I sat down and looked at the paper that said I could finally look for a real job that would pay better than the garage I worked in. If I wanted to. It was because of Joe I had this sheet of paper.
I gulped as I felt the feeling creep over me, as familiar as breathing. As I looked at the great thing I had accomplished on that table and wished the best for my best friend as she got on with her life…
All I wanted to do was get lit.
Maya
"You need to stop and go to work."
I turned and playfully glared at my brother who sat on his couch, his grey sweats hanging loosely on his thin body.
"I'll be on time for work, Will." I continued loading the dishes into the sink. "I'm going to bring you some dinner when I'm on my break, okay?"
He shook his head, just barely. "You don't have to."
"I know that. I want to."
My older brother quirked his lips with a half-smile. "Thanks, creep."
I shut the crappy apartment fridge and brought him a bottle of the green health juice I made for him. "Here."
He wrinkled his nose. "What's in it this time?"
"Carrots, flaxseed, and kale."
He handed it back to me. "You first. Take the poison off, sis."
I put on a brave façade, putting it to my lips and sucking the juice from the built-in straw. It was like rotten…something. "Mmmm," I faked and handed it back. "It's so good. Better than donuts."
"You are such a bad liar," he laughed and took a sip. He sighed as he gulped it down. "Not bad," he lied, looking down at the floor. "I'll drink it, I promise."
I knelt down and put my fists on the top of his knees. "It'll make you better," I said and smiled, though I knew he could tell I had very few smiles left in me. "If we do all the things we're supposed to do—eat right, take all your meds—you might not be sick anymore."
He nodded and mimicked my fake smile. His words were spoken so sadly that it was hard to stop the thinly veiled grief from making an appearance. "Yeah. Thanks for doing this. It'll work." He nodded faster. "It'll work."
I leaned toward him and put my arms around his neck. He squeezed me as tight as he could, and it made my heart ache at the way his shoulder bones stuck out, digging into my own. "I love you, creep."
"Creep, I love you so much more," he answered and kissed my forehead. "Now get out of here."
"Fine," I spouted and kissed his cheek. "See you at lunch. No arguing."
He smiled in allowance. "Okay. Fine."
I saw him as he eased back down to lie on the sofa. I locked the door behind me and walked lethargically to my old '89 red Chevy truck. It wasn't really red anymore. More like a rust color, but that had more to do with the actual rust than the paint.
I didn't care. It got me from point A to point B, most of the time. The leather seats were a little cracked in a few spots, but the heater worked like nobody's business.
I pulled into the call center and slung my shoulder bag on as I hurried inside.
"Sorry," I spouted as I opened the door to find Marybeth there, her usual cup of coffee in hand. She drank coffee all day long.
"Don't worry about it, honey," she said, her sympathy jumping from her lips in a tone that told me she was far from being over with playing the I-feel-sorry-for-you card.
"Sorry I was late," I said slowly. "I know you hate that."
"I can't be mad at you for being late with all you have going on," she coddled.
"Marybeth, my brother is dying, not me," I said louder than I had intended. She looked as if I slapped her. I pushed a breath out slowly and looked at her. "I'm sorry. He's just not doing too well. And I don't want to be treated differently just because he's sick." I shook my head, knowing I wasn't explaining myself very well. "It makes me feel worse. Just…yell at me for being late, Okay?"
She cocked her head to the side and nodded once. "Okay. And you, missy, need to learn to let people help you. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me giving you a break every now and then." She placed her hand on my shoulder. "Honey, we need a break sometimes. There's nothing weak about that."
I gulped and nodded, feeling bad for snapping at her. Ever since we found out that my brother's recent sicknesses was actually lung cancer, people had treated me differently. He wasn't a smoker and neither of my parents had been. He never worked construction or around chemicals. No explanation for it. The doctors said sometimes lung cancer could come for no reason at all.
It was just my brother and me. Our parents died—Mom from breast cancer when I was fourteen and my dad two years later from an accident at his construction job. Now, three years later, Will was older than me by almost four years and I was watching him die.
We'd spent every cent of the insurance money my dad left us on Will's medical bills, trips to specialists, and medicines. Even the rent had to be paid from it sometimes because I would have to miss so much work. And now there was nothing left. But it didn't matter anyway because what he had was incurable. That's what they said after it was all said and done. That we were just fighting time, that the end would come soon.
I shook that thought away. I wasn't giving up. There had been a drug trial, an experimental thing, that people were signing up for. The credit cards were maxed out, the bank refused to give me a loan since we used the insurance money to pay for Will's medical bills instead of Dad's house payment. So they took it. I could never have afforded it anyway. But the drug trial didn't work. In the end, we lost the house and Will was still sick. But we kept trying.
I worked at the community center, which paid jack lot of nothing, but I needed to be here. After my mom died, I let teenage rebellion take me over and ruin anything that was left of the good girl my mom had raised. I was so consumed by my grief that I let everything go. I look back at my old self and shake my head. My dad and brother were hurting, too, but had managed to keep it together. They reached out to me, but I pushed them away and let the drugs and my new friends take me away.
I pretended like I was the only one in the world who had ever lost someone they loved, ever had their heart broken and grieved over someone. I wasn't. I felt so bad for being selfish and letting my dad not only have to deal with missing my mom, but worry about me, too.
A solid year of my life was wasted on my rebellion before my father found me one night at a party, threw me over his shoulder, and dared any of the boys I had befriended to try to stop him. I remember thinking how they were cowards for not even trying. He put me in his truck, carried me to the closest rehab facility, which was a town over, and dragged me inside.
I was so angry. I told them I wasn't staying, that they couldn't keep me. As soon as he left, I was out of there, I told him. It was when he got on his hands and knees and begged me, his arms on my knees as I sat in the chair, stunned, that I realized he was crying.
He told me how sad this was making my mother to see, and I spat back that she was dead. He calmly palmed my cheek and said she was still there. She was watching over us, just like she had promised us in that hospital bed before the final sleep claimed her, and that he missed me. He lost us both that day my mom died and there was nothing he could do about Mom, but he could do something for me.
He begged me to stay. He begged me to get better and come home sober. He begged me to not make him go to another funeral of another one of his girls, that he wouldn't survive it.
It broke me wide open.
I sobbed into his shoulder and let him be my father for the first time in months. He held me as long as I needed him to. I said I was sorry, and I promised him I would stay.
And I did.
I was there for two awful, beautiful months. When I came home, I expected to be met with contempt for acting out. My brother embraced me at the door and hugged me so long and hard. I broke down again and clung to them both for forgiving me and taking me back without so much as an angry look.
That year was one of healing for us all. We'd never been closer. It was a great shock to Will and me when we got th
e call that Dad had been in an accident at work, but I didn't crumble this time no matter how badly it hurt and I wanted to. I stuck to Will like a lifeline and we helped each other through it all. But, as life usually works, Will started feeling bad about a month after Dad died, and when a routine doctor's visit warranted a few tests, they found more than the flu.
"Maya."
I turned my head at the insistent voice. "Yeah?"
"It's a bad one," my coworker whispered and pointed to the phone.
I sighed and looked at the phone, composing myself. As much as I didn't want to be surrounded by my past all day, I needed this job. Not only did it remind me of the girl I used to be, but I was actually pretty good at it. It felt good to feel like I was helping someone who was in the same place I'd been once. I wasn't a doctor or a psychologists; I was just someone who'd been in their shoes.
And when you're scraping the bottom of the barrel for a morsel of any help you can find, sometimes someone who's been at the bottom before is the only one who can reach you.
I picked up the receiver and mustered my most vulnerable voice, letting my guts hang out there for everyone to see. It was the only way to reach them.
"Hi, I'm Maya." I took a deep breath and leaned my head on the back of my chair. "Tell me what's going on with you."
After work, our center was where a lot of the anonymous meetings were held. Every night of the week was a different one. Tonight was Narcotics Anonymous and it was by far my least favorite because that had been one of my drugs of choice. Sure, I'd get drunk with anything you handed me, smoke anything you pushed my way, snort whatever was on the table, but my go-to was the pills. To this day, it was still a toss-up between the bottle and the pill. It wasn't a craving really, it was more like a…nagging knock on the door. It was always there.
I'd only tried cocaine a couple of times. Thank God it never got to the point of addiction for that. Cocaine addicts were a lot harder to break free.
I watched the people file in as I stood with Marybeth. Most of them looked pretty normal. You'd never know they were addicts. They were doctors, delivery boys, managers, florists, and… My eyes caught and held on a boy—man—who stood in the back as he watched everyone sit. When they began, he looked contemplative as he took a seat on the outside. He looked over and his gaze collided with mine. I'd been caught staring, but couldn't find it in me to be embarrassed. I smiled a little and looked up to the front.
The first person went up and introduced himself as Pat, beginning his story. I was more of a facilitator than a participator anymore. It had been a long while since I needed the meetings and a sponsor on a regular basis. I watched Pat for a minute, but saw the guy with the dark hair and muscle-arms get up and try to creep out nonchalantly. And he had a cute little limp, too.
I felt my jaw clench. Hot guy was pulling the chicken-out and I wasn't about to let him get away with it. I eased past all the chairs full of people to intercept him in the back.
And I was going to persuade him that yes, NA sucked, but so did being an addict. And he came there, which meant he needed to be there.
Milo
As soon as I saw Joey drive away, I pulled out my phone and searched for the nearest meeting. I didn't know if I was just psyching myself out or what, but I wasn't about to throw two years down the drain. I found one the next night at some center. I only had to make it until then to see what all the fuss was about.
I went to my apartment and watched MMA on the DVR while I folded some clothes, anything to keep my mind busy. That afternoon I went to work and actually looked forward to the long night. I worked for a mechanic shop. The owner knew the pastor and took me on, though I had no experience, no real job history, and a record of being a complete tool. Sometimes I worked at night instead of the daytime. It didn't matter when we worked, and most of the time I was just dunking parts into the vat to be cleaned anyway. He was slowly showing me how to do it all.
I couldn't work on anything by myself, but maybe one day. I didn't even know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
After that night and the next day of work, I went to the meeting. It was right after work, so that was perfect. I walked, leaving my doors-off Jeep at the shop. It was only about six blocks away and I exercised a lot to keep myself busy. When I got there, I looked at the different people. They were from all walks of life and looked pretty normal. I guess I looked normal, too, though I always thought people could sniff me out as an addict every time I met someone.
There were several coffee pots in the back, and I usually liked a cup at any given time, but tonight, I just wanted to look. I needed to see what these people and I had in common. Why addiction chose us, how this group was supposed to make me feel better and keep me from wanting to go snag a bottle or hit up a dark alley for something stronger.
So I watched. There were several people off to the side who I knew were officiators or moderators or whatever they were called. They talked amongst themselves and let everyone move around them. My eyes found a young girl, someone too young and dark and gorgeous to be in this place—unless she just worked there. Though her eyes stayed on the other woman she was talking to, even I could tell her mind was somewhere else. She looked entirely too vacant, too much a shell of a beautiful girl and not enough of the spunky aliveness I knew girls possessed.
But when an older guy came and touched her arm, her face lit up as she reached around his neck. It was as if her heart was waiting for any reason to be happy so it could shine. She seemed so genuinely joyful as she watched him walk to his seat. And then the light oozed out of her like spilled paint—a slow progression back into her introverted self that just existed. I'd never felt like I'd met anyone who understood me, who felt like I felt…but this girl, without even realizing it, had showed me exactly what I must seem like. I was constantly grabbing on to moments that would make me feel something other than emptiness and guilt. And as soon as it left, I was back to wondering how I was going to make it through the day.
They all started to sit in the plain white chairs in the plain white room, in rows with no podium or stage in front. All equal and on the same level. It made me uneasy for some reason. I felt anxious about this. How was listening to people tell me how much they wanted to take a pill going to make me want to even less than I did already?
But it wasn't what I expected at all. It was way worse.
When the guy started talking, I made my way to a chair on the edge so I could escape quickly. The trapped-rabbit feeling got worse with every second I stayed. I swung my gaze over to the beauty and was happily stunned to find her eyes already on me. She smiled a little and then refocused on the guy up front. I did, too. I felt like I was about to get in trouble for not paying attention in class.
I expected the man to start telling us about his daily life and how he handled it. When that man started in on how he had ruined his life, how he had pushed away his family and severed all ties because he thought he had been validated in his anger—he let one bad thing in his life control and ruin him—it hit way too close to home.
Joey had been my sponsor for all intents and purposes, and I wasn’t ashamed of that. I'd gotten over the awkwardness of being an addict. It was a part of me, it always would be a part of me, and she had helped me through that. But I'd never had to sit in a room full of people and listen to them mirror their stories with mine about how they'd screwed things up so badly they didn't know if they could ever fix them.
There wasn't a day that went by that my heart didn't question every move, every decision, every puzzle piece put in place by my actions. And every day since Mamma had sent that note to my friend's house, knowing I'd eventually make my way there and receive it—the note that told me that Mason was getting married at the church in town on New Year's. I hated him, but needed to see it. I needed to see him marry her…because he was still my brother. Back then I hadn't understood it, but now I did. I had hated and loved my brother. I hated that he was happy back then, but now, it gave me hope
that I could one day be happy, too.
I slipped from my chair and wondered how the hell I was going to do this. I couldn't come back here every week if they were going to have a rehash session every time.
I could feel the beauty's dark eyes on me as I made my way down the side aisle. I couldn't help but look over and get my final look of the girl I'd caught staring at me before walking out of this place and never coming back, but when I turned, she was gone.
I felt her loss like a shot through my skull.
I actually felt something. That hadn't happened with anything or anyone in years. Joey didn't count—this was something I hadn't felt since I was a teenager enthralled with the new girl at school. My eyes searched the room for her and came up empty. I sighed and swallowed hard; my revelation, a fresh wound that ached in both bad and good ways.
I turned and had to reach out and grip the upper arms of the girl, who had been entirely too close for proper etiquette, to keep her from falling.
The beauty.
When her mouth opened, her voice skated over my skin, making every vein and muscle perk up to attention.
"Hey, it's barely even started and you're leaving? You're new, right?" she asked, though I could tell she knew the answer already.
"I was leaving," I answered truthfully, "but honestly, I think…I've found a reason to stay." My tone and the way my eyes bore into hers left nothing to the imagination. I was absolutely flirting with her. It shocked the hell out of me that I got so much enjoyment out of it. And I enjoyed the blush that crept into her cheeks very much.
She smiled a little in allowance. "I would think you would have a better reason to stay."
I felt my lips lift. "Mmm, right now? I don't think so."
She barely licked her lip and then looked behind me. "There's an empty chair right here in the back. We call this the safe zone. For the commitment-phobes."