Lifeline

by Abbey Lee Nash

  Richard Fisher nudges me with his elbow, and I turn back around. Howard is ending his share, and it’s almost my turn.

  My stomach is a cement block, and my mouth is full of dust.

  Howard motions for me to join him at the podium, then turns the mic over to me. My legs feel heavy as railway ties as I make my way to the front of the room. I watch Howard walk back to his seat, and then I scan the expectant faces of the crowd. “Uh, I’m Eli,” I say into the buzzing mic. My voice sounds foreign as it echoes across the rec room. It cracks a little. “I’m an addict.”

  “Hi, Eli,” the crowd hums in unison, and the steady familiarity of the call and response puts me at ease.

  I remember what Richard Fisher and Howard have both said about the spirit of the group. Let us believe in you until you can believe in yourself. I picture myself on the lax field, my hands gripping the stick, my muscles tense, ready to play. The bleachers are packed with people that came to support me—Mom, Steven, Richard Fisher, Red. Even Will is out there somewhere, at least in spirit. Libby, too. There are no signs that scream my name, no painted t-shirts. This is a quieter crowd, but constant and faithful.

  I stand before a roomful of believing eyes.

  I clear my throat and start at the beginning. “I had a pretty awesome life before I came to LakeShore. I was lacrosse captain, I had a gorgeous girlfriend. I was pretty much king of my high school—invincible. I should’ve felt pretty good about myself, right? And I did, I guess. As long as I was high.”

  A few heads bob knowingly.

  “And I don’t just mean high on drugs, even though that was obviously a huge part of it. I also mean being high on winning, high on being popular, high on being wanted. Because when I wasn’t, when I was just Eli—not lacrosse captain, not Savannah’s boyfriend—but just me, I felt completely empty inside. I felt alone, no matter how many people were by my side. I felt worthless, no matter how many people told me otherwise.”

  Mom dabs at her eyes with the corner of her Kleenex. Steven shifts in his seat, slings his arm across her shoulder and pulls her into him.

  “And so it felt okay, necessary even, to use. Drugs were part of who I was, part of how I got by. I wasn’t hurting anyone, at least that’s what I thought. And I didn’t think I had a problem. I thought I could stop using whenever I wanted. I was wrong. You don’t think about these things as they happen. The days, the moments, the final seconds before everything changes. You’re invincible. Nothing can touch you. Until it does.”

  I pause here, knowing that what I’m going to say next will hurt my mom. But it’s my truth, and we’re not lying anymore. In a voice that trembles with emotion, I tell the group the worst part of my story.

  “On the night I overdosed, my girlfriend found me seizing in my locked car. According to her, the paramedics had to break the glass to get me out, had to do CPR. And even then, even when I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. It was an accident, a temporary setback. All I wanted was for everything to go back to normal. I didn’t want to think about what happened or what I’d been doing to myself and the people around me. The people who love me.”

  Mom squeezes her eyes shut. She lays her head on Steven’s shoulder. I hope they hear the apology in my words. I hope they know that I want to be better, that I want us to be better.

  A movement at the back of the room catches my eye. Libby leans against the rear wall, listening.

  My voice breaks, and I pause for a second, composing myself. “I couldn’t see any of that before I came here. But the people here . . .” My eyes land momentarily on Libby, who refuses to meet my gaze. “I’ve learned that sometimes life has to crack you open before you see the truth of how you’ve been living. It’s painful when you break; the bottom is a very scary place to be. And over the last few weeks, I’ve cracked open again and again. But I think that’s how the light gets in.”

  I search the crowd for Red’s face—he gives me an encouraging nod.

  “I can’t stand here and promise you that I’m cured,” I say. “That’s not the way this disease works. But I think if I keep putting one foot in front of the other, life will open up. It will get better. I will get better.”

  I fix my eyes on Mom and Steven, and I say these last words to them and to myself: “I know I have a lot of work ahead. I know I have a long way to go. But I can only start from where I am.”

  At the rear of the room, Libby slips out into the hall. I falter momentarily but resist the familiar urge to follow her. I let her go. “Thanks for letting me share.”

  Richard Fisher is the first to congratulate me. “That was quite the speech,” he says, rising from his chair as the people around us head for refreshments. He clasps me on the shoulder. “One might actually get the impression that you learned something here.”

  I shoot him a sly smile. “Maybe a thing or two. No thanks to you.”

  Richard Fisher laughs, and I offer my hand. “Thanks, Fish. For everything.”

  He takes my hand and yanks me into a quick hug. “Don’t mention it, kid.”

  Over his shoulder, Mom and Steven approach cautiously, like they don’t want to interrupt our “moment.”

  “Mom,” I say, pulling away from Fish’s hug.

  Her face brightens; her eyes are shining. I hold out my arms, gather her into a hug, and she half-weeps, half-laughs into my shoulder. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” she says. “So very proud.”

  Steven drops a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m glad you came,” I tell him.

  He squeezes my arm. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  As we weave our way through the rows of fold-out chairs toward the refreshment table, the guys from group come up to shake my hand, congratulate me. Red claps me on the back. Prison Tat offers a fist bump, kisses the cross hanging around his neck. And instead of feeling overwhelmed, embarrassed, unworthy, I feel seen—believed in.

  Over brownies and coffee, Richard Fisher talks with Steven and Mom at length about discharge procedures and after-care plans. I’ll be attending weekly sessions at an outpatient facility closer to home, but Richard is going to check in with me once a week over the phone. “To make sure you’re getting all your meetings in,” he says. Ninety meetings in ninety days to be exact; my first is tomorrow afternoon, as soon as I’m settled in at home. Turns out this recovery thing is no joke—my twenty-eight days at LakeShore was just the beginning.

  Someone touches my arm, and I turn to find Red, his mouth full of chocolate chip cookie and three more in his fist. “That was some speech,” he says. “Good thing I’ve got another thirty days to work on mine.”

  “Dude, you might wanna stay even longer,” I kid him. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  We laugh together for a minute, until the sound fades into the awkward silence of not wanting to say goodbye.

  “We’ll keep in touch, right?” I finally ask.

  Red squeezes my shoulder. “No doubt. We’re brothers, aren’t we?”

  I grin at him and hold out my hand. “No matter what.”

  Red clasps my hand in his, yanks me toward him, and claps me soundly on the back. “No matter what.”

  “All packed and ready to go?” My mom’s waiting for me in the lobby. It’s dark out, and Steven’s already gone to get the car.

  “Yeah,” I tell her, though I linger, my eyes trailing the hallway that leads to the medical wing, hoping to see Libby one last time.

  The Lexus sidles up to the curb, and Mom starts through the sliding glass door.

  “Just a sec, Mom,” I say. “There’s one more thing I need to do. I’ll be right out.”

  She nods, takes my duffel from me, and heads out to the car.

  The Front Desk Fascist’s eyes are skeptical as I approach, but when she speaks, I can hear the smile in her voice. “What is it this time, Eli?”

  I flash her a shiny grin. “Could I leave a note with you? There’s s
omeone I didn’t get to say goodbye to.”

  She gives a gusty sigh, like scooting the Post-it pad a half inch in my direction is relocating Mt. Everest. She’s going to miss me. She just doesn’t know it yet.

  “Thanks.” I reach over the counter for a pen and consider the blank Post-it in front of me. What if this is the last communication I have with Libby? What would I want it to say? Goodbye is tragic—I’ll miss you is a waste of words. There is nothing I can write on this two-inch yellow square that will properly sum up everything I feel. My world is ending and beginning all at the same time.

  I start to scrawl my address on the notepad, then think better of it and push the pad back toward the Fascist. “Never mind.”

  She gives me a suspicious eyebrow lift. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sure.” I turn toward the doors.

  “Eli!” I turn around at the sound of Libby’s voice. “Eli, wait!” She’s hurrying through the lobby, wearing pajama pants and slippers, and all I want to do is wrap her in my arms.

  “Looks like you’ll get your chance after all,” the Fascist says.

  “Eli.” Libby stops a few feet away from me.

  I take a step closer, close enough to touch her, though I don’t. Close enough to see the ripples of emotion in her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d get to say goodbye.”

  “I don’t do goodbyes, remember?” Libby pushes back the hair from her face with an arm free of bandages. In this light, I can barely make out the scars.

  “Right.”

  Libby smiles, though her eyes glisten. “Look, I just wanted to say . . . don’t come back, okay?”

  “I won’t,” I tell her, and then the truth: “I’ll try.”

  Libby swallows hard. Softly, she kisses her fingers, then presses them against my scar. I close my eyes, welcoming the pain. Because I’m alive. Because Libby is alive. Because feeling is the best and the worst all in one.

  “See you later?” she whispers.

  I nod, even though my eyes burn. “See you later.”

  With a final wave, I pass through the sliding glass doors and head toward Steven’s waiting car.

  Mom smiles through the passenger window, and I am flooded with memories of the day they dropped me off. Before I knew about my dad. Before I’d met Red, Will, or Libby. Before my life turned upside down. Less than a month ago, and everything’s completely different. I’m different. And though it feels like something’s ending, I know this is only the start.

  I open the back door and slide onto Steven’s cushy leather seat that still smells exactly like I remember. Benny’s booster seat is empty, but a crayon sticks out from underneath it. Blue, his favorite.

  I pull it out and put it in my pocket, so I can give it to him when I get back home.

  One foot in front of the other, I tell myself.

  This is where I begin.

  Author’s Note

  If you or someone you love struggles with addiction, you are not alone. Help is available, and recovery IS possible.

  For more information or to find a treatment center near you, visit the following online resources:

  National Institute on Drug Abuse for Teens

  www.teens.drugabuse.gov/have-a-drug-problem-need-help

  Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

  www.findtreatment.samhsa.gov

  The National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse

  www.centeronaddiction.org/addiction-treatment

  Narcotics Anonymous

  www.na.org

  Al-Anon and Nar-Anon family groups offer support to family members whose loved ones suffer from the disease of addiction. To find a support group near you, visit the following links:

  Al-Anon Family Groups

  www.al-anon.alateen.org

  Nar-Anon Family Groups

  www.nar-anon.org

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is truly a collaborative process. So many hands have touched this book and helped to shape its final form. For that, I am truly grateful. Thank you to Dr. Steven Jaffe from Emory University, who authored The Adolescent Substance Abuse Intervention Workbook, which inspired LakeShore’s recovery literature and helped to inform Eli’s counseling and group sessions. Thank you to Renee Mergen, RN, who helped me understand what happens during an overdose and how it is treated in the hospital. Thank you to the BACS eighth grade girls (2015-16) for their insight on Eli’s character arc. Without them, there would be no Steven or Benny. Thank you to the editorial team at Tiny Fox Press, for believing in Lifeline, and for helping to shape its final form.

  I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my own community of believing eyes; you have carried me through when I didn’t believe in myself. To Chrissa Pederson, my critique partner extraordinaire, for tirelessly reading (and re-reading) each draft of this novel, for pointing out my writing tics and forcing me to “kill my darlings,” for supporting my development as a writer, and for coaching me through each of the many meltdowns I had along the way. To my parents and my brother, who have lived this journey, and who have been tireless examples of courage, strength, and hope. And above all, to Scott and my girls: I am nothing without your faithfulness, love, cheerleading, patience, and constant support. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  About the Author

  Born to parents with a serious case of “wanderlust,” Abbey Lee Nash has lived in some pretty interesting places, including on a Christian farming commune in rural Georgia, above a third-world craft store in Kentucky, and on a Salvation Army retreat center in the Pennsylvania mountains. She currently lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband, two daughters, and one very rambunctious Australian Shepherd. She received her MA in English from Arcadia University in 2011 and currently works at Bryn Athyn College where she teaches writing and literature. She is also an active member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. LIFELINE is her first novel.

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  Tiny Fox Press LLC

  5020 Kingsley Road

  North Port, FL 34287

  www.tinyfoxpress.com