Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  “No, Mackenzie.” His jaw clenched, but he was resolved. “No.”

  “You can’t make me go!” Panicked, I screamed at him. My craving flared within me. I needed heroin. I needed more, now. “You can’t force me!”

  “You’re right. I can’t force you.”

  I sighed with relief. “Good. Take me home.”

  “But I don’t think you’re going to like the other option.”

  “What other option?”

  He avoided my scorching gaze. “Jail.”

  “Jail.” I scoffed angrily. “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously, Mackenzie. It won’t be that hard. The Constable wanted to bring you in already. Your parents had to use every personal favour they had just to keep them from searching your house. And what would they have found there, Mac? Enough to keep you in jail for a long, long time, I’ll bet. You and all your friends.”

  I was speechless, dumfounded. I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came.

  “You think that cops in a town as small as ours will just allow heroin to go unnoticed? We have your stash Mac, all your stuff, it was in the bathroom. We just have to show them.”

  I blinked back tears—angry, frustrated tears—because I knew that Riley was right. “You would send me to jail?” I whispered. “You would do that to me?”

  “Yes, I would. If I knew that it would help you.”

  I shook my head, dropping it into my hands and sobbing with defeat. This wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Why was this happening to me? I didn’t want to go to rehab. I didn’t want to get clean, not without Grey. I didn’t want Grey to be dead.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” I cried.

  Riley turned his tortured gaze to me before looking back at the road. “Because, Mac. Look at you. I’m not just going to sit here and let you die. You are too important to me. I’m going to do what’s best for you, even if you don’t like it.”

  “You care about me.” I scoffed disdainfully.

  “You know that I do.”

  I shook my head and wailed into my hands, curling up into a ball on the seat. If he cared about me at all, he’d understand why I couldn’t go to rehab. Only vaguely did I remember the last time I tried to get clean and the racking pain from the withdrawal. Just the memory of the sickness was enough to make me shudder. I had no motivation to stop using, not now. I wanted to die. Why wouldn’t he just let me die?

  The car slowed and Riley turned into a brightly lit parking lot. I hadn’t realized we’d made it to the city; I’d been too upset about the thought of rehab to pay any attention. I looked around wildly now, taking in my surroundings—my suitcase sitting in the backseat, the intimidating brick building we were pulling up to. A large, scripted sign hung over the front door, “Second Chances,” it was called. Riley stopped the car before the entrance and put it in park.

  “Please, Riley.” I tried again, furtively pleading. I grasped his arm and forced him to look at me. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

  “It’s rehab or jail, Mackenzie. You choose.”

  Upon noticing our arrival, a man and a lady dressed heavily in winter coats came out the front door and strode up towards the car. I thought about running, about making a break for it. My hand grasped the door handle.

  “You can’t run, Mackenzie.” Riley grabbed my arm. “You’ve been running for too long. You have to face it.”

  I sobbed in defeat, sinking back against the seat. He put an arm around me and tried to hug me, but I pushed him off with a sudden burst of rage. I’d never been so angry in my whole entire life. He knew I hated things being pushed on me; he knew I hated being told what to do. And now I had no choice. I had to go to rehab.

  “I hate you Riley. I hate you!” I spat through my tears. “How could you do this to me? How? I hate you! I never want to see you again!” I shouted. I pushed his hand away again and then burst out of the car, taking the man and the lady by surprise in their approach. The lady put an arm around me and started pulling me inside, out of the cold. I had to go with her, but first I turned to yell one last disparaging remark at my old, former friend.

  The words never made it past my lips. Upon turning around, I saw Riley crumple in his seat, saw him bury his head in his hands, saw his shoulders silently shaking.

  Wordlessly, I turned my back on him, no choice left but the one before me.

  CHAPTER 62

  Detox. Hell. They were synonymous.

  I’ve never felt so sick in all my life. So wretched. So desperate for death. Like I was being punished for every moment of happiness the drugs had ever given me, they left my system with five times as much agony. I shook and vomited and convulsed and sweat. I cried and cried, sobbing for relief, for help, but no one answered. No one came. I was trapped, all alone in a tiny little room with a single cot bed. I was crazy, delirious, overcome. I was too sick to think straight. Fervently I wished for Grey. I wished we were doing this together, that he’d be there with me at the end and all of this would just seem like some terrible nightmare. At times I swore he was holding my hand. At times I swore I could hear him humming the tune to my song. It was loud in my ears. But when I opened my eyes, no one was there.

  I wanted to scream, but it wouldn’t do any good. No one would come. Doctors and nurses would check up on me from time to time, but they offered no solace, no comfort. They’d check my vitals and then, apparently satisfied, they’d leave me alone again. They gave me no drugs, nothing at all to numb the pain. I had no choice but to endure it; to live through the burning, ripping hurt and gut wrenching, freezing sickness that strained every muscle in my body until I was weak and sore from the effort. There seemed to be no end in sight, no end to the vile torture. I grit my teeth and bit my lip until it bled, but still the sickness ravaged on. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t do anything but be sick. Disgustingly ill. I couldn’t do anything but moan for death. And itch. I don’t know how else to describe it, but my very blood felt itchy. I scratched and scratched until my skin broke. I lived breath by torturous breath.

  “Don’t focus on how lousy you feel. Focus on how much closer you are to getting healthy ….” They had said before locking me up. That sentence ran over and over again in my mind. “Don’t focus on how lousy you feel ….”

  And then, there came a morning when I awoke without sweat. Without nausea. I found I could swallow again, that I was warm again. My body still ached like I had run a marathon; my muscles were stiff and sore. But I knew the worst was over. And I was glad. I was so relieved, at first.

  But it didn’t take long before I realized I was actually sober. Like, stone cold sober. Without the sickness to focus on, I was now capable of coherent thought. Competent. I hadn’t been that way in ages.

  And then the real pain crashed around me, like cymbals during a crescendo.

  It actually took my breath away. There was nothing I could do, nowhere I could hide, no escape from the mind-ravaging hurt and sorrow. At that moment, I would’ve chosen withdrawal over this. Anything but this. I clutched my arms around my stomach and gasped, my fingers running through my limp hair as I sobbed into my empty hands.

  Grey was gone. Grey was gone and I was all alone.

  “Please, Grey. Please don’t be dead ….” I pleaded with the quiet. I shut my eyes and pictured him, hanging on the memory. I imagined him—his gorgeous, handsome face coming through the door into my room, smirking with his cocky grin and shaking his head at me, his blue eyes shining.

  “You did it, Mackenzie.” He’d say, his voice velvet in my ears. “I’m so proud of you. You did it, you’re clean ….”

  I opened my eyes, but there was no one there but me. There was nothing in the bare, sterile little room but me and my sweaty cot bed.

  Then the door opened. I sat up abruptly, daring to hope, my heart pounding a mile-a-minute with delusional optimism. But it was just the nurse. Giselle was her name, and she was looking at her clipboard as she came in to check on me. She was a bigger lady, wi
th beautiful chocolate skin and big, pretty warm eyes. Her hair was back in a simple ponytail and she wore the traditional pastel patterned nurse’s garb.

  “Well, you’re looking better.” She observed. My breath hitched in my throat, I could feel how red and swollen my eyes must be. My hospital gown was wrinkled and plastered to my dewy skin. I couldn’t even imagine how I smelt. And this was better?

  “How are you feeling?” Giselle asked me.

  I shrugged, sniffing. “Better, I guess.”

  “I’d say you’re over the worst, anyway.” She slapped her clipboard shut.

  I scoffed and wiped the tears from my eyes. Doubtful. Really doubtful.

  “Don’t cry, honey.” She patted my arm. “I know it was hard, but you did it. All by yourself. Doesn’t that make you proud?”

  I shook my head. “Giselle?”

  “Yes, sugar?”

  I flinched. Sugar. Grey had called me sugar. Fresh tears started, filling my eyes until everything around me was a blur. I tried to blink them away.

  “Can I have a cigarette?” I cried.

  “Sure thing, hon.” She pulled a pack from her pocket and gave me one. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you now. Don’t worry. You’ll feel even better after a nice hot shower.” She gave me a pleasant smile. I tried to smile in return, but I couldn’t. Her brave words of encouragement did nothing to ease the ache in my heart.

  I took a deep drag of my cigarette, letting the sweet smoke burn down my throat and into my lungs. The moment Giselle was out of the room, the heavy weight of gloom pressed down upon me again. I hugged my knees to my chest and tried not to think about Grey. Even still, I couldn’t help shedding a few tears. It just felt so empty without him.

  I was moved from the Detox center into the rehabilitation wing that day, into what was going to be my room for the next three long months. I had to share it with another girl, some stranger I had never met. I trudged along after the orderlies because I had to. I felt no excitement, no enthusiasm about the move. No part of me wanted to be there, even with the hard part over.

  I sighed as I stepped into the space. It was a cross between a hotel and a hospital room. Plain, beige, mass-quantity type furnishings adorned the space with no personality at all. There were two twin beds, two dressers, two nightstands. A little bathroom adjoined it. The one solitary window on the boringly painted, beige brick wall faced the courtyard; giving me a dismal view of the grey, frozen wasteland beyond, crusted in ice.

  The orderly set my suitcase on the bed closest to me, gave me a polite smile, and then left me all alone.

  I sank down on the bed and shut my eyes. So this was sober living. So far, it sucked.

  Since there was nothing else to do, I opened up my suitcase and started unpacking my things. Two packs of cigarettes sat on the top—a gift from Charlie, no doubt. I couldn’t help but feel grateful as I tore into them. I missed her. I missed everybody.

  I missed Grey.

  With a shaky sigh, I moved on to the rest of my belongings. The familiarity of them brought me some comfort, but brought me sadness as well. Every one of my possessions had a memory attached to them. I picked up my favourite jeans first; they were old and threadbare and comfortable. Grey had doodled on them with a ballpoint pen one day when we were laying in bed and he was working on his lyrics.

  That was hard to see. I stroked my finger over the ink preciously, biting my lip as the all too familiar tears flooded my eyes. I pressed my face against the denim and cried for a little while, but the tears gave me no relief. There was nothing that would fill the emptiness inside me. I was being forced to quit the one thing that could.

  Quickly I unpacked the rest of my stuff, shoving my clothes roughly into drawers, looking at them as little as possible. My diary—the one Marcy had given me for Christmas—was in the bag as well. I tossed it into the nightstand, threw my suitcase beneath the bed, grabbed my bag of toiletries, and headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

  It felt better to be clean. The pressure wasn’t much, but the water was hot, and I stayed beneath it for as long as I could. The whole time I thought about heroin. There may not have been any left in my system, but that didn’t stop me from craving it. I remembered the feeling, the rush of euphoria it gave me—the numbness, the apathy, the delicious … nothingness. I shut my eyes and pictured myself mixing a batch, sucking it into the needle, feeling the sharp sting as I injected it into my body ….

  I could leave. I could leave here; I could run out the front doors and catch a cab. Did I have any money? There had to be some around. I could hitchhike home, or just somewhere, anywhere in the city. Some dark back alley. There was sure to be heroin there. In less than an hour, I could get my fix. Riley wouldn’t have to know, he’d never find me again; I’d never have to go to jail. Everything would be good again ….

  The water ran cold, freezing. I shook my head and shut it off, almost breathless with excitement. Quickly I towelled off and got dressed in some old clothes that were too big for me, then ran a brush through my tangled, messy, wet hair. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be clean. Nothing mattered to me now, nothing but the heroin.

  I rushed quickly out of the bathroom, my cheeks flushed nervously. It shouldn’t be too hard to run away. I’d throw on a few sweaters; go for a causal walk down the hallway. I’d sprint out the front doors before anyone even noticed. I hadn’t seen a huge amount of security; it’d probably be hours before anyone even realized I was missing. And by that time, I’d already have a needle in my vein ….

  “You’re thinking of running, aren’t you?”

  I whipped around in surprise, slamming my drawer shut as I did so, my cheeks blushing guiltily.

  “N-No.” I lied.

  The girl lying on the other bed in the room, the one near the window, scoffed at me. “Trust me; it’s not going to happen.”

  “I wasn’t going to run.” Amazed and embarrassed by this stranger’s perception, I sat down hard on my bed, the springs squeaking in protest. I grabbed my pack of smokes and lit one.

  “You’re Mackenzie, right?” She wondered.

  I looked back at her and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Allison.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I blew my smoke out in a waft.

  “Do you want to know why it wouldn’t work? Running?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Cameras.” She pointed up at a corner of the room. “In the hallways too. And the front doors are locked from the inside.”

  “What is this, a mental institution?” I frowned. “Why the lock down?”

  Allison shrugged. “It’s like Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.” She laughed.

  I lay back on the bed, sighing heavily. “How many times did you try?”

  “Twice.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “That’s me.” She grinned. Alison was pretty, in a hard kind of way, though kind of intimidating. She was the first person I’d ever met—besides Jack Turcotte—who actually looked like a heroin addict. Her short, pixie-cut blonde hair framed glittering blue eyes lined by thick, dark eyeliner—she kind of reminded me of that singer, Pink. Both her arms sported full sleeves of colourful tattoos. She grinned at me wickedly, and had I met her in different circumstances, I knew without a doubt that we would’ve had a ton of fun together. I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley or something though.

  “I was going to run.” I admitted.

  “I know. You had that look about you.”

  “I still might try it.”

  “I wouldn’t. Seriously. Unless you want to endure a few hours of bullshit lectures, you know, living your life in the now and all that crap.”

  I stared up at the ceiling, chuckling mirthlessly. “No thanks.”

  “I know. I can barely stand it. Therapy every day …,”she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Please. I have an addiction, right? Like, tell me something I don’t know.”

  “We h
ave to do therapy every day?”

  “Yeah, like, group therapy. Ooh, and then once a week, you get a real treat, one-on-one therapy. Ugh, it’s such a bore.”

  “Great. Wow, this place couldn’t get any better.” I shook my head.

  “So, this wasn’t a voluntary check in, I presume.”

  “Uh, no. This was a rehab or jail check in.” I looked up at her. “You?”

  “Yeah, about the same. You know, rehab or no place to live, no money, no car, no friends. I chose rehab, but only barely.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Three weeks, two days and six … no, seventeen hours. Not that I’m counting.” She sat up on the bed and stretched her arms, revealing the light blue, dead-happy-face Nirvana t-shirt she was wearing. “But the moment I get out of here, I’m getting high. That’s the only thing that keeps me from totally freaking out, knowing that. I hear that it’s better too, after going without for so long. Rinse cycle.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She stood up then and smiled at me. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

  “Eat?” I frowned and looked up at the clock. “What time is it?”

  “It’s five. Come on, I don’t want to be late. This is the best part of my day.”

  “The food’s that good here?” I wondered, raising an eyebrow.

  “No, it’s not.” She laughed again. “That’s how shitty the rest of the day is.”

  “Oh.” Reluctantly, I got up off the bed to follow her.

  “And Mackenzie?” Allison stopped at the doorway, eyeing me knowingly.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d just eat if I were you. I’ve never actually seen them do it, but I’ve heard them threaten the tube on the other girls. It doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  I stared at her a moment, blinking in confusion.

  “Well … I mean … you’re anorexic, right?”

  “What? No.”

  “You’re not? Come on, you must weigh, like, eighty pounds.”