slit my gaze at the bitches as they retreated. I didn’t ask Darla questions about the parts of her journal I’d heard, regarding her sickening dad—and I think that’s why we became friends.
I came from a broken family and so did she. No explanations needed.
Before Dar, I never needed anyone. I learned early on that you couldn’t trust people. My dad didn’t keep his promise to always be there, and my mom…well, that’s on the ol’ man, too. He left me behind with her.
And I made damn sure I didn’t let anyone close enough to discover my weaknesses and use them against me. I didn’t need anyone to spell it out for me; I was angry, not stupid. I knew what my problems were. Dar knew her issues, too.
From then, we were inseparable. Sisters. Dar began to come out of her shell around junior year, when we were finally old enough to get into our local biker dive bar. The MC lifestyle had been a part of me forever—the biggest part. And it was the closest thing I still had to my dad. But that aside, I loved the idea of hitting the road whenever I wanted, going anywhere I wanted—the freedom. The escape.
Dar loved this idea, too. She’d listen with rapt attention any time I talked to her about the idealism. But she also enjoyed the attention she got from bikers. That was her escape.
I didn’t judge. She deserved to have fun after the shitty childhood she’d suffered with her dirt bag father and emotionally unavailable mother. I knew she’d never be serious enough about a single one of those guys to abandon me. And I’d laugh in any guy’s face who thought I’d ditch her and go on the road with him. That was our signal to bail. It was an unspoken understanding between us. It would always be us.
“Mind if I sit?”
A gruff voice interrupts my reverie. I blink.
“You look deep in thought about those mashed potatoes,” Boone says as he slides into the seat across from me.
I realize I’m still holding up the spoon, the soggy starch side-dish dripping clumps onto my plate. Putting the utensil down, I push the tray away and straighten my back. “I didn’t actually give you permission.” Cocking an eyebrow, I glance over his baby blue T-shirt and the colorful tats that peek out from beneath the sleeves and travel down his forearms.
“Isn’t that really just a formality?” He scoops up a spoonful of his own soppy potatoes. “Besides, this isn’t grade school. No assigned seats. They trust us to make good choices.”
I smirk. “Yeah, because obviously, that’s what got us in here.”
This earns me a grin from him, and he lays his spoon on the tray without taking a bite. “So you accept responsibility. That takes years for some, never for most. That’s a major step, Melody.”
My insides flare, and I cut my eyes at him. This whole “savior to the masses” thing he has going on has got to be an act. And if it’s not, it’s annoying as hell. “Look, if Doc Sid sent you to ‘reach out to me”—I make air quotes—“I’m not interested. Just tell him I’m on, like, step number three or whatever. Whichever one you’re preaching about. That should make him happy, and get him off my back.” I mumble this last part.
“That’s step number one.” Tilting his head, he smiles. It’s infuriating, with that damn dimple. But I’m less charmed by its powers today, and it’s more condescending than cute this second. I think about punching it. “And he didn’t send me. I just thought you could use the company.”
From my peripheral, I spy every other table circled by groups. This isn’t a very big place, maybe thirty patients admitted at any given time, but I’ve discovered they clump together quickly here. Like the lumpy mashed potatoes.
“I won’t die of solitude for the next twelve days. In fact, I prefer it.” My gaze holds his, owning the bluff, only my words couldn’t be more false. I’ve always surrounded myself with people; close members of Lone Breed, like Jesse, who cruise to the same rallies. New friends I meet on the road, chums for a night of partying. Whatever crowd my latest boy toy hangs with. Patrons I get to know at the bars where I’ve scored a job.
And then there was always Dar. Even when I counted myself as alone, she was there. This is the first time in my life since I left home that I have absolutely no one.
Boone’s gaze squints, as if he’s trying to suss out the truth. The guy is sharp; I doubt I’m fooling him. “Maybe I need some alone time.” I shrug. “Did you ever think of that, oh wise one? To think things through for myself and shit. Your being here might be hindering my personal growth.”
His easy features tense into a strained, tight-lipped smile. He seems to consider this for a moment before he says, “Alone is an addict’s worst enemy.”
I roll my eyes. “Look, if we’re even going to attempt to be affable—” he cranes an eyebrow, so I clarify “—I didn’t say friends, slick. Affable. Non-threatening acquaintances of the pleasant, no prying variety…then you have got to stop saying shit like that. I’m in rehab, dude. Let the rehabbers do their job. I don’t need sobriety preachers coming at me from all angles.”
He presses back into his chair, his features masked, unreadable. “Fair enough.” He goes to stand and I laugh, halting his movements.
“That’s it?” I ask. Wow, I’ve never so efficiently blown a guy off before. I’m not even sure if that was my goal.
“Sure,” he says. “Non-threatening acquaintances of the pleasant, no prying variety works for me, and I feel we’ve reached the required pleasantry quota for the day.” He winks, and my lips tremble on a smile.
“This could be fun, duce,” I say. “So, more non-invasive civility tomorrow?”
He glances at his plate, stirs his soupy potatoes, and pushes his chair back. “I meant what I said before…” His tone shifts to a serious note, and my defenses flare. “About holding you to that date. It’s been a while for me, wanting to spend time with anyone—but I think I could handle…or I’d like to…” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, looking flustered. I almost blush for his awkwardness, but instead I just watch. I can’t get a clear read on him. If this is part of his game or if it’s genuine.
“Right. I can handle that.” His hazel gaze focuses on me. “So we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything else. You don’t have to fear that from me. Simply hanging with an actual, living person rather than my TV is all I’m after.”
I screw up my face, confused.
“There’s lots of alone time when you don’t like hanging out with recovering addicts at the local coffee dispensing group meetings.” He finally stands, stares down at me. “I know all about alone, Melody. Trust me, you don’t do alone better than I do.” He walks a couple of steps, halts, then turns to add, “Bye. For now.”
As I watch him walk off, my side aches. I push my fist into the twinge beneath my ribs, then roll my eyes. I don’t want to get into this, to get involved with someone else’s sob story. To take in yet another broken guy and bang his brains out until I realize he’s damaged goods. Beyond repair. I like my guys like I like my jobs—easy to walk away from when they’re no longer fun.
And annoyingly, that last, despairing look he gave me starts eating away at my resolve.
It’s my fucking Kryptonite.
I always have to stick my nose in it. Yoda Mel, with her worldly wisdom to the rescue.
What is my problem, Dar? I touch her charm—the little silver bare-branched tree—wishing with that ever-present hard lump in my throat that she could answer. She should’ve given me more shit; I fall for just as many lamers.
But Boone did agree to no prying, which means if I don’t ask, he won’t ask. I could stand a little male attention, maybe even a new pal, while I’m stuffed away in this place. And he’s a pal who’s not so bad to look at. I really dig his tats and stretched ears.
With a grunt, I stand and pick up my tray. After I dump my half-eaten dry beef and cold green beans and mushed potatoes into the trash, I think about following the others to the assembly room where the guest speakers are giving their speeches. One of which is Boone.
Why the hell does he tell the same damn story every week? Why the hell do the same damn people go to listen?
I decide to take off on my own. Wander the outside court area. I’d rather melt in the sweltering heat than listen to his hitting bottom story again. Callous? Maybe. Jaded? Absolutely.
Sure, I get it’s an “almost” tragic story, but he’s alive, right? All’s well that ends well. I don’t understand why he’s so bent on recovery when his story doesn’t really show hitting bottom. Not rock bottom. Like the other speakers I heard last week.
He lost his mother. Okay, that’s terrible. Tragic, even. I know how badly losing a parent hurts—how it can fuck with a person’s head. Especially since his mom OD’d. But when I lost my dad—much in the same way; a lifetime of partying caught up to him—I didn’t go off the deep end and start shouting the straightedge creed from the rooftops.
And I lost Darla—
Anger pools fire-hot in the pit of my stomach. I force my thoughts away from her, that night, Jessie… Because regret is useless. Nothing in life is forever. Most certainly not the things or people you love. What does matter: moving forward. Hitting the road and living, being free. For them and yourself.
That’s exactly what I would’ve done had my wings not been clipped.
Whatever. I’ve already been thinking about Boone and his presumed issues too long. Simply because I don’t have anything else to puzzle out. I probably wouldn’t have considered him for more than a minute had I been able to pin him down and get inside his head.
Or maybe there’s nothing to unravel at all.
I’m most likely fixating on something insignificant in order to ignore the blaring noise of my life fracturing—totally subconsciously.
Or I could be flat out crazy.
Don’t crazy people obsess over the small, insignificant details?
Shit. I glance around. I’ve walked right past the door leading to the courtyard and ended up back at the rooms.
Frustrated, I throw myself onto my bed and pull out a packet of gum. Ever since my first night here, when the nausea about killed me, I’ve been chewing minty freshness like I can chomp my way to freedom. Like I can chew back whatever vile, Exorcist substance might spew from my mouth. The mint helps.
It has gotten better, though. The severe withdrawal symptoms didn’t come back after that first, initial purging. I’m not shaking, or sweating, or cramping. But it’s always on my mind; the want. The constant thought of snorting a rail, of that first bitter taste. The drop, and the numbing of my lips.
The feel of the needle first grazing my skin. The, oh, so good burn. The rush.
Just thinking about it makes me so anxious I’m about to chew through my tongue.
“Hey.” My jail mate walks in and sits on the floor, leaning her back against her bed. “You didn’t feel like going, either?”
I shake my head against the pillow. “Nope. Heard one tale of woe, you’ve heard them all.”
I see her smile from the corner of my eye as she ties her curly dark hair back with a hairband. She’s this tiny, skinny, frail thing. Granted she’s sweet, but I can see some major rage boiling under her thin surface.
“Right,” she says. “I’m feeling the same tonight.” She digs between her mattress and tweaks out a black and white marbled notebook.
I instantly think of Dar and her journals. While Ari scribbles something along the margin of her page, I turn on my side.
“You write poetry or something,” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve inquired anything of anyone here—and that’s not like me. I’m all about meeting new people, finding out about their lives. It’s a part of the road I love; learning the different walks of life.
But in here, all I’ve wanted to do for the past week is contemplate escape. I don’t care to get to know any of them. I’m scared they will tether me more securely to this place. Make me one of them. That I’ll never get out.
Ari shakes her head. “No, not poetry,” she says, and reaches under her bed and grabs another journal. “Here.” She tosses the notebook onto my bed beside me. “It helps the time go by faster. And ironically”—she taps her head—“it helps you get out of here.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I pick up the black and white journal and trace my finger along the fabric of the spine. Memories flood my mind, my senses. I can smell the stale mothball scent of Darla’s old trailer.
Forcing those painful reminders aside, rather, I dredge up the memory of the musty poem books that lined my bedroom shelves as a girl. They’re the only thing I regretted leaving behind when I left. Maya Angelou. Edgar Allan Poe. Lord Byron. Victor Hugo.
It would be comforting to have those old friends here with me now. But it’s damn hard to cart around piles of books on a bike. A sacrifice made.
“I used to write poetry,” I say, kind of out loud, mostly to myself. “I wrote it in my head while on the road. Just cool things I saw and wanted a way to remember.” I glance at her. “Can’t always stop to snap a pic while on a bike.”
She squints one eye. “Wow, Mel. That’s deep.” She smiles to let me know she’s effing with me. “Well, in here, it’s better to put it in writing and get it out of your head. You don’t need mental snapshots of this place.”
“True,” I agree.
I go to reach for my pen and stop. Look back at Ari, curiosity making me nosy. “You don’t seem like you have a drug problem.” I make air quotes with one hand. “Why are you even here, Ari?”
Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks like she’s considering whether or not to give me the real story. Then, “I don’t have one. Not technically. I’ve had an eating disorder since I was in middle school, and last year I got caught with speed. At my college.” She diverts her eyes from me. “I wasn’t addicted or anything. I just used when…when I felt extra bad. Like I needed the help.”
I feel my forehead crease. “So you…put yourself here?”
She shakes
her head. “Nope. My parents did. They’re the type who don’t like dealing with embarrassing issues, and until my transfer for a new school comes through, they don’t want to be burdened.” She makes her own air quotes at this.
“But wait. You’re not a minor. They can’t force you into treatment, can they?”
She sighs. “It’s complicated. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Okay.” I give her a quick nod. I get when it’s time to back off.
As she delves off into her own world, I give her some privacy and crack the journal. I stare at the crisp blank page. And the first thing I see in my mind’s eye is Boone. He was the first person I took note of when I arrived here, and he’s been the one to pull the most emotion from me since.
Whether it’s good or bad emotion…I guess it still counts.
Makes sense. He’s so infuriating. He’s the epitome of a recovery junkie. Those walk-the-straight-and-narrow asshats who force everyone around them to either join their occult or listen to their stories until your ears bleed and you off yourself.
Normally, I’m not this judgmental, and a straightedger like Boone wouldn’t have even registered on my mocking radar—but hell, it’s been a shitty month. Even I need an emotional punching bag once in a while.
I reach for the pen on the little table beside my bed. Boone might as well be where I start my own story. Or rather, the detour of my story.
Only as I begin to write, remembering our convo about keeping our secrets from each other, I find myself wishing he could have met Dar. Maybe that’s why I’m so off my game—she’s the other half of me, the part he or anyone else in my future will never meet. There’s nothing I can tell him of myself without her.
Are you listening, my grudge?
Do you hear her silence?
Whispers of thoughts never voiced, failed heart echoed off the void,