Dave took the card and flipped it over—the number twelve was written on the back. He looked back up at the guard for some kind of guidance. “Go on,” she said. “Right through there. Your stall’s the last one on the left.”
Dave nodded and limped down the hallway into a room that was more dimly lit. It looked like the pod, only smaller, with rows of video booths wedged up against the walls. The booths looked like urinal stalls at the airport, only the partitions that separated them were concrete instead of plastic and had phones instead of flushers.
Dave looked down at his card then back up at the video booths. The numbers were painted in dark black blocks above each stall. He walked to the end and found his number; number twelve, the very last one. But there was nowhere to sit, just a blank video screen and a phone with a metal cord running out of the wall. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear. The video screen flashed blue and slowly came alive. He could see Cheryl. She was sitting on the opposite side of the video screen, a phone trembling in her hand. Her lips were moving but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Something was wrong. The audio was turned off.
He lifted his hand and tapped on the screen gently. “Cheryl?” he said. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
But there was nothing, just silence. A man’s voice cut through the receiver: “Mrs. Bell,” he said, “you have a bad connection. Please hang up the phone and try again.”
Cheryl nodded her understanding. She hung up the phone and the screen went dead.
“Hello?” Dave said, tapping the screen more forcefully. “Hello? Can you hear me? Cheryl? Cheryl?” A few seconds later, the screen started flashing and Cheryl’s image reappeared. “Cheryl? Cheryl?”
Her voice came on. He could finally hear her. “Hello?” she said. “Dave, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Cheryl, I can hear you. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
Dave leaned in close. His forehead was nearly touching the monitor. “I can see you, Cheryl. Can you see me?”
She nodded. Her eyes were all red and puffy and she had blots of mascara running down her cheeks.
“Oh Cheryl, it’s so good to hear your voice. Thank God, thank God you came.”
“Of course I came, Dave. What was I supposed to do?”
“Oh Cheryl, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Oh Dave,” she said, dabbing her tears with a crumpled tissue. “What have you done? What were you thinking?”
“Cheryl, listen to me. I don’t know how much time we have. How’s Larry? Is Larry okay?”
Cheryl nodded, the fat twitching underneath her chin. “Yes Dave. He’s fine. Larry’s fine.”
“Oh thank God.” Dave closed his eyes and leaned his head forward, letting out a sigh of intense relief. Thank God the kid was alright. Thank God nothing happened.
“How could you do this, Dave? What were you thinking? I told you specifically not to take him on that bus.”
“I know Cheryl. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“If you’d just listened to me and taken him to my sister’s, none of this would’ve happened.”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have had to—” She bit her tongue, abruptly stopping mid-sentence.
“What?” Dave said, peering into the monitor, trying to get a read on Cheryl’s face. “You wouldn’t have had to what?”
She turned away and shook her head in frustration, wiping the mascara that was running down from her eyes. She was hiding something. Dave could tell by the way her lips were twitching. They always did that when there was something she didn’t want to say.
“Cheryl, what is it? If I would’ve dropped off Larry, you wouldn’t have had to what?”
She lifted her head and looked back into the video monitor, her hair like spaghetti falling over her face. “I wouldn’t have had to call the cops, Dave.”
Dave’s skin turned cold. His stomach began to tighten. He could actually feel the knife being plunged into his spine. “What…what are you saying? You did this? You called the police?”
“What was I supposed to do, Dave? You wouldn’t pick up your phone, I couldn’t find Larry. I didn’t know if he was hurt or in trouble or lying somewhere dead on the side of the road.”
Dave clenched his jaw and pressed his forehead against the video monitor trying to push back the rage that was boiling inside his blood. That’s how the cops knew his name. That’s why they pulled him over. Not because he was speeding or driving erratically, but because Cheryl called them and told them to. But was that even legal? Could they just pull him over? Didn’t they need probable cause?
He shut his eyes and tightened his hand around the receiver, squeezing it until his knuckles turned bloodless white. He wanted to take the phone and smash it through the video screen and drive it right in between Cheryl’s blubbering eyes. He wanted to slam it against her face until she turned bloody, until she screamed and cried for him to stop.
“Dave,” she said, her voice slightly cracking in that same pathetic sounding cry. “Don’t just stand there. Say something. Talk to me.”
Dave opened his eyes, lifted his head slowly, and spoke with an almost inaudible growl: “How could you? How could you do this to me? Do you realize the shit you’ve gotten me in?”
“Don’t you dare blame this on me. This wasn’t my fault. I didn’t cause this. You did, not me. You’re the one who was out there driving around intoxicated. You’re the one who was out there high on crack with our son.”
“I was not high, Cheryl. I had everything under control. Besides, the only reason I was smoking was because my fucking knee was throbbing, which, by the way, we all know is your fault.”
“Don’t you dare try and use your leg as an excuse.”
“Why not? I can’t hold down a clutch if my fucking knee is throbbing. How do you expect me to watch Larry and drive a bus full of screaming high school girls? Larry wasn’t even supposed to be with me in the first place and you know it. If you hadn’t fucked up the schedule and picked him up like you were supposed to, none of this would’ve happened. I would’ve gotten to the game and everything would’ve been fine.”
“Fine? Are you kidding me? You would not have been fine. What if you flipped that bus? What if you got into an accident? You could’ve killed those kids. You could’ve killed your own son. You’re lucky I called the cops when I did before something worse happened out there. You could be sitting here facing a dozen manslaughter charges. But instead, because of me, because I happen to have a relationship with the judge, you’re going to be getting out of here with nothing more than a slap on the wrist—a five thousand dollar fine, a suspended license, and three months probation at a rehabilitation facility of our choice.”
“What? What are you talking about? What facility?”
Cheryl bent down away from the monitor but reappeared a few seconds later holding a manila file folder. “It’s called Sanctuary,” she said, as she opened the folder and fixed her reading glasses to the tip of her nose. “It’s a dual diagnosis facility, up in the mountains, down I-70 up around Breckenridge. It’s a top-notch facility with a staff of psychologists and counselors who can help people with both addiction and mental illness.”
“You mean an insane asylum?”
“No, Dave, not an insane asylum. It’s a clinic for people with addictions to alcohol and drugs.”
Dave shook his head adamantly. “I don’t care what it is. I’m not doing it. I’m not going to some fucking nut house.”
“Well, you don’t really have a choice, do you? You can either get help and go to this rehab, or…” Cheryl paused and looked down at the table, clenching her jaw like she was about to explode.
“Or what?”
She looked back up—her eyes were solemn, her expression unnervingly cold. “Or you’re on your own. I’ll leave you, Dave. I’ll divorce you. I’ll take the kids and leave you here to fend for yourself. And good luck finding a judge to take pity. Without me, you’re just anot
her criminal in the system…another crack head to be tossed out like the garbage you are. That judge in there will have no problem sending you up to Lincoln County with all the other low-life degenerates. All it takes is the flick of his pen and you’ll be up there serving ten to twenty, living with a bunch of rapists and murderers.”
“Bullshit. I know you, Cheryl. You wouldn’t do that. You’d never let that happen.”
“Oh no?”
“No. You’re too proud, too damn conceited, too damn worried about what other people would think.”
Cheryl cocked her head and leaned in towards the monitor and met Dave’s eyes with a cold, glazed over stare. “Try me, Dave. Just try me.”
Dave held her stare. This was bullshit. She had to be bluffing. There was no way in hell she’d just leave him here like this. “Well, what about the kids?” he said, straightening his posture. “Are you just gonna let them visit their dad in prison, behind a plate of bulletproof glass? I don’t believe it. You wouldn’t do that. You’d never let something like that happen.”
Cheryl smiled and nodded slowly, as if she knew something that Dave didn’t. “You know what? You’re absolutely right. I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t bring those kids within a hundred miles of this place. Why do you think I didn’t bring them here today? Huh? You think I’m going to let them see you like this, in prison, through a video screen?” Cheryl let out an insane sounding giggle then tossed her hair back away from her face. “No Dave. No way in hell I’m going to put them through something like that. They deserve better and you know it. They deserve a father who’s not a lowlife crack head.”
“Are you threatening me, Cheryl?”
“You’re damn right I am. I swear to God Dave, if you don’t go to this rehab and take this opportunity, you will never get to see those kids again. I promise you that. It’s either the crack or your family. You can’t have both. You have to choose.”
Dave lowered his eyes away from the video monitor feeling as the jaws of fifteen years of marriage clamped down like a vice on his groin. Was she bluffing? Was she serious? Would she really leave him here to rot in this hellhole?
He exhaled deeply and looked over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the entrails of the visiting room. There were dozens of inmates dressed in blue polyester, standing like defiant, blue statues in their concrete viewing stalls. Some of them were shouting, others were crying, while some just stood hardened and rigid, saying nothing at all. Look at them—animals, every single one of them. Platinum capped teeth, huge, veiny forearms, and tattoos like hellacious graffiti scrawled all over their dark, sweaty skin. Christ, he couldn’t stay here. He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a criminal or some fucking junkie. He was a father, a coach, an Olympic athlete.
He lowered his head and sighed deeply while squeezing the bridge of his nose. Maybe Cheryl was bluffing and maybe she wasn’t…there was really no way he could know for sure. But what he did know, was that he wouldn’t last five more seconds in this facility, cooped up with all these gorillas, just waiting to get their paws around his throat. No. No fucking way. Any place had to be better than this shithole. Three months up in the mountains? Hell, that was nothing. Plus, it would give him enough time to hire his own lawyer. What Cheryl and those cops did had to be illegal. They couldn’t just pull someone over without probable cause. He could fight this. He could prove his innocence. Then Cheryl would be the one in this fucking pod.
He smiled to himself and peered into the video screen then brought the phone against his ear. “Alright Cheryl, you win. I’ll do it. I’ll go to this rehab, but only because I have to get out of here. I can’t stand one more minute in this fucking pod.”
Chapter 20
Intake
IT felt like they’d been on this road forever—a dangerously skinny, two-lane artery that switched back and forth along the edge of a flinty, snow-laced facade. Monty scooted forward and peered out the window, his forehead pressed against the icy glass. It was quite a drop—two hundred feet, maybe three hundred, to a jagged, icicle-spiked forest below. “You sure this is safe?” he said, as he scooted back from the window, trying to get as close he could towards the center of the van.
The driver snorted and glanced over at Monty, wearing what seemed to be a permanently amused grin. He reminded Monty of a billy goat. He was an older gentleman, African American, with a silky white beard, like coconut cotton candy, sprouting from the center of a strong, protruding jaw. “Oh yeah man, it’s safe,” the old man said then flipped on the wipers and adjusted the volume button on the radio.
“You sure?” Monty said, peering out over the edge of the summit, staring at the miles and miles of snow-covered Douglas firs. “It looks kind of dangerous.”
“Aw nah man. It ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.” The old man laughed as he reached for his coffee, took a long slurp then set it back down. “I do this all the time, sometimes twice in one day. You just sit tight and try to get some sleep. We’ll be up at the house before you know it.”
Sleep? Yeah right. How was he supposed to sleep after what he’d just gone through? Just a few hours earlier, he was strapped to a hospital bed by his wrists and ankles, with an IV in his arm and a catheter in his dick. Then his own parents, his own flesh and blood, had the nerve to arrange an ambush and hire some interventionist who had him committed. How could they get away with this? It had to be illegal. There had to be a way out of this. There must be some kind of loophole.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the form that Deborah had issued him, and began reading down the lines and lines of fine print:
“NOTICE TO PERSONS ADMITTED FOR INVOLUNTARY COMMITMENT: Pursuant to provisions of Section 27-81-111, C.R.S. You are hereby notified that you have been accepted for emergency treatment on the basis of the application as shown above. You are further advised that you may be held for a period no longer than five (5) days unless a petition for involuntary commitment has been filed with the court.”
Ah-ha. There it was. He knew there had to be some kind of time limit. Five days? Hell, that was nothing. He could get through that, no problem.
He blew a sigh of relief as he sank back against the seat cushion, feeling as the anxiety released its grip around his throat. Thank God, that was a close one. He knew they couldn’t legally hold him for as long as they wanted. After all, he wasn’t a minor. He was an adult. He had rights.
He lifted the form and went to read on further, but his hands were shaking so bad that he could barely follow the rest of the paragraph. God damnit, the withdrawals were getting stronger. It felt like a cluster of hand grenades were going off in his head. His teeth were chattering, his hands were shaking, and it felt like his skin was crawling with an army of red fire ants.
He folded the form and shoved it back in his pocket then leaned slightly forward and peered out the windshield. The snow was coming down harder and harder, the white haze of flurries making it difficult to see the highway.
How much longer? How much farther? If he didn’t get some meds soon he was going to have a seizure. He needed something to calm his muscles, to relax his breathing…Benzos, Valium, Ativan, anything.
He reached back behind him and pulled his hood up over his head. Folding his arms, he turned his body sideways then slunk back into his jacket like an eel retreating into its underwater cave.
Sleep? Yeah right. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe this was all just one long, bad dream. Maybe any moment he’d wake up and be back in his apartment resting sweetly in Vicky’s soft, warm arms. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough he could pull himself from this nightmare. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he could make it all go away—the shaking, the sweating, the headaches, the tremors…the bleakness, the mountains, the snow, the cold.
He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, listening as the tires splashed against the soggy road. He could see her. He could see her smiling, her face illuminated by the rays of sun pouring in through the blinds. She was lying in bed right beside him, her soft, s
weet breath blowing against his neck. Her left leg was draped across his stomach and her head was nuzzled tightly against his chest. “I love you,” he whispered, as he stroked her stomach, making a small circle around her belly button.
“I love you too,” she said, looking up at him, her lips pursed together like two rose petals pressed in between a book.
He closed his eyes then fell into her and swallowed her mouth with his lips. As he kissed her, he could feel her body rising and falling, her left leg coiling tightly around his hip. Then something went wrong. Her mouth felt freezing, as if it was filled with buckets of ice. He opened his eyes and tried to separate from her, but his tongue was sealed frozen to her teeth. His eyeballs darted around in all directions as the cold traveled through him and down his throat. It felt like liquid nitrogen was running down his larynx, freezing his body from the inside out. He couldn’t move…he couldn’t breathe…she was sucking the air out of him. The vacuum from the cold was collapsing his lungs. She threw her bare arms and legs around his body and squeezed him so tight that he couldn’t even scream. Almost immediately, their skin fused together, like a moist tongue to a flagpole on a freezing December day. Then, the ceiling and the walls started weeping and the sound of rushing water began to fill the room. The windows cracked, the glass shattered, and a surge of water broke onto the bed. But the water was warm—warmer than Vicky—and melted the seal between their skin. “Go,” Vicky screamed, looking up in horror, as a layer of ice began to encase her skin. “Get out of here. Leave me. Save yourself. Go.”
“No,” Monty said, “I can’t leave you. You’re my only reason for living. You’re the only one I have left.”
Some Are Sicker Than Others Page 20