Crystal Lies

by Melody Carlson

  I taped Marcus Palmers “prescription” of Philippians 4:6-7 to my refrigerator door, right next to Jack’s note, which I suspected was also from the Bible.

  Naturally, Jacob didn’t come home that night. Or the next. After several days I drove by the Red Devil to see if he was around, but one of the workers informed me that he hadn’t been into work the last couple of days and was as good as fired now. I drove by Daniel’s place, too. But since Jacob no longer had a car, it was impossible to tell if he was there or not. However, I guessed by the number of cars that he might be. I had no doubt that drug activity was going on in the duplex dump. How could it not? I even considered an anonymous phone call to the police, informing them of this address and the likelihood of drug trafficking there. However, I suspected this could get Jacob into as much trouble as anyone. And I just wasn’t sure. Most of all I felt desperate, as if I had to do something. Anything!

  I dug through my purse until I found the wrinkled brochure that Marcus had given me at Hope’s Wings. I knew it had some information about codependent meetings. I had resented the idea at the time, but suddenly I wondered if it might help. Maybe the other parents would have some ideas for ways I could help my son. Or maybe the class would already be full, and I’d have a good excuse to simply forget the whole thing. Perhaps I wasn’t so unlike my son when it came to excuses. Even so, I decided to call.

  “The codependent class?” said the woman. “Yes, isn’t it on Tuesdays?”

  “Yes, a new one starts tonight. I think it’s full, but I can put you on a waiting list for the next one.”

  To my surprise, I was very disappointed and considered just hanging up, but I decided to give her my name anyway.

  “Glennis Harmon?” she asked with interest.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “We already have you down for this session.”

  “Oh?” I decided not to question how this had happened but simply thanked her and hung up.

  As I drove back toward Hope’s Wings, I felt mildly surprised to notice that the trees were nearly barren of leaves now. I had noticed the temperature dropping, but when had it become autumn? How had I missed it? It almost seemed as if I’d been trapped in some sort of time warp, as if the past weeks and months had stealthily passed without my even noticing. Yet how could that be when every day seemed longer than the one before? And the nights? Oh the nights could last a lifetime.

  I intentionally arrived a few minutes late for the meeting. This allowed me to slip into the back almost unnoticed. I listened to Marcus teaching about the physiological effects of meth use, explaining how addictive the substance was, and assuring the friends and family members that their loved one’s addiction was not their fault. Oh, I’m sure he said much more than that, but I felt so uncomfortable being there that it was hard to focus. Mostly I just watched the others, wondering who they were and how they had ended up in this place. To be honest, I felt we were a roomful of losers. Even when the people were invited to share, and some of the stories were very sad, I couldn’t help but wonder why we were all there. Was something fundamentally wrong with every one of us? Or were we really just victims of circumstance? When my turn to share came, I said very little. Only that my son had a drug problem and that I was looking for answers. I felt Marcus Palmers eyes on me, probing, as if he could see right through my thin veneer of words, as if he knew I was a being a total phony. Or maybe I was just imagining it.

  The funny thing was that I felt a tiny bit better when I left. As I drove back toward town, I tried to understand what made me feel better and finally concluded that it was just the old misery-loves-company thing. As twisted as it seemed, it was comforting to know that other mothers and fathers were going through the same kind of torment I was. I was not alone. Even so, I wasn’t sure I’d go back.

  In some ways I wanted to crawl into a hole and have everyone just leave me alone at this time. Oh, I knew I was depressed, but then who wouldn’t have been? I was unable to sleep at night and napped off and on during the day. I began letting the apartment go, letting myself go. I even quit jogging and hadn’t had a shower in days. It felt like my mental health was directly attached to Jacob’s. As if some invisible umbilical cord still connected us, and as long as he floundered and suffered, I was forced to endure the pain with him. Did I honestly think this would help anything? Did I think it would make him get better sooner? I’m not sure what I was thinking. Or if I was thinking at all.

  Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d missed my appointment with Dr. Abrams as well as the second codependency meeting, and I really needed to talk to someone. I knew that my mom wouldn’t be any help. And even my two siblings, Edward and Abby, would probably not be terribly sympathetic. Abby, several years younger than I was, was still in the “my children are so perfect” stage since her twins, Lacy and Macy, were only seven and adorable. And I’m sure she would’ve been appalled to discover what was going on with her nephew. Hopefully my mother hadn’t told her yet. And my brother, Edward, had recently gone through a painful divorce—his wife had left him for another man—and he was still in the grieving process. I suspected he would be somewhat sympathetic to my situation with Geoffrey, but since he was childless, I doubted he would understand my dilemma with Jacob. Besides, he was probably at work right now.

  I suddenly knew it was time to call Sherry and tell her the complete story. Any last remnants of my pride had long since been crushed. If she was ready to hear it, I was ready to unload it. I wanted to tell her the whole truth, including every sad and gory detail of Jacob’s frightening meth-amphetamine habit.

  “Can you meet me for lunch?” she said in her brisk business voice, and I could tell that I’d interrupted something important. I imagined her in a sleek designer suit, every hair in place, perhaps in the middle of some million-dollar transaction, and felt embarrassed as I looked down at my grungy sweats, the same ones I’d been wearing all week.

  Even so, the mere idea of showering and dressing seemed totally overwhelming to me. Impossible even. “Uh, Sherry, do you think you could come here?” I asked meekly. “I’ve been a little, well, depressed, you know, and I just don’t think I could get it—”

  “No problem,” she said quickly. “I’ll bring something for us. See you at noon?”

  “Thanks,” I muttered and hung up the phone. I looked around my messy apartment and wondered where to begin to straighten it. Was it even possible? I picked up a pile of unopened mail that Geoffrey had forwarded to my apartment and moved it from the coffee table over to the breakfast bar that was already cluttered with newspapers and dirty dishes. Then I stood staring in a daze at the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do. I’m not sure how long I stood there, stuck in a hazy fog, but by the time I returned to my senses I looked up at the clock to discover it was already half past eleven. Why had I invited Sherry to come over here? What was I thinking? Feeling like an animal caught in a trap, I paced back and forth, trying to decide what to do. Finally I decided I should call Sherry and cancel. But, of course, I only got her messaging service. She’d probably turned off her phone after my last call had interrupted her morning.

  I ran into the bathroom and took a quick shower—the first one all week. But instead of feeling the relief of getting clean, the water from the showerhead felt like hundreds of sharp needles piercing my skin. And the towel felt like sandpaper as I rubbed myself dry. I was surprised I wasn’t raw and bleeding by the time I was done. I dug around my tiny closet until I found a less-than-grimy pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I had barely pulled these on when I heard someone knocking at my door.

  “Glennis!” exclaimed Sherry when she saw me. “What’s happened to you?” As usual, she was impeccably dressed. Today she had on a perfectly cut, cream and camel tweed suit, along with matching camel shoes and purse. Even her jewelry, simple but elegant pearls, was perfect.

  “I…I’m sorry this place is such a mess.” I put my hand on my still-wet and uncombed hair. “I’ve been having a�
��a pretty hard time.”

  Sherry cleared off a place for us to both sit on the couch, then set a couple of bags on the coffee table. “Here,” she said, handing me a deli sandwich. “Let’s eat and then talk.”

  I managed to choke down nearly half of the roast beef sandwich before I felt like I couldn’t consume another bite. I sipped my coffee, knowing it was my favorite blend from Starbucks, but it was as if my taste buds had quit functioning. I attempted to calm myself as I waited for Sherry to finish her lunch.

  “Okay,” she finally said, dabbing her lips with a paper napkin. “What’s going on with you, Glennis? Is it Geoffrey again? Has he done something new?

  The last time I had spoken to Sherry about Geoffrey was after I’d seen him at Sindalli’s. Naturally, she had been sympathetic and supportive. “No, it’s not Geoffrey this time, Sherry.” I took in a breath. “It’s Jacob.”

  “Oh dear, is that poor boy having more problems?”

  I nodded, blinking back tears. Then I spilled the whole story, going back and forth until it was a wonder it even made sense. Maybe it didn’t.

  “Oh, Glennis, why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Sherry leaned over and hugged me. “What a hard burden to be bearing all alone.”

  Naturally, her compassion only unleashed the rest of my tears. “I wanted to tell you,” I sobbed,“but I was embarrassed. It’s…it’s so hard to admit that you’ve blown it—not only as a wife, but as a mom.”

  “That’s not true, Glennis. These things aren’t your fault.”

  “How do you know?” I snapped. “It feels like everything I touch gets…gets ruined. I…I’m such a…a complete failure. I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore. No wonder Geoffrey had to go to another…another woman.”

  “Glennis.” Sherry was using a firm voice now. “You can’t keep telling yourself those kinds of things. Those are total lies, Glennis. And I hate having to get all fundamental on you, but I just can’t help myself. Those lies are coming straight from the pit of hell. And they’re hurting you. Can’t you see that? You need to be surrounding yourself with truth more than ever now. Where is your Bible?”

  “My Bible?”

  “Yes. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know. Probably in a box in my bedroom.”

  “In a box?”

  “Well…”

  “Go and get it.”

  So I went to my bedroom and dug around in a box of books until I found my Bible. Then I brought it out and handed it to her. Sherry had taught women’s Bible studies for years and had only quit when her life got too busy with her realty work. But she knew her way around the Bible. She opened my Bible, took a purple ballpoint pen, and immediately began underlining something. “You don’t mind, do you?” She looked up at me.

  I shrugged. “Not really.”

  Then she grabbed an old newspaper and began tearing up markers from it and slipping them into sections that she had marked and obviously expected me to read. Finally she handed it back to me. “And tell me,” she said. “Have you been going to church at all?”

  “To church?” I echoed.

  “Right.” She shook her head as if the answer was clear. “So you’ve not only quit reading your Bible, but you’ve quit going to church as well.”

  “But Geoffrey goes to that church,” I attempted. “It was your church too.”

  “But how can I—”

  “I know, I know…” She considered this. “Well, if you can’t go to that church, you can certainly come to mine. And I think you’d like it, too.”

  Sherry and Rod had switched churches a few years ago. At the time I had wanted to switch with them, but Geoffrey had insisted that our church, very old and established within the community, was important for the connections he needed for his work. Naturally, I had agreed.

  “I guess I could do that,” I told Sherry.

  “That’s right, you can.” Then she looked at her watch. “I’m sorry I have to take off, Glennis, but I have a showing in fifteen minutes. As it is, I’ll just barely make it. Mind if I brush my teeth before I go?”

  “Of course not.”

  I sat and waited as Sherry hurried into my bathroom. When she emerged, she was shaking her head. “You need to clean this place up, Glennis. I’d be depressed too if I was living in this kind of mess.”

  I nodded, feeling like a child who’d just been reprimanded. However, I knew she was right. Sherry was almost always right.

  “Thanks,” I said and walked her to the door.

  “And have you been going to Dr. Abrams?” she asked with one hand on the doorknob.

  “I…uh…I missed the last—”

  “Glennis,” she said sternly,“how do you expect to get through something like this if you sit around and do nothing?”

  “Right.” I nodded as she blew me a kiss, then whooshed out the door.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” she called over her shoulder. “Hang in there, sweetie.”

  So, taking Sherry’s advice to heart, I began cleaning the apartment. But I found it was hard to think clearly. Sometimes I’d find myself putting something in a totally inappropriate place. Like my running shoes. For some reason I picked them up off the living room floor and carried them into the kitchen, where I put them into the freezer. It was as if I was getting some form of Alzheimer’s. I wondered if that was even possible at my age. Still I continued to putter. Two steps forward, one step back. And by the end of the day, I thought things had improved ever so slightly. I kept my phone turned on after six, expectantly waiting for Sherry’s call. One thing I knew about Sherry—when she promised to do something, she always followed through.

  But by eleven o’clock that night, I realized that for whatever reason, Sherry was not going to call. Maybe she had given up on me too.

  I looked at the Bible still sitting on the coffee table with bits of newspaper hanging out like flapping tongues—as if they were taunting me, laughing at my foolishness. Was God laughing too?

  Out my window the darkened street looked unfriendly and cold. It was November now, and temperatures were steadily dropping. I wondered where Jacob was and if he was okay I imagined him sleeping on a park bench, shivering in the cold. Then in a ditch, unconscious from an overdose. Then hit by a car, bleeding in the street. Then in the morgue, covered in a white sheet with a tag that said Unknown attached to his toe.

  “Stop it!” I told myself. “Just stop it.”

  But it was as if my mind had gotten stuck on this track and was not about to be bumped off. Like a slide show gone wild, all I could see was scene after scene of hopelessness and death, and Jacob starred in each frame. Was it possible to bring on your own heart attack simply by getting worked up over something? I tried to take calming breaths, but this time they didn’t seem to work. Suddenly I believed that I was experiencing an honest case of mother’s intuition and that I was exactly right—Jacob was in some very real danger tonight. Somehow I knew—I knew deep inside my gut—that Jacob might not survive this night.

  “Oh, God!” I cried out, falling onto my knees in front of the couch. “I don’t know what to do. I desperately need your help right now. Please, please, help me know what to do. How can I help Jacob? How can I spare him from this—this evil thing that is going to destroy him? Please, please, show me what to do…”

  I continued praying like this for some time. Crying and praying. Praying and crying. Until finally it seemed there were no words left to pray. “God, help me,” I said. “Help Jacob. Spare him, God.” And then I crawled onto the couch and fell asleep. I didn’t wake up until early the next morning.

  Feeling somewhat better, I got up and made a pot of coffee. I turned on the morning news show and began opening my mail. I was just opening an insurance envelope when something the local newscaster was saying stopped me dead in my tracks. I set down the half-opened envelope and listened.

  “…earlier this morning the local young man was admitted to the emergency room for alcohol poisoning,” she
was saying. I turned up the volume, heart pounding and ice water rushing through my veins. I knew it was Jacob.

  “Sources say friends transported him to the hospital, then left before they could be questioned or identified. According to police reports, the young man’s blood-alcohol level was .43 percent, a lethal amount. The young man, whose name cannot be released until family is notified, died shortly after hospital personnel began treating him. In other news.

  I felt my head growing dizzy, and I clung to the breakfast bar to support myself. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I told myself. “It doesn’t have to be Jacob.” Even so, I could barely breathe, barely make my way to the phone. But who should I call? The police? The hospital? Geoffrey?

  I decided to call the hospital. But my hands were shaking so badly I could barely dial directory assistance for the number. And when the operator came on, my voice was so raspy that I had to repeat myself twice. Finally I was connected to information at the hospital.

  “I need to know…” I gasped. “I mean I need to find out if… if the young man who died of an…an alcohol overdose has been identified yet. I mean it’s possible that he’s my son, and I…uh…I don’t know.

  “The young man has been identified,” said the woman.

  “Have you notified the family yet?” I said in a barely audible voice.

  “We were able to locate the young man’s father.”

  I took in a jagged breath. “Can you…can you tell me the young man’s name, please? You see, my son’s father and I are…are estranged, and I…”

  “I can understand your concern,” she said. “But I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

  “But I’m afraid it’s my son,” I pleaded.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You tell me the name of your son, and I’ll confirm whether or not that’s him. After all, I’m a mother too.”

  “His name is Jacob Harmon.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. That’s not the young man who was brought in.”