Lifeline

by Abbey Lee Nash

  Reliving the scene in the park makes me think of Benny, how he drew me at Disney, even though I wasn’t there. He drew me where he wanted me, where I should’ve been.

  “What did I know, anyway? I was just a dumb little kid.”

  A dumb kid like Benny—too young to understand that my hero was a junkie.

  My eyes burn. I swipe at the corners with knuckles that come back wet.

  Libby’s fingers stroke my brow, my cheek, my jaw. I want to take her hand; I want to press it to my mouth. I want to know what her skin tastes like. “That was the night my dad left us,” I whisper. “But the crazy part is, up until the hospital and Mom freaking out afterwards, it’s one of my favorite memories.”

  “The best and the worst,” Libby whispers, and I think of Savannah, of her blue dress at Winter Formal, and later, the sour stink of her puke on my suit. The best and the worst all in one.

  Libby lowers her elbow, settles down into the crook of my arm, and lays her head gently on my chest. Her hair smells like lavender and sleep, and I close my eyes and breathe her in. It’s natural the two of us like this, together on the outskirts, in this quiet place under the trees. I wrap my arm around her, draw her closer, and softly trail my fingers down the length of her forearm, thinking of the things she drew there, of the words I’d write on her skin. “Your turn.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  My chest tightens, and I crane my neck to see her face. “Libby . . .” I begin, but she shakes her head, nuzzling her face into the soft fabric of my shirt. “We all have scars, Eli,” she whispers. “They make us who we are.”

  And I wonder if that’s true. If it’s our scars that form us, or the other way around—if we choose our own particular brand of pain. If we go looking for it somehow, because it reminds us that we’re alive, that we exist, that we’re still capable of feeling something. Or if it’s because without pain, we forget how good we’ve got it.

  My heart beats in Libby’s ear, and I hope she can’t tell it’s racing. She threads her fingers through mine, and we stay that way until one or both of us falls asleep, and visiting hours are over, and the Front Desk Fascist sends an orderly to wake us.

  Day 16

  “I hear you had quite the weekend.” Richard Fisher peers at me over the rim of his reading glasses.

  I prop my feet on the scratched surface of the coffee table, its legs wobbly like cardboard, like the kind of furniture we had in our old house, before Steven. “Not you, too.”

  Ever since Libby and I got hauled back into LakeShore yesterday afternoon, Will and Red haven’t been able to shut up about it. Once Visitation ended, nobody knew where we were. It turned into a big to-do, with our names called over the intercom a bunch of times and our rooms checked. By the time some genius thought to check the security cameras, every idiot in LakeShore knew that Libby and I were missing. Together. So when they spotted us sleeping and brought us in bleary eyed with grass on our backs, the rumor mill had already taken on a life of its own.

  Richard Fisher takes off his glasses. “You do realize we have a very strict policy about romantic relationships here, right? It should have been reviewed with you and your mom when you first came in.”

  “Nothing happened,” I say, for probably the 800th time in two days. No matter how many times I say it, Will still punches me in the arm and says “Duuude . . .” every time Libby passes.

  “I believe you,” Fish says, “but I still have to put the two of you on probation. Elizabeth will be leaving soon anyway, but you . . .”

  I try to imagine Libby as Elizabeth, with straight black hair, no ink, and no scars. A nameless, faceless girl that I could’ve passed a million times in the hall at school and never noticed. And then I wonder if Libby’s right—if our imperfections shape us, if our scars make us who we are.

  “Hello?” Richard Fisher waves an impatient hand in my face. “Are you even listening to me?”

  I blink. “Probation, I heard you. Can I go now?”

  Richard Fisher gives me a look that’s supposed to be stern, I think, but the worry lines around his eyes give him away. “You have two more weeks, Eli. One more mess up, and my hands are tied. You’ll have to go home early.”

  The reality of what he’s saying sinks in hard and all at once, like one of those cartoon anvils. If I flunk out of rehab, I’m screwed. At the very least, drug charges mean probation and community service. Forget lacrosse—they’d never let a convict attend LionsHeart. I’d probably never see Savannah again. I let out a heavy exhale like a deflating balloon and slump back onto the couch.

  “This is serious stuff, Eli,” Richard Fisher says. “Aside from your stay at LakeShore, I’m concerned about what I see happening here.”

  There’s a worn spot on the couch cushion beside me, where the fabric’s stretched so thin, I can make out the spongy material underneath. I fiddle with a loose thread at the frayed edge and peer up at Richard Fisher.

  “C’mon, man,” Richard Fisher leans back in his chair, stretches his arms out wide. “Your girlfriend broke up with you, what, a week ago? And you’re already on to the next girl?”

  My spine goes stiff. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then tell me what it’s like, Eli.”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . when I’m with her, I don’t feel so alone.”

  “Okay,” Fish nods. “Tell me what it feels like to be alone.”

  I pluck at a patch of peeling, dry skin on my knuckle. Ever since Mom left, all I can think about is what she told me about my dad. Because it turns out I was wrong. Dad was an addict—he’d left us long before Mom kicked him out. And what does that say about me?

  “Empty,” I tell Fish. “Like there’s this hole inside me, and all I want to do is fill it up.”

  “And being with Libby . . . that fills you up?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Can you think of any other time you’ve gone looking for something to fill yourself up?”

  I roll my eyes. I’m not an idiot. I see the connection Fish is trying to make. “This is different,” I say. “Libby’s different. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trying to live up to other people’s expectations, you know? Mom and Steven’s. Savannah’s. It’s fucking exhausting. But with Libby, I don’t have to prove anything. I can just be myself.”

  “Ah,” Richard Fisher scratches his goatee. “I get it, man, I do. But I want you to consider, even for a second, if it’s possible that this is another avoidance behavior. I mean, you’ve barely said anything about your mom’s visit the other day.”

  I’m shaking my head, but Richard Fisher keeps talking.

  “You just found out that your dad was an addict, and that your mom’s been lying to you your entire life. And instead of dealing with it, instead of facing it head on, you’re hiding out with Libby. As far as I’m concerned, this is the exact same behavior that brought you here in the first place. Just a different drug.”

  My mouth tastes sour and hot; the hairs prickle on my arms. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You get caught up with girls, you snort smack, you do it all so you don’t have to deal with the one real thing going on. You don’t have to deal with your pain.”

  I’m grinding my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. Who the fuck does this dude think he is? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know Libby. I listen to his bullshit because I have to, because no matter how I feel about Richard Fisher, I’m stuck here. Finishing my time at LakeShore is the only way back to my life.

  “You’ve been given an incredible opportunity here, Eli, and you’re wasting it. I mean, what’s the plan? Pretend this thing with your mom never happened? That’s grade-A thinking right there, man. That way you can skate through the next two weeks without ever learning anything about yourself . . .”

  “Fuck you!” I explode, jumping up so fast that the coffee table shakes. “What do you know anyway? You’re just some dried
up old hack. I’m the one doing all the work here!” I jam my thumb into my sternum. “Me! I’ve done everything you told me to do—the writing, the fucking sharing! I even let you convince me to bring my mom in, and we both know what a shit show that turned out to be! I’ve done nothing but hurt since I got here. And now you’re trying to tell me it’s not good enough? Well, you know what I think? I think you spend all your time trying to fix everybody else so you don’t have to think about how much you’ve fucked up your own life.”

  Richard Fisher taps his thick index finger on the desk one time, twice. A warning.

  I hover over his desk, seething, hot spit collecting in the corners of my mouth. “You spend all your sad sap life muddling in other people’s business, but what about yours, huh, Dick?” I snatch up the blue framed picture, the baby in the red bandana, and wave it in Richard Fisher’s face like an angry talisman. “When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

  A tight ball forms at the base of Richard Fisher’s jaw. He’s breathing heavy, fogging up the glasses on the end of his nose. He’s about to lose it, and I want him to. I want him to yell; I want him to hit me. Any excuse to let out this fury inside me that threatens to swallow me whole.

  I want to peel my skin off. I want to turn myself inside out.

  Fish takes off his glasses, wipes them on the hem of his faded green Life is Good t-shirt. “Are you done?” he asks.

  Behind me, the dried-up water feature gurgles pathetically like a half-hearted mediator.

  Someone else might back down, but not me, not now. I hold Richard Fisher’s gaze, the picture of his son still clenched in my fist.

  He props his weary elbows on his desk, his shoulders hunched toward his ear lobes. “You’re right about one thing, Eli. I’ve been through hell and back on that side of the desk. But believe it or not, I’ve learned a few things along the way. The way I see it, you have two choices: You can talk about your dad and about your mom lying to you. We can start addressing some of these feelings you’re having, and you can go home armed with strategies for staying clean. You can reclaim your life. Or option two,” Richard Fisher holds up two fingers, “you can go home empty-handed, with nothing but a crush on some girl you’re never going to see again.”

  Heat rushes up the back of my neck, flooding my cheeks. I toss the picture frame onto Richard Fisher’s desk. The glass rattles in the frame. “Can I go now?”

  Richard Fisher gives me a long stare. “Yeah, you can go.” And then, to my back on the way out of his office: “But stay away from Libby.”

  A hard, fast run would wring out my anger like dirty water from a sponge. But I’m still restricted to walking only, and it takes me over an hour on the treadmill to calm down. After the gym, I swing by my room for a quick shower before dinner. Mo’s got all his stuff out on his bed, his shirts folded, the surface of his dresser cleared. He’s carefully stacking clothes in a half-packed suitcase where his pillows should be. He’s giving his final testimony tonight, and even though I’ve been excited about the idea of having the room to myself, seeing his packed suitcase sucks the wind out of me.

  I lean in the doorway, sweaty and out of breath. “You finally figured out I’m a terrible roommate, huh?”

  Mo looks over his shoulder, shoots me a wicked grin. “Don’t kid yourself, bro. I’ve known that since day one.”

  I pull off my soaked t-shirt and toss it into the growing pile of dirty laundry at the bottom of my closet. Mo shoots the pile a wary look. “My point exactly.”

  I pop my towel at his back playfully. “Hey, I’ve only missed laundry day once, okay?”

  “Tell that to the smell in here.”

  I duck my head, take a huge whiff of my sweaty pits. “Get a whiff of that LakeShore breeze!”

  Mo laughs, and I head into the bathroom. By the time I’m done showering, his suitcase is packed, and he’s sitting on the edge of his bed with his eyes closed.

  I tread softly across the floor, pull a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt out of my dresser. I yank on my jeans, and when I turn back around, Mo’s opening his eyes.

  “Everything, okay?” I ask.

  He gives me a shaky smile. “Just nervous, I guess.”

  “About giving your testimony?” I pull a clean red t-shirt over my head. Part of going home is sharing your testimony with everybody in the building. It’s a really big deal, and even though I’ve only seen a couple of people do it so far, the thought of getting up in front of everybody makes me want to barf.

  Mo shakes his head. “Nah, that’s the easy part. It’s what comes after that’s hard.”

  I hang my towel on the back of my door. “Are you kidding, dude? I’d kill to be in your shoes. You get to go back to your family—you get to see your friends. You get your life back.”

  “Yep.” Mo nods slightly. “And it scares the shit out of me.”

  I drop down on the end of my bed across from Mo, put my hand on his shoulder. “You can do this, bro. You know this shit inside and out. You’re like a walking advertisement for AA.”

  Mo slips me a sideways grin. “AA doesn’t advertise. It’s the eleventh tradition.”

  “See?” I shove his shoulder. “I don’t even know what the shit you’re talking about.” Mo laughs, a big belly laugh that cuts through his nervous tension. “I want to do it right this time, you know? My little sister, she got herself . . .” Mo draws an invisible line out from his own full belly with a caramel-colored hand that shakes a little. “She’s gonna need me,” he says. “And that keiki, I don’t want her to come into the world without a man in her life, you know? I want to be there for them both.”

  I think about Dad, the peel of his tires out of the driveway, the missed birthdays, the baseball game. How he gave up on me. And Mo, who’s tried sobriety and failed five times, but still refuses to give up. His niece will be lucky to have him.

  “You’re the strongest person here,” I tell Mo. “If anybody can do this, it’s you.”

  Mo reaches out his hand, his eyes wide and earnest. When I take it, he grasps tightly. “You can do this, too, you know? I believe in you. You just gotta get your head in the game.”

  I don’t know where to look anymore because Mo made it awkward. I try to pull back my hand.

  Mo squeezes tighter. “But if you hurt my Libby, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

  I give a ha-ha-very-funny kind of laugh, but Mo’s crunching my fingers in his palm. “Got it?”

  “Geez, I’ve got it. Promise!”

  Mo releases my hand. “Good.”

  The rec room is packed. I swear Mo’s entire family came out to hear his final testimony—the whole two front rows of metal folding chairs are overflowing with highly emotional Hawaiians. His little sister, hoisting her belly in front of her, sits dead center, next to a graying woman who’s probably Mo’s mom. Mo keeps trying, and they keep coming, everybody hoping that this time will be the last. For Mo’s sake, and for his sister’s, I hope it will be, too.

  I find a seat between Red and Will. Will’s leg has been jiggling up and down for the past fifteen minutes, so hard it’s creaking his chair and annoying the crap out of me. Red finally digs in his pocket and passes Will a grape Jolly Rancher. Will’s leg only stops moving long enough for him to unwrap the candy and pop it in his mouth, and then it’s creak-city all over again.

  I spot Libby a few rows up from us. Her hair is pulled up, showing the smooth skin at the back of her neck, the baby hairs that hang over the collar of her shirt. I must be staring because Red punches me in the thigh, and I double over, sucking in air that whistles through my clenched teeth.

  “Focus,” Red hisses, his eyes twinkling.

  Mo stands behind the podium, looking out at all the people gathered to hear his testimony. “I sure wasn’t expecting this kind of turn out,” he jokes. “Is there a party somewhere I should know about?”

  Chuckles ripple through the audience.

  “Don’t worry,
” Mo says, grinning at Howard, who sits in the front row shaking his head. “I’m just messing around.” Mo takes a sip of water from the clear plastic cup on the podium and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “In all seriousness, though, this isn’t my first trip to the rodeo.” He holds up his hand, waggling all five fingers and earning another laugh from the crowd. “You might be wondering what’s going to make this time any different.” Mo looks right at his sister, then his mom. “Sometimes I wonder that, too.” Nobody’s laughing anymore. Mo’s mom dabs at her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex, lays her head on his sister’s shoulder.

  “I guess the honest answer is that I don’t know,” Mo says. “I wish I could see into the future just as much as anybody else, but the fact is, I can’t. I have to live life on life’s terms. And that means one day, one minute, one fraction of a second at a time. If I’ve learned anything here at LakeShore, it’s that sobriety doesn’t come in big sweeping gestures. It doesn’t come with promises or negotiations. In fact, those usually come in the pockets of addicts.”

  He smiles at his own joke, drawing another laugh from the crowd. “What I know for sure is that I want to be there for my family.” Mo glances at his sister, whose hands rest on her round belly. “I want to be the man they need me to be. I can’t promise that I’ll do it perfectly, but I promise that I’ll try. Sobriety is a journey, a choice I will make every single day. Today, I’m 28 days sober. And I thank God for that. Thanks for letting me share.”

  The room fills with applause, and a couple of guys in the second row pump their fists in the air and bark (“Whoop! Whoop!”) like Mo just scored a touchdown. Everyone claps as Howard walks across the stage and shakes Mo’s hand, cheers when Mo pulls Howard into a bear hug. It’s better than graduation, and in that moment of celebration and success, I’m filled with pride and belief. Maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe not giving up is enough. If that’s true, then I know that Mo can do it. And that makes me wonder if I can do it, too.