by B. K. Rivers
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say as I seriously consider kicking him in the shins. “You kept some of those pills, didn’t you?”
Jordan’s half-baked eyes widen in surprise. He steps away from the bathroom door, letting his towel slip lower on his hips, turning my cheeks a darker shade of pink.
“How many did you take, Jordan?”
He shrugs, giving me a faint smile that I want to smack off his face.
“How many do you have left? Where are they?” He turns his head toward his pants lying in a heap on the tile floor. I spring past him, grab the pants, and shove my hands into the pockets until I find four loose pills. I toss them into the open toilet and flush them all before Jordan can make it across the room. He reaches for me, grabs ahold of my wrist, and yanks me around to face him. He leans down, his face barely an inch from mine, and snarls.
“Those aren’t yours to throw away.” His fingers close even tighter over my wrist, making my fingers prickle.
“Jordan, let go of my arm,” I say firmly but quietly. His grip doesn’t loosen, instead he moves closer to my face. “You’re hurting me.” I jerk my arm from his hand and slap his scruffy cheek. “You’re an asshole. Get out of this house!” I run from the bathroom down to the kitchen and rummage through my purse until I find his bottle of pills. Wrapping my fingers around the orange bottle, I run back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’s still standing in the bathroom with the towel slipping lower and lower when I throw the bottle of pills at him. I throw it hard and true, but he ducks out of the way, the bottle missing his face by inches. It flies across the room, lands in the tub, and the top pops off, spilling pills all over the ceramic surface. Jordan dives for the pills, slamming his cast on the edge of the tub, not caring that his hand is broken. He scoops up the pills like they’re bits of priceless gold. Though I guess to him they probably are. I watch in awe at how he cares more about those damn pills than what they are doing to him.
“Look at you. You’re a mess, diving for pain pills in my tub. I’m such an idiot thinking I could ever help you.” I turn away and shut myself in my bedroom. He’s in so deep I don’t know if he’ll ever get out. And as much as I wanted to be the one to get him through this, I’m not capable of it. I’m not strong enough to do what he needs. Tears spring to the corners of my eyes and before long I find myself slipping into darkness, letting sleep take me.
Chapter 12
I awake to darkness, and as I stretch in my bed my hand lands on something that crinkles with pressure. My fingers find it, a piece of paper, and I sit up and fumble with my bedside lamp. When my eyes adjust to the lamplight, I see it’s a note from Jordan. It’s handwritten, his scrawl tilts slightly to the right and surprisingly the penmanship is tidy and precise. It reads:
Jemma,
Your gran and I spoke at lengths over dinner—which was very good, by the way—about me being here at her house. It’s obvious she’s not thrilled that I’m here, and after the bathroom incident earlier, I’m guessing you’re not either. To be honest, I’m in this weird spot in my life right now and don’t know where I belong. Obviously I don’t belong with my band since they’re taking a break from me. And I obviously don’t belong here. That leaves me in this void, a black hole of unknown.
I suppose I could just call a cab or something, I’ve got enough money to pay for one, but that begs the question of where will I go. You’d think that I would have spent my money on houses or fancy cars over the years, but I’ve been stupid and reckless. Sure, I still have more than I need, but I have nothing to show for all I’ve done, other than marks on my body.
So, in the end, you win. I’ve flushed the pain pills and have agreed to get clean and stay sober. I can’t promise an easy road. It will be filled with potholes and mountains. But I will try. God, I will try.
Yours,
Jordan
My hands are shaking by the time I finish reading his letter, and I don’t know whether to feel happy or…what else is there? Nothing. There’s nothing. I don’t feel anything and that scares me.
I reach for my phone but it’s not on my nightstand where I normally keep it. I must have left it downstairs in the kitchen. I quietly walk down the stairs into the kitchen and find it in my purse. It’s funny how dependent you become on such a small thing. Without it, I hardly know what time it is anymore. The screen reads 4:37 a.m. and there’s a text from Trish asking for more details. She won’t be up for another couple hours so I’ll text her later. She would kill me for waking her up this early on a Sunday.
My stomach gurgles, and since I slept the night away I decide to fix a nice breakfast of bacon, eggs, and waffles. The salty smell of cooking bacon brings Gran to the kitchen with an easy grin spread across her face. She wraps her arm around my waist and kisses my cheek, such a warm and familiar embrace.
“You’re up early,” she says as she hobbles over to the kitchen table. “I should have woken you for dinner last night, but it seemed you needed the sleep.”
I simply nod and continue cooking the waffles. By the time the batter is gone, I have a stack of waffles we’ll never be able to finish. Gran and I sit together eating our breakfast and watch as the sun slowly makes its way over the hills off in the distance. I can tell by the way she keeps studying me that she wants to talk about Jordan, but when we’re through eating I grab the plates and clean up quickly, avoiding the conversation altogether. She retreats to her bedroom to bathe and dress and I run upstairs to grab a shower.
The horses were left out all night and I feel a twinge of guilt for not being there to put them away, but then they seem to be more than happy to have grazed all night. Ranger greets me first as usual and I climb over to nuzzle his neck. He smells like spring, green grass, and heat, and just breathing him in makes my heart swirl in my chest. If only Jordan could be like a horse, uncomplicated and gentle. Somehow, I don’t think that’s in his nature.
The horses are so content in the pasture I decide to bring their hay and grain to them to eat as they want. I load up the wheelbarrow with the feed and ease my way out of the barn to the pasture where all four of the horses are now eagerly waiting by the fence. I’m greeted with a series of nickers and head tossing and I feel as light as a sparrow.
As the day progresses, I’m hit with an overwhelming desire to leave the ranch and just get out. I wasn’t able to take Gran on a drive yesterday and maybe it’s just what the two of us need. And she hasn’t been to Grandpa’s grave for almost two weeks. She always likes to go there and have her one-sided conversation. Sometimes I wonder if, after fifty-one years of marriage, Grandpa talks back to her. Maybe his spirit is still here on this Earth, comforting her. She always seems so much more at peace after she’s been to his gravesite, there must be something to her visits.
It’s hard to believe he’s been gone now for eight years—it doesn’t feel real sometimes. I was only twelve when he died but I still remember the funeral and how hard Gran tried to keep it together for me. In the end, as much as I was grieving him, Gran was the one who needed the comfort. For the next six months, I shared a bed with her as she often cried to herself when she thought I was asleep. I wish there was something more I could have done for her.
Gran is making sandwiches when I get inside and I can’t help but notice six slices of bread on the counter. She smiles and pats my hip as I place a kiss on her cheek.
“I can finish these, Gran.” I scoot her out of the kitchen and put together three identical turkey and cheese sandwiches, a plate of plain potato chips, and some of Gran’s canned pears. “Lunch is ready,” I call to the other room.
“Let’s eat in here today,” Gran answers from her chair. My heart pitter-patters in my chest a little. I still need to see if Gran is feeling all right. I carry the plates to the living room, balancing them on my forearm and hands, almost like I have waitressing experience, which I don’t. Jordan is slouching on the couch with his feet bouncing impatiently and he’s having trouble focusing on the televis
ion. Gran has the local news on and as soon as I sit on the other chair a picture of Jordan flashes across the screen.
Jordan’s eyes widen and mine do as well, I’m guessing for different reasons. The Jordan on the screen is a smiling, happy guy who looks like he’s on top of the world without a care. The Jordan sitting in this room is just a shadow of the other. He’s still handsome and charismatic, but his cheeks are hollow and his eyes are sunken and dark. He’s even thinner than that picture. The anchor reporting the news goes on to say, “World-famous rocker and lead singer of White Shadow, Jordan Capshaw, failed to appear at his scheduled concert in Seattle yesterday evening. It’s rumored Jordan and his band are having creative differences and will be taking some time off to figure things out.”
The screen flashes back to the anchor who, with his smug grin, continues, “If you ask me, Mr. Capshaw has finally come to his senses and checked himself into rehab.” His fellow anchors laugh at the remark and continue announcing the news.
“Is that how the world truly sees me?” Jordan asks. He hasn’t touched his lunch and I have my doubts that he will.
It’s hard to know how to answer, because I imagine it is the truth. He has really messed things up for himself and his band, but how do you tell that to someone without it backfiring?
“Jordan, listen…” I begin slowly. What do I say? Jordan’s eyes wander to mine and I know I have to say something. “You’re going to get through this. You can get your band back together and everything will be okay.”
He stands and his plate tumbles off his lap and lands on the floor, the contents of his lunch spilling around his feet. “You’re full of shit,” he says bitterly. “You can’t just wipe the slate clean. No one forgets the mistakes you make, no matter what they say.”
I know he’s not talking about the mistakes I’ve made, but it feels like his words are pointed straight at me. Heat rises to my cheeks and I stare down at my worn boots. Would he speak to me so harshly if he knew about my life? Do I share with him my past to help guide him toward his future? Before I have time to really consider opening up to him, he stumbles out of the living room, through the front door, and out of the house.
Chapter 13
Jordan
I crash out of the house like a bull charging through a china shop. I understand the expression now—things topple in my wake and at this given moment I couldn’t care less. I have to get out of this house and all things that point to what a failure I am, just like my father told me I was my entire life. Back in high school I used to run competitively, and since striking out on my own, or with the band anyway, I haven’t run at all. In fact, other than the occasional weight-lifting sessions at random hotels, I haven’t done much exercising.
I fill my lungs with air and take off down the front porch steps and race across the expanse of green grass. I haven’t made it a hundred yards before my lungs burn and my thighs feel like they’re being stretched across a hot fire. I’m partway through the canopy of trees before I realize that once again I am without shoes. God, I need to get some.
The leafy canopy above mesmerizes me with the swaying branches and sunlit patterns shifting through the green. I collapse against the trunk of one of the massive trees and allow myself to catch my breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that’s the quickest way to get everything back in sync. At least that’s what I tell myself, but it’s not working. My heart is speeding up rather than slowing, and sweat is gathering along my forehead and slowly dripping down my back. The ground feels as if it’s shaking from within, something deep and terrifying slithering just below the surface, ready to burst through the growth and swallow me whole. And I would gladly accept this death. Let the darkness take me, let the world forget Jordan Capshaw and the walking pool of filth and hatred he is. Let the beast plow forth, clamp down with its massive jaws and salivating maw over my body. Let it tear me apart, taking me bit by bit so that those I have wronged will feel the release of their troubles.
Just take me.
“Take me now!” Before I realize it, I am screaming at the top of my lungs, and then the ground opens up and I sink beneath the surface.
Chapter 14
Jemma
Even from inside the house I can hear Jordan’s torment. He is not faring well, especially after watching the news. I wish Gran had turned off the broadcast the minute his face lit up the screen.
On his way out of the house, he left a wake of picture frames on the floor that had been on a side table. I pick them up one by one and then clean up the few bits of broken glass. Near the front door, the hat tree with Grandpa’s umbrella lies across the threshold, thankfully all in one piece. I set it right and walk out the door, following the sound of Jordan’s screaming. A chill works its way up my spine as his pain goes on and on.
And then there’s silence, which is almost worse than his screaming. Not even the birds are chirping. “Oh God,” I say with my hand over my heart. I sprint toward the direction his screams were coming from and find him lying facedown in the grass near the base of a huge cottonwood tree. My knees hit the ground and I feel around for a pulse, thankfully finding it quickly. It’s beating so hard and fast, no wonder he passed out. Beads of sweat dot his face and the back of his shirt is damp. He looks like he’s dreaming, perhaps having a nightmare with the way his eyes are moving under his lids.
My fingers curl through his silken hair as I try to calm him, maybe bring him out of his dreams. He whimpers at my touch and his eyes fly open, revealing bloodshot spheres and dilated pupils. I’m not sure what all these symptoms mean, but I’m guessing they have something to do with the lack of substances flowing through his body. Jordan’s hand wraps around my wrist and he squeezes tightly.
“Take me, please,” he pleads with his eyelids clamped shut. “Eat me, kill me. Don’t let me stay here.” His bottom lip quivers as his eyes move in his sockets and his body goes limp, drifting back into a fitful sleep. I sit with him for more than an hour while his body shudders and quakes and he cries out in a nightmare. Each time he shivers I feel myself wishing I had a blanket or something to cover him, other than my own body. I lean over him, willing the warmth from my body to seep into his, knowing I’m doing him no good. What I need is to get him back into the house and up into a bed where he can sleep and work through the withdrawals.
Jordan cries out, flails his arms, and knocks me over. My cheek hits the bark of the tree and I hiss as the rough edges scrape the soft skin. My hand comes away with a light smattering of blood and I whisper a curse. By the time Jordan Capshaw is ready to fly back to White Shadow, I’ll have more than my fair share of scars whether you can see them or not, I fear.
“Jemma?” Jordan’s garbled voice wakes me from a stupor. I must have dozed off.
“I’m here,” I reply, and reach for his shoulder.
“I’m going to be sick,” he says as he scrambles to his feet just in time to rest a hand on the base of the tree, double over, and lose the contents of his stomach. He falls to his knees, still retching, and I don’t know whether to leave him alone or go to him and offer my support. I really am no good at this. Not for the first time do I wonder if I should have left Jordan’s detoxifying up to the professionals.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask timidly. Seriously, get a grip, Jemma.
Jordan spits a few times and then lowers his head. “I need a fix or a goddamn drink,” he snarls, and then vomits again.
I swallow hard, bite my bottom lip, and fight the urge to run to the house. Jordan will get through this, he’ll fight his temptations and win the battle. I know he will. I just don’t know at what cost.
“Let me help you back to the house,” I say as I stand next to him with my arms outstretched. He pushes them away and clambers to his feet.
“I don’t need your help or your goddamn pity.”
I trail behind as we climb the stairs to the house and then I follow him to the bathroom upstairs. He strips off his clothing at the bathroom door, not car
ing he has an audience. Heat bubbles in my chest and rolls to my cheeks, settling there like a warm pillow.
Jordan climbs into the empty tub with only his boxer briefs on, rests his arms on the sides, and lays his head against the wall. His knees stick up awkwardly and the cast on his hand looks mildly out of place. His eyes are closed yet he’s mumbling to himself as though he’s holding a one-sided conversation. It’s only now I see the way his fingers twitch and the muscles on his upper arms spasm. It’s possible he could be suffering a mild seizure. God, I hope not. As I walk closer and sit on the lid of the toilet, I notice beads of sweat lining his forehead and upper lip and dotting his chest and shoulders. He begins to shake violently in the tub as he sits up, wraps his arms around his knees, and shivers uncontrollably.
“Water,” he stammers. “I need hot water and a shot of vodka.”
Water I can do, the vodka I can’t and won’t. I turn the faucet all the way to hot and run the water until it scalds me and then reduce the temperature and turn on the shower. I angle the showerhead so the water sprays down over his head and back and then close the shower curtain. Hot water and steam should hopefully help him warm up.
“Vodka!” he snaps, pounding a fist on the side of the tub.
“Jordan, no,” I say firmly. “You have to get through this without alcohol. This won’t last forever, I promise.” Can I really promise him that? I’ve never dealt with anything like this, nor do I know anyone who has. I am on such foreign ground right now. “Just take as long as you need here in the shower. You’ll feel better soon.” His jeans and shirt are lying on the floor, and knowing these clothes are all he has, I figure now is as good a time as any to ask him for his underwear so I can wash his belongings.