Lifeline

by Abbey Lee Nash

  She’s leaving, and I have nobody left.

  It’s goddamn fucking hilarious.

  She glances up at me, her eyes barely registering my presence before she turns back to her friends. My appetite fades like a chalk drawing in the rain. I storm across the dining hall and dump my food, tray and all, into the industrial-sized trashcan.

  The rest of the day passes like sludge moving down river. At the gym, I walk on the treadmill at about a 2.0 mph pace while Will and Red sweat it out with Prison Tat. I doze through afternoon group and spend my self-reflection time on the visitors’ stoop, surrounded by other people’s used up cigarette butts. I skip out on dinner, determined to avoid running into Libby again, and spend the next few hours on my bed, slipping in and out of a restless sleep where my dad rides his motorcycle through dreams painted red, black, and yellow, and Libby’s words play on repeat like some kind of fucked-up mantra: This was always going to end.

  It’s dark outside when I wake up; my stomach’s complaints are too loud to ignore. Maybe there’s still food in the dining hall. At least a bagel or fruit, something to tide me over. I’m lacing up my shoes when there’s a quick knock on the door, and Red sticks his freckled face through the narrow opening.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I push up off the bed and head for my closet. “What do you want?”

  “Libby’s about to give her testimony,” he says, stepping fully into the room. “I thought you might want to hear it.”

  “Pass.” I grab my hoodie, stuff my arms into the fleecy sleeves. “I’m going to get some food.”

  “There are donuts in the rec room.”

  I stare at Red accusingly. “I’m surprised you give a shit.”

  “Look, I didn’t come here to fight.” Red runs his hand through his hair, rippling the orange spikes. “I thought . . .” He stares down at his hands. “Everybody deserves the chance to say goodbye.”

  I think of Lisa, Red’s ex, the goodbye lost to smashed metal and shattered glass. “Thanks,” I say weakly.

  Red nods. “So I’ll see you down there?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I don’t think Libby wants me there.”

  “She does,” Red says. “Even if she doesn’t know it.”

  After Red leaves, I stare at the door for a minute, considering. Libby’s picture crinkles in the pocket of my day-old jeans. I pull it out, her words in the hallway seeping from the wrinkled paper like toxic dust.

  I crush the picture in my fist and paper ball it to the trashcan. Red doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  I zip up my hoodie, tug it up high around my ears, and head down the hall. I’m not going for Libby. I’m just going to grab a doughnut, and then I’m out.

  Richard Fisher’s at the podium when I enter the rec room. He’s opening the meeting with a reading from some recovery book, and I pretend to listen as I trail past the refreshment table at the back of the room. I grab a couple of doughnuts and drop into an empty chair in the back row. It creaks loudly, disturbing the kid in front of me. “You know, refreshments are for after the ceremony,” he whispers.

  I lean forward, motioning with the fat jelly doughnut in my fist. “Wanna share?”

  His eyes widen as I take a huge bite, squirting red jelly down my chin. Blinking rapidly, he swivels back around. I lean back in my chair, my mouth chalky with powdered sugar. “That’s what I thought,” I mutter, swiping my knuckle across my sticky chin.

  Red and Will are on the opposite side of the room. Even from here, I can see Will’s jaws working around a piece of hard candy that’s currently saving his life. Red nurses a steaming cup of coffee. I crane my neck for a glimpse of the front row. I spot Libby’s rigid shoulders, the shocking contrast of her hair. She’s sitting next to a woman who could be her sister, her shoulders slight, her ink black hair bleeding purple at the ends.

  After a few minutes, Richard Fisher turns the podium over to Libby. I watch her walk to the makeshift stage. She’s wearing grey dress pants, like the kind my mom wears to work, and they look about two sizes too big. Her pale blue shirt is buttoned at the cuffs, and her hair hangs loose around her shoulders. The dark eyeliner’s gone, and her pale cheeks are painted with matching pink circles. She’s Elizabeth, not Libby. I wonder if that’s part of her exit strategy.

  She clears her throat, and her shining apple cheeks flush darker. “Twenty-eight days ago, I came here with a list of problems as long as my arm,” she begins.

  I duck my head to stifle the bitter laugh that rises in my throat, not sure that list has actually gotten any shorter.

  “I used to think that having all those problems meant something was wrong with me,” Libby continues. “I’d look at the other kids at school, the cheerleaders, the honor roll kids, and I’d think, they have it all figured out. If I could only be like them, everything would be okay. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get it right. I was still me, a tattooed freak with a C average. My problems weren’t going anywhere.”

  I picture Libby walking down the halls of her high school, her hair dyed blonde, her arms hidden behind fat squiggles of permanent marker, black ink smudged on her cheek, and my chest hurts a little.

  “When I found Xanax, I found armor. I didn’t have to care anymore about what other people thought of me, and I didn’t have to think about my problems. I could pretend they didn’t exist. It was like a shield I could disappear behind—a cloak of invisibility.”

  Libby twists her hair up off her neck and holds it there, casting a wry smile around the room. “Being invisible sucks.”

  Her hair falls soft around her shoulders. She takes a sip of water, swipes the moisture from her upper lip. “I think that’s why I started cutting. Because if I could still feel pain, that meant I was still alive. I hadn’t all the way disappeared.”

  An image flashes through my brain, dark and unsettling—Libby drawing a razor across her wrist, blood seeping to the surface like water through sand. Is that what I was to her? A razor blade against her skin? A bleeding reminder that she’s still capable of feeling something? Is that what she was to me?

  “In recovery, I’ve learned that problems are a part of life,” Libby continues. “In fact, I think the only guaranteed experience in life might be pain. But it’s how you handle that pain that matters. You can let it consume you, or you can embrace it and move on.

  “For a lot of people here, dealing with their problems means turning them over to a higher power. But I don’t buy it.”

  A few people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Leave it to Libby to give a final testimony that smacks every other testimony full in the face. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear her gaze lands on me.

  “I don’t believe in unconditional love,” she says. “I don’t believe that it’s possible for someone to love you that much, love you in spite of your problems, love you in spite of your pain.”

  In the front row, the purple-haired woman yawns, makes an obvious show of checking her watch, twisting it on her tan wrist so that it catches the light and sparkles.

  Libby’s eyes shift away from my face. “I don’t know, maybe I’m a pessimist, but in my experience, that kind of love doesn’t exist.”

  Yeah, or maybe that’s because you chase it away with a sledgehammer. Right then, I know that I’m not sticking around to tell her goodbye. Will was right. Libby is a praying mantis. She chewed me up and spit me out. But even in my pulverized state, I have too much pride to let her revel in the damage.

  I start to stand up, but my chair creaks again, and the guy in front of me gives his neighbor a wide-eyed Can you believe this guy? look. I sink back down. I’ll sneak out afterwards, when everybody else swarms to congratulate Libby.

  “One of the best things that Fish . . .” Libby catches herself, shoots an affectionate glance at Richard Fisher who nods in response. “. . . Mr. Fisher helped me to understand that the second step doesn’t have to be about any one kind of God. It�
�s about any source, bigger than myself, that’s strong enough to hold the weight of my feelings. For me, that’s art.”

  My mind travels back over the paintings I’ve seen Libby do in art class—the broken and disfigured self-portrait that first met me in the art room.

  “Through art, I can explore any feeling that I have. I can put it all out there—no matter how dark, no matter how disturbing, no matter how painful. My art is big enough to handle it all.”

  I know I’m not imagining it this time. Libby’s gaze settles right on my face, her eyes electric paddles on my heart. And then she looks away, and I can’t take this anymore. I stand up, not giving a shit about my squeaky chair, and walk out of the room.

  Day 18

  There’s a new person in Libby’s spot in the art room. Instead of Libby’s disfigured self-portrait, I’m met with sunshine and flowers.

  I stare at the painting, disgust burning at the back of my throat. A girl approaches, a couple of brushes in one hand, a loaded palette in the other. Her thick brown hair, all one perfect color, is tied up with pink ribbon in a cheerleader’s ponytail that bobs up and down as she arranges her supplies. “I call it Love,” she gushes, even though I didn’t ask. “It’s my higher power painting. Do you like it?”

  “No,” I say flatly, then push past her to my own easel where my new canvas has stayed blank for days.

  The art teacher greets me with a warm smile. “We missed you yesterday. Are you feeling better?”

  “A little.”

  “I brought something for you.” She hands me a thick stack of well-read magazines, several of them with missing covers and most with bent edges.

  I rustle through the magazines on the top of the pile. Everything from Real Simple to National Geographic. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “I thought you could use them for inspiration.” The art teacher casts a meaningful glance toward my blank canvas. “Sometimes it helps to tear out pictures that represent something to you, even if you don’t know what that something is. Anything that moves you, that stirs your emotions, tear it out and tape it to your canvas, okay?”

  I was kind of planning on spending class staring out the window and feeling sorry for myself. But it’s nice she went out of her way to help me, especially since I’ve pretty much half-assed this class since day one. “If you say so.”

  She drops a pair of scissors and a roll of tape on the pile in my arms. “It’s good to have you back, Eli.” She rests a patchouli-scented hand on my shoulder. “Really.”

  A hard lump rises in my throat. “Thanks,” I manage.

  I drop the pile of magazines on the floor in front of my easel and settle down cross-legged beside it. Cheerleader Chick shoots me a dirty look from the front of the room, and I’d bet anything that her beaming sunshine has dark, angry edges now, her perfect fucking flowers are wilting, and she’s jonesing for her crack pipe or vodka tonic or whatever. What was it Libby said? This is rehab, not summer camp. Life’s hard and it hurts. Cheerleader Chick might as well get used to it.

  I flip lazily through the magazines, wondering what kind of pictures my art teacher expects me to find here. The perfume-scented pages are filled with quick-fixes to life’s biggest problems: Ten secrets to true happiness! Just one pill will make all your pain go away! There are no pictures of fathers shooting up, no articles about girls slitting their wrists so they can feel the pain.

  By the time I get to the last magazine, there’s only a few minutes left in art class. It’s an issue of National Geographic. I thumb hastily through the pages, but one image makes me pause. It’s a scenic shot, a breathtaking mountain range that reaches into a watery blue sky. A serene lake stretches out from the closest mountain, its clear depths reflecting the impossible snow-capped heights.

  A kayaker, his paddle resting on his lap, floats in front of the mountain. He’s tiny in comparison, completely insignificant. His back is to the photographer, but I can imagine the wonder on his face as he peers up at that insurmountable wall of sheer rock.

  The art teacher gently taps her delicate gong, marking the end of class. “Time to pack up your materials for the day,” she sing-songs.

  I start to toss the magazine back into the pile with the others, but something stops me. I tear out that picture of the mountain, the lake and the kayaker, and tape it smack in the middle of my canvas.

  At dinner, I push baked ziti around on my plate and pretend like I’m listening to whatever Red and Will are talking about. At one point, I swear I hear her—a raspy laugh lilts across the room, and I whip around, searching for a glimpse of her hair, her face.

  Will’s voice tugs me back to the table. “I’m sorry, bro—are we boring you?”

  I look wide-eyed at Will and Red, like I’m seeing them for the first time. “What?”

  “Did you even hear what I said?” Red asks. “I’ve been talking to you for like five minutes.”

  I blink. “What? Yeah, sure, I’m listening. I just zoned out for a minute. What were we talking about again?”

  Will snorts. “Seriously, dude? Don’t rifle through your spank-bank while people are eating. Save it for the shower.”

  I toss my dinner roll at him. “Shut up.”

  “I was asking if you want to play Ping-Pong after dinner.” Irritation saws at the edges of Red’s voice. “But you’re probably too busy grieving the loss of your two-day relationship, right?”

  I stab a forkful of ziti that I have no intention of eating.

  “I mean, c’mon, dude! Savannah dumps you, you’re wrecked for a couple of days. Until you find Libby. Then it’s all sunshine and butterflies until she leaves. And suddenly you’re ruined again. How long’s it going to last this time? Who’s the next chick in line?”

  He jerks his head to the table next to us, where Cheerleader Chick nibbles at a plate of plain lettuce, her ponytail bobbing as she chews, an anorexic rabbit on speed. “How ‘bout her? Fresh out of detox, ripe for the picking. Just your type.”

  “I’d hit that,” Will says.

  My teeth press together, and my fist clenches hard around my fork. “You know, Red, one of these days you’re going to have to pick. Friend or shrink? Which one is it? Because I’ve got enough shrinks in my life right now. And you’re starting to sound a hell of a lot like Fish.”

  Red blinks. I know he’s trying to decide whether to let this go, whether he can be my friend when I’m like this, when I’m hurting this way. “Friend,” he says softly.

  “Good. Because I can take care of myself. And I can definitely kick your ass in Ping-Pong.”

  Red smirks. “Game on.”

  The crowded rec room is a new opportunity for distraction, and even as Red and I nudge the Ping-Pong ball back and forth, I scan faces for a glimpse of Libby. I don’t know why I’m looking. I know that she’s gone. But I’m empty. And I need something, anything, to fill me up again.

  Red scores on me for probably the fourth time in a row (I haven’t been keeping track). “Dude,” he says. “You’re not even trying.”

  “Are we playing or not?” I position my paddle, ready to spike Red’s serve.

  He lobs it over the net. “You can’t do this, you know?”

  “What?” I return the ball easily.

  “You can’t make this about her.”

  “I thought you were done trying to shrink me.”

  “I’m not shrinking you. I’m telling you this as your friend.”

  Back and forth we toss our words; they land lightly at first, and then harder until we’re slamming the ball across the net, and I’m not sure if I’m aiming for the point or Red’s chest.

  “As my friend, I’d wish you’d play the fucking game.”

  “As your friend, I’m trying to tell you that I’ve watched you do this since you got here. You made it about Savannah. Now it’s about Libby. When’s it going to be about you? You leave in what, a little over a week?”

  “As my friend,
I’d like you to get the fuck out of my business.”

  “And as your friend, I’d tell you that that’s not what friends do.”

  I spike the ball; it hits the corner of Red’s side and spirals up into the air, ricochets off the concrete block wall beside us, and rolls right into a group of kids. One of them is the cheerleader from art. She picks the ball up, shoots me a withering glare.

  I toss down my paddle; it slides across the table, skittering under the net. “I’m not like you, okay? I don’t need your help. I’m not some homeless dropout junkie. I have a life.”

  Red lowers his paddle, stunned. The hurt on his face makes my eyes burn, but my words sense his weakness, move in for the kill.

  “I don’t need this place, Red. And I sure as hell don’t need you.” I storm out of the rec room, leaving Red at the table alone.

  The darkened lobby is empty, the Front Desk Fascist gone for the day. I take a quick peek down the hall, on the lookout for orderlies. Seeing no one, I lean over the desk, inch the phone closer and pick up the receiver.

  When Chase finally answers, I can barely hear his voice, low and sleepy sounding, over the noise in the background: laughter, rumbling voices, and the metallic thunder of animated gunfire.

  “Hello?”

  “Chase! Dude, I need a favor.”

  The background noise quiets; I picture Chase pausing the video game, hear him shushing the other people in the room. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Eli!”

  “Eli!” Chase laughs, thick and wet, his words slurring. “Where the hell are you?”

  I tell him I’m in LakeShore, the rural mountaintop town two hours away from Grandhaven. I tell him I need him to come get me.

  Chase is quiet for a second. “Shit, I don’t know, bro. Wouldn’t that be, like, aiding and abetting a fugitive or something?”

  “I’m not in prison!” I hiss, instinctively checking over my shoulder again. Then, lowering my voice, “I can leave whenever I want.”