Life of the Party

by Christine Anderson

  “Yes.” I sniffled. He nodded slowly.

  “Well, I’m mad at you too.”

  I smiled dully. “Ha. What else is new?”

  “I mean it. You’re the one that did this to yourself. You’re the one who needed rehab, I mean, how could you let it come to this? How could you let it get so bad?”

  I just shook my head. I didn’t know what to say to that.

  Riley made a noise of frustration. “Are you even trying to get better?”

  “No.”

  “Why? Why not?”

  I looked away. He wasn’t going to like the answer to this question.

  “Mackenzie, please. Why won’t you even try?”

  “Because, Riley. I don’t want to get better! I don’t want to live!” I wailed.

  Riley took my by surprise then. He grabbed me by the arms, fiercely, forcing me to look at him. His hands were like a vice. “Don’t say that!” He demanded, giving me a shake, his face rigid with anger. “Don’t ever say that! How could you?”

  “I can’t do this, Riley. It’s too hard!”

  “Bullshit.” He spat. “It’s not too hard. You’re too selfish. There are people in your life who love you, Mac. What about Marcy, or your parents? Charlie and your other friends? What about me? Do you know what it would do to me if you died? Do you even care?”

  I shook my head, dropping my face in my hands, my dark hair tumbling around me. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Riley sighed. His grip lightened, his hands loosening until they were warm again, comforting on my arms. He rubbed them soothingly a moment and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Talk to me then.” He implored. “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s ….” I took a deep breath. “I just … I miss him, you know? So badly. It hurts … like, all the time, and it’s not getting better. I miss us. I miss what we had.”

  Riley listened and nodded silently, but there was a sudden hardness in his face that I instantly recognized. Like my words had made him … angry, somehow. I frowned up at him, puzzled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What is it, Riley? Tell me.”

  He paused a moment, thoughtful. “I just … I guess I don’t get how you could … miss … what you had.” He confessed.

  His statement brought me up short. “What?”

  “Mackenzie, your entire relationship was based on partying. On drugs. It wasn’t healthy at all … it got you into this situation. It turned you into a heroin addict. He turned you into a heroin addict.” Riley shook his head at me. “How can you miss that?”

  It took me a moment to realize what he was saying. I couldn’t speak, I was so flustered, so offended by his careless words.

  “… How could I miss that?” I managed finally, my voice riddled with disbelief. “How … could you? You have no idea what we had, what we shared. It was amazing. I mean, yes, maybe we did some drugs—and yes, maybe we liked to party, but we loved each other. We really loved each other.” I glared fiercely, daring him to disagree. “You don’t know anything about it.”

  Riley was undeterred, raising his eyebrows in doubt. “I know you wouldn’t be in here if not for him.” He stated bluntly.

  “That’s not true!”

  “Really? Well, when I left town, you weren’t anything like—”

  “Yeah, exactly. When you left.” I interrupted. “You left me Riley; you totally abandoned me. And Grey was there. He was there for me when you weren’t. He … he … took care of me … he ….” I shook my head, unable to continue.

  He loved me.

  My anger was rapidly dissolving, the all too familiar tears of heartache burning just below the surface … the sadness, the aching. I wrapped my arms around the fearsome blazing in my chest and swallowed heavily.

  “You know what Riley?” I managed, trying to breathe through the surging pain. “I think you should leave now.”

  “Mac, come on—”

  “No. I mean it. Please.” I blinked back my tears, avoiding his gaze. “Just go.”

  “Why? You think you’re the only one that’s suffering? You think this isn’t hard for me too?” Riley sat stubbornly. “To see you like this, to put you in here? Grey did this to you, Mackenzie, but still he can do no wrong. Don’t you see it? Do you know how frustrating that is for me?”

  I shook my head vehemently, my entire being rejecting his words, refusing to hear them. “Just go.” I pleaded desperately. “Please. Just go.”

  Riley fell silent. The air was tense between us; I could feel his eyes on me but couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze. I didn’t want to know it; I didn’t want to see the concern there, the sincerity sure to be in his expression—the truth. I wiped the tears hastily from my eyes and stared down at the floor, wishing he would leave. After a long moment of my silent defiance, Riley sighed heavily and got up off the couch, rubbing his face with his hands in defeat. He grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed for the door. I listened, distraught, as it opened up behind me.

  “Look … I’m sorry, Mackenzie. I really am. Just … forget what I said, okay? I’m an idiot.” Riley admitted lowly. “I’m staying at my mom’s, and I’m just a phone call away. If you want me to, I’ll come back anytime you want, anytime you need to talk.” He paused, as if waiting for a response, but I gave him nothing, not even a nod. Resigned, he spoke again, but now his voice was soft. Sad. “I know you’re hurting … I know you’re going through hell. But it doesn’t have to be this way forever. You have so much to live for, Mac. But you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself first.”

  I let out a heavy breath. I didn’t want to hear it, but somewhere deep inside me, I knew Riley was right. The reason I wasn’t getting any better was because I didn’t want to. Life sucked, but it was up to me to change that. If I could. If I wanted to.

  The door shut quietly, and then Riley was gone.

  That evening we headed back to our room after an uneventful night of TV watching. I’d spent almost the entire time since Riley’s departure pensive with anger, with confusion, with sadness and denial—too distracted by the severity of his words to feign an interest in anything we’d been doing. Now, I flopped down on my bed and pulled my diary from the night table instead of getting ready for sleep like Allison was.

  Riley wanted me to try, I was going to try. I was going to write down all my thoughts and all my feelings and all the different ways I knew he was wrong. How Grey and I had been good together, how what we had was special—right—something I would never, ever regret. How it had been real, how it had been true in every way.

  I flipped quickly through the few first pages of my diary I had written on, my pathetic attempts at composing lyrics that Grey had encouraged me to do. But I could never write like he did. He was so brilliant, so gifted and talented. My thoughts were stunted, immature. His poetry was so deep, so meaningful ….

  I flipped another page and found—to my surprise—Grey’s messy scrawl. I frowned, and for a moment, tears stung my eyes as I looked down at his familiar writing. And then I was curious. As far as I knew, he had never written anything in my diary. But there, at the bottom of the page, were four lines of simple prose:

  “If I have the strength to leave,

  It’d be the greatest gift that I could give.

  The greatest gift that I can give,

  I want you to truly live.”

  And then, at the end, “I love you. Forgive me.”

  My frown deepened. Confused, I read and re-read his lines, my fingers passing delicately over his words. “If I have the strength to leave … the greatest gift that I could give … I want you to truly live ….” And then, abruptly, I understood.

  The diary fell from my trembling fingers, and I looked up, seeing nothing, blankly staring. These words weren’t just an idle poem or a song or a lyric. They were a message to me.

  “If I have the strength to leave ….”

  It was a suicide note.

  No, it co
uldn’t be. But it was. The horrible truth crashed down on me, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. The fact that Grey had overdosed never really made sense to me, not when he was always so careful, so cautious about the amount we did, ever wary about the possibility of OD’ing.

  I’d always wondered how he could’ve made such a fatal mistake. I knew the answer now. I shut my eyes, dropping my head into my hands, my throat aching with tears. Grey hadn’t made a mistake. He had deliberately taken too big a dose, just as I had. Only unlike mine, his dose had been lethal. Grey had killed himself on purpose.

  Why? Why?

  My horrid, terrible musings were interrupted as Allison strolled out from the bathroom, drying her short blonde hair idly with a towel. Quickly I wiped at my eyes and tried to pull myself together before she could notice.

  “Bathroom’s all yours, if you want.” She offered politely.

  “Yeah … thanks …,” I mumbled. Leaving my diary where it lay upside down in the mess of blankets, I stood up and got ready for bed, my motions automatic—wooden, like I was on autopilot again. Grey had killed himself, and my whole world was changed by this realization. It hadn’t been an act of chance or fate or God. It had been a decision. Grey had chosen death. He had purposely taken himself away from this world. Away from everything. Away from me.

  Grey, what have you done? Why? Why did you do it?

  I got into my bed and instantly rolled over, facing the wall. Allison shut off the light, and even in the pitch black, my eyes stayed open wide—stunned, like a deer in the headlights. My heart was pounding fearfully hard in my chest. Grey had opted for death. Grey had killed himself. Why? I ran over and over the words of his slight poem. I wished he’d given me more, I wished I knew his motive.

  In my mind, I pictured our last night together, the New Years Eve party at the Aurora. He’d been so upset to see that I had cut myself and he’d finally realized just how sickly and grotesque I had become. But I thought I’d convinced him that we could change our lives—that we could get clean together and live sober and happy. Hadn’t I?

  “I’m going to make this right,” Grey had said, just before the stroke of midnight, when our kiss had seemed like a promise. Was that what he meant? By killing himself? But how did that make it right … how did that make anything right? He was my life, my whole life. He knew how badly I needed him, how badly we needed each other ….

  I gasped as a sudden thought occurred to me. Maybe that was it, though. Maybe Grey knew how … dependent we were on each other. That we were addicted to each other as much as we were to the heroin, and together, we’d never be able to kick the drugs. He knew we couldn’t be apart, but if he stuck around, I’d never get clean. I’d just keep dying the same, slow, drawn-out death that was so apparent in my features. But he couldn’t bear to just leave me, either. He couldn’t bear to live without me ….

  This new realization sunk deep, deep down into my soul. Riley was right.

  Our relationship hadn’t been healthy, as good as it was. We were too much the same, Grey and I—too eager for a good time, too willing to pursue the next high at the expense of our bodies. We were slowly destroying each other. And Grey realized that, in the end. So he took himself out of the picture. Gave me a chance … a chance at life.

  “I want you to truly live ….”

  “ … Forgive me ….”

  “Grey ….” I whispered into the darkness, “There’s nothing to forgive. It’s not your fault … it was never your fault ….”

  Maybe our relationship hadn’t been healthy, but Grey had truly loved me.

  He loved me the only way he knew how.

  I missed that love. The great, vast emptiness in my soul suddenly flared to life, throbbing, pounding with hurt. I’d never felt so alone. The hollowness was echoing. The dark was pressing in. Every time I shut my eyes I pictured Grey alone in his room that night. Had he been scared? Had he cried? Or had he steeled himself to that final decision? I saw him in my mind, his handsome brow furrowed with determination as he mixed his last lethal dose of heroin. I saw the drugs on the spoon, as dark as blackness. Poor Grey, so alone ….

  Allison was already sleeping, I could tell from her slow, even breaths. So fretfully, I pushed back my covers and ran to the door. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed … I needed someone—someone I knew—someone who could comfort me with just the sound of his voice.

  I wiped frantically at the tears that continued to stream down my cheeks, allowing myself a breathy sob in the relative privacy of the hallway. I snuck down the darkened corridor as lithely as I could, aiming for the shadows of the communal phone booth by the game room. Everything was so hushed, so quiet. I was afraid to make even the slightest noise.

  I reached the phone and pounded in the number. I didn’t need to see to know which buttons to push; I had used them almost every day for the last fourteen years or so. I didn’t know how late it was, I didn’t know how many hours I had lay in my bed tormented with such sorrowful thought. I hoped he’d answer, and not his mom. I knew Mrs. McIntyre was up every morning at five-thirty for work at the meatpacking plant.

  The first time around, there was no response. It must have been really late, but I didn’t care. I hung up the phone and dialled again, my broken heart pounding with anxiety. This time, on the fifth ring, he answered.

  “Hello?” His voice was deep, raspy from sleep.

  “Riley?”

  “Mackenzie? What’s up, are you okay?” His voice sharpened with concern.

  “I don’t know Ry,” I couldn’t keep the tears out of my voice, “I can’t sleep.”

  “How come?”

  “… It’s too dark ….” I whispered. I couldn’t tell him the real reason. I made up my mind at that moment never to tell anyone the real reason for Grey’s death. It’d be our secret. Forever. I wrapped the phone cord through my fingers, holding back a sob. Grey wanted me to live. He gave up his life so I would. And I could do it, for him. I could live.

  “Riley?” I sniffed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you come visit me tomorrow?”

  CHAPTER 64

  The room was the same—same bland wallpaper, same beige furniture crammed into the same nondescript tiny space—but today the atmosphere was different. For the first time in a long, long time, I felt … something. Motivation, maybe. A kind of drive. Like more than just the sheer unwillingness of my body to die was keeping me alive. Like my life had a purpose again. All night after my phone call to Riley, I had thought about the things I could do if I got better. Once upon a time, back in my straight “A” days, I had wanted to be something. A doctor, like Marcy and my Mom, or a lawyer even … just someone … important. Those dreams were lost now, but never really suited me anyway—having been born from an ill-conceived attempt to try and impress my parents. I could do anything, though. And I was determined to. I was going to make Grey proud.

  If Riley noticed my sudden change of heart, he didn’t say anything. He sat across the table from me, drinking lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup. We actually had a few moments of normal, light conversation without the heavy burden of utter heartbreak and despair. Neither of us mentioned anything about his visit the previous day. He knew he was forgiven—mostly—but he shuffled a bit in his seat, a telltale sign he was still anxious about something.

  “What is it Riley?” I wondered impatiently. It came from knowing him so well, being able to tell exactly what he was thinking just from his body movements. I looked up at him expectantly.

  “Well, I brought you something.” He admitted, his warm, dark eyes on my face. “But I don’t know how you’re going to react to it. Well, I do know how you’ll react, but I want you to keep an open mind.”

  “Just give it to me, and then we’ll see.”

  “Okay.” He bent down and pulled something from a bag beneath his seat. I peered over the edge of the table curiously. And then, he set a book down on the table in front of me. “Here.” He offered.

  T
he book was thick and heavy. I picked up the soft leather cover and inspected the front. Holy Bible was imprinted in thick gold letters. I put the book down.

  “What the hell is this?” I scoffed.

  “The Bible.” He answered imperviously.

  “I know it’s a Bible. Why are you giving it to me?”

  “Well … you said it was dark, right? Last night, when you were trying to sleep?”

  “Yes.” He had no idea how dark. “So?”

  “Maybe this will help.” Riley shrugged.

  “How? Does it come with a nightlight?” I smirked and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke up over his head.

  “No.” He shook his head at my joke. “But it’s been a great source of comfort for me. Maybe it will help you, too.”

  I raised my eyebrows. It was always staggering how much Riley had changed. It never ceased to shock me. But he really did seem … peaceful. Content, almost. I crossed my arms thoughtfully and sat back in my chair.

  “How does it comfort you?”

  “Well … it’s just … it’s God, right? He’s what was missing in my life … and he’s what’s missing in yours.”

  “Okay ….” I chuckled wryly. “If you say so.”

  “Mackenzie, just bear with me here. Why do you think you got addicted to drugs in the first place?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know … ‘cause they’re awesome? ‘ Cause they made me feel really, really good … and when I did them … I don’t know … everything was okay.”

  “But you were just medicating yourself … don’t you see? You’re covering up what’s really missing inside of you, all the emptiness inside. Everyone is born with this … this God shaped hole inside them. And we rush around, trying to fill that hole with anything we can, anything that satisfies us, however temporarily. But God is the only thing that will fit there, that will fit and stay and truly satisfy you—like nothing you’ve ever known before. His peace … it passes all understanding.”

  “So … drug addicts are really just searching for God?”