Memoirs Aren't Fairytales: A Story of Addiction Read online

  “Doesn't matter, I did good tonight,” she said.

  “It does matter Renee, shit, I got fired.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mark didn't tell you?” Eric said.

  Renee said that after she saw Mark and Eric talking at the bar, she didn't see Mark again. She had stopped by his office on her way out, but the door was locked and he didn't answer.

  I told her the story, and when I got to the part where Eric found us, he took over from there. When Eric spoke, I watched Renee. Her face was like a fucking statue.

  “He felt you up and stuck his tongue down your throat?” she asked.

  What? There were so many other questions she could have asked, like how could you be dumb enough to lose your job, what are we going to do for money, what are we going to do when we get kicked out of the hotel? But all she cared about was Mark sticking his tongue down my throat.

  She didn't wait for me to answer. She dumped the powder onto a spoon and heated it with a lighter. When all three syringes were filled, she laid them on the bed. “Who's first?”

  If she didn't want to talk about our money situation, then I didn't either. Mark didn't know we lived together, so her job wasn't at risk. I had to find a way to contribute to our family and it was up to me, not her.

  Eric went first. I held his hand, and while Renee found a vein and stuck it, he looked at me. I squeezed his fingers and smiled. I didn't know if he saw my grin or felt my touch because he nodded out immediately.

  I'd been around needles my whole life because my dad was a diabetic. He kept a box of syringes in the pantry, and I'd watch him take his insulin every morning before school. He said if he didn't take his medicine, he would die. He used needles to keep him healthy, and the syringe in Renee's hand was about to do the same thing for me.

  Renee tied her belt around my bicep and slapped my arm for a vein. “I didn't know Mark liked you…like that,” she said and pricked my skin with the tip.

  She pulled back on the plunger. My blood came through the chamber, looking like a head of broccoli before mixing with the clear liquid. When she pushed the heroin into my vein, she gave me a look—jealousy, maybe, with a touch of resentment. Her expression lasted about a second because my eyes closed and my head dropped.

  Smoking heroin was like an appetizer. It satisfied my hunger cravings, but when you ate the same thing every day, like tuna and noodles, your taste buds wanted something more flavorful. My body got so used to smoking dope, the high was nothing like the first time I had tried it.

  If basing was like an alcoholic drinking only one Bud Light, shooting heroin was like drinking a gallon of vodka. The rush was like an orgasm. The dreams were like an acid trip. Bright colors swirled together and formed scenes like in action movies. I was jumping over rooftops and parasailing over the Atlantic. The warmth that spread over my body was like the sun beating down, inches above my skin. It was magic.

  I felt my stomach churn, and bile poured from my mouth. I couldn't get to the bathroom. I couldn't even move. Puke was all over the bed, and me, I think. If felt good to throw up. The heaving made my throat tingle like it was being tickled with a feather.

  A second swish of sparks shot up my spine. My nose touched something soft. The blanket, maybe? The skin on the sides of my fingers turned hot. Really hot. Was my cigarette burning my flesh? I wasn't sure, and I didn't care because it felt good too.

  Besides Eric and Renee, there were only two things that mattered, the dope that ran through my veins and the needle that pricked my skin. Fuck Mark and my job, and the customers who left me shitty tips. I'd find something better.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I'd stopped freebasing after that night when everything went down with Mark and only mainlined after that. The high from the needle was more intense than basing, and it lasted longer too. Eric based at the club, Renee snorted at the bar, and they both shot up when they were home. They called shooting up their treat after a long day on the job like it was a piece of pie or something. If that was true, I had a wicked sweet tooth.

  In our family of three, we not only used our heroin differently, but we each had a separate role too. Renee did most of the drug runs because she had a thing for Que. Eric was our moneyman. He collected the cash we made each day and budgeted enough for heroin and needles. Our needles had to be replaced every few days because they got dull. We didn't share needles either. Maybe they did, but I didn't. After each shot there was leftover blood in the chamber and at the tip of the rig, and if their blood touched mine, all sorts of shit could happen. I didn't keep tabs on who they slept with, and for all I knew they could have HIV or Hep C.

  Eric also rationed out the dope. We each got our own bag that would have to last us the whole day. Renee made sure it was divided the second she got home from Que's. In the past, she had accused me of using more than her, so it was better we had our own bags.

  I was responsible for paying our rent. I didn't want to work, I wanted to lie in bed and shoot dope all day. But thanks to Abdul, the owner of our hotel, I had a job.

  After Mark fired me, our rent was late for three weeks, and I explained to Abdul what happened—I subtracted the heroin part and added in a few exaggerated details. He walked me into his office and handed me a bucket of rags and cleaning supplies. “Scrub, scrub,” he said. “I give you list, you clean rooms.”

  I had to take the job, we needed to maintain the budget, right? The easy stuff was washing dirty sheets and dumping trash. But damn, the other stuff like cleaning the rooms was so wrong. Hookers left their Johns’ used condoms on the floor, and drunks missed the toilet when they barfed.

  I found a dead body once too. I had one room left to clean and was going to rush through it because my high was wearing off. When I opened the door, this smell hit me, like huffing a bag of decayed meat and rancid lobster, and I spewed all over the carpet. I buried my nose under my shirt and tiptoed into the room. There was a naked man, his skin gray, lying face up on the bed. There was a lot of skin too, the dude was the size of a sumo wrestler. My eyes were so focused on his body, I almost didn't see the bottle of lotion in his hand or the porno playing on the TV.

  The phone was on the nightstand, and I didn't want to get that close to him, so I found Abdul and told him to call 9-1-1. The rest of my day was spent in bed, sticking in the needle and dreaming about Japanese fighting fish.

  The next morning, Abdul filled me in on what I missed. It took three paramedics and two firefighters to carry the guy out of the room because he was too big for a stretcher. The paramedics told Abdul they thought he died of a heart attack. That poor fucker, I thought. The last seconds of his life were spent jerking off to porn when there were plenty of hookers in the hotel he could have hired.

  I was just pissed I had puked up my breakfast. Abdul fed me before my shift each morning. He'd bring in this weird concoction his wife made for dinner the night before and we'd eat it together. That was my only meal of the day, and I had wasted it on the floor of that perv's room.

  Since Eric and Renee worked nights, I was spending a lot of time by myself in the room. I wasn't lonely. Heroin was there to keep me company, and I had Michael too. I was calling him a lot like I did when I'd lived in Maine. Our talks weren't long because I told him I was on my dinner break and when he asked me to come over after work, I made up an excuse. I wasn't sure why I called him so much, but there was something about his voice that gave me comfort, like when you fell off your bike as a kid and needed a hug from mom. The smack did most of the talking, telling him how good I was doing at the bar and all the things I was buying for our apartment. I didn't even consider telling him the truth. He always said how happy he was for me, and I liked the way those words sounded. And really, wasn't I doing good?

  One night while I was on my way home from Que's, my cell phone rang. I answered it, thinking it was Renee or Eric calling from work to see if Que's shipment of dope had come in. Que had been dry all day, so we had nothing to shoot, and the t
hree of us were feening. But it was Michael on the phone.

  “Mom and dad are coming next weekend,” he said. “Can you do brunch Saturday morning at my place?”

  I no longer spoke to my parents every night, more like once a week or every other. Our conversations were short, mostly about the weather and all the other boring shit they liked to talk about, and I hadn't seen them in at least six months. The last time was when I'd met them for dinner at Michael's apartment. But that was during the coke days. Since I'd been on heroin, they had only visited once. I called them the morning we were supposed to get together and told them I was in Jersey for Renee's sister's wedding.

  “Don't tell me you have plans already,” Michael said.

  “I have to work.”

  “Then get the day off, or we'll come to the bar for lunch.”

  Shit.

  “No, no, I'll be at your house,” I said and hung up.

  I wished I had looked at the caller ID before answering the phone. And I wished I hadn't said yes to brunch. I didn't want my parents to see me like this, all skinny with dark circles under my eyes and blemishes on my face. But they'd be pissed if I stood them up again. They were still giving me an allowance, and if I kept avoiding them, they'd cut me off.

  I spent all week trying to come up with an excuse not to go. But when I talked to my parents, they told me how excited they were to see me and how they wanted to take me shopping after breakfast. I needed clothes and toiletries, and figured the few hours I'd have to spend with them would be worth it.

  The morning of the brunch I got up early. The plan was to be at Michael's by eleven, and I needed at least a few hours to put myself together and come down a little from the high before leaving. I hadn't been spending a lot of time on my appearance lately and, honestly, I was caring less and less about it. I didn't exactly wear makeup and dresses when I scrubbed toilets and wiped up vomit. But today I had to look my best.

  We didn't have a lot of makeup besides Renee's concealer, black shadow, and liner. I lathered the liquid tint over my face, trying to cover my pimples and my scar. The doctor had treated the burn right after she performed the rape kit on me, and at first it was just red and puffy. It had healed into a purple, horseshoe shape. The makeup made it look almost green.

  Renee's clothes fit me now, which doubled my wardrobe, but not by much. The only half-decent pants we owned were the jeans she wore to work. They were full of holes and my knees poked through, and brown stains splattered the thighs. Our shirts were tight and short, so I chose one of Eric's sweaters. It billowed around me like a garbage bag.

  I was twenty minutes late getting to Michael's. I hadn't planned on getting that cranked before breakfast. The doorman let me into the building and escorted me to the elevator. The back wall was mirrored, and I stood in front of it, staring at my reflection while the elevator climbed.

  My sunken cheeks and ashy complexion made me look like a poster child for one of those TV commercials where they were trying to raise money for malnourished children. My fingernails were dirty, and the ends of my hair were tangled. The makeup covered the redness of the sores, but the heads of each pimple could still be seen through the concealer. My clothes were so baggy it looked like I'd played dress-up in dad's closet.

  This was a bad idea.

  I pushed all the buttons to make the elevator stop, but it kept rising, and when the door opened, Michael was standing there to greet me.

  “You look like shit,” he said. “What, are you hungover?”

  “Nice to see you too.”

  I followed him to the hallway. His door was already open, and my parents were standing inside. Mom grabbed me first and hauled me into a hug. “Oh I've missed you, baby,” she said.

  Her lips were puckered and her nose was scrunched like she got a whiff of something nasty. I hoped it wasn't me. After I showered, I realized we were out of deodorant, and the clothes I was wearing hadn't been washed in weeks, maybe even months.

  “You smell so—”

  “Hi, Daddy,” I said, interrupting her. I threw my arms around his neck and pulled away before he could smell me too.

  “Why are you so late?” Dad asked. “We were starting to get worried.”

  I walked past them into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. “The train broke down,” I said over my shoulder.

  We took our seats at the table. Michael had prepared quite a fancy spread. There were vases of flowers and cloth napkins, and platters of my favorite breakfast foods. Everyone filled their plates but me. I was too nervous trying so hard to act sober, and my stomach was on the verge of queasy. The smell of the eggs was making me nauseous.

  “Cole, honey, aren't you going to eat something?” Mom asked. “You're so thin.”

  I glanced up from my empty plate. Her fork was mashing a hunk of melon, and she looked like she was about to cry.

  I had two personalities. There was Nicole, who didn't believe in fake smiles and spoke without a filter. And then there was Cole, who smiled like she just got her braces off and lied to make her parents and brother proud. I couldn't hide my appearance, but I could feed them with bullshit. It was time to put my Cole face on.

  “I'm just getting over the flu, and my stomach is still a little upset,” I said.

  Mom got up from the table and returned with a folder. “I've done some research,” she said, handing it to me. The folder was filled with papers, each highlighted and covered in her handwriting. “Those are all the schools in Boston that offer teaching degrees.”

  I set the folder on the table and placed my napkin on top of it.

  “We think it's time you go back to school,” Dad said.

  I stared at my empty plate. “I'm not ready yet.”

  “You're just going to give up?” Dad asked.

  “You worked so hard for those scholarships and your GPA,” Mom said.

  I had worked hard to maintain a three-five GPA so I could keep my scholarships, but that was before. They didn't understand. Classes, homework, and studying weren't for me anymore.

  “We want the best for you, and being a waitress isn't your best,” Mom said. “Honey, if it's about what happened, then let's talk about it.”

  I didn't want to talk about the rape, especially with them. What was there to discuss anyway? They couldn't change the past or make me forget.

  “Is that the reason you've lost so much weight?” Dad asked.

  “You haven't been this skinny since you were in sixth grade,” Mom said.

  I guess it wasn't bad they were blaming my weight loss on the rape. That was better than being targeted as a drug addict. And their reasoning made sense because I'd never had a problem with food before. If anything, my problem was eating too much. In my teenage years, I had a large chest and was always at least fifteen pounds overweight.

  My pinned eyes and heavy movements should have been a sure sign I was on a diet of heroin. But my parents wouldn't consider that. While lots of my high school friends had gotten busted with pot in their bedrooms and smoking weed in their cars during study hall, I'd never been caught. Cole had told her parents she was anti-drugs and gave them no reason to think otherwise. Even in college, they thought my partying only involved liquor.

  “I've been taking really good care of myself,” I said. “I watch what I eat and run a couple miles every day.”

  I explained how Renee ran track in high school and how she was teaching Eric and me about endurance and healthy eating. I used the running and sweating to justify my acne and the stomach flu for the last ten pounds I'd lost.

  “But the flu—”

  “Did Cole tell you about her promotion at work?” Michael asked, interrupting my mom.

  The talks I was having with Michael at night had paid off.

  I thanked him with a quick smile. I mean, my parents hadn't seen me in six months, and the rape and my weight were what they wanted to talk about?

  “She's doing really good,” Michael said. “Cole, tell them.”

  M
om propped an elbow on each side of her plate and leaned in to get closer to me. Dad reached his hand across the table and placed it over mine. They wanted to hear more. I told them I was working over sixty hours a week and how Mark was training me for management. That triggered a round of questions like how much was a manager's salary, was I getting overtime, and benefits?

  My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was Renee. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. This would be my excuse to leave.

  “Hi, Mark, what's going on,” I said into the phone while the three of them continued to eat, pretending not to listen.

  Renee laughed and even played along by deepening her voice. She asked how breakfast was going and I answered with an uh-huh. She said she and Eric had just gotten up and were about to celebrate their day off with a shot.

  “I understand. I'll be there soon,” I said and hung up.

  I told my parents the bar was short staffed and Mark needed me to come in. They dropped their forks and looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  “Does Mark know we're in town and how long it's been since we've seen you?” Dad asked.

  “He's running a business,” I said. “And I'm about to be his manager.”

  “I'll pack you up some food,” Michael said. He returned from the kitchen with a Tupperware container and filled it with a little bit from each platter before we all walked to the door.

  “It would make your father and I feel better if you talked to a therapist,” Mom said after we hugged. “It's been two years, and by the looks of it, I'm afraid you haven't dealt with it yet.”

  “I'm fine, really,” I said.

  My dad left the doorway and returned with the folder. “I love you, Cole,” he said and threw his arms around me. I pulled away, and his hands landed on my biceps. “You need to put some meat on these bones.”

  My dad wasn't the type of man who said I love you all the time. He saved those words for special occasions like my birthday or when I went away to college. The knot that had formed in the back of my throat wasn't because he said it. It was that he was saying it to Cole, not me.