Lifeline

by Abbey Lee Nash

  Let’s go upstairs.

  “We were headed upstairs when my buddy Chase stopped me, told me there was something I had to see. I knew he was going to score that night; he’d been telling me about this amazing stuff his neighbor hooked him up with, better than pills, cheaper, too. I don’t even think I asked him what it was called. I don’t think I cared. I left Savannah on the stairs, and I followed Chase down to the basement.”

  Savannah’s on the stairs, that blue dress hugging her body in all the right places, but I walk away from her. She shouts after me, furious, and I pretend not to hear. The stain glass splinters, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces.

  “Chase was right—the dope was incredible, but it knocked me on my ass. I found out later that Savannah came downstairs and found me and Chase nodding off on the basement couch. She was pretty pissed.” I chuckle at the memory, and a few guys echo the sound. Not that it’s actually funny or anything, but more like, of course she was pissed, I’d be pissed, too.

  “I woke up a few hours later, I don’t really know when. Alex’s mom shook me awake. Her makeup was all smeared, and she was wobbling around on these crazy heels, screaming at me to get the hell out of her house.” I laugh, remembering how deranged Alex’s mom looked, her hair all messed up in the back and her breath reeking of booze, more like a drunk New Jersey housewife than the school’s Parent Council president. Not at all like the prim and proper mom in the picture over the fireplace.

  “I’m barely coming down,” I continue, “half-asleep, and all around me, people are freaking out—scattering like squirrels in the road. Total cluster-fuck.” A couple of guys laugh, and I know they can relate.

  But the story’s not so funny after that. The basement stairs blur in my memory, and I remember Savannah, passed out in the fetal position on a leather recliner.

  “Apparently, Savannah was so pissed after she found me, she went upstairs and pounded the rest of the vodka. I picked her up, carried her to my car, and somehow drove her home. Now that I think about it, I can’t believe Alex’s mom let me drive anywhere—I mean, what a bitch, right? More worried about her oriental rugs than she was about her kid’s friends.”

  From across the circle, I catch Red’s eye. I see the muscles in his jaw flex, and I wonder if he’s thinking about Lisa. Thinking how lucky I am that I could be so stupid and yet my girlfriend’s still alive.

  Another image rises above the dusting of shattered glass. Steven, roused by Mom’s hysterics, calmly makes me a pot of coffee and a piece of plain toast. And somehow, with the kind of certainty that twists my gut, I know that if the party had been at my place and Steven had busted it up, nobody would’ve driven that night. Nobody.

  While the coffee was still brewing, Steven brought me a glass of water and sat down beside me at the kitchen table. “Next time, don’t come home,” he said.

  I’d heard what I wanted to, what I thought he meant. Don’t come home at all. But what if he meant it differently? What if Steven meant that I should’ve stayed where I was? To sleep it off. To get home safe the next day.

  Somebody coughs. Next to me, Will stares hard into his coffee, stirs it over and over again with one of those little red straws.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “we made it to Savannah’s house. The lights are on, and her dad’s waiting on the front porch swing. He stands up when I get out of the car, and I swear to god, I think he’s going to hit me. But then Savannah pukes, right there in the middle of the driveway, and it splatters on my new suit and on her dad’s bathrobe. And he takes her from me, slings her up into his arms like she’s four years old, and he yells over his shoulder that I’m never gonna see her again.”

  My throat burns, but I force myself to finish because maybe this pain is kind of like resetting a bone or popping back in a dislocated shoulder. It hurts, it hurts so bad, but when it’s over, you’re not broken anymore.

  “The worst part,” I say, “is that I knew her dad would call my mom. I knew she’d be waiting for me—I knew she’d be worried, pissed off. I probably even knew I shouldn’t be driving. But only one thing mattered to me, more than my mom or Savannah. I called Chase, and I asked him if he had any more.”

  Humiliation threatens to pull me under. Saying it out loud is different than writing it down. It’s harder and colder. It’s fucked up.

  I’m fucked up.

  The back of my neck burns, and my hands shake, but when I look up at the room around me, everybody’s nodding their heads, like they all understand, like they’ve all been there, too.

  Will’s the first one to break the silence. “So what you’re saying is . . . you’re still a virgin?”

  There’s about half a beat, and then I crack up, even though laughing kills my sore ribs, and so does everybody else, even uptight Howard. I punch Will in the thigh, and I’m grateful, so grateful, for him and everybody else—grateful that they listened, grateful that they laughed. Grateful that they see me, the real me, cracks and all.

  “Alright, alright,” Howard says, shoving the proverbial stick right back in its place. “That’s enough.”

  The laughter settles down, and when it does, all that’s left is the stirring in my chest and the burning in the back of my throat. It’s dawning on me, all at once, what I did to Savannah, what could’ve happened, but didn’t. Across the room, Red nods at me, and I remember what he said that night in detox. It’s feeling that sucks the hardest.

  Howard thanks me for sharing; he asks the group if anyone would like to respond. But I can’t sit here another minute. Every nerve in my body is on fire, and I can’t stop jiggling my knees. My chest feels like it’s going to explode.

  “Can I go?” I blurt, and Howard looks at me, confused.

  He glances at the clock. “We’ve got a few minutes left of group, Eli. Everything ok?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, even though it isn’t. I need to call Savannah—I need to hear her tell me that she loves me anyway, even after everything. “I was hoping to maybe use the phone.”

  Howard nods. “Check with your primary counselor after group, okay? In the meantime, I’d like you to hang with us for a few more minutes.”

  I nod, and I count the seconds to the end of group. When it’s over, I don’t hang out to chat. I make a beeline to Richard Fisher’s office.

  Richard Fisher is in session when I barge through his door. The girl in the sagging old couch is wiping tears with a soggy Kleenex, and Richard Fisher glares at me. “Eli, our session doesn’t start for another five . . .”

  “I need to use the phone,” I blurt, because I’m desperate now.

  The girl on the couch hiccups into her Kleenex. Richard sighs. “Five minutes,” he says. “Please wait in the hall.”

  “I can’t wait,” I protest, but Richard Fisher cuts me off with a voice that doesn’t take any shit.

  “Hall. Now.”

  I pull the door shut, wondering if prison turned Richard Fisher into an asshole or if he was born that way. I sink down on the floor in the hallway, counting minutes in my head. At three, Libby comes walking down the hall, her purple notebook clutched tight against her chest.

  “No way, dude,” I say, before she even stops walking. “My session’s next, and I don’t care if you only need to talk to him for 30 seconds, it’s gonna have to wait until I get off the phone.”

  Libby smirks. “Important conference call with China?”

  “I need to call my girlfriend,” I say, underlining the word for Libby’s benefit.

  “Girlfriend, huh?” she echoes.

  I nod.

  Libby shifts her weight to one foot. “Want some company?” She gives me a half-smile. “You know, since I’m going to be waiting awhile for my 30 seconds with Fish.”

  I peer up at her. “Why does everybody call him Fish?”

  Libby shrugs, settling onto the floor beside me, our backs pressed against the pale blue wall. “It’s an obvious nickname, right? Why? What do you call hi
m?”

  “I tried Dick, but he wasn’t exactly a fan.”

  “I can’t imagine why not.” Libby giggles, and the sound is so sweet that I hope Hiccups needs a few more minutes with Richard Fisher. And then I remember that Libby’s crazy, dangerous even, and that any second, she could flip on a dime and freak out at me. I lean backward, give her a hard look. “You’re not going to do that thing again, are you?”

  “What thing?” Libby looks genuinely surprised.

  “You know, that thing where we’re having a nice moment, hanging out or whatever, and then you go all Fatal Attraction on me.”

  “Fatal what?”

  I lean away from her. “How have you not seen that movie? It’s old, but creepy as shit.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Libby asks. “Are you saying I’m attracted to you?”

  “No!” It comes out way too loud, and then my neck gets all hot. “I’m not—that’s just, it’s the name of the movie . . .”

  I’m stumbling all over my words until I see the look on Libby’s face. Her eyes are shining, and her lips are twitching, and I realize something very important.

  “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

  Libby nods. “Yeah. I’m totally fucking with you.”

  “You knew exactly what I was talking about.”

  Libby shrugs.

  I shake my head, lean back against the wall, and close my eyes. This girl’s exhausting.

  Her voice, crackling and soft, finds me in the dark. “I’m sorry about the whole weight room thing. I didn’t realize—”

  I crack one eye open and squint at her. “It’s no big deal, really. Only minor permanent damage.”

  A giggle escapes her lips, and then she tucks her knees against her chest, folding in on herself. “I don’t know why I do stuff like that. I’m not trying to be a bitch or anything. I just, I don’t know . . .”

  She’s cute like this, all soft and girly under the dark eyeliner and angry looking hair. She nibbles nervously on a ragged cuticle.

  “Apology accepted,” I say. And then Richard Fisher opens his door.

  He gives the two of us a once-over. “Libby,” he says, but it sounds like a question.

  “I had a thing I wanted to talk about,” she says, looking at me and then back at Richard Fisher. “But it can wait.”

  Hiccups slips out the office door and scurries down the hall. “Good work today, Myra,” Richard calls after her, but she scurries away like a scared little mouse headed for her hole. “See you tomorrow,” he calls weakly.

  “And I’m still waiting to use the phone,” I say. “Like you promised.”

  Richard sighs. He runs one hand over his head a couple of times. “Tell you what? Go up front and tell whoever’s at the desk that I said you could use the phone. I’ll call up and let them know.”

  “Sweet.” I jump to my feet.

  Richard gestures for Libby to join him in the office.

  “One call. Five minutes,” Richard Fisher says. “Then come straight back for our session.”

  I wink at him. “You got it, Fish.”

  He makes a sound like a cough, but I don’t hang out to hear what’s next. I jog down the hall, leaving behind Richard Fisher and whatever it was that just happened between me and Libby. I need to call Savannah.

  “Five minutes,” says the woman at the front desk. She spins the phone around to face me and hands me the receiver. “One call, okay?”

  I nod. She gives me a skeptical once-over before turning back to whatever it is front desk people do. My fingers hover over the buttons, mentally dialing Savannah’s cell phone. But something stops me. What if her dad’s taken her phone? What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? What if she’s screening her calls? If I leave a voicemail, does that count as my one call?

  My fingers decide for me, dialing Mom’s number instead.

  “Eli?” Mom’s voice is both anxious and hopeful.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  There’s silence on the other end, and then I hear sniffles, and I realize that my mom is crying.

  “Mom? It’s okay, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “I know,” she says after a minute. It sounds like she has cotton balls in the back of her throat. “It’s really good to hear your voice.”

  “It’s good to hear yours, too,” I tell her, and then my chest gets that shifting, fluttery feeling again.

  The front desk lady holds up four fingers. Four more minutes.

  “Guess what Fisher made me do?”

  “What, honey?” Mom’s voice is distant, and I realize she’s talking to someone else in the room, probably Benny. “Yes, honey, go get a granola bar. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Mom? Mom, I only have four minutes.”

  “Yes, honey, I’m here. I’m listening. Benny, go watch a show, okay? I’ll be there in a minute.”

  My throat tightens, and my eyes burn. Nothing’s changed. I’m here, two hours away, but it’s already like I don’t exist.

  “Eli, I’m listening,” Mom says. I hear a door closing, and I know she’s shut herself into the office. “Tell me what you had to do.”

  I swallow the feelings rising in my throat and put on my everything’s-fine voice. “I had to read my Step One packet out loud to a whole group of people.”

  Mom’s impressed, even though she probably doesn’t know what Step One is. Rehab’s got its own lingo. After a week of involuntary immersion, I speak the language, but to Mom, they’re just words. I haven’t talked to her this much in years, and I only have three minutes, but so much to say. I tell her how Fisher is an ex-con, which doesn’t get nearly the reaction I was expecting. I babble about my group, the gym, and the weirdly depressing painting I’m doing in art. I tell her about Will and Red. I leave out Libby, and it feels weird not talking about her, because I have to do it on purpose, because talking about her is right on the tip of my tongue.

  Wrap it up, the lady at the front desk mouths, and I resist the urge to flip her off. “Look, I’m going to have to go, Mom.” I shoot a scornful look at the Front Desk Fascist. “My time’s about up.”

  “Okay, honey,” Mom says. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait, what?” The lady at the front desk is making the “hurry up” motion with her hand, but I hold her off.

  “Sunday’s Visitation,” Mom says. “Didn’t Mr. Fisher tell you?”

  Relief runs through me, relaxes my shoulders, and loosens the muscles at the back of my neck. I turn my back on the lady at the front desk so she won’t see my eyes get all red and watery.

  “Do me a favor, Mom?” I ask. “See if Savannah can come?”

  There’s silence on the other end, and I know Mom’s trying to decide if she thinks that’s a good idea. Or maybe she already knows something I don’t. My stomach gets all tight, and my heart punches me in the chest over and over again. “Mom?”

  “I’ll have to talk to her father, honey. I’m not sure if . . .”

  “Just ask,” I say. “Please just ask, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The Front Desk Fascist has decided my phone time’s over whether I’m done talking or not. She crosses toward me in two steps, and I know she’s going to hang up the phone. I hunch over it, still talking, even as I lower the receiver. “Okay-Mom-I-can’t-wait-to-see-you-don’t-forgot-to-call-Savannah-I-love . . .”

  Click.

  “Mr. Fisher said five minutes,” the woman says, like that’s an apology. I slam the receiver on the phone and shove it back at her.

  “You know, I’m paying to be here,” I say. “You’d think phone privileges would be part of the deal.”

  She shrugs, like she couldn’t care less. I wait until her back is turned to flip her off.

  Day 8

  Visitors trickle into the rec room, nervously searching the milling crowd of anxious junkies. When families are reunited, it’s all hugs and kisses and tears.


  It only takes me a few minutes to figure out that waiting for visitors is worse than waiting to see if you got picked for Varsity, or if you were voted Homecoming King, or if your ticket was drawn for the last rocket ship off planet Earth. It’s fucking painful. I watch one more family reunite, and then I can’t stand it anymore. I grab Red and practically shove him toward the Ping-Pong table. “Play,” I tell him, slapping a paddle into his hand.

  Ping-Pong passes the time. It gives me something to focus on other than the questions cycling through my brain on auto repeat: Will Savannah show? Will she forgive me? Will her father?

  Even with my limited movement, I’m trouncing Red. Then I see her. Savannah and my mom are standing by the door, both of them wearing this what-planet-have-we-landed-on look. I drop my paddle; the ball bounces twice before rolling onto the floor.

  “Dude!” Red calls.

  I cross the rec room in three long strides, and Savannah’s in my arms. She smells like a strawberry Jolly Rancher, and I press my face against her neck. My mom’s patting my shoulders and sniffling. There’s no Steven, no Benny. Just Savannah, Mom, and me. Hugging, kissing, and crying. Just like everybody else.

  “I want to introduce you to someone,” I tell them, leading them toward the Ping-Pong table. Red’s playing solo, bouncing the ball against the table and tapping it with his paddle. He glances up as we approach, and a wide smile spreads across his face.

  “Red’s a musician—if he can do with drums what he does with pencils on Styrofoam cups, he’s pretty badass.”

  “Drums, huh?” Savannah (always the social coordinator) tips her heart-shaped chin. “Have I heard you anywhere?”

  Red stares at Savannah, taking in her manicured nails and designer jeans. “Doubt it.” He sticks out a big bear claw to shake her hand. “You must be Savannah.”

  It’s weird, one part of my life meeting the other. Red’s track marks tell his story in scars. He’s still jittery, like his nerves are on fire underneath his skin. Chatting with my tucked-in mom and shiny, pink Savannah, Red looks like a junkie. And suddenly I’m embarrassed, and I want to take them somewhere where they don’t have to talk to twitching, itching junkies.