“Yeah, you probably have other patients to tend to. I’m sorry. . . .” My words trail off because I’m not sure what I’m sorry for. Deep down I don’t care about anyone but myself, so if I’m keeping her from others, oh well.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Bodhi.”
“I’m keeping you from your responsibilities.”
Kimberly runs her hand through my bug-encrusted hair, and I shiver at the thought even though deep in my brain I know my hair is clean. “You’re my responsibility.”
My heart beats a little faster, and her eyes move to the machine and then back to mine. Fuck me if she doesn’t bite her lip and shy away from me. Kim fucking likes me, and she knows that I’m digging her too.
I continue to stare at her, earning more points toward the title of Creepy Junkie Dude, and while I expect her to look away, she doesn’t. Kimberly doesn’t leave either. She sits in a chair next to my bed and talks to me. But it’s never about her life; it’s about recovery and how the world is a better place if you have a fresh mind and outlook. It’s the spiritual shit that starts to lull me to sleep. But each time my eyes close, I pop them back open, afraid she’s going to leave.
When sleep finally takes over I dream about her and me together, outside this room. She and I are walking hand in hand along the beach, with the waves washing over our bare feet. The wind blows her pale blond hair softly, framing her face perfectly. We search for seashells and splash in the water, stopping to pose for selfies with blue sky behind us. It’s paradise, and I want to be there.
But when I go to kiss her, when I go to feel the softness of her lips pressed against mine, the bugs are back with a vengeance. They come pouring out of her mouth in rapid succession, taking over her body until she’s sprouting wings, extra arms and legs. And her eyes . . . her beautiful blue eyes are now jet-black, soulless and focused on me.
Six
Kimberly
I’ve seen patients having hallucinations and psychotic breaks before, but nothing like what I witnessed with Bodhi. When I saw the orderlies and Dr. Rosenberg rushing him down to our medical wing on a gurney, fear and panic surged through my body. Thoughts of losing him and never being able to see him outside Serenity Springs almost had me on my knees. Before I knew it, I was running after them and barging into the room where Bodhi was being hooked up to an IV while his arms and legs were being pinned down.
And now I sit next to him while he sleeps, studying his face. Even behind closed eyelids, his eyes wander and he lets out the tiniest of squeaks, making me wonder if he’s dreaming . . . and if he is, is he dreaming about me?
It’s stupid, I know, to hope that I’m a thought in his subconscious. He probably has dozens of women who kiss the ground that he walks on, and for me to think or even hope that I’m crossing his mind is ridiculous.
But here I sit, imagining that I am, wondering what he’s dreaming about, and counting the hours until his eyes flutter open and the sea-blue orbs look into mine. I’m a hopeless romantic, and for the first time I’m letting my feelings show during my job. I know it can get me into trouble, and I need to either separate myself from Bodhi or pretend that he isn’t affecting me.
To do that is going to be hard because I want to know him. Not the boy-band musician side, but the side that he hides from reality. What did he do in his downtime before the coke took over? Does he enjoy the beach or a park, or is he stay-at-home type of guy? Everything I know about him comes from interviews and articles that people have written. None of those tell the true story of what a person is like on the inside.
Bodhi is restless in his sleep, and I automatically run my fingers down the side of his face without hesitation. He turns toward my touch and a small smile appears before going away. It’s easy to see why women fawn over him, with his strong jawline and those blue eyes coupled with his dark stubble. I was never a fan of a man’s five o’clock shadow until I saw Bodhi when he first started with Virtuous Paradox. His pictures don’t do him justice now that I’ve seen him in the flesh. The shots of him in the media are all Photoshopped and don’t show you that he has a very noticeable scar above his eyebrow. A picture in a magazine doesn’t show that his lip quivers just before he smiles. I hope that the life he leads in front of a camera isn’t the life he wants in private.
With each movement I look for ways to comfort him. I play music from my iPod, run my hands up and down his arms, and even clean up the dried blood from earlier when he popped his IV. I try anything to comfort him, to help him help his body heal. His path to recovery is going to be a long one and littered with struggles once he leaves here. Thirty days is not a long enough time to kick a habit, especially for someone in the music business. The chance of relapse will be great unless he’s able to exorcise all the demons. Unfortunately for him, that may mean losing some of his friends.
But are they really his friends if they let him become like this? I say no, but I’ve never been in his situation, just on the other end of it. I know what it’s like to watch someone you love become addicted and you’re unable to help. That alone is what led me to take a job with my father: to try to help, to be someone’s friend while they’re struggling during recovery.
I lay my head down next to his arm and close my eyes. There are many firsts that are happening for me, and they all seem to be centered around Bodhi. I’ve had patients go through hallucinatory breaks, but I’ve never stayed with them, not like this. We have nurses for this type of care, as I’m not qualified to handle the medical aspects. My degree is in psychology. I try to help figure out how people tick.
The tender feeling of my hair being stroked wakes me. I open my eyes and try to focus on where I am. The beeping, the white sterile walls, and a body next to me have me jolting up in bed. I cover my face when I see Bodhi staring at me.
“Oh my God, I fell asleep,” I say behind my hands as my heart races with anxiety.
“I guess that’s probably against the rules?”
Against the rules—yes, of course. So much of what I’m doing and feeling is against the rules. I nod and breathe deeply to steady my heart. “I shouldn’t have done that. I mean, it’s okay to fall asleep, but not on your bed.”
“It’s not like you were in bed with me.” From his tone, I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. In an instant I imagine what it’d be like to lie next to him, to have his body pressed against mine. To know if the abs that are on display in the Virtuous Paradox calendar are real or computer-generated. I pinch myself to clear my mind of such thoughts and remind myself that he’s a patient and I need to keep it that way.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
I go to stand, but he latches on to my wrist, halting my steps. “Don’t go,” he begs. I glance at the door and close my eyes. The torment I’m feeling is unrealistic. I’ve known this man for hours—not months, not even days, but hours—and I’m already willing to do as he says. No, I can’t. I can’t be weak despite what my body is telling me to do.
“I have to get some work done, Bodhi. I’ll check in with you in a little bit.” I break free and rush out of the room, letting the door close behind me. As soon as I hear the metal lock click into place, I take a deep breath. As a few of the orderlies walk by, I smile and square my shoulders. If I act like I’ve done nothing wrong, no one will suspect otherwise.
Rushing to my office, I go in and shut the door. I’m so stupid. I look at the clock and see it’s after 1:00 a.m. Daphne will be asleep, but I have to talk to her. I pull out my phone and call, only for it to go to voicemail. The thought of spilling my guts onto a voicemail is stupid. So I hang up and dial again.
“Are you in the drunk tank?” she asks, her voice groggy with sleep. I’m a shitty friend, but she knows I’d answer if she needed me too.
“I’m having impure thoughts about my patient.”
“Scandalous.”
“Be serious, D. I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Daphne yawns and I can hear her bed shift. “I
think you need to get laid. Mr. Hottie with a problem walks in all casual-like, and your lady bits are on fire.”
“Daphne,” I whine, drawing her name out as I open the door to my apartment. When I started working for my dad, he asked me if I wanted to live on the grounds, like he does. He had my apartment constructed to attach to my office so that I don’t have to walk across the parking lot at night to staff housing. My place is nothing fabulous—one bedroom, one bathroom, with a kitchen and living room—but it’s home.
“Listen, sweetie, there isn’t anything wrong with you. It’s natural to feel attracted to a good-looking man.”
“But he’s a patient.”
“Your heart doesn’t know the difference; only your brain does. You can listen to your brain and keep a wall up, or you can listen to your heart and maybe let him in.”
“My dad would never allow that.”
Daphne sighs. “I didn’t think you had to abide by the same guidelines as everyone else. I mean, it’d be different if you were treating the patients, but you’re not. You’re being their friend.”
“That’s true, I’m not officially treating them. But it’s implied,” I tell her. Here, like in any other medical facility, fraternizing with the patients is against the rules.
“How long is he there for?”
“Thirty days,” I sigh as I lie on my couch.
“So you have twenty-nine left.”
I wish I had her optimism. When he leaves here, I won’t be anything more than someone he spent time with while in rehab. He won’t want to see me again because I’ll be nothing more than a reminder of the time his life was in a shambles.
I tell Daphne to go back to sleep and hang up. I’m not tired, even though my day has been emotional, and so instead of going to bed after I take a shower, I find myself back in Bodhi’s room. I walk in and tell myself that I’m checking his vitals. Over the years I’ve learned to read them, to know how my patients are doing. Bodhi is stable and the dimmed light above his head allows me to see that he’s sleeping peacefully. His face has calmed and his breathing has evened out. I can’t fight the urge to run my fingers through his dark locks. Even though his hair is on the shorter side, I can still feel the smoothness of the strands between my fingers.
“Hi,” he says in barely a whisper, startling me. I jump back, but soon I realize his eyes are still closed. He’s talking in his sleep.
“Sleep, Bodhi,” I tell him, enjoying the way his name rolls off my lips.
“I think I’m in love,” he says.
I stand back as my heart thumps loudly in my chest. I know he’s dreaming, but your dreams can reveal your heart’s desire.
“With who?” I know that what I’m doing is violating every policy known to the medical world. If he wanted to tell me this when he was conscious, I would listen and help him achieve his desire, but asking while he’s in a dreamlike state is immoral.
“With you,” he sighs.
“What’s her name?” I ask, my voice barely above a squeak.
“Kimberly.”
Seven
Bodhi
“Good morning, everyone.” Dr. Rosenberg is always chipper. I haven’t seen her have a bad day yet, even when I’m being an epic shit. It’s been a week since I arrived and had the worst paranoid episode that I ever hope to experience. That alone is enough to make me stop snorting coke, except the urge is still there. It’s especially there at six in the morning when the bell sounds and we have to get up to start our day. Everything here works because of the mix of structure and freedom.
Everyone has chores, and with those chores comes the expectation that you do them well. If a task takes you all day, so be it, but it gets done before lights-out. You’re never doing the same chore back to back. One day you could be sweeping the offices, which has been my favorite so far because that’s when I get to spend all day with Kim. Or you could be cleaning the horse stalls, which is what I’m doing later today. The hard labor is supposed to keep your mind focused. Being in the office with Kim kept me focused, though. It kept me focused on her lips as she spoke on the phone and I imagined them wrapped around my dick. Of course, my mind never wandered to places obscene when she’d bend over and her ass would stick out, inviting me to step in behind her and rub my ever-growing hard-on against the swell of her ass. And I never once thought about what it’d be like to take her up against the wall in the supply closet or what it’d be like to hear her call out my name.
I never said I wasn’t a liar either.
For the most part she’s ignored me, but I watch her like a stalker because I can’t get enough of her. I have yet to pinpoint what it is about her that draws me to her. I keep trying, but the answer seems to be blocked. I find everything she does sexy, and I ask myself why her and not any of the other women I’ve been with. What is it about Kimberly Gordon that gets the blood flowing through my veins and has me always thinking about her?
It can’t be because I’m stuck in here. There are plenty of women who would be willing to grab a quick fuck in the bathroom if that’s what I was looking for, but it’s not. She’s got a grip that isn’t wavering, and for the life of me I can’t seem to let go either.
“Morning,” the other ten people in my group say, shaking me from my thoughts. In the week I’ve been here I have yet to meet anyone else. Sure, I talk to people when they say hi, but as far as names go, I haven’t introduced myself. I don’t want to. I’m here to get clean and return to my life. I’m not here to care about others or worry about how they’re doing once I leave Serenity Springs. My life on the outside is so different from theirs, and we don’t fit into each other’s worlds. I know I sound conceited, but it’s the way it is. My parents would flip if I brought home someone from here: “Hey, Mom and Dad, meet my friend Charlie from rehab.”
Yeah, something like that wouldn’t go over well. But how would they feel about Kim if I brought her home? What would my mom say if I introduced her to the one reason I’m finding to stay clean?
Today we’re meeting outside. The setup is nice, if a bit hippie-ish. There’s a small circle with large pillows that we sit on. Dr. Rosenberg is one with nature and likes to sit by campfires singing “Kumbaya.” I suppose there isn’t anything wrong with that, except I’ve never been camping.
And I truly hate being in group therapy. People stare. They gawk, point, and whisper. I want to stand up and ask them what the fuck their problem is, but that would mean I care and I don’t, or at least I’m not supposed to. They know who I am and they’re all realizing I’m human just like they are. Humans fuck up, even famous ones. Some worse than others.
“Today we’re going to talk about self-worth and what that means to you,” Dr. Rosenberg says, earning a few grumbles. It’s hard to have any self-worth when you’re in rehab for drug use. I mean, you aren’t thinking about yourself or what others think of you when you shoot up or snort the lines; all you think about is the feeling you experience after the act is done. In hindsight, the feeling is brief, and given how much pain it causes, is it really worth it? Unfortunately, the answer for me is still yes. I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself. My friends didn’t suffer; in fact, they benefited. I never let them down. I was never late. I performed, and probably better than I can when I’m sober. If I can do all that while high, why am I here? And what happens when I’m out and I’m back to being the mediocre person I was before I started using? What happens when the exhaustion sets in and the cravings are there? Am I supposed to sit down and meditate, seeking an answer that is never going to come?
“Bodhi, do you wish to share today?”
I shake my head, much like I always do during the group sessions. I don’t know these people, and sharing my life and secrets with them isn’t why I’m here. Who’s to say that whatever I say in here won’t make the tabloids when they get out? No one. I didn’t sign a confidentiality agreement when I got here, which probably means that they didn’t sign one either, so there is nothing keeping them from selling my story to t
he press. No thanks—I’ll keep my mouth shut.
The others share, though, and I’m supposed to find it therapeutic. I’m supposed to find some relatable instance that we both have in common. I think there needs to be a rehab for celebrities only; then we can share in group sessions.
“It’s important when you leave here that you surround yourself with good people,” Dr. Rosenberg says. “You want to avoid the triggers that were in place.”
“What are the triggers?” I ask, speaking out for the first time. “How do we know what to look for?”
“Well, people are your first trigger,” she says.
“So I’m supposed to tell my friends that I can’t hang out with them anymore because they might be a trigger?”
“In some cases, yes. Were they there when you decided to make a life-changing decision?” She looks around at all of us when she asks that question.
Aspen was there with the coke when I complained. She was there every single time I needed it. Is she my trigger?
“Do you remember the first time you needed more? Your addiction started long before then; you just didn’t recognize it. Whether it was your first drink or the first time you got high, or even your second, what was the trigger or the moment that caused you to commit the act? If you can find it, that’s what you need to remove from your life.”
Was Aspen my trigger? Or was it the demands placed on me by Rebel? It’s easy to blame Aspen because she supplied me with what I needed to get high, but why was I so easy to control after that?
Maybe the first time wasn’t my trigger. I can’t even say it was the second, but the third time—definitely. My triggers are simple: time, demands, exhaustion, and the fact that what I needed to achieve success was readily available. So what do I eliminate? What do I give up in order to stay clean?
Dr. Rosenberg studies me for a reaction. I have to look away because I’m not answering any of her questions. She’ll ask me again in individual therapy later, and that’s fine.
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