Lifeline

by Abbey Lee Nash

  I inch forward, past one darkened room, and steal a peek into the next. A dark-haired nurse is standing next to Libby’s bed. “You can’t get better if you don’t sleep, hon.”

  “I’m keeping watch,” Libby tells her, echoing the words she spoke to me in the lobby the first Visitation we spent together. “This way they can’t take me by surprise.”

  “You’re perfectly safe here, Libby,” the nurse soothes. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Please try and get some sleep.”

  “I told you I can’t!” Libby snarls. “The fucking meds aren’t even working.”

  The nurse sighs, and I wonder if she’s thinking that this girl is above her pay grade. That Libby belongs on a psych ward, not in rehab. I wonder if she sees this kind of crazy in detox all the time.

  Screams come from the room next door; someone cries out in their sleep. The nurse turns toward the door. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  Quickly, I dart back to the empty room and hide in the doorway. The nurse’s sneakers squeak against the tile floor as she heads down the hall to the screamer. “I’m right here, Jerry,” I hear her say. She utters soothing words to some poor kid that’s thrashing around in the nightmare of withdrawal.

  No longer worried about being heard, I step out of the darkness and into Libby’s room.

  The overhead light is off, and a circle of soft yellow light pools around the lamp on the bedside table. Libby’s sitting cross-legged on her bed. She’s wearing a hospital gown, knotted loosely at her neck, and her hair spills out of a greasy bun. She’s staring at the opposite wall, her glassy eyes fixed on something I can’t see. I’m struck by how tiny her feet are, where they stick out from under her gown. The standard issue socks with sticky soles bunch at her toes and ankles.

  I ease the door shut behind me, cracked slightly, the way the nurse left it. I’ll hear her if she comes back.

  I take a hesitant step forward. “Libby?” I whisper.

  She flinches but doesn’t look at me.

  I cross the room and sit down on the edge of the empty bed beside hers. “Libby, it’s me.” I reach out to touch her, but her whole body shrinks away from me and curls up inside the thin gown that blankets her narrow shoulders. She squeezes her eyes shut.

  I lower my hand. “What happened to you?”

  Libby shudders. A low moan escapes her lips, and it’s the sound of heartbreak, of something once wild, now broken.

  Goose bumps careen down my spine. “Libby . . .”

  “He came back.” The words come out in a hoarse whisper, so soft, I can barely hear.

  I lean forward. “Who?”

  Eyes still closed, Libby begins to rock gently back and forth. Her arms, stained with faded Sharpie smudges, crisscross her chest, and she clutches her elbows, her nails carving crescent moons into her skin.

  “Him.”

  In a flash, the memory of that first Visitation Day comes barreling back to me. I’m keeping watch, Libby had said. This way my mom and her sick fuck boyfriend can’t take me by surprise.

  The boyfriend.

  My stomach lurches, and for a minute I think I’m going to be sick. I remember the words I shouted at her the last time we spoke: What happened to you? Who made you this way?

  The unspoken answer runs like the cold tip of a knife down my spine. “Did he . . .” The words lodge in my throat. “Libby, were you . . .”

  “We ate dinner,” Libby says. “He brought takeout. Like everything was normal. Like things could ever be normal.”

  A tear slips out from under Libby’s dark fringe of lashes, slicing a shimmering gash down her pale cheek. “But he was looking at me . . .” Her voice catches in her throat, and her words get wider, louder, like her throat can’t contain the depth of pain they carry. “…the way he always looks at me.”

  She’s rocking faster now, harder, and it scares me. Her story spills out in a breathless jumble.

  “I locked myself in the bathroom. I knew it was never going to be better; he was never going to go away and leave us alone. I found my mom’s pills behind the mirror. And then on the bathtub, her razor . . .”

  My heart is pounding like it’s going to burst out of my chest. I reach out to her because I can’t help it; I wrap my arms around her, pull her close. She presses her cold wet face into the side of my neck, grips my back with desperate fingers, and together we careen toward the guardrail, crashing through into the night.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Libby sobs. “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I tell her, my hands in her hair, on her neck, my mouth against her skin.

  I know.

  I know.

  I know.

  We hold each other like this until my t-shirt is soaked through, and Libby’s sobs are soft whimpers, and her body goes still in my arms.

  And then there are footsteps outside the door. I freeze.

  Quick like a darting garden snake, Libby’s hand reaches for the lamp. The room plunges into darkness. I slide onto the narrow strip of floor between the two beds. The mattress creaks as Libby lies back against the pillows. The door opens, and a triangle of light reaches across the floor.

  I dare only to take soundless sips of air.

  White soled sneakers pad toward Libby’s bed. Toward me.

  “Get out,” Libby snaps.

  The nurse is nonplussed. “You know I have to check on you, Libby,” she clucks.

  “I was starting to doze off,” Libby whines. “How am I supposed to sleep if you come in the room every five seconds?”

  The sneakers pause. “You were sleeping?”

  Silence. Maybe Libby nods.

  “I’m really not supposed to leave you alone for very long,” the nurse frets, rolling up on the toe of one white sneaker. “I could lose my job.”

  The bed creaks as Libby shifts her weight. “Please,” she begs. “I’ll be good, I promise. I just need to sleep.”

  The nurse sighs. “I’ll try to give you a few hours. But I’m trusting you, Libby.” The sneakers turn, point back toward the door. “Call me if you need anything?”

  “Close the door,” Libby orders in response.

  The sneakers step into the hallway. The door closes, but only halfway. Light floods the room beyond the bed. But it’s enough.

  I release my breath, take in full gulps of air. Adrenaline pumps through my veins; my arms and legs feel like JELL-O.

  Atop the bed, Libby lets out what sounds like a giggle. And I wonder if it’s the sound of relief, or if it’s like laughing at a funeral. Because you have to do something, because you don’t have any tears left.

  I reach for the mattress above me and haul myself up. “That was close,” I whisper, my eyes straining to adjust to the dark.

  There’s movement, the creaking of the mattress, then the sudden press of Libby’s body against my own. Her mouth finds mine in the dark—hungry. Her fingers twist into the hair at the nape of my neck. And I know I am a razor. I know I am a bottle of pills.

  But I am hungry, too.

  I grip her hospital gown in my fist, reaching for the soft skin beneath. Libby’s kisses get harder, desperate. Her dry lips scratch mine; her tongue tastes sour. She cups my face in her hands, and the gauze on her wrists brushes my cheek.

  I freeze.

  I am a razor. I am a bottle of pills.

  She is my addiction.

  I let go of Libby’s gown. It flutters against her bare legs. Libby pulls back, her eyes searching my face, hurt and confused.

  I take her hand in mine and gently begin to unwrap her wrist. Libby’s breath quickens, but she doesn’t resist. Round and round the gauze goes, until raw skin touches the cool darkness, and Libby’s pulse throbs against my thumb. With feather fingers, I trace a puckered trail of stitches along her skin. I kiss her wrist like ointment. Like fresh gauze.

  I am salve.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Libby whispers, her voice cracking
in the middle.

  “I know,” I say. I know.

  I curl my fingers into Libby’s. Her cold hand intertwines with mine, and she tugs me down beside her. I hesitate.

  I should go.

  I want to stay.

  As though she can read my mind, Libby whispers, “Please.”

  I don’t want to be alone either.

  I ease myself down onto the bed. Libby scootches over a little, and I tuck my arm underneath her. She lays her head on my chest, ear to heartbeat. I remember the day we napped on the lawn, and I wonder if my heart sounds as different as it feels.

  Libby curls up tighter against me, and I stroke her arm, her back, her hair, until I feel her body relax and her breathing slow, and I know that sleep has found her.

  I am ointment.

  I am fresh gauze.

  “Libby?” I whisper.

  She makes a murmuring sound but doesn’t stir. I slow my breathing until Libby and I are inhaling and exhaling as one, and I marvel at our breath, at our still-beating hearts.

  With my free hand, I feel for my scar and run my fingers across the leathery skin. Pain always leaves its mark.

  I push Libby’s hair back from her forehead, touch my lips to her cool, damp skin. “I see you,” I whisper. “I see you.”

  Libby mutters something in her sleep; she snuggles closer to me, her fingers tightening around mine. My eyelids are heavy, and I let them close for a minute.

  Only for a minute.

  Day 23

  I wake up with a jolt—panicked and confused.

  Grey light streams in through the window. I’m still in Libby’s room.

  My arm’s asleep where Libby’s head rests on it, and I crane my neck for a glimpse of the clock on the bedside table.

  5:10 AM.

  Shit.

  Libby’s face is nuzzled peacefully against my chest; her breathing is steady and deep. But I am freaking out.

  From the hallway comes the sound of the nurse’s med cart; she’s making her last rounds. I ease my arm out from under Libby, careful not to wake her, and sit up, wracking my brain for a way out of this mess.

  I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s on the other side. I ease it open and peer out. The nurse’s cart is parked outside of the room next door. I can hear her talking to the kid inside. “Good morning, Jerry,” she crows. “You’re looking better already.”

  Libby’s room is next.

  I slip out into the empty hallway. Sleepy chatter trickles down the hall from the nurses’ station. The night shift is wrapping up. I know I’m fucked, but desperation makes me brave, and I do the only thing I can.

  I walk down the hall and out to the nurses’ station like I belong there.

  There’s an open box of donuts behind the counter, and two nurses hover over it, their backs to me. I’ll never make it through the doors without them hearing me. So I make a balls-to-the-wall irrational play and step forward until I’m facing the nurses’ station.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  The nurses startle and turn around quickly. One of them is chewing a bite of donut. She has powdered sugar on her cheek. The other looks at me, confused. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. You had a patient come in last night? Her name’s Libby. I was hoping I could see her.”

  The donut nurse blinks. “Are you a resident?”

  I nod.

  “How’d you even get in here?” the other nurse demands. “That door’s supposed to stay locked.”

  I shrug. “It was open, and I just walked through.”

  Donut Nurse mutters under her breath. “If I’ve told housekeeping once, I’ve told them a thousand times. They have to pull that door closed all the way.” Her chubby fingers reach for a pen, and she scribbles something on a yellow Post-it pad. I hope I didn’t get anybody in trouble.

  I clear my throat. “So, about Libby . . .”

  Exasperation edges the nurse’s voice. “Of course you can’t see her,” she snaps. “Detox patients are on blackout. No phone calls, no visitors. She’ll join the program in a few days. Now get out of here before I call an orderly.”

  Gladly.

  I point toward the double doors I snuck through last night. “Should I let myself out?”

  Donut Nurse rolls her eyes. She punches a button behind the nurses’ station. The doors crank open like a drawbridge, offering safe passage.

  “Thanks,” I say, and then I remember that I’m supposed to be disappointed. “I mean, thanks a lot.”

  The nurses ignore me, already clucking to one another about the irresponsible housekeeping crew. Leaving their grumbling behind me, I haul ass through the empty lobby.

  Red’s taking forever to answer his door. I knock again, a little louder this time, all the while casting nervous looks over my shoulder for the orderlies I’m sure are about to come barreling around the corner after me. “Red,” I whisper. “Red, open the damn door.”

  Finally, the door cracks open. Red’s eyes are squinty with sleep, and he wears a white t-shirt with boxers. “What time is it?” he grumbles.

  “Morning,” I tell him, and I push the swipe card into his hand.

  His fingers close around it, and his eyes widen with recognition, with relief. “You did it.”

  I nod.

  “Did you get caught?”

  I throw another furtive glance down the hall. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Red’s voice rises. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?” Behind him, Red’s roommate stirs in his sleep.

  “Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “I had to improvise to get out, that’s all.”

  “Improvise?” Red’s eyes narrow as he takes in my appearance. “Aren’t those the same clothes you had on yesterday?”

  I glance down at my shirt. “It’s probably better if you don’t ask questions.”

  “I’m going back to bed.” Red takes a backward step into his room.

  “Red?” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “If they find out, I swear I won’t say it was you. I’ll keep your name out of it 100%. Okay?”

  Red nods, his mouth curling into a sleepy smile. “Tell me one thing: was it worth it?”

  I pause, searching for an answer.

  Red means seeing Libby. He means maybe getting caught.

  But when I finally answer him, I mean more than that. I mean the last 23 days. I mean cracking open, over and over again.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “It was worth it.”

  “Good.” Red retreats into his room and shuts the door behind him.

  Back at my room, I’m antsy. There are two hours until breakfast, and I know I can’t sleep. I need to do something. I pull on a pair of gym shorts and my sneakers. Screw doc’s orders. I need to run.

  The lights are off when I get to the gym. I find the switch, and the overhead bulbs flicker on. The room is eerily silent, except for the steady hum of fluorescent lights. I choose a treadmill in the middle of the long line and crank it up to 6.0 mph—a relatively easy jog, but after three weeks of no running, my legs feel cast in iron.

  One foot in front of the other. My feet find a steady rhythm. Left foot. Right foot. Inhale. Exhale.

  I try to focus on my pace, my breathing, but I can’t stop thinking about Libby.

  Alone in the bathroom, the pills in her hand, the razor against her wrist.

  Didn’t she know that there are people who love her? People who would miss her? Didn’t that matter to her at all?

  My fingers jam the speed button. 7.0 mph.

  My breath quickens. My legs burn.

  I think about my dad.

  How he left me. How he died.

  8.5 mph. My lungs ache, and my muscles are screaming.

  My feet pound my story into the treadmill. Left foot. Right foot. Inhale. Exhale.

  He left me. He left me. He left me.

  And then I think ab
out myself, about the people I’ve hurt, the ones I’ve left behind.

  Savannah’s tear-streaked face in the hospital the morning after I overdosed.

  Mom’s weary head on my chest.

  Benny, who still believes in magic and is too young to know the truth.

  Benny.

  9.0 mph and I can’t breathe.

  I can’t go home. I can’t face up to everything I’ve done and everyone I’ve hurt. The pain is too much. Red was right. Feeling is the hardest. And I don’t know if I want to do it anymore.

  And then I think about Chase, the pills I left on the floor of the Tahoe. And I’m wishing I could rewind, scoop them up, and hide them in my pocket. I’d lock myself in the bathroom, and I’d let the whole world fall away. I’d disappear all over again.

  And then what? Would I end up like Mo—rehab my second home? Or Red, with a needle in my arm and a gun to my face? Would I end up like Howard, a homeless, panhandling junkie, plunging used needles for a leftover high?

  Would I end up like my dad?

  I pound out the miles, trying to outrun this gaping hole inside me that nothing, nothing can fill. I grip the dashboard, willing my legs forward until I can’t . . .

  . . . can’t

  . . . can’t

  run anymore.

  I jam the emergency stop button, and I lurch forward, barely catching myself before I sink to my knees.

  There’s not enough air in the world.

  I bend over, clutching my sides, heaving in and out until finally, I can breathe again.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  My breath comes in gasps and wheezes.

  And I wonder if Richard Fisher is right—if addiction really is a disease. A disease that doesn’t give a shit about love, loyalty, or willpower. No matter how much you love your girlfriend or your family. No matter how much they love you.

  Maybe Howard’s mom had it right. Addiction is the monster, not the person.

  Maybe recovery can be a long and broken road.

  Maybe, like Mo said, sobriety is a daily decision.

  “Fuck addiction,” I mumble out loud.

  I pull myself up and ease the speed up to 6.0 mph.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  One foot in front of the other.