by LS Hawker
She waited a little more than an hour, silently repeating the Serenity Prayer before a nurse stepped out and called her name. Nessa rose and followed the nurse back, where she was left in an examining room.
The doctor’s PA, Kelley, whooshed in with a clipboard. “Hi, Nessa,” she said. “What’s up?”
She explained what had happened and then said, “Can you test this to see if it’s what I think it is?”
Nessa pulled the envelope from her purse and opened it for the PA.
Kelley put on latex gloves and removed the hypo from the bubble wrap. She held it up daintily. “You need to contact the police.”
How could Nessa explain? After her exhausting morning, it seemed impossible. Was it irrational to believe that Dirksen would find some way to turn this against her? Or would it prove to them that John was alive and harassing her? She couldn’t decide. She felt like she had vapor lock.
“Listen,” Nessa said. “I’ve had a lot of contact with them lately—and I mean a lot—and they don’t move very fast. So if I came into contact with something toxic, I’d rather know now than in six weeks.”
Kelley sat thinking, looking back and forth from the syringe to Nessa’s pleading face.
“My contract is with you,” Kelley finally said. “Not with the police. Your health is my top concern. I think we have some Herosol. Let me go see.”
“Okay,” Nessa said.
Kelley left the room, taking the syringe with her, and Nessa sat staring. Her brain began to work again, now that the relapse danger had been removed. And she wondered what John’s plan was. In his drug-twisted mind, he must think that getting her back on heroin would in some way help him. But it was fruitless to try to puzzle out a bipolar crack addict’s thought processes.
Kelley returned without the hypo, but with a little purple-stained square of paper. She showed it to Nessa.
“It’s heroin,” Kelley said.
“That’s what I thought,” Nessa said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I hope I don’t regret this,” Kelley said. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.”
Nessa left the office, shaky and exhausted, still wondering about John’s intention. Was it to get her hooked back on heroin?
Or was it to kill her?
Chapter Eighteen
6/21
Hi, I’m Nessa, and I’m an alcoholic. Okay, that’s not true. Why do I lie even to my own personal journal? Is it because I want it to be true, as if being an alcoholic is that much better than being a heroin addict? I guess in one respect it is, because normally it takes booze longer to kill you.
I’ve been sober six years, five months, and two days.
More regret: the first time I did heroin, I did it by accident.
My mom was working at a crappy downtown bar as a cocktail waitress when I was seventeen, and Candy and I used to go down there and hang out and try to get old guys to buy us drinks. Mom ignored all this, pretended we were drinking Shirley Temples and doing our homework.
Candy was, but I’d pretty much stopped going to school by then. It was summer though, and one night I was there without Candy. She had something else going on, I don’t remember what. Late that night, a guy with impressively long hair—down to his hips, clean and dark and shiny—asked me to dance. He had a mustache and big brown eyes, and wore a wifebeater and faded jeans, and he was probably late twenties.
Without a word, he took my hand and pulled me out onto the dance floor.
He leaped around, making me think of “Spill the Wine” by War—“an overfed, long-haired leaping gnome” because that’s what this guy was.
When a slow song came on, he took me in his arms but shockingly didn’t try anything.
He shouted into my ear, “You want to . . . ?”
“What?” I yelled.
“You want to . . . ?” He held out one hand palm up and then positioned his thumb and forefinger under his nose as if he were holding a straw and theatrically snorted.
Cocaine.
Yes, I definitely wanted cocaine.
I was already drunk and stoned, but I smiled and nodded. He grabbed my hand and we headed toward the door. I stumbled after him, his hand surprisingly large around mine as he pulled me outside to a yellow sports car, opened the passenger’s side door, which lifted upward, and helped me in. He went around to the other side and got in himself.
I sank into the buttery leather seats and smelled money. I’d never been anywhere near anything this luxurious and expensive.
Who was this guy?
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Hoover,” he said with a smile and a wink.
He took a small mirror from the console, unfolded a tiny envelope, and poured powder from it onto the mirror. He used an American Express platinum card to cut lines into the powder, periodically smiling over at me in the dark with his gleaming straight teeth. Then he withdrew a prerolled hundred dollar bill from behind his ear, twirled it in his fingers like a baton, and handed it to me. I felt a tingle of excitement as I clamped one nostril shut, stuck the bill up the other, and snorted a line.
It diffused into my brain as I snorted another line with the other nostril, then handed over the bill and leaned back in the soft seat. He slid the moon roof open, reached across me, and tripped my seat’s recline button. I fell through the layers of night, my eyes rolled back, my body shuddering in silky, euphoric waves. I blinked, and then I watched the stars overhead reveal themselves one by one, coming into sharper focus until I could see minute details, rings and space dust and nebulae and supernovas.
“How you feel?” Hoover purred in my ear. I anticipated his hands on me but they never came.
“I feel sooooo good,” I said. My own voice sounded too slow.
He reclined his seat too, and pointed at the sky. We said nothing as we watched it rotate around us. I had never felt so connected to the planet, to humanity, to God himself.
What the hell was this stuff?
About thirty minutes later Hoover closed the moon roof and brought my seat to its full upright and locked position.
“You gotta go now,” Hoover said.
I raked my hair back and nonsensically said, “Me too.”
“When will I see you next?” Hoover said.
“What’s today?”
“It’s Thursday.”
“Tomorrow night,” I said dreamily.
“See you then.”
He chucked the tip of my nose, pulled me out of the car, and turned me toward the bar.
I floated back inside, and whatever that shit was, I wanted more, because I hadn’t once thought about Nathan, or the trial, or my mother’s upcoming reality show.
I wanted more. And I got more, much more.
But not from Hoover. What I couldn’t have foreseen was that my mom would start dating him shortly after that night. She never asked him what he did for a living, what he did to have a fancy sports car and take her to nice restaurants and on tropical vacations. She was famously antidrug, but if drugs paid for all the luxuries in her life, so be it. She would just cover her eyes and act as if she didn’t know.
I only found out later that it was heroin. So of course, I wanted my best friend to feel the same things I had. And she did.
Friday, June 24
RIGHT AFTER WAKING up, Nessa made a quick run to the grocery store. The sky hung oppressively close to the ground, with heavy, dark clouds bearing down like a steam press, threatening thunderstorms and even higher humidity.
By the time she returned home, the rain had blown in.
A blue sedan sat idling in front of the house.
What now?
Nessa parked the Pacifica in the garage and went in the back door. She heard the doorbell ring, missing the old happy Declan MacManus �
��Friends are here!” bark.
She’d had more strange visitors in the last four weeks than the entire time they’d lived in this house.
Nessa opened the front door to a middle-aged woman in a damp skirt and blouse with a disheveled bun, holding a dripping red umbrella over herself with one hand and a leather briefcase in the other.
“Mrs. Donati?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I’m Shanae Klerkse from Child Protective Services.”
“Child . . .”
“Protective Services,” the woman said.
“How can I help you?” Nessa said. She briefly pretended Shanae Klerkse was here to interview her about Lauren, the mom who refused to use sunscreen and had no air-conditioning. But by now, Nessa knew better. This was about her.
“May I come in?” Shanae said.
“What is this regarding?” Nessa said.
“Well, Mrs. Donati, we received a phone call reporting that your home may be an unsafe environment for your three-year-old son.”
“From whom?” Nessa said.
“It was an anonymous call.”
“Of course it was,” Nessa said.
“We are obligated by law to investigate every report. Is your son at home, Mrs. Donati? I’d like to interview him.”
“Do you know American Sign Language?”
“No,” Shanae said. “Is your son deaf?”
“No. He doesn’t speak.”
“Is he home?”
“Nope,” Nessa said. “He’s in Kansas City with his grandparents.”
“When will he return?”
“In a few days.”
The rain fell heavier, and lightning flashed. The CPS caseworker flinched. “May I come in, Mrs. Donati?”
Nessa debated. It was common courtesy to ask someone in out of the rain, but what would this mean? Was it better to cooperate? Should she call a lawyer?
Another lightning strike followed by a quick explosion of thunder finally made Nessa motion Shanae inside. She had nothing to hide, of course, so she might as well get this over with.
“Thank you,” her guest said, stepping inside and collapsing her umbrella.
“Would you like a bottle of water?” Nessa said. “I’m going to get one for myself.”
“Sure,” Shanae said.
“Why don’t you take a seat in the living room, and I’ll be right back.”
Nessa grabbed two water bottles from the fridge, and wondered if this would be seen as environmentally irresponsible, if this would count against her. Ridiculous thoughts for a ridiculous circumstance.
Back in the living room, Shanae sat on the wingback chair and was holding a clipboard and a pen on her lap. “What are you growing out back there?” She wrote on her clipboard while Nessa explained the hops-for-local-craft-brewers concept.
Nessa sat on the couch, cracked open her water bottle, and took a drink, watching the weather rampage out the window behind Shanae. Even though the sky was gloomy, there was still enough light behind her to make her interrogator’s face hard to read as she was asked all the usual questions. Nessa tried her best not to answer tersely, sarcastically, or defensively.
“So you’ve taken Daltrey to the doctor about his speech delay.”
“Yes,” Nessa said. “Our pediatrician, Dr. Blatter, says it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Does he say what the cause might be?”
“Since she’s not worried about it, we haven’t discussed causes.”
“Do you read to him? Do you work on ABCs with him?”
Nessa thought her head might pop off like a champagne cork. “Yes.”
“You might want to have his hearing tested.”
“We have,” Nessa said. “Several times.”
“And you’ll want to start reading out loud to him on a regular basis.”
Nessa just nodded.
Then came the really fun questions:
“Do you keep pornography in the home?”
“Do you drink? Use drugs?”
“Have many sexual partners?”
“None, since my husband left,” Nessa said.
“How many abortions have you had?”
This one caught her off guard. How was this relevant? How was it anyone’s business? And the wording of it was interesting. Not have you had any but how many? Nessa wondered if the questions were asked in a specific order to rile up the interviewee.
“None,” Nessa said.
She couldn’t see the expression on Shanae’s face as she wrote down the answer, so Nessa impulsively rose and strode toward the window behind her, pulling the curtains closed and switching on the lamp to Shanae’s left. Nessa turned toward the couch and her eyes lit on a lump between two of the magazines on the end table next to her bottle of water. White, oval, an inch wide.
China white heroin.
The sight paralyzed her, stopping her forward progress. Sweat immediately popped out on her forehead. The bag held a magnetic pull, and her eyes watered with the effort of not looking at it.
Shanae glanced up at Nessa and reacted to the expression of horror no doubt distorting her face. “Mrs. Donati? Are you all right?” She swiveled her head toward the end table.
Nessa threw herself to the ground, clutching her left calf. “Muscle cramp,” she said, drawing Shanae’s attention. How could she keep it there? And how could she get her out of the house?
Who knew what other goodies had been hidden around here for this person to find?
Nessa groaned loudly.
“Let me grab your water,” Shanae said, rising, and Nessa screamed.
Shanae turned her attention back to Nessa.
“I know this is weird, but would you mind . . . massaging my leg?” Nessa said.
“All right,” Shanae said. She lowered herself to the floor and tentatively rubbed Nessa’s calf.
Nessa looked around for a heavy object to smash the caseworker’s skull with. Would that be worse than Child Protective Services finding drugs in the house?
A deafening peal of thunder sounded right on top of a brilliant lightning flash and the lights brightened, then went out.
“Oh, that’s better,” Nessa said. She stood and walked to the end table. Nessa sat on it, hoping she wouldn’t crush the glassine bag and send a burst of heroin powder into the air. With shaking hands, she picked up her water bottle and took a drink. “I think I’m okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Shanae said, rising and sitting on the chair.
The lights came back on.
“I just have a few more questions,” the caseworker said.
“Okay,” Nessa said, straightening her phony spasming leg. She felt as though she were sitting on a blazing coal, burning through her dress and flesh. It was all she could think of during the final questions, and she wasn’t sure any of her answers were coherent. Finally, Shanae rose and turned toward the chair to pack up her questionnaire and clipboard. Nessa quickly pulled the top magazines over the glassine bag, which was intact, then turned back around.
Shanae was gazing at her, unmoving.
Nessa attempted a friendly smile.
“You probably need more potassium in your diet,” Shanae said.
“Yes,” Nessa said.
“I’ll return when your son is here to interview him,” Shanae said. “When do you expect him back?”
“On the thirtieth,” Nessa said.
Shanae made a note of it on her clipboard. “I’ll give you a call and let you know when I’m coming this time.” She pulled back the curtains and looked out the window. “The rain’s letting up,” she said. “I better get out to my car before I’m stuck here overnight.”
“Well, thank you,” Nessa said, her desperately beating heart making her vision blur.
“Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out.”
Nessa didn’t move until she heard the sedan drive away. Then she peeped out the window to be sure Shanae was gone before lifting the magazines. The glassine bag flexed, seemed to come alive and stretch. Nessa picked it up and saw that it was stamped with a red sunflower.
In big cities, dealers proudly branded their wares. She was surprised this practice took place in small-town America too. But because of this, she could use the stamp, the brand, to try to find where the heroin had come from and who had purchased it.
Nessa took a photo of the glassine bag with her phone and flushed its contents down the toilet before she could think too much about it. She didn’t want a repeat performance of Tuesday’s near-disaster hypo breakdown. When that was done, she cut up the glassine bag and flushed the tiny pieces.
How long had that bag sat here, just waiting to be discovered? She’d faithfully gone over the security camera footage and there’d been no trespassers since the new security system.
It was time to find John. She was going to find him, and then she was going to kill him for bringing this shit into her house.
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday, June 25
SINCE DALTREY WAS gone, Isabeau was going out with friends to Aggieville the next evening. “Don’t wait up for me,” Isabeau told her.
Nessa wasn’t sure she’d be home any earlier than Isabeau would. She had plans of her own.
When Nessa had caught John doing crack in their house, she’d known that somewhere was a card with his dealer’s name and phone number on it. She’d searched his pants’ pockets and found what she was looking for, holding on to the card like a souvenir, like a treasured memento. She even kept it in a special box with John’s six-inch braid—the one she’d tossed into the Big Blue River—and the tickets from their first concert together: Rodrigo y Gabriela at Red Rocks.
Now she retrieved that card from the decorative box. The dealer’s name was Tyler.
For the first time in a while, Nessa wasn’t wearing long sleeves. Today, the faint scars from her left-arm tattoo sleeve were exposed by the tank top she wore. Temporary brown dye covered her blond hair, and she hadn’t straightened it but let it fall into natural waves. But her skull and crossbones nose stud took a few tries to get in since the hole had almost closed up.