Death Spiral

by Janie Chodosh

Melinda rakes her fingernails over her cheek, causing a welt by her right nostril to bleed. “I need money,” she pleads as a trickle of blood dribbles past her lip onto her chin. “You’re the only one I could go to, the only one who could understand. I’ll pay you back. All of it.”

  I slap my hand down on the table, knocking over an empty wine bottle. “Understand? You’ve got to be kidding. You’re really asking me for money?” I shake my head and turn toward the window where a trapped fly buzzes between the cracked glass and screen. “I can’t believe you had the guts to come to my aunt’s house, leave me some bullshit note about my mom, and ask for money after you stole from us.” I spin back around to face her. “I’m such an idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Wait!” she blurts. “Please. There’s more.”

  She takes a drag off her cigarette and starts to cough. She coughs so hard I think she’s going to crack a rib. For a second I almost feel sorry for her, but I shake off the feeling. I’m not getting suckered into that charity case routine.

  “Forget it. We’re out of here. Come on, Jesse. Let’s go.”

  I grab his arm and start walking to the door, but Melinda gets there first. She stands in the doorway, arms out, blocking us from leaving. I could easily push her out of the way if I wanted to—a flick of my hand and those birdlike bones would snap.

  “They’re telling me not to go to the doctor, like they told your mother,” she whispers.

  “Like who told my mother?” I hear my voice rise, feel my face burn.

  Melinda cracks the door, peers down the hallway, then closes it again. She’s acting like a paranoid drug addict. Big surprise.

  “I can’t tell you,” she says.

  “Oh my god. This is crazy.” I try to push past her, but she’s not letting me go without a fight. She grabs my jacket with more force than I would’ve expected, given her size and state, and gives me a hard shove. I stumble backwards into Jesse. He rights my fall and holds my arm for a second, but I jerk away. I’m angry enough to return the shove, but Melinda’s scurried past us and is cowering by the couch, holding out a piece of paper.

  “Read this. It’ll explain.”

  I snatch the paper and read the heading out loud, “You can lead a heroin-free life.” Jesse peers over my shoulder and we read the rest together.

  “Neurons are cells that transmit chemical and electrical messages along pathways in the brain. In the center of the brain sits the reward pathway, which is responsible for driving our feelings of motivation, reward and behavior. Drugs, such as heroin, activate this reward pathway, leaving an addict with a high and craving more.

  At the Twenty-third Street Methadone Clinic, we are working with researchers from PluraGen, a leading biopharmaceutical company, to run a clinical trial to deliver an experimental new drug to block this pathway. This will stop the cravings/pleasure cycle associated with heroin use, so that normal brain function can be restored and you can once again lead an addiction free life.

  Are you interested in participating in this groundbreaking clinical trial? Applicants must be over the age of 18 and fill out our prescreening registration form to determine eligibility.”

  I glare at her when I’m done reading. “What the hell is this?”

  “The clinical trial.”

  “What clinical trial?”

  “The one I was in with your mother, for addicts.” Melinda’s whole body is one jittery motion—foot tapping, fingers drumming, hands quivering. Hardly the bleary-eyed, heroin vibe I’ve seen so many times. High on some other drug is my guess. She stubs out her cigarette in a beer can and looks at me. “I’m clean now.”

  “Clean?” I laugh. “So this clinical trial is a miracle?”

  She ignores my sarcasm and breaks into another coughing fit. “I’m the one who told her about it,” she says when she catches her breath. “I’m not supposed to talk about it…but I thought if you knew, maybe you’d help. I think it’s side effects from the drug making me sick.” She picks at a piece of skin hanging from her lip and her nervous eyes dart to the window again. “So I stopped going in for treatment. That’s why I need money. To see a doctor.”

  I raise my eyebrows at Jesse, who gives a helpless shrug. “You’re saying my mother was in some clinical trial for heroin addicts?”

  “That’s right. They say they’re the only ones who can treat the symptoms, but I don’t believe them.”

  “No way,” I say, in a less than convincing tone. And then, my voice now trembling, I add, “Mom wasn’t in a clinical trial. She would’ve told me. Mom didn’t keep secrets like that.”

  Melinda suddenly lunges at me. She pinches my chin in her scabby fingers and raises my face to meet her eyes. “Look at me.” Her voice is low and controlled and for a second all that twitchy, strung-out energy dissipates. “Your mother and I look the same, don’t we? Our skin—the scabs, the blisters—side effects, all of it.”

  Staring into Melinda’s decomposing flesh, I see my mother and remember that final morning.

  She’s all elbows and knees standing in front of the bathroom mirror in her underwear and t-shirt, rubbing cream onto her scabs.

  “You should really go see a doctor, Ma,” I say, peering at her from the doorway.

  “I’m fine, hon,” she tells me, frowning as she checks her reflection in the mirror. “Just a little under the weather. Too much sun at the shore last week. Maybe I have a little cold. Besides, I don’t trust all those fancy doctors and hospitals. All they want is money.” She looks at me, sees the worry on my face, and smiles. “I’ll be fine, Faith, really. I’m clean now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  There was a lie behind that smile. Even then I knew it.

  I wonder if the lie was about being clean or because she knew she was dying.

  A familiar voice whispers in my head: She betrayed you. She lied because she didn’t love you. She didn’t care.

  Angry tears burn my eyes. I blink hard and swallow. Maybe there is a reason Mom wouldn’t go to a doctor. Maybe Melinda is telling the truth and Mom was in some clinical trial, trying to get better, and something went wrong.

  The effect of this thought is relief, but then I look at Melinda again—the washed-out skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes, her tangled mat of hair and trembling fingers—and I remember what she really wants. Money. I twist out of her grip and back away.

  “Go to the hospital if you’re so sick. Why are you bothering me?”

  She starts to say something, but someone pounds on the door. A man calls her name, and she doesn’t finish her thought. She looks at me, and in a loud panicked whisper says, “Quick, go. He can’t see you here.” She snatches the flier from my hand and scribbles a number. “Call Al,” she says, pushing Jesse and me down the hall into the back room and pointing at Fat Guy, who’s perched on the edge of the bed, holding a joint and watching a lion tear apart a gazelle on TV. She stuffs the flier in my bag. “He’ll know how to get in touch with me.”

  “Wait! What’s going on? You’re not making any sense. Why—”

  Melinda dashes out of the room before I can finish my question.

  Fat Guy doesn’t move or acknowledge our presence. He just stares at the bloodshed on TV and takes a hit off his joint as if two strange teenagers getting shoved into his room is an everyday occurrence.

  I have no idea what to do, so I go to the door and peak out to see a tall, stringy guy, wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and black sneakers. His back is to me, but from the way his hand is clamped around Melinda’s wrist you don’t need to be on the AP track to tell he didn’t stop by for a cup of tea and some biscuits.

  “What’s happening out there?” Jesse whispers, squeezing up beside me.

  Before I can answer, the guy glances in our direction. I’m not sure if he sees us, but my heart stops all the same. I grab Jesse to keep my legs from buck
ling.

  I can’t believe it. It can’t be, but it is. I couldn’t forget those heavy-lidded charcoal eyes, that long, narrow face and pointy chin, that stubby, wind-burned nose and small, twitchy mouth. It’s that same guy who came to our apartment the day Mom died.

  “You have a debt to pay,” I hear him tell Melinda.

  My stomach curdles at the words. A hard chill runs down my spine. I close the door and spin around to face Fat Guy.

  “Who’s that with Melinda?” I blurt.

  Fat Guy scratches the hairy strip of belly his shirt doesn’t cover. “No clue. She calls him the Rat Catcher.”

  “The Rat Catcher?” I say, not understanding and not sure I heard him right. “What does he want?”

  Fat Guy snorts, turns away from the TV, and fixes me with his bloodshot eyes. “You want my advice?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Mind your own business.”

  I stand with my back against the door, unsure whether to go out and help or take Fat Guy’s advice. I close my eyes, and when I do, the grotesque image of Melinda’s face haunts me, death tearing at her flesh. Those words echo in my ears: You have a debt to pay. Melinda’s face morphs into Mom’s. The Rat Catcher’s at our apartment now. It’s Mom’s wrist he’s holding, and when he looks up and sees me peeking out from my bedroom, the glint in his eyes is enough to keep me cowering.

  If Melinda’s really in trouble, I have to do something, but when I open my eyes and crack open the door, they’re gone.

  I take a deep breath to clear my head, but there isn’t enough oxygen in this smoke-filled pit to fill my lungs. I grab Jesse’s arm and take off through the apartment. I fly down the stairs and break into a run the second my feet hit pavement. If it weren’t for the fact I failed PE at my last school, okay got kicked out (you cannot play field hockey in combat boots, Ms. Flores!) and my cardiovascular deal is on par with about that of a sloth, I’d keep running. But my lungs are going apeshit on me, as in stop now or die—literally. I have no choice but to obey. I slump against a kiosk and double over.

  “What’s going on, Faith?” I hear Jesse say. I straighten up and catch his eye, then quickly look away.

  “I don’t know,” I say, stalling for time as I figure out what to tell him. Um, gee, sorry about what happened back there. Looks like there was some drug dealer or pest control guy having a seriously bad day in Melinda’s place. I had a great time, though! (Big smile!) Movie next week?

  It doesn’t matter what I say or don’t say, and I know it. Why would Jesse stick around after what just happened? I brace myself for the I-like-you-but-hanging-out-is-just-not-a-good-idea excuse. Well, that’s what I got for asking him to come with me.

  “How about a coffee?” he says instead.

  “Huh?”

  “Coffee—you know, hot beverage? Originated in Ethiopia around the ninth century? Filled with caffeine? Gets you through first period? I could really use one. And from the look on your face, so could you.”

  “Right…okay, good,” I stammer. “Coffee sounds good.”

  On the other side of the street there’s a place with metal bars across the window, a torn green awning, and a sign that says Breakfast Served All Day. Not exactly the cheeriest scene, but it’ll do. We go inside where a girl with long, greasy hair stands behind a glass-fronted bakery case displaying food that looks to have expired sometime around the time of the dinosaurs.

  While Jesse stops at the counter for coffee, I take a seat in the back corner by an ancient pinball machine and root around my pockets for a Tylenol, even though I know it’s ridiculous to think a painkiller could kill the fear and anger in my heart. All I find is Mom’s lighter, some lint, and an unwrapped piece of gum.

  I stick the gum in my mouth, and when I close my eyes, the questions start to flow. Is the Rat Catcher Melinda’s dealer? Was he Mom’s dealer, too? Did she owe him money? Did he have something to do with her death? And why’s he called the Rat Catcher?

  I run my hands over the grime of the sticky table and open my eyes. Then there’s the clinical trial. How does that fit in? What if Melinda was telling me the truth? What if she was right and it was the side effects from some drug that killed Mom? That would mean she didn’t OD.

  I stare out the window into the last light of day, thinking about the word truth. Is there even such a thing? Mom was always about to get off drugs and get better. That was her truth. In the end it was all a lie. Even if it was true that she’d gotten off drugs, she didn’t get better. She died.

  I’m lost in these thoughts when Jesse comes back with the coffees. I ignore the mug he sets in front of me. “What if Melinda’s being straight and my mother was in some clinical trial? Why didn’t she tell me? Why keep that a secret?”

  The question is rhetorical, but Jesse answers. “Maybe she didn’t want to get your hopes up, you know, in case it didn’t work.”

  “Yeah, like maybe she’d die,” I say. “Anyway, it’s bullshit. It has to be. Melinda owed the Rat Catcher money. That’s why she looked so scared when he showed up. He’s probably her dealer. That’s the debt he was talking about—drug money.”

  Jesse doesn’t say anything. He dumps three containers of cream into his mug, takes a sip, then dumps in another container along with about ten packets of sugar and sips again. Once his coffee expectations are satisfied, he picks up the flier I set on the table and reads it over. Then he reads it again. I’m wondering if he intends to memorize the thing and am about to snatch it out of his hands when he says, “Melinda doesn’t seem capable of making this up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This,” he says, waving the flier in my face.

  “So?”

  “So, I’m just saying, she did have this flier for the clinical trial. It has to be legit.”

  I roll my eyes. “She could’ve found it in the trash.”

  Jesse shrugs and sips his coffee. “She seemed pretty scared, though. Totally messed up, but scared. It seems possible she’s telling the truth.”

  I lean forward, knocking over the sugar with my elbow. “So you think my mother was being used as a lab animal in some clinical trial that she never told me about?” My voice is loud, too loud, but I can’t help it.

  The girl behind the counter throws me a dirty look, like I might be some kind of teenage psychopath sporting a gun under my jacket.

  “You’re getting too emotional,” Jesse says.

  “Too emotional?” I burst, and then lower my voice, forcing myself to keep control. “It’s my mother we’re talking about. Not some lab animal.”

  “Yeah, well I’m just trying to help.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not a charity case.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not your punching bag.”

  I’m about to start another “Yeah, well…” but I look down at my hands folded in my lap and feel lame for my outburst. I want to say I’m sorry, but I don’t have much practice in the field of apologizing. Mom and I solved most problems by pretending they didn’t exist. In fact, she was an addict and her whole life was a problem. That meant our entire relationship was one big avoidance.

  “Okay, fine. You’re right. It could be true,” I concede after several minutes pass, hoping this counts as an apology.

  I pick up my coffee mug, but put it back down without drinking. I stare at the kid with the big eighties hair and duck tail who’s passionately working the pinball machine. I watch the flashing lights, listen to the ping as the ball drops into the gutter. My thoughts bounce back to that last day. I try again to understand what happened.

  Mom’s in the kitchen attempting to scrape together something to eat. Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue” crackles on the radio. I’m in my room, digging around the dirty laundry pile for a pair of jeans.

  “Did you finish the peanut butter?” Mom shouts to me from the kitchen. “I’m trying to make PB and J, Faith! If you finish so
mething, you gotta tell me.”

  I’m about to shout back and tell her there hasn’t been any peanut butter for three days, that I threw out rest of the Wonder Bread, which looked like a science experiment, when there’s a knock on the apartment door.

  I hear Mom’s footsteps as she stomps across the kitchen, then the squeak of door hinges. I’m still in my underwear, so I stay in my room, but when I hear a man’s voice, I peek out.

  “Come on,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

  Mom’s shoulders are hunched. Her head is down. At ninety pounds, she looks like a kid getting scolded by a teacher.

  “I don’t want to go,” she tells him.

  “You have a debt to pay,” he says in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

  “One minute…I…need my purse.”

  She’s stalling, but why? Does she think she can get away from him? That she can call for help?

  “Faith,” she whispers as she passes my room. “I’m…”

  But that’s all she gets to say. He yanks her to the door, and then they’re gone.

  Was she trying to tell me something? Where did the Rat Catcher take her? What debt did she have to pay? I never got to ask. That night she was dead on the bathroom floor.

  The front door opens with a loud clang. The Arctic blast slaps the memory-induced haze right out of me. I shift my gaze from the pinball player and look at the flier again: Twenty-third and Jefferson. I might not know who the Rat Catcher is or what debt she owed him, but there’s one way to find out if Melinda was telling the truth about my mother.

  “I’m going to the clinic,” I tell Jesse.

  Jesse looks at me with a blank expression.

  “The clinic,” I repeat, pointing at the flier. “I’ll go Monday. Whoever’s in charge should be able to tell me if my mother was in the clinical trial. And if she was, maybe they can tell me if the symptoms were side effects from the drug. At least then I’ll know if Melinda was telling the truth, and maybe I’ll find out what happened to my mom.”

  ***

  When I get home an hour and a half later, Aunt T and Sam are hanging out on the couch watching some show about mummies on the History Channel. Aunt T pats the couch and moves over, making room for me. I know how much she wants me to stay and tell her about my day, how much she wants to include me in things and make my life normal. But how can my life be normal? My mom was possibly used as a guinea pig in a clinical trial she never told me about. I just saw her strung-out former junkie friend who got led away by a possible drug dealer who might’ve once been Mom’s dealer. How can I tell Aunt T what I think might’ve happened in the past when more than anything she wants me to let go and move forward? I smile and thank her for the offer, but tell her I’m tired and withdraw to my room.