Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  “I’m not anorexic.” I declared defensively. “I just … I don’t really eat.”

  “No offence, but isn’t that, like, exactly what anorexics do? Or don’t do, I guess.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not purposely starving myself, it just ….” I shrugged. “It never occurs to me, you know, I’m just not … hungry.”

  “Well, you will be here. Trust me.” She smiled again, opened up our door and led me down the hallway. It wasn’t very busy; there were a few people here and there, coming and going. It was an odd atmosphere. Sort of like summer camp gone horribly, horribly awry. Most of the time, when this many different people were together, it was for some kind of fun. But here the air seemed gloomy, thick with struggle, almost. Everyone I saw was fighting some kind of battle with addiction; they all had their own story, their own set of circumstances. Fleetingly I wondered how many of them would actually conquer the monkey on their back. And if I would, as well, by the end.

  Not that I wanted to.

  Allison led me into the cafeteria-style dining room. Plastic tables, plastic chairs, plastic trays, buffet line. I raised my eyebrows at her as she handed me a tray.

  “Man, if this is the highlight, your day must be really shitty.” I quipped.

  “You have no idea.” She laughed.

  After supper, Allison took me on a short tour of the facility. I liked her, almost immediately. She was a wonderful distraction from the constant burning pain in the pit of my soul, and I welcomed her mindless chatter and her quirky, jaded energy. She showed me to the therapy rooms and the TV/games room. There was ping-pong and pool and shuffleboard and a huge flat screen TV surrounded by faded old couches. It wasn’t bad, actually. After that she took me to a huge old gym at the back of the building, for playing volleyball and basketball and all the other sports I’d effectively avoided for the duration of my high school career.

  I let her do most of the talking. Slowly we made our way back to our room, and as we walked Allison told me how she found herself on the dark road to addiction.

  “We were at some party, you know, the usual. But there was this guy there, and he had these pills, Oxy’s or something. Of course we tried some. I was only fifteen, and when you’re fifteen, shit can’t touch you. I did one, and it was so good. So relaxing, so … ugh, I can’t even tell you how much I loved that first one. So me and my friend, we start doing them, first just on the weekend, then maybe like, once during the week, you know … the whole, downward spiral thing.” She lifted an eyebrow at me. “It wasn’t long before we were doing them every day. But these pills, they cost like eighty-dollars each. We were stealing car stereos, like, anything we could get our hands on just to afford them, but it was getting really hard. It was only a matter of time before we got busted. And that’s when we heard about heroin.”

  I nodded for her to continue.

  “Heroin, the poor man’s Oxy. It does pretty much the same thing, right, but for like, fifteen-dollars. We started sniffing it, and it was good. Really, damn good. Then we started injecting.” Allison sighed fondly. “And never looked back.”

  “How old are you?” I wondered. I was desperate for her to keep talking. We made it back to our room and she sprawled out on her bed, cuddling the pillow. I sat on my saggy old mattress, my back against the wall, and looked at her expectantly.

  “Nineteen.”

  “You’re only a year older than I am.”

  “Yeah?” She looked at me a moment, her blue eyes narrowing. “What’s the deal with you, Mackenzie? When I first saw you, I was like, no, they’ve got the wrong girl. I’d never place you for a heroin addict, not in a million years. You’re too … pure looking.”

  Ah … that hurt. Grey had said that about me once … it seemed like ages ago. I pressed a hand against the sudden stab of hurt in my chest, hugging myself around the burning wound, blinking back tears. I turned my face to the wall so Allison wouldn’t notice.

  “So what’s your story?” She asked.

  “It’s not very interesting.” I lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag of delicious smoke, letting it relax me. “I just liked to party. I really liked to party.”

  “Go on.” Her blue eyes sparked with interest.

  “It started out harmless enough. Weed, ecstasy, whatever anyone had that weekend. Mushrooms. I did Quaaludes once too. Booze, you know. Typical teenager.” I shrugged. “When I tried cocaine, I thought I’d found the answer. But then heroin came along. And it was … it was like … what I’d been searching for. ” I shut my eyes and remembered that first time. Sitting with Grey in the hotel bed, waiting for the waves to crash over us. I remembered holding his hand, resting my head on his chest, being with him.

  I shook my head. This was a one-way ticket to a meltdown, one I wasn’t eager for Allison to witness.

  “It was so good. At first we tried to be … responsible with it, I guess. But I loved it too much. As soon as I did it, I thought about the next time. If we ran out, I obsessed with getting more. As soon as I had more, I wouldn’t rest until I’d done it.” I looked down at myself. “It was perfect. I’d do heroin when I wanted to relax, cocaine when I wanted some energy. I didn’t realize things were getting so out of control.”

  “Yeah. You always feel like you’re on top of it all, don’t you? Like, it’s no big deal, you’re just having fun, you can quit when you want.” Allison sighed heavily and stared up at the ceiling. “Right now, I’d give anything for some tar.”

  “Yeah.” I lit another smoke, but it didn’t help to quench the craving inside of me, coming from somewhere in the very pit of my stomach, demanding to be fed. I bit my lip and tried to ignore it.

  “Well.” Allison yawned. “Looks like story time is over.” She pointed to the clock. “Lights out at ten o’clock.”

  “Lights out?” I grinned wryly. “Are you serious?”

  “Unfortunately.” She rolled her eyes. “Hotel California.”

  I grimaced as Allison got up and started getting ready for bed. For some reason the thought of bedtime made me anxious. It felt like summer camp all over again. I was one of those children who’d suffered from near crippling homesickness, but my parents still insisted I spend at least two weeks of the year at this camp a few hours away from home. I think they did it so they wouldn’t have to feel guilty about leaving us all alone for the entire summer, even after every year when I begged and pleaded not to be sent back. I’d always be fine during the day, when crafts and canoe rides would distract me … but at night, in the dark, with the quiet pressing in, I’d always been plagued with the heaviest kind of loneliness.

  I felt that way again. I went through the motions normally enough, putting on my pyjamas, brushing my teeth. I crawled under the unfamiliar covers, tried to get comfortable on the old, lumpy mattress. Allison got into her bed and then reached over to flick the lamp off.

  “Goodnight Mackenzie.”

  There was a sudden lump in my throat as the room was blanketed in darkness.

  “Goodnight.” I managed.

  “Hey, can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m glad you’re my roommate. I thought maybe I’d get stuck with some … I don’t know, some lame-o that just wanted to read books all day or something.”

  “Are there many book-worm heroin addicts here?”

  “No.” Allison laughed. “I guess not.”

  I managed a slight smile into the darkness. Allison rolled over.

  “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.” And then it was quiet.

  I tried to talk myself out of it. I was tired. I could’ve slept. But the moment there was nothing else to distract me, my mind started racing, like it needed to go over everything I’d been avoiding all day, to make sure I didn’t miss what it was trying to communicate. As soon as I shut my eyes, I saw his face. Grey’s gorgeous, handsome face, dark and tan; his stubbled cheeks; his perfect lips curved into the constant smirk. His blue eyes shining happily at me; his messy, dark
hair. I bit my lip to stifle a sob. Grey, Grey, Grey …. I wish you were here with me. I wish we were together.

  I wouldn’t feel lonely if he were here, holding me in his warm, strong arms. I’d never be sad again. I would hold his face in my hands, and tell him in a hundred different ways just how much I loved him. How I needed him, how I couldn’t be without him.

  He’d smirk and he’d kiss me, and then maybe, he’d sing me to sleep. His voice a raspy whisper, low and melodic, breathy in my ear. I’d hold onto every note like a precious gift from heaven, every fan of his breath against my cheek like the rarest treasure on earth.

  It’s hard to stay completely quiet when crying, but somehow I managed it. I didn’t make one noise as the tears streamed from my eyes—my swollen, broken heart pouring out all the overflowing anguish, all the aching hurt, all the injustice. The utter loneliness pulsed through me with every beat. The dark pressed in—the quiet, the strange noises in the unfamiliar blackness, the groaning of the old pipes, Allison stirring quietly in her slumber. Please, let me go to sleep, I beseeched my tortured mind. Let this all be some terrible nightmare. Let me wake up, safe in Grey’s arms. Please.

  The night dragged on.

  Finally, the first rays of gloomy dawn began to lighten the weary bedroom. It was a relief to me, the light, and my mind rested enough to allow me a few hours of fitful, restless sleep. But I found when I awoke—staring up at the strange ceiling with swollen, puffy eyes—that this was real. It wasn’t just some nightmare. This was my life now. Grey was gone. He was never coming back. My life was empty, meaningless, hollow.

  And for the third time in only a matter of days, I wished for death.

  I fell quickly into a drear, monotonous pattern over the next little while. I had no enthusiasm for anything; I just went with the flow, not talking much, not contributing. Just existing. In the morning we’d get up and go for breakfast. Shortly after that came group therapy. Allison was in my group, which I was grateful for. It was nice to have someone I knew there, even though most of the time I’d just stare off into space, not really paying attention. I’d give one-word answers if ever asked a question. It was frustrating, I could see the therapist trying to draw me out more and more every day, but stubbornly I refused to participate. I wasn’t interested in getting better. I wasn’t interested in anything but getting the hell out of there.

  Next came lunch. Allison and I would always sit together; sometimes we were joined by other girls but I didn’t bother to even learn their names. What was the point? In three months we’d all go our separate ways and I’d never hear from them again. I just sat silently and ate as much as I could so people would stop thinking I was anorexic.

  After that we had some free time. There were usually scheduled group activities, like cards or games or something, which I went to but wouldn’t get in on—just being there was enough to distract me. Once a week I had to suffer through an hour or two of one-on-one time with my therapist. This guy was like sixty years old, he reminded me of Greg. I was even more closed up with him than I was at group. Seriously though, how could a greybeard like him expect to relate to me? Back in his day, the hardest thing they had around the place was firewater. He was smug though—I could tell he kept trying to crack me, like I was a challenge to him or something.

  After supper we’d usually go hang out in front of the big screen. I liked watching TV, it was mindless, a good distraction. But then, when the time started winding down, when people started leaving and it was time to go back to our rooms, the anxiety would start. I knew what awaited me in the dark reaches of the night—the longing, the sorrow. I dragged my feet the entire way back to our room, trying to prolong the inevitable.

  But it caught up to me as it always did, and I spent nearly every night sleepless, sobbing silently into my pillow, hoping for an end. I knew I couldn’t last like this. It was only a matter of time before I went really insane. My sleepless nights were beginning to affect me. If it were possible, I became even more zombie-like, walking around in a trance with heavy purple shadows beneath my eyes.

  And always through it all, the craving for heroin nagged at me, like a beast—starving, demanding to be fed. Pictures would pop into my head, a syringe full of the dark promise of heroin, blood squirting into the needle. I’d shut my eyes and try to remember what it was like. What it felt like. I was counting down the days until my freedom, when I would leave this place and find a hit as soon as I could. I dreamed about it. It kept me going. Just seventy more days, I’d tell myself.

  Seventy more days, and it’ll be mine again.

  CHAPTER 63

  It was just another ordinary, painstakingly boring day in the hellhole otherwise known as sober living. I was curled up on my side on my bed, staring at nothing, and Allison was lying on her stomach writing in her journal. Journaling was something they recommended we do while we were here, to try and get our thoughts down on paper. I had my diary, but it was still in my nightstand, completely untouched. If I were to write anything down right now, it’d be three single letters. F.M.L. (Fuck my life.)

  I brought my cigarette to my lips and took a slow, mindless drag.

  There was a knock on our door. Allison looked up, but I didn’t care enough to even turn my head.

  “Mackenzie?” It was one of the administrators … Janet I think her name was. I recognized her voice. She was a petite, friendly little woman.

  “Yes.” I answered without moving.

  “You have a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” Allison frowned and looked at me suspiciously. “But we aren’t allowed visitors.”

  Janet shrugged. “Apparently they’ve made an exception. Mackenzie?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I have no idea. I was just sent to give you the message. Come on, dear.”

  Rolling my eyes, I slumped wearily off the bed.

  “See you later.” I waved absently at Allison.

  “Yeah. Later.” She watched me go, her blue eyes confused.

  Janet led the way down the hallway. She pulled me closer to her as we walked so we could talk more discreetly.

  “Mackenzie,” she looped her arm through mine, which was kind of funny because I was at least a half a foot taller than her. She patted my hand. “It’s true; we don’t usually allow visitors here. But we’ve been informed about your … situation. Your boyfriend died shortly before you were admitted, is that correct?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry. But we’ve noticed that … that you’re not … doing the best here. Treatment is pointless if you don’t want to get better. We thought that maybe it’d be beneficial for you to have a friend, someone to talk to … since you don’t seem to want to talk to our resident therapist.” She gave me a knowing look, smiling wryly. “We’re all on your side here, Mackenzie, remember that. We want you to get better. But you need to want to get better too. Okay?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  She took me down a long hallway with several doors on either side, stopping before the second one of the left. The door had a square window inset. Janet pushed me gently towards it.

  “Go ahead. You’ve got an hour.”

  I nodded dumbly as she headed back down the hall, her heels clipping on the beige, industrial linoleum. I watched her go a moment. Then, I strode ahead and took a hesitant glance in the window.

  It was Riley. Of course it was. I sighed and shook my head. He looked uncomfortable—nervous, even—sitting on the edge of his chair, fidgeting with something in his hands. He was dressed simply in blue jeans and a long sleeved blue shirt, but I was amazed again at just how much older he looked. Grown up, almost. His dark hair was growing out of his buzz cut; it was short and shaggy now. But he was Riley. My Riley. My old friend, my best friend.

  I hesitated a moment outside the door, torn. Part of me—no, most of me, was still furious at him, at his betrayal. I was in here because of him. I was sober because of him. Against my will, he’d ripped me away from my only semblance of
life. I still hadn’t forgiven him for it. It felt like I’d never really be able to.

  I pressed my hand to the glass window and shut my eyes. The other part of me was so … lost. So … flailing. So alone. The other part of me needed him, like I always had, like I always would. I was too weak to care about the anger. Too broken. My hand moved to the knob then, seemingly of its own volition, and slowly opened the door.

  I don’t know what Riley saw, but I could feel the strain of anguish written in my expression. He stared at me for a moment as I entered, and the smile that had started in greeting slowly fell from his face.

  “Oh, Mackenzie.” Was all he said.

  And then I was in his arms. Safe, warm, comfortable arms. Weakly I hugged him back, burying my face into his shoulder, doing my absolute damndest to try and keep from crying. But he held me so tightly and with his old familiar voice he whispered, “its okay, its okay,” in my ear, and before I knew it I was sobbing, the combination of utter exhaustion and total heartbreak pouring from me in noiseless, racking shudders. I was so tired. So sad. None of it was fair, and it was all happening to me.

  Wordlessly, Riley took me over to one of the couches that dominated the little room, pulling me down onto his lap like I was a child, holding me and letting me cry on his shoulder. His hands stroked my hair so soothingly. I didn’t let it last long, my breakdown, I hated being this way. I hated letting him see me this way. Somehow I managed to pull myself together, biting my lip in an effort to stop the tears, my breath hitching in my throat. When I was somewhat calm again, I pulled myself away from Riley’s shoulder and looked up into his dark chocolate eyes.

  “If only I’d known this was all it took for you to come back,” I scoffed sarcastically, my voice wobbling, “I’d have gone to rehab sooner.”

  “Are you still mad at me for this? For the whole rehab thing?” He wondered, his expression hopeful, though I could see the sadness in his eyes.