Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  I had watched as a spasm of pain quickly shadowed Charlie’s beautiful face, but she composed herself before anyone else could see and then wordlessly left the room, slamming the door on her way out of the house. I followed her, my heart breaking for her, into the cold, wintry evening.

  “Charlie, I’m so sorry.” I called. I hadn’t time to put on a jacket, and wrapped my arms around myself for warmth. “Forget about Zack, he’s nothing.”

  “Whatever.” She made a noise—like a half-laugh, half-sob—and continued storming towards her car.

  “Wait, Charlie, don’t go, please? Wait for me, I’ll get some stuff, we can go back to our house ….”

  “No thanks. Don’t waste a second away from Grey. Not for me.”

  That brought me up short. My breath hung icy in the cold air. “But what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Go find Courtney, go to Jack’s house.”

  “No, Charlie.” I followed her out to the car, lowering my voice so the neighbours couldn’t hear. “Please, don’t go to Jack’s. Grey says it’s not safe.”

  She made another noise—a half-sob, half-scoff—and shook her head at me.

  “Perfect.”

  “Charlie ….”

  She sighed. “Go, Mackenzie. I’ll be alright. I’m not mad at you. I just … I need to be … away. Okay. I’ll see you later.” She got into the car then and slammed the door. I stepped out of the way, backing onto the sidewalk as she peeled out into the street, watching in worry as the red taillights slowly bobbed off into the night.

  Grey met me at the door with our jackets, stopping me before I could get back inside and really let Zack have it. I was seething, partly from the horrible, hideous day I’d already been through but mostly out of worry and anger for my friend. If anything bad happened to Charlie, anything at all, I was going to place every ounce of the blame on Zack.

  “Come on, sugar. Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t deserve her, she’s better off.” Grey had convinced me, with the warmth of his arms, to let it go. I relented and leaned against him, but my tension didn’t ease any. I knew what I needed to make me feel better, to help me get over the stress of the day. To help me forget that I had lost my job and stolen from my mother, to help me forget the leer on Ralph’s face as he jingled his belt buckle. To make me forget what I had almost done ….

  “Don’t be upset Mackenzie. Please?” Grey misread the look on my face, thinking it was worry for Charlie. His blue eyes were pleading. “How can I make it better?”

  Grey hated to see me upset, ever. He would do anything to make me happy again. At this thought an idea occurred to me, something I never would have considered before. But I was desperate, and I had discovered a weakness in Grey that could be easily manipulated. Me.

  I shut my eyes and leaned against him, letting a sob-like shudder run through me. He felt it and his arms reacted, pulling me close. His hand stroked my hair, reassuringly, and he kissed my cheek just below my ear.

  “What’s the matter, Mackenzie? Tell me.”

  I shook my head and sighed. When I spoke, my voice was hoarse, like I was holding back tears. “It’s nothing.” I choked out. “I’ve just had such a terrible day.”

  “Don’t cry. Please? Do you want to … should we push off? Would that help?”

  “Maybe.” I whispered.

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He kissed my forehead and headed quickly back inside. I stood out in the cold, relieved and amazed by how easily Grey had caved … but there was no joy in my victory. If anything, I was saddened by what I had done; what I was capable of. For the second time that day, I felt ashamed of myself.

  But I knew it wouldn’t take long until I forgot all about it.

  I shook myself back to the present and poured the rest of my drink into the sink. I hoped fervently that Charlie was okay, that she was safe somewhere. I hated to think of her at Jack’s house, the thought made me agitated and nervous. With a sigh, I headed back to my bedroom. There was one sure way to forget about it all.

  I eyed the nightstand eagerly as I crawled back into bed, satisfied when I saw there was more than enough heroin in the little blue balloon to get us through the rest of the day. Though it beyond sucked that I lost my job, there were upsides to it. I didn’t have to go to work. I was free to hang out with Grey all day long, to get high all day long—nothing could make me leave my bedroom if I didn’t want to. I lit a smoke and smiled with anticipation. It was like the most perfect kind of holiday.

  And I knew what I was going to do for money. I’d keep looking for a job, for sure, but in the meantime … well, my parents were loaded. And they were never home. Surely they wouldn’t mind providing a little just to help us out, until Grey started gigging again and I found a job, at least. They probably wouldn’t even notice. It didn’t even occur to me to feel guilty about robbing from my parents, it was all easily justified. They’d given Marcy a car when she graduated. What was a few hundred dollars for me?

  By the time Grey stirred I had already mixed us a batch. I lay behind him, kissing his back and his shoulders and his neck until he was fully awake, his blue eyes gazing up at me lustily. Then I handed him the needle and held out my arm.

  “Please?” I smiled. He pulled me down until I was lying beneath him and kissed me furiously, passionately, his warm hands all over my body until I was at a frenzy, nearly frantic for him. Just when I was on the brink of sheer pleasure, Grey paused a moment, a smirk curving his lips as he placed the cold steel to my skin.

  And it was like nothing I’d ever known before. Nothing I’d ever thought possible. I thought I might die from the euphoria. And all the while Grey’s arms were wrapped around me, and he was kissing me, and he was whispering in my ear how much he loved me. And I loved him, though I couldn’t speak it at the time, my heart was nearly bursting with how much I loved him. I’d never been happier.

  CHAPTER 51

  Grey liked heroin just as much as I did. I’d been banking on it, actually, knowing that he’d cave that much more if he wanted the H as badly as I did. It was all too easy for us to go from balloon to balloon, justifying every one, calling each one our last and then finding some reason to go and get another. It was lovely, my holiday—spent almost entirely in my room with the man that I adored, smiling smiles of pure, relentless joy and forgetting all about the world surrounding us.

  Charlie came and went. Every now and then I’d hear a door close or her hairdryer from the bathroom. She was spending more and more time with Courtney. At times a female voice—not Charlie’s but still recognizable—would float to me from beyond my bliss and I’d know that it was Courtney, that she was over at our house. But nothing could coax me from my room, the ultimate zenith of my happiness. Nothing but the need for more heroin.

  Once in awhile when our supply was getting low, I’d rise from my sloth-like existence and force myself into a shower, throw on some clothes and go out into the world. My parents were never home. I’d go through purses and jean pockets and bowls of change, always finding enough to fuel our habit for another week. At times I’d try to picture the conclusion my parents would come too when they found their money missing. Would they suspect me? Or would they blame it on their forgetfulness—just another side effect of the life-consuming careers they had chosen? It didn’t matter. Sometimes I wondered if they knew how badly I needed the money. The more I stole from them, the more there seemed to be an overabundance of cash just lying around their house next time I went. I’d shrug it off though, chalking it up to mere coincidence so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty for taking advantage of them.

  When I got back home, it was Grey’s turn. He’d dress and shower and take the money I’d procured and leave the house. Sometimes this meant just a simple trip to his house, where either Alex or Zack would be holding and generous enough to sell us some. Other times it meant a trip to the city, and the three of them would be gone for hours while I waited at home, edgy and impatient for my next fix. I’d take the ti
me to straighten up my room and tidy up the house somewhat … washing the week old food from the plates piling up, shaking out my bedding, emptying the overflowing ashtrays, disposing of the countless needles covering every flat surface in my bedroom …. Basically, getting everything in order for our next binge.

  I knew this couldn’t last indefinitely. I mean, this wasn’t really a way of life. It was just a time out, an extended break before we re-entered normal society again. It had been ages since I’d last been to a club; months, it seemed, since I’d hung out with all of my friends. And I needed to get a job soon. I couldn’t steal from my parents forever. All this I knew, but the actual date to start my new life again kept getting pushed back, further and further. It loomed on the horizon, something I knew I needed to get back to—to do—but it was so easy to procrastinate, so easy to justify the next balloon of sticky black drugs.

  Even so, when Grey returned home after a trip to the city one weekend and held only one rubber pouch in his hand, I was shocked, disappointed. I gazed up at him in alarm.

  “Are you heading back again to the city this weekend? For more?” I wondered hopefully.

  “No.” He was hesitant to begin. I knew he wouldn’t want to upset me, but at the same time, he knew he had to be firm. “No, Mackenzie. This is it. We’ve booked the Aurora again and we start playing next week. I have to get serious; I can’t be strung out all the time. I can’t even remember the last time I practiced my guitar.” He held his hand out in front of him and stretched out his stiff fingers. “One last weekend, okay? And then we quit, for good.”

  I nodded. I knew the truth in his words, but still I was sad, afraid for my holiday to be over. I didn’t want it to be over. I wanted to argue with him, but I had no argument. I tried to rationalize, to talk some sense into my brain. This wasn’t living. This wasn’t life. I needed to get straight too. When was the last time I’d talked to Charlie? The last time I’d socialized with anyone? The last time I’d eaten?

  “You’re right.” I admitted begrudgingly. “We need to quit.”

  “One last weekend.” Grey smirked at me. He set the supplies down on my nightstand and began rolling up his shirtsleeve, revealing the dark, hard muscle of his arm. “Let’s make it count.”

  Monday morning came too soon. Grey and I woke up about the same time, uncomfortable and sweaty. He grabbed my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and kissed me encouragingly.

  “We’re done.” He proclaimed. “We’re done with heroin.”

  I nodded. “Yes.” I agreed. I tried not to be sad, I tried to be excited for a fresh start. We’re done, we’re done with heroin, I repeated to myself, over and over again. But even though that thought was running foremost in my mind, nothing could prepare me for what we were in for.

  At first I was merely … achy. Like I was coming down with the flu or something, like my bones were sore in their very marrow. It was unpleasant, but bearable. Grey and I lay back on my bed, smoking as our sweat dampened the sheets beneath us, trying to talk to each other and keep our minds from the withdrawal.

  “The CD’s almost finished.” He informed me. “It’s just being mastered now, and then it will be ready for distribution.”

  “So it’ll be in music stores and stuff?” I wondered, amazed. My stomach churned within me. I tried to ignore it.

  “Uh … I think so. I think it’ll be more for having at our concerts, for fans to buy.” A wave of pain contorted his handsome features for a split second, but he recovered quickly. “But Tom’s going to try and get us some radio play.”

  “What? That’s awesome!” I started to smile, but a blistering stab of heat bore into my guts. I panted around it. “Your songs are going to be on the radio?”

  “Yeah.” Grey wiped his brow. “Cool huh?”

  “Yeah.” I tried smiling again. “I’m so proud of you. I can’t wait to just turn on the radio in the car and hear your voice.” I imagined it then—anything to take my mind off the churning—and beamed at him through my sweat.

  “It’ll be a trip, that’s for sure.” He chuckled. “And … I didn’t want to tell you until I knew more about it … but, there’s been talk of a summer festival tour as well. Like with famous bands, like Green Day and Moist ….” Grey put an arm around his stomach and winced. “It’s like a ten-city tour.”

  “Grey!” I exclaimed. “That’s amazing. When do you find out?”

  “Soon. Tom’s been setting stuff up for us, like, more than the Aurora. I think we may play a few times in the city. We’re going to have a meeting soon and figure it all out.”

  “Wow, I can’t believe it. I’m so happy for you. You’re going to be so famous.”

  “I hope so.” He tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. I wondered if he were subconsciously trying to talk himself out of wanting the heroin. Like if telling me about all of his concerts was also a way to list the reasons for staying clean. The pros. Because I could tell it was getting harder for him—as it was for me—to ignore the symptoms anymore. Pain was lashing through my stomach, making me pant and lay weakly on my side. I drew my knees up to my chest.

  “You okay?” Grey wondered, placing a sweaty hand on my slick arm.

  “Yeah.” I lied. Another spasm clutched me. “You?”

  “Yeah.” He lay back and shut his eyes though, his lips a hard, tight line.

  “Grey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep talking to me, okay? It helps.”

  It seemed like he tried to laugh, but the sound never made it to his lips. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Anything. Something about you, something I don’t know about.”

  “Something you don’t know … hmmm ….” He inhaled sharply, and then his face relaxed. “Well, this isn’t … the first time that I’ve had to get off … heroin.”

  “It’s not?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “When did you?”

  “When I was younger. Like, fifteen, sixteen.”

  “Really? I had no idea.” I couldn’t form a tight enough ball to keep the pain at bay. I grit my teeth and felt the sweat pouring from my brow. “Was it hard to quit?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “I barely got into it. We smoked it then, you know, tin foil, plastic pen tube. I was such a punk kid, into all kinds of shit.”

  I listened quietly, shutting my eyes and focusing on Grey’s low, velvet voice instead of the gnawing in my stomach. “Things were bad before.” He explained. “I dropped out of school. We were stealing stereos and stuff to pay for drugs. One of my friends nearly got beat to death by a dealer.” He paused for a moment, talking a breath. “I saw some messed up things go down. When I tried heroin … it was such freedom. I didn’t have to think about my past and my parents, or my present and all the shit I’d seen and done, the little shit-hole apartment that was my home, my frail old grandma who was waiting for me there.”

  I nodded encouragingly. I loved it when Grey opened up like this to me. Most of his emotions he expressed in his songs—I had to listen to them, read the lyrics there to really understand what he’d been through, what was going through his head. He had my attention now, my rapt attention, overshadowing the sick, achy blood racing through my body. I would listen to whatever he had to say.

  His eyes were shut, in remembrance or in pain, I couldn’t tell. His voice shook ever so slightly. “It was my grandma that made me change. I could see her, wasting away, her hands worn with worry in her lap. I was leaving, it was late one night, and I needed a fix. She refused to let me leave. She begged me not to go, but I wouldn’t listen. Finally, she lost it on me. I can still see her eyes, they were so wide, so furious. ‘Go ahead and die then, and see if anyone cares! You’re just like your parents, Grey Lewis. You’re a loser! A screw up!’”

  “That’s the last thing she ever said to me. Of course I didn’t listen to her, I needed to get high. And when I came back the next morning, she was dead.”

  “Oh, Grey.” I gasped. I tried to sit up, to comfort him,
but I was too weak. “That’s horrible! I’m so sorry.”

  He cringed. “It was enough to clean me up. I had to prove her wrong, you know, to show her that I wasn’t a screw up. To maybe make her proud of me … some day. She was all the family I had in the world, and I just ….” He shook his head.

  “How did you do it though? If it’d been me, I would’ve seen that as an excuse to do more, you know, to forget it all. How did you quit?”

  “It was tempting to keep going, don’t get me wrong. But that would have been … too easy. I would’ve been lost. I had to show her … I owed it to her to make something of myself. She gave me everything. So I threw myself into music, it became my drug, my heroin. Through it, I found some measure … of … peace ….”

  I grasped his hand; I didn’t know what else to say. The pain was rocketing through me now, quickly tearing through my muscles. I moaned and pressed my face against the pillow.

  “I’m sorry, Mackenzie. I’m sorry I let this get so far.” The pain was evident in Grey’s face as he watched me suffering. He blue eyes burned. “It wasn’t like this before, I didn’t realize … I mean, I felt vaguely nauseous … but it was nothing like this ….”

  “It’s not your fault.” I shook my head. It was mine; I had manipulated him into it, pulled him down deeper into the addiction with me. I choked back the guilt and squeezed his fingers. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m with you.”

  “I love you.” He panted. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “I know.”

  It was agony. I’ve never felt so sick in my entire life. Just when I thought I’d reached the pinnacle, that things couldn’t get any worse, they did. I shook and trembled. I was violently ill. Every noise grated in my ears, the slightest breath of breeze from the window felt like razor blades against my weeping skin. The pain in my stomach doubled, tripled—until I was bent in half, crippled in torture. I tried to stay quiet, tried to keep my suffering to the panting horror of my breath. But I felt like screaming.