me by allowing me to
be abused by a long
parade of johns.
He hooked me on
the vicious Lady, to
keep me at his mercy
completely, and within
that addiction, he made
me suffer. He swore
I was beautiful, and
then he made me ugly.
I won’t forgive him.
But how do I forget
him when I can’t fall
out of love with him?
I Don’t Mention That
To Naomi, who’s heard it
before, and won’t accept
my emotional attachment
to a man she views as evil.
She isn’t totally wrong.
Neither do I argue tools and
toolboxes with her.
She’s only doing her job,
and it doesn’t include
convincing me, just repeating
the stuff she tells everyone.
Before I can leave, however,
she tosses a wrench at me.
One last thing that might
help your recovery, especially
in the early stages, when
things are likely to be most
difficult. Find a purpose, and
I don’t mean just returning
to school and getting decent
grades. Try volunteering
somewhere—at an animal
shelter, or maybe mentoring
a child who needs help learning
to read. Retrain your focus
away from yourself, toward
others. Happiness requires
cultivation. I’m here to show
you how to plant seeds of change.
Planting Seeds of Change
Sounds good, and that’s what
I tell her, right before I go.
But the truth is, I’m scared
of change. Every time I try
it, something goes wrong.
Still, I’ll be out of this place
in a few days. I’ve only been
here three months, and I’m not
sure I’m ready to go, but there
it is. Rehab costs a ton, and while
Mom would probably like to see
me stay longer, Dad’s paying
the bill, and I don’t think
he believes seeds of change
have actually been planted.
Maybe he’s right, because
the idea of going home scares
the crap out of me. What if I
go ahead and relapse right here
instead? Would he have to let
me stay then? Wow. I might
have found the solution.
There’s still the problem with
having no cash. What could I
barter? The answer comes rushing
at me, slams against my gut.
Duh. My body is a commodity.
I just have to find the right dealer.
Now That a Different Seed
Has burrowed into my brain,
it sprouts and grows quickly.
I’ve overheard this girl, Dana,
talking about disguising
her highs. I seek her out, hoping
Naomi et al. will be happy
I’m making a new friend.
I find her, just finishing breakfast,
plop down across the table.
“Hey. Delicious cardboard
pancakes, yeah?” She looks up
from her plate, offers a smile.
Frisbees, you mean? Dana
swallows what’s left of hers
anyway, then asks, Did you
need something from me?
“I was wondering if you might
happen to know where I could
score something to help me sleep.
Every time I actually doze off,
these goddamn nightmares wake
me back up. I’d give just about
anything to stay out an entire night.”
She looks me right in the eye,
trying to figure out where I’m
coming from. Whatever she sees
seems to satisfy her. I might.
But that’s all she says, so I go
ahead and add, “The only problem
is I don’t have any money, so I’d
have to work out a trade.”
She studies me harder. What
do you want, and what can
you give in exchange for it?
I shrug. “Powder or pills,
doesn’t really matter. What
I’ve got is a talent for great
sex.” Still, she makes me wait.
How old are you, anyway?
And are you really sure you
want to fuck up your rehab?
“I’m sixteen. Age of consent
in California, so whoever is safe
that way. And yes, I’m sure, or
I wouldn’t be asking. Will you
help me, or point me to someone
else who will? I’ll be generous.”
My delivery arrives on Sunday.
She reaches her hand across
under the table, rests it on my knee.
So have you ever been with a girl?
The Unexpected Question
Gives me pause.
I figured she’d hook me
up with a male staff
member who’d cut loose
with a finder’s fee.
The truth is, though
I’ve been with more
men than I want to
consider, I haven’t ever
had sex with a girl.
But how hard could
it be? “Of course.”
The lie slips past
my lips like custard.
You’re pretty. I can
spare a couple of pills.
No powder. Too risky.
Sunday night, my room,
after lights-out. I promise
you’ll sleep like a baby,
no dreams, good or bad.
Until then . . . She flicks
her tongue, serpentlike.
You can dream about me.
Now That I’ve Determined
A course of action,
I can hardly wait to put
the car into gear, even if
it might mean motoring
over a very steep cliff.
I’ve chosen a dangerous
route, and yet I feel safer
than I did an hour ago.
Not like my morals
are going to take a hit.
Guys. Girls. What can
it possibly matter?
I suppose I might have
believed I could put
Las Vegas all the way
behind me. But something
like that tails a person,
teeth bared for the bite,
doesn’t it? Guess I’ll have
to develop a tough butt.
God knows the rest of me
is tougher. I think back
to Lucas, how devastated
I was learning he never
cared about me at all.
I was just a little girl
seven months ago.
What am I now?
I Don’t Feel Guilty
Until Sunday, when I, too,
have a visitor—my mom,
who arrives all excited about
the prospect of my coming
home at the end of the week.
We sit out on the patio,
bundled against the chill.
The sun does its best, but
it’s no match for the sharp
November breeze.
Mom doesn’t seem to notice.
So, I’ve talked to your school,
and it’s no problem for you to
start midterm. They’ll bring
you in for an assessment next
month to see how far you’ve
managed to catch up, okay?
I nod, robotlike, knowing
it doesn’t matter at all what
they’ve got planned. Safe.
You won’t believe this, but
I’m actually going to attempt
to cook Thanksgiving dinner.
I’ve been taking some culinary
classes, and I think I can manage
it, with your and Kyra’s help.
She’s flying home for the weekend.
I want us to feel like a family.
Yeah, well, good luck with that.
I half listen to her talk about
everything she’s got planned for me,
though she frames it with the word
“us.” Through the window, I see
Dana talking with her visitor,
who might be her sister. They
look alike. All I can think about
now is what’s coming later,
and anticipation creeps along
my spine, manifesting itself
in a huge crop of goose bumps.
Mom notices me shiver. Cold?
Let’s go inside. I should probably
think about leaving anyway.
Whitney? I want you to know
how proud I am of you for
hanging tough in the program
and digging yourself out.
I was so scared for you. And me.
I know I haven’t told you enough,
but I love you very much, and
I promise to do better as a mother.
She gets to her feet and I join
her for the short walk to
the front door, noticing
Dana’s wink as we pass.
Despite guilt, game on.
Fortuitously
Dana’s room is only three doors
away from mine. I wait almost
an hour after lights-out before
venturing down the hall and
slipping inside. She waits for me
in bed, two little tablets in hand.
“What are they?” I ask, hoping
for the exact answer she gives.
Oxycodone. You into opiates?
Oh, darling, if you only knew.
“I’ll try anything once.” I pop
one, put the other into my pocket
to save for right before our next
drug test. Tonight I’m going to
sink down, down, down. It’s a slow,
lovely drop, and oh, how I’ve longed
for this feeling! Denial is pointless.
Okay, baby. Payment required.
Take off your clothes. Sex is better
naked. She watches me strip, pulls
back her covers, and I shimmy in
beside her already nude body.
There’s a pretty girl. Kiss me.
The one thing I never did with
a john was kiss them, or let them
kiss me. But, even as a form of payment,
kissing Dana isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s nice.
Maybe it’s the oxy, or maybe it’s
because she’s a girl, not in spite
of that fact, or maybe it’s just because
I’ve missed being intimate with anyone,
but the heat of her skin, which is satin
soft, and the rich perfume of her
femaleness turns me on completely.
No, I’ve never been with a woman
before, but everything feels familiar,
from the curves of her heavy breasts
to the invitation between her slim thighs,
and my mouth and tongue and fingers
know exactly what to do to pay my debt
in full. She signals the end with a shudder
and quiet moan, then draws me
into her arms, laying my head
against her chest, where I can hear
the stutter of her heart. That was
outstanding. I’ll expect you back
tomorrow night. When I start to
question her, she shushes me.
Those are eighty-milligram oxys,
and go for thirty a pop. How
much do you think you’re worth?
Good question.
A Poem by Andrew McCarran
How Much Is It Worth
To discover the girl
who infuses every day
with light, even when
she’s not here—it’s enough
to know she’s woven into your
life,
a luminous ribbon.
A promise of happiness.
How much can be forgiven,
when the excuse
is
existence, no other way
to reach tomorrow?
Morality becomes
meaningless
when you’re wandering
the streets, the way home
lost to you. Forbidden.
What is the future
without
hope for a rainbow
on the far side of the storm,
no hint of sunshine
to shimmer through the gray
in a world emptied of
Eden.
Eden
Last Week
I chickened out. I swore to
myself I’d tell Sarah everything
she wanted to know about
my background: Boise; Pastor
Streit, Assembly of God minister,
not to mention my father; evil, in
Mama disguise; my younger sister,
Eve. I hope she’s okay. She always
was smarter about dealing
with our parents than I. She’ll be
a freshman this year, at least
if she pretends to do exactly
what Mama tells her, and
wouldn’t our mother be surprised
to know that my little sister
is every bit as rebellious as I am?
Was. The rebellion has kind of
been shaken out of me. Damn.
That thought makes me sad,
because it means Mama won.
So yeah, I took the coward’s way
out. Kept my mouth shut, and
now I regret it, mostly because
I just got another e-mail from Andrew.
He’s the only person in the whole
world who can help me rebuild
my confidence, which makes
perfect sense, since he was the one
who built it for me in the first place.
Knowing he thought me worthy
of his love was all I ever needed.
And now, he cyber promises
he’ll love me, no matter what.
My beautiful Eden. Desperation
drives people to places they’d never
ever go otherwise. Whatever
horrors you suffered in the desert,
whatever lengths you decided
were necessary to remove yourself
from that place, I stand firmly
in your corner. You don’t need
forgiveness. The person I must
learn to forgive is myself. I could
see trouble brewing, and I chose
to love you selfishly. I won’t make
that mistake in the future. I promise.
I’d give everything I own to hold
you again. Tell me how to find you.
Tell me what I have to do to get
you back in my life. Your Andrew.
My Andrew
Straightforward, like Andrew
himself. I wish I could believe
it can be as easy as telling him
where to find me. Come to Vegas.
I’ll meet you just off the strip,
&n
bsp; where I once gave a tooth-impaired
guy a BJ for twenty dollars.
Of course, if you want oral sex, no
charge other than your continued
misplaced faith in me. In us.
I need to be pragmatic. Believing
in miracles is what led me here
to start with. “Hey, Almighty, giving
source of love, please bless the unlikely
love I’ve found with Andrew.
Remember how I asked you that,
not even a year ago? Remember the faith
I invested in you, despite the example
my father, ‘your representative on
earth,’ demonstrated on a daily basis?”
Am I actually talking to God, and
not only that, but talking out loud?
Glad there’s no one close by to hear me.
Pretty sure everyone at Walk Straight
has given up any notion of him, if they
had one to begin with. Little
evidence of God in the backseat
of a john’s car, or some seedy
motel room, and even less in
the eyes of your pimp when he’s
beating you while ranting about
your failures as a good little
prostitute. Almost every girl here
tells a similar story of being scooped
up by some predatory man when
it was obvious they had nowhere
else to go. Runaways, most of them.
I suppose if I’d been on the street
for very much longer, some smooth-
talking guy would have latched
onto me, convinced me I’d be safer
in his care than on my own. A few
more days, struggling to eat and
clean the ugliness from my body,
I probably would have been grateful
for the intervention. Instead, I found
a helpful priest. So maybe God was
watching out for me after all. I whisper,
“Father, forgive me. And if it’s your
will, please bless Andrew and me.”
My Counseling Session
Is after lunch, which I can’t eat
because of the nerves tap dancing
in my stomach. I practically crawl
to Sarah’s office, coaxing myself
the whole way to go ahead and tell
my entire tale of woe. I knock on
the door, hoping something has called
her away, but no such luck. Instead,
she invites me in with that chirpy
voice, and I have no choice but to
comply. A whooshing fills my ears
as I sit across the desk from Sarah.
She takes one look at the way I’m
shaking and gushes, What’s wrong,
Ruthie? Did you see a vampire?