“Can I help you with something?” she asks.
“I was wondering if I could use the phone? It’ll only take a minute.”
“Sure.” The counselor swivels the phone around and pushes it toward me.
My fingers hover over the buttons, hesitating. What if it’s too late? What if things can never be better? What if I can never be better?
The glass doors slide open. I glance up as Chase steps into the lobby, a pink button-down rolled to his elbows, his Ray Bans pushed back on his head.
I lower the receiver.
“You said Sunday, right?” he asks, jerking his chin at the counselor behind the desk. “Don’t I have to sign in or something?”
I push the phone back around as Chase hurriedly jots his name in the sign-in book.
The counselor considers him over the worn binding of her book. “Visitation ends in fifteen minutes.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Chase croons. “I’m an in and out kind of guy.”
My fingers dig into the shoulder of his pink shirt, pushing him toward the door. “Okay if we go for a smoke?”
She gestures toward the door with the flat of her hand. “Be my guest.”
I hurry Chase outside.
“Dude, don’t we need to get your shit?”
“Shh!” I send a quick glance through the glass. The girl at the desk flips over her book, her eyes scanning the back cover. “Keep your voice down.”
Chase twists toward me. “I thought you said you could leave whenever you want!”
“I can.” I sink down onto the curb, thinking of the smooth fabric of Steven’s shirt, cool against my cheek when he hugged me. Somebody spit their gum out in the parking lot, and the circle of sticky black tar stares up at me. “I’m not sure if I want to anymore.”
“Are you fucking kidding me, dude?” Chase throws up his arms. “You know I left my Mimi’s sweet potato soufflé for this shit? And you said you’d pay for gas.”
“I will,” I say, squinting up at him. “As soon as I have cash.”
“Motherfucker,” Chase mumbles, stepping down off the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?”
“For a smoke,” he snaps, shooting me a disgusted look over his shoulder. “I’m guessing you don’t have any of those either.”
I push up off the curb and follow him to the car. It’s his mom’s dusty Tahoe, the faded LionsHeart sticker peeling off the bumper. Chase cranks the ignition and lowers the windows. I hover beside the passenger door.
“Don’t be an asshole,” Chase breathes, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Get in.”
The grey fabric seats are stained. I can’t remember the last time I was in this car, probably fifth grade, our last year of Cub Scouts. An open can of red bull sits in one cup holder, a few crumpled tissues in the other. I keep the door propped, one foot safely on the pavement.
Chase offers me his smoke. I take a quick drag and send the wispy exhale toward the sky.
“I brought you something,” Chase says. He leans across the seat, flips open the glove compartment, and tosses a small plastic bag onto my lap. Three sandy capsules blink up at me. “It was going to be a welcome home gift,” Chase grumbles. “I guess I’ll add it to your tab.”
I freeze; my spine stiffens, and my fingers twitch. I pick up the baggie, roll around the contents, the shiny capsules taunting me. There’s no one here to stop me; it’s just me and Chase. I’d do one, not two like before. It wouldn’t hurt anybody. Afterwards, I’d go right back inside. Nobody would even know.
I crack open the bag, drop a capsule into my palm. “You know, a kid went home the other day.”
Chase sends a perfect smoky donut out the window, then takes a swig of Red Bull.
“He was my friend,” I continue. “He scored at a meeting, and then just . . . disappeared.”
Chase swipes his hand across his upper lip. “What, like, alien abduction shit?”
I laugh, remembering the telescope Mom and Steven gave me for my eleventh birthday, the hours Chase and I spent at my bedroom window, searching for spaceships, the low flying airplane that sent us screaming downstairs.
“Sort of,” I tell him, thinking of Will’s stripped white mattress, how it glowed in the dark room, an ominous beacon, like a freshly empty bed in the ICU. “The next morning, he was gone.”
“That’s fucked up,” Chase says. He flicks the cigarette out the window, jerks his chin at the capsule in my hand. “So are we doing this or not? I want to get home before my cousin Artie eats all the damn pie.”
I stare down at the creamy capsule, thinking of Will, wondering where he is now. At home, grounded for life, his straight-laced parents watching his every move? Or on the street somewhere, like Red, a park bench, a flop house—face down in a plate full of smack?
And then I think about Benny, and about how some people you don’t get back.
I put the capsule back in the bag.
Whatever you do, Red had begged me the night Will left, don’t let me leave this room.
I have to get out of this car.
A car horn startles me. An ambulance backs up to the curb by the front entrance.
Will, I think as the EMT climbs out of the passenger side, walks around back, and cracks open the door.
The plastic bag falls onto the seat as I lunge out of the car.
“Dude!” Chase hollers. “I’m not waiting around for you! Your ride leaves now.”
I ignore him. Because it’s not Will the transport nurse is helping up the sidewalk to the lobby.
It’s Libby.
The glass doors slide open. The transport nurse grips Libby’s elbow with one hand and supports her waist with the other. Her skin is ashen; charcoal circles, deep and dark as war paint, form half-moons underneath her eyes. She’s dyed her hair—blue-black like shadows, like secrets. But it’s the bandages on her arms that make my throat constrict, my stomach seize. Freshly applied white gauze bandages cover the places where scars once were. My first day in the hospital flashes through my brain like lightening. I remember the doctor tiptoeing around his questions, wanting to know if I did it on purpose.
I turn my back on Chase and the pills in the plastic bag, and I follow Libby inside.
The girl at the desk yells something at me, but I can’t even make sense of her words. Libby’s the only thing that matters, the only thing that exists.
“What happened?” I am the doctor, hovering close, sizing up my patient, taking in her ravaged arms, her broken body. Have you ever thought about hurting yourself? Were you trying to take your life? Libby, what have you done?
I reach out to her, but the heavyweight transport nurse steps full in front of me, blocking Libby with his bulk. “I don’t think so, kid.”
I dart to one side, but his arm flies out and hits me square in the chest. Pain shoots through me, and I fall back, winded. It’s just enough time for the nurse to bustle Libby away from me, through the lobby. I recover and follow them.
“Enough!” The girl at the desk shouts, grabbing the phone. She’s probably calling an orderly, but I don’t care. I tail the transport nurse to the medical wing.
“Libby!” I shout. “Libby, look at me!”
Libby’s hair hangs in greasy ropes down her back. Smudged purple marker peeks out of the white bandages, trailing up her fingers in nonsensical squiggles. She doesn’t answer me. She doesn’t even turn her head.
At the entrance to the medical wing, the electronic doors swoop open, and two nurses step out. Transport acknowledges me with a jerk of his head. “I have a bit of a situation here.”
I rush forward, but the nurses use their bodies to block me, pushing Libby through the doors behind them. They sidle backward one at a time and shut the doors firmly in my face.
I hurl myself against the doors, but they’re locked from the inside. Through the narrow glass windows, I watch them lead Libby past the nurses’ desk. I bang my hand
s against the glass, shouting for her. “Libby! Libby!”
Just before she rounds a corner where I won’t be able to see her anymore, Libby turns her head ever so slightly. I don’t know if she sees me. I don’t know if she sees anything. Her eyes are an arctic ocean, frozen solid. Nothing stirs beneath the surface.
I sag back against the wall, my chest heaving as I catch my breath. The swipe pad jabs into my shoulder blade. There’s a key pad beneath it, but I don’t know the code. I slam my fist into the keypad, over and over again, until the numbers are bruises on my knuckles, and my eyes sting with tears, and an orderly finally catches up to me.
“Do we have a problem here?” The orderly’s a young guy, probably new, and barely older than me. His voice is imposing, but his pink cheeks and telltale upper lip sweat give him away. He’s nervous.
I eye the swipe card clipped to the chest pocket of his white scrubs. I wonder if I could take him, grab his swipe card, and haul ass through those doors to find Libby. But I’d barely make it past the nurses’ desk before someone would call for help. I might not even have time to find her.
I push myself up off the wall, ducking my head to wipe my eyes on my shirt sleeve. “No.” I stroll past the orderly as nonchalantly as possible. “No problem at all.”
His eyes widen with relief, and his chest deflates a little. “Good,” he grumbles. “Move it along then.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a sarcastic salute.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but I don’t stick around to hear it. I’ve gotta find a swipe card.
I burst through the door of the gym like someone’s chasing me. A couple guys on treadmills look up, surprised. “Is Red here?” I ask.
One of them points to the back of the gym, and I spot Red by the bench press, loading up the rack. “Red,” I call, breaking into a jog.
One look at my face and Red lowers the weight he’s holding. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Libby,” I tell him, dropping onto the bench. “She’s back.”
“Shiiiiittt . . .” Red breathes. He heaves the weight back up onto the rack and sits down beside me. “Did you see her?”
I nod. “She looks bad, dude. Really bad. I think . . .” The words catch in my throat. “I think she hurt herself,” I whisper.
Red exhales, a heavy wheeze, and lifts the collar of his ripped t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. “She told you that?”
I shake my head. “I think they have her drugged or something. She barely even looked at me.” The disfigured girl from Libby’s painting veers into my memory. She’s broken, Libby said.
I drop my face into my hands. Crying in counseling is one thing. Crying in the gym is something else entirely. I clench my teeth, willing myself to get it together. But there’s a black and gaping hole inside me, and I am dangling from the edge, my grip slipping more each second.
“She’s in detox?” Red asks.
I nod into my hands. “I gotta get in there, dude.”
A calculating look flickers across Red’s face. He stands up, squeezes my shoulder. “Give me a couple hours,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I sit alone at dinner, swirling my leftover meatloaf with my fork until it looks like gray mush. My body’s moved through the motions of the day, but my brain’s been with Libby since the second she walked through the door.
Is she sleeping? Is she sick? Is she scared? Is she thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about her?
I barely notice Red drop his tray beside me. He sits down so close to me that his arm jostles mine. “Oh,” I say, glancing up at him. “Hey.”
Red’s cheeks are flushed under his freckles, and his eyes are shining. He casts a furtive glance around the room, then whispers under his breath, “Open your hand.”
“What?”
“Just do it,” Red hisses.
I drop my fork, slide my hand under the table and rest it on my leg, palm up. Red digs in his pocket, slips something into my hand. Something thin, hard, and plastic.
A swipe card.
“Act normal,” he mumbles, shoveling a forkful of meatloaf into his mouth. “Your face is going to give it away.”
I copy Red’s expression, forcing my face to stay flat and uninterested, but all the while, my eyes are darting around the room, certain that someone knows what I have. My heart is pounding like I just ran a marathon, and it’s all I can do not to jump up and run out of the dining hall.
I shove the swipe card in my front jean pocket and pull my shirt low to cover it. “How?” I whisper.
“My counselor never wears hers. Leaves it sitting on her desk in plain view.” Red’s voice is low, carefully confined to the small space between us. “I may have picked up a skill or two during my weeks on the streets, okay? Not that her office is that hard to get into.” He gives me a wry grin, and the pieces suddenly click into place. This is how Red gets around.
I can’t hide the grin teasing up the corners of my mouth. “This is awesome.”
“Not that awesome,” Red says, his eyes darting furtively toward the orderly posted by the dining hall entrance. “She’s gone for the day, but she’s going to notice it’s missing sooner or later. You have one chance, and then you have to get it back to me. Tomorrow morning at the latest, okay?”
My grin dissolves. If I get caught, it won’t just be me getting booted from LakeShore. Red will go down for this, too. “We could get kicked out.”
Red carves valleys through his meatloaf with his fork. “I know,” he says. “But I think it’s worth the risk.”
My eyes probe Red’s poker mask. Red’s been anti-me-and-Libby since the beginning. “Why do you want to help me see her now?”
Red lowers his fork, takes a long, slow sip of ice water. “When Lisa died,” he begins, “I was lounging on my couch in front of Jackass reruns. The accident was less than five miles from my house. And while she died, I ate leftover pizza and laughed at a stupid reality show.”
“You couldn’t have known it was going to happen,” I tell him, because it’s what I’d want someone to say to me. “It wasn’t your fault.” The words are a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid on a fresh gunshot wound.
He shrugs off my reassurance. “I know. I know all that.” His fingers toy with the dull tines of his fork, pushing the soft pads of his fingertips against the metal until pinprick indentations mark his flesh. “But even knowing what happened, even knowing the crash would’ve killed us both, I would’ve been there if I could.”
He looks up at me, his grief palpable. “Not to change it, you know, because I know I couldn’t. But to be with her. To hold her hand. To be scared shitless together.”
He clears his throat, then takes another swig of water. The emotion dissipates like fog on a bathroom mirror, taking with it secrets scrawled on the glass. “It’s worth it,” he says.
I nod, and together we start to come up with a plan.
It’s after midnight, and the lobby’s dark. No one’s at the desk. Room checks are over, and the orderlies have ducked into the staff lounge for a game of cards or a quick nap. I’ve piled all my dirty laundry under my covers, bunched up like a body, and squished my pillow up like a head.
The flickering security lights cast shadows in the corners. I startle at my reflection in the locked sliding glass doors, my hair shaggy around my ears, my face haunted. “Get it together, Eli,” I hiss. I stealth-walk down the hall to the medical wing and pause in front of the double doors.
Unlike the rest of LakeShore, the detox unit never sleeps. There are two nurses on duty at all times. The overhead lights are dimmed for the night, but the nurses pop into the rooms every so often to take blood pressure readings, temperature, that kind of thing.
I touch the plastic ridge of the swipe card in my pocket. No way I’m getting into Libby’s room and out again without somebody catching me. And I won’t have any excuses. I won’t have a second chance.
But Libby’s alon
e, probably sick and scared. I think about Red, and though I’ve never seen Lisa, I imagine them in the car together, hands clutched tightly as the car crashes against a guard rail and careens over the edge.
I take a deep breath and pull the swipe card out of my pocket. With a final peek through the glass to make sure nobody’s at the nurses’ station, I hold the card up to the flickering red light on the keypad.
It doesn’t work.
The light keeps flickering red, and the doors stay shut. Disappointment mingled with a shameful twinge of relief crashes through me.
And then the light’s green, and the doors crank open, and they are the loudest freaking doors I’ve ever heard, announcing to the entire world that I’m breaking into a medical facility.
There’s a little alcove for wheelchairs right inside the door. I duck into it, my heart racing.
The medical wing is filled with noise, steady beeps and hums. It reminds me of the morning I woke up in the hospital. I remember how confused and scared I was, my mom’s tears, Savannah leaving me, the disappointment and heartbreak etched across her face. It all happened decades ago. Or maybe only moments.
Footsteps come toward me. I press my back against the wall. The footsteps stop, and I peer around the corner. A nurse is at the nurses’ station. Her back’s to me as she stares into a glowing computer screen, her fingers rapidly skimming the keyboard.
I step out from the alcove. The medical wing’s nighttime noises mask my footsteps, and I slip silently past the nurses’ station and into the dimly lit hallway beyond it.
The hall is lined with patient doors. It dawns on me that I have no idea which room is Libby’s.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What did I think I was going to do? Pop my head into every room and ask for her? I’m such an idiot.
I’ve almost decided to turn back when I hear her.
“I told you,” Libby says, her voice like desert sand. “I can’t sleep.”
“But it’s so late,” a nurse says. “You have to try.”
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