Memoirs Aren't Fairytales: A Story of Addiction

by Mann, Marni

  “You asked about my past,” I said.

  “Do you want to get sober?” Walter asked.

  I thought about his question and rubbed my stomach.

  “I lost a baby from heroin.”

  “That's not what I asked,” he said.

  “My family hurts because of me,” I said.

  “I didn't ask that either.”

  “Well, that's the best I've got right now.”

  Sandra said my first session went well and she'd see me again tomorrow.

  The next meeting was held in the same room as group, but the couches were in rows and there was an easel with a big pad of paper in the front of the room. On the paper were the Twelve Steps.

  I read Step One: “We admitted we were powerless over our addiction – that our lives had become unmanageable.”

  I was definitely an addict. Unmanageable? I managed just fine, but I was tired.

  The first day dragged on.

  Yoga was held in what they called the sunroom, with wood floors and lots of windows. The yoga instructor wore spandex shorts and a sports bra and had a six-pack. She kept telling everyone to breathe, breathe in the air around us and release the negative energy. I was in this position she called downward dog and Dustin was in front of me. He was wearing gym shorts and his butt looked nice under the mesh. He looked at me, upside down from between his arms and rolled his eyes. I laughed. I couldn't help it.

  The instructor came over and lifted my butt higher in the air. “Breathe, Nicole,” she said. “And deactivate your mind.”

  Heroin and Dustin's ass were both active in my mind.

  I ate dinner with Dustin, and we hung out in the rec room before lights out. He made me laugh—not just about how bad the food was or Walter having the hots for Sandra or Justina's hair—but about Richard and Heather, and the people on the trains, and boosting from old ladies. I laughed so hard, I cried. I couldn't remember the last time I'd really laughed. Nothing had been funny—chasing the high, or tricking, or stealing from cars, or killing my baby. But Dustin was.

  On my third night, I was hanging with Dustin again in the smoking lounge, sitting in plastic chairs with a small table separating us. Lights out was in ten minutes, and the last smoker had just gone to bed. Dustin was holding his cigarette, but he wasn't smoking it. I wasn't smoking mine either, I wanted the cig to last the whole ten minutes.

  When I was with Johns in an alley or in their cars, I was always grateful for the dark. But here on the porch, I wished for light. I wanted to see Dustin's face, the curve of his neck, and the way his body looked when he shifted in his chair.

  Dustin was different than all the men I'd met since I'd moved to Boston. He hadn't asked for anything, and he hadn't pushed himself on me. I was different too, acting like I had when I'd dated Cody in college. When I was with Dustin, I cared how I looked, how my breath smelled, and what words came out of my mouth. He didn't have drugs or money to offer. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want either. I wanted his attention, and he gave it to me. I wanted to be the reason he smiled, and when I talked to him, he grinned at me.

  He moved to the edge of his seat. “I want to tell you something, but you can't laugh at me,” he said.

  “I won't laugh, I promise,” I said, crossing my legs to keep my knees from shaking.

  My heart was beating so loud I worried he could hear it.

  “I haven't kissed a girl sober in a really long time.”

  “I haven't either,” I said. “A guy, I mean.”

  What if I wasn't a good sober kisser? Would Dustin still flirt and eat all his meals with me?

  “Come here,” he said.

  I put out my cigarette and slowly got up from my chair to stand in front of him. He tilted his head up. It was too dark to see the blueness of his eyes, but I knew they were looking into mine. He pushed his face into my stomach and I ran my fingers through his hair. I felt his breath through my shirt, and it warmed my belly, sending butterflies to my chest and sparks to my crotch.

  He pulled his face out of my shirt and my hands went to his cheeks.

  His hands went to my outer thighs, and he gently drew me closer.

  I bent my head, inching down to his face, and pressed my lips against his. They were soft and tasted sweet. His tongue poked in my mouth and circled around my tongue.

  My body was on fire.

  “Lights out,” someone yelled from inside.

  His hands gave me a final squeeze, and he pecked my lips.

  “I don't want to stop,” he said.

  I smiled. I never wanted the kiss to stop.

  Before I stepped through the sliding glass door, I faced him again. “I'll see you in the morning?”

  “Do I have to wait that long?” he asked.

  “Good night, Dustin,” I said and walked through the lobby and up the stairs to my room.

  I got into bed without brushing my teeth. I didn't want to wash Dustin's taste out of my mouth.

  By the fourth day, I still hadn't graduated from Step One. The addiction part, I admitted to. But I didn't believe my life had become unmanageable. Kara, my Twelve Step counselor said it would take time and that was why rehab was a ninety-day program. I didn't think time would change my mind. I was managing just fine before I'd gone into the hospital. Sometimes I'd been short on cash and had gotten dope sick, but Claire went through the same thing. She had a hard time paying her bills and got a cold in the winter. Kara told me there was a difference between Claire and me. I didn't understand what the difference was. I was a lot of things—a hooker, a thief, and an addict—but I managed all of them.

  Walter and Sandra told me Dustin wasn't good for my sobriety. They said we spent too much time secluded from the group. Romantic relationships were grounds for getting kicked out. I told them Dustin and I were just friends. They said Ed, the night shift aide, had seen us kissing in the smoking lounge. I told them Ed was lying. But we'd been kissing for the last two nights. Sandra said they were giving me one more chance, and if I screwed up again, I was out.

  At dinner, I told Dustin what Sandra and Walter had said. My hands shook under the table. What more did they want from me? I'd told them about the rape. I didn't lie during my therapy sessions. I even did their stupid yoga and meditation, and they were threatening to kick me out over a kiss? This was bullshit. The kiss had nothing to do with my sobriety. My counselors were supposed to be helping me, not lecturing me about boys like I was a kid. I was a fucking adult and they needed to treat me like one.

  I pushed my tray of food, and the meatballs splattered all over the table.

  “They told me the same thing,” Dustin said. “Nicole, I like you, and I don't give a fuck what they say.”

  I liked him too. I wished my tongue were the fork he'd just put in his mouth.

  That night, I sat with the group in the rec room. Dustin had gone to his room after dinner and hadn't come back yet.

  Molly, a sixteen-year-old who was addicted to huffing paint thinner, asked if I wanted to play charades. She said everyone was going to play. I guess that was what the group did while Dustin and I kissed in the smoking lounge.

  I told her I'd be the scorekeeper and sat off to the side while they acted out movie scenes.

  Dustin came into the room and slipped something into my pocket. Everyone was so busy either acting or shouting out guesses, I didn't think they even saw him come in.

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out the note. It said, “Let's go to Richard's and kiss some more.”

  I felt my face turn red.

  Dustin was standing in the hallway by the stairwell, waiting for me to answer. I smiled and nodded. He held up his hand, showing two fingers and then pointed down. I was supposed to meet him at two, by the stairs. I nodded again.

  At lights out, I got into bed wearing everything but my sneakers. I thought about getting high and kissing Dustin and where we would live and how we'd make money. I'd be going back to everything I'd left behind for rehab. But it'd be
different because I'd be with him. I'd have someone to share things with, unlike Sunshine who wanted to keep our money and dope separate. And he made me tingle more than I'd ever tingled before.

  I got out of bed a few minutes before two. My suitcase was too big to drag around, and since I didn't know if we'd be walking or hitchhiking, I put on three shirts and my jacket. My purse and cell phone were locked in a safe in the main office, but I didn't care.

  Dustin was waiting for me at the end of the stairs. He held out his hand, and I grabbed it. We walked down the hall to the front lobby and Libby, the night shift receptionist, asked where we were going.

  “We're out of here,” Dustin said.

  “Let me call Walter and—”

  “Call anyone you want,” he said. “My girl and I are still leaving.”

  A block away, there was a taxi waiting for us. We got in the backseat, and Dustin gave the driver Richard's address.

  “I don't have any money,” I said.

  Dustin pulled out a few twenties.

  “Where'd you get that?” I asked.

  “I'm going to treat you real good, you'll see.”

  He rested his hand on my thigh as we drove towards the city. It was snowing outside, and the flakes sparkled from the streetlights.

  My parents were going to be really upset when they found out I'd left. I'd gone to rehab for them and Claire, and my baby. But tonight, I was going to get high for me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The taxi pulled up to Richard's house, and Dustin paid the driver. I'd only been gone for two weeks, but it felt much longer. A lot had happened in those two weeks. Meeting Dustin was the most important of them all.

  But as I got out of the cab, I remembered the conversation I'd had with Sunshine on Michael's balcony. I was about to see the man who had beaten and raped her. And I owed that same man my body. I needed to come up with a different way to pay Richard back.

  Dustin held my hand as I climbed up the front steps and opened the door for me. The squatters on the couch didn't look at me when we walked inside. That was something that hadn't changed.

  “I'm back,” Dustin yelled, drawing out both words.

  The three guys on the couch and the two girls in the kitchen came charging towards us. They all hugged Dustin and wanted to know where he'd been. He said his mom had busted him breaking into her house and trying to steal her credit card.

  “Didn't stay too long, did you,” the guy with the Mohawk said.

  “Nah, wanted to be with my girl,” Dustin said, squeezing my hand. “Everyone, meet Nicole, you've probably seen her around here, she's a regular.”

  They all stared at me and half nodded. They were lying. Besides Heather, none of them had ever looked at me before.

  Dustin introduced me and told mini stories about each person so I'd remember their names. It was like group where he said their name and related their story to their drug of choice. Cale was a coke-head and Tommy was a tweaker, so those were easy to remember. Tommy and Dustin had grown up together in Southie. Shank had the Mohawk and wine corks through his lobes and he used special k. The girls, Sierra and Erin, were twins, and I couldn't tell them apart. They both did H and by the way they acted around Dustin—licking their lips, giggling as he spoke, eyeing his body—he'd had a thing with one, if not both of them. A few more squatters appeared, but I stopped listening. Unless one of them was going to give me some dope, I didn't care who they were.

  Heather came into the living room, zipping up her pants and straightening her shirt with Richard close behind her. She hugged me. “Where have you been,” she said. “I've missed you.”

  Her pupils were so dilated I couldn't see the brown of her eyes.

  Dustin's fingers were hooked to the back pocket of my jeans, and when he pounded fists with Richard, his fingers tightened around my butt.

  Richard's eyes followed Dustin's arm, the arm that was behind me. “You with him?” Richard asked me.

  “Yeah, she is,” Dustin said. His hand left my butt and clung to my shoulder.

  “We need to talk,” Richard said to Dustin. “Big moves coming up.”

  Dustin told me he'd be right back and disappeared with Richard.

  The squatters drifted back to their rooms and their spots on the couch, and Heather pulled me into the kitchen. She asked again where I'd been, and I told her about my overdose.

  “Richard's been edgy since Dustin left,” she said. She lifted her shirt and showed me the bruises and bite marks on her boobs. “Shit hurts too, but I know he's just showing me some love. We're sort of together now.”

  Heather and Richard? Together? I thought of Sunshine and the bruises on her inner thighs. I didn't know if I should tell Heather about what he'd done to her, but I decided now wasn't the right time.

  “So you and Dustin, huh?”

  “Yeah…”

  Heather said Dustin was Richard's main runner and not just in Boston. Dustin ran drugs to New York City, and Burlington, Vermont, and Providence too.

  “Dustin's a good guy,” she said. “But he's got a bad temper like Richard.”

  I'd never seen that side of him. But I'd only known him for a week.

  “You ready, baby,” Dustin said in my ear.

  Heather must have seen him coming, because she asked me about rehab.

  “Got some dope and clean rigs,” he said.

  I gave Heather a hug, told her I'd talk to her later about rehab, and Dustin took me into one of the bedrooms. He locked the door behind us.

  “That's my bed,” he said.

  He pointed at the first of three twin mattresses on the floor. Foils and spoons littered the carpet, and there were drawings on the walls made with crayons. Pictures of naked women shooting dope, and hands with bent fingers, creating what looked like gang symbols. Next to Dustin's bed was a drawing of a little boy with big blue eyes and a bright smile holding a hockey stick in his hands.

  “Did you draw these?” I asked.

  He pulled out a bundle—ten bags—and rigs for both of us. “Sometimes I have a hard time sleeping,” he said.

  We sat on his bed with our backs against the drawing of the little boy, and he cooked up the dope. He handed me a full rig, and I rolled it back and forth over my palms. I was clean for the first time in years, and if I relapsed, I'd have to detox all over again.

  I watched him stick the rig into his ankle and wipe the blood off the needle hole. I knew how good that smack would feel after weeks without it. Should I relapse? I was still a junkie no matter how many days I'd been clean. And I stuck the needle into my ankle too.

  “Feel good, baby?” he asked.

  I felt more than good. My chin dropped.

  He gently pushed me back against the wall.

  His lips were on mine. “I can taste the dope on your tongue,” he said.

  I couldn't taste him, but I could feel his tongue all warm and wet inside my dry mouth.

  Curled up next to Dustin on the twin was the best I'd slept since the hospital. And in the early morning, we shot up again. After the rush reached its peak, he took me into the bathroom for a shower. He turned on the water and stripped off his clothes. I'd never seen his body before. His skin was pale and tight around his muscles, and his forearms were scarred like mine. A thin line of hair ran from his belly button to his pubes.

  “You like what you see?” he asked, catching my stare.

  I felt my face blush.

  “My turn,” he said and pulled my shirt over my head. He unhooked my bra with one hand and unzipped my jeans with the other. I was naked in less than five seconds.

  The bathroom was bright even with the light off, and I felt like my whole body was glowing. His eyes went to my chest and stopped at my crotch before traveling down my legs. It was a good thing I'd shaved the day before we'd left rehab.

  “Water's warm, come on,” he said.

  He opened the plastic shower curtain, and I stepped in.

  The tub began to fill because the drain was clogg
ed with hair, and cockroaches floated around my feet.

  There wasn't any shampoo, just a bar of green soap covered in a brownish film. Dustin told me not to use it. I wasn't going to anyway.

  We kissed under the spray, and he slid his hands up and down the sides of my stomach and around my boobs.

  “You're so beautiful,” he said and held my face.

  My hands were on his stomach, touching the muscles that stuck out of his skin. I moved to his chest and then his arms.

  His fingers went between my legs and poked inside me. I was high and not really horny, but his fingers felt smooth, and the water made me wet.

  He was hard and I rubbed it, and tugged, and turned around so it pressed against my ass. I bent over, holding the edge of the tub. Black ants crawled near my hands, and I flipped my hair over my shoulder so they wouldn't crawl up to my head.

  He gently slid in. I was loud, moaning and saying his name, and he pumped faster. But he never stopped caressing the sensitive skin on my butt, and he reached around to squeeze my nipples.

  From his pounding, my hands slipped from the greasy edge, and he caught me before I fell in the bath of cockroaches. He picked me up and turned me around, wrapping my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, and we kissed. The muscles I'd touched just minutes before were holding all my weight as he stroked at the same time.

  His body shook when he came. His arms tightened around me. I didn't come, but being so close to him was as good as coming.

  “You want to get out of here?” he asked, brushing his lips over mine again.

  The water had turned cold, but I wasn't.

  I squeezed his neck so he wouldn't let me go. And he didn't. He stepped out of the shower and set me on the counter, standing in front of me with my legs and arms still around him.

  “Baby,” he said, “we need to find some place to live.”

  I knew where I wanted to live and that was by Claire. I missed her and hadn't talked to her since my last day at the hospital. Frankie would probably have a room we could rent, and Dustin had enough money for at least a week's stay.