by J. L. Drake
I actually enjoyed working. The monotonous nature of checking food items across a scanner and bagging them up mindlessly held an appeal for me. Not thinking was exactly what I needed. Not thinking about Jeanna, Claire, the Raffertons, Mom, Dad, or Officer Milby…
For some reason, Miss Ally was significantly attached to me, and it became obvious that last year at Saint Mary’s. She paid extra attention to me, and I watched her watching over me with a worried expression when she didn’t think I was looking. On my last day there, she told me why. Her own daughter, Hannah, was my same age when she died of a drug overdose. In pictures Miss Ally showed me, she looked a lot like me.
“I went upstairs to her bedroom, to wake her up for school. She was always smacking at that alarm clock of hers, snoozing for an hour until I forced her to get up. But this day, it was just beeping away…and when I pulled the covers back, her lips were blue and her skin was hard. I’ll never forget the way her eyes looked. I held her stiff corpse in my arms until the ambulance came. But of course there was nothing left for them to do…” Miss Ally recalled, her voice far away and tinny.
I wrapped my arms around her, holding onto her a little longer than was appropriate. I thought about Claire’s dead eyes, and again, I almost considered telling my story. She was someone who could understand trauma and loss, and I wanted to share mine with her. But I didn’t. Losing a friend wasn’t the same as losing a child, and I couldn’t take the risk of telling.
“Thanks for never giving up on me,” I told her. It was my last day at Saint Mary’s. I was eighteen now. I pulled away from the home, watching Miss Ally’s figure get smaller and smaller in the distance. I was driving a beat up Corolla, but I loved it because it was mine. I babied it, washing its dented fenders and scrubbing its already stained floor boards.
My driver’s license was just one more thing on the ever-growing list of things that Miss Ally helped me attain. She helped me study for the driver’s exam and took me out to practice in the old Saint Mary’s van. “If you can parallel park this big old thing, you can parallel park anything on test day,” she’d told me. And she was right. I passed the test with flying colors.
She also helped me apply for a new social security card. I’d concocted this whole story about drug addicted parents, and my mother giving birth to me at home, and somehow they believed me. I was legitimately ‘Elsie McClain’ on paper. Technically, I never had to go back to being Wendi Wise. Perhaps it was for the best that I didn’t. I could simply pretend Wendi died that day in the house of horrors. The truth is that a part of her did; the part that believed in humanity, the part that was carefree and happy.
Miss Ally and I spent the last several months of my stay in foster care apartment shopping, and I’d put down a security deposit and paid first month’s rent on a six hundred square foot apartment that was attached to an old-fashioned barber shop below. It was only a half mile from the Costco, which was wonderful because if my car broke down, all I had to do was walk to work.
“You can make it here, Elsie,” Miss Ally had assured me when we’d stood inside it together, after putting down the deposit. She was proud of me, and for the first time in a long time, I’d felt a sense of pride in myself. I was going to have my first real place, a safe spot of my very own.
“You can even come visit me whenever you want, since I’m right around the corner,” Miss Ally added. I suspected that I would visit often, and I knew with full certainty that she would be checking up on me.
I parked the Corolla in front of the barber shop and climbed the shaky stairwell up to my apartment. Miss Ally and I had spent the past week moving my stuff from the children’s home over to the apartment, so it was already filled and homey. My stuff didn’t consist of much: a shabby love seat and arm chair we’d found at the Salvation Army, and a table and mattress I’d bought with my own money I’d earned from work.
Miss Ally had given me extra dishes and leftover cooking utensils from the foster home, and I’d bought plenty of food and toiletries to fill the refrigerator and cabinets. It was perfect: a brand new life for my brand new identity. I was Elsie McClain, the recovered addict who had her own apartment and worked a full-time job. For once, I felt like something other than a piece of shit drug addict.
Chapter 20
My apartment was great till nightfall came. It was the first time, ever, that I’d been alone in a house. Turning all of the lights on didn’t help much either. I had a TV equipped with rabbit ears, so I tuned in to a local news station and wrapped one of the tattered blankets that Miss Ally had given me from the foster home around my shoulders. I shivered in spite of its warmth.
I tried to concentrate on the news, but then I got antsy. I was pacing the floors when a loud banging sound on my door was nearly enough to send me into cardiac arrest. I clutched the blanket around my shoulders tightly, wondering if I should open it or just pretend that no one was home. With all of the lights shining brightly in my apartment, that seemed like a poor idea.
I got up and went to the door, peering through the peephole warily. I was hoping it was Miss Ally, stopping by to check on me. But it was a thin, dark-skinned man with a buzz cut and big yellow teeth. The chain was securely fastened to the door, so I opened it a crack and peered at him through it.
“Who are you?” I asked bluntly.
“Terrell, your neighbor. I live across the street in those apartments over there,” he said, pointing at a rundown, two-story complex behind him. “Just thought I’d say ‘hi’ and welcome you to the neighborhood,” he went on, scratching his head uncomfortably. When I didn’t respond, he said, “I saw you and that lady moving stuff over here last week. I thought you looked kind of cool…”
“Hi. I’m Elsie,” I replied awkwardly.
He looked me up and down through the crack, assessing me for something. “Do you get high?” he whispered through the door.
Chapter 21
My nights were plagued with nightmares, and the drugs Terrell gave me didn’t help. I dreamt of massive, crawling snakes that turned into the faces of men with long, slithering tongues. Sometimes I dreamt that I couldn’t move; I was stuck to the floor, but when I looked at my wrists and ankles, there were no shackles. Just me, holding myself prisoner.
Sometimes Terrell gave me what I wanted, which was opiates. But mostly he had his own drug of choice, methamphetamine. You could smoke it, snort it, shoot it…I did all three. I liked meth because it prevented me from sleeping and therefore, protected me from those hideous dreams. But the bad thing about meth is that after so many days of not sleeping, it’s like you’re awake, but dreaming. The snakes came while my eyes were open, which terrified me even more.
Miss Ally tried to visit me several times over the next couple months, but I was too afraid to open the door. I hid in my closet, taking long tokes of the dreadful drug, wishing she’d just go away and forget about me once and for all. Sometimes I think it was my goal to forget about me.
I lost my job at Costco. I didn’t get fired for not showing up; in fact, I lost my job because I did show up, only I was acting plumb crazy. I thought the customers were zombies, and I ran through the aisles knocking over cereal boxes, and then army crawled beneath the boxes and hid. My supervisor—who was also a zombie—pulled me out from the wreckage and called the police. It was Officer Milby who showed up. I simply couldn’t believe it.
He loaded me into the back of his patrol car, but instead of taking me to jail, he took me back to rehab. The worst part of that day wasn’t the zombies, losing my job, leaving my apartment, or going back to rehab—it was when I leaned in to kiss him, and he promptly pushed me away. I felt humiliated and totally rejected by him. By everyone in fact…
Chapter 22
It was not my first—or second—stint in rehab, but it was my first time in an adult institution and it was, by far, my longest stay. It was called Lady of Hope Pavilion, and it was full of addicts like me. This particular institution didn’t believe in treatments that involved sym
ptom-reducing drugs, like Suboxone or Methadone, so I rode out my withdrawals on a stiff, mesh cot, writhing in pain and discomfort.
It was hard to believe that a few months of daily use while living at the apartment could put me back in this state. Truthfully, the withdrawals weren’t as bad as the first—or even the second time—I’d gone to rehab. I withstood the pain like a champ, reminding myself every day that I deserved every bit of it. This is what you get for going back to the drugs, I reminded myself harshly. I felt tougher this time around. Maybe it was because this time, I’d known what I was getting myself into. I never wanted to be here again. I will never be here again, I told myself daily, riding out the worst of it.
When I arrived at LOHP, as they called it for short, my once curvy frame had been reduced to ninety-two pounds. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I stepped on the scale. At first, I was convinced it was some sort of trick scale, like one of those silly carnival attractions. Step right up and observe the amazing, shrinking drug addict! Eventually she will wither away into dust!
Let’s just say all those nights spent without food or sleep finally caught up with me. They’d definitely taken their toll on my body. My first week of painful withdrawal symptoms brought me down another ten pounds, but I slowly started to gain it back as I began to feel better. Food and sleep became welcome companions.
When Dr. Dirk, the resident psychiatrist, determined I was well enough to leave the critical unit—otherwise known as the “dry out” beds—he put me in a room with a roommate. Her name was Remy, and I truly adored her. Remy had pale blonde hair and amazing blue eyes, and she talked with a thick Southern accent. As it turns out, she was originally from a town called Jacksonville, which was less than a day’s drive from where I grew up in Flocksdale.
Remy was in LOHP because she liked benzodiazepines, particularly a drug called Xanax. According to her, her mother and father had forced her to go rehab.
“But you’re over eighteen,” I said, confused by her claims.
“Yeah, but they still support me financially. I’m going to college, you see. Training to be a nurse. They threatened to kick me out and stop paying for school if I didn’t go to treatment,” she admitted.
“Why did you do it? It sounds like things were going well for you at home. I wouldn’t think a girl like you would need drugs to cope,” I said, curiously.
She explained, “Well, I didn’t need the drugs at first. Actually, my life was pretty great for a while…but then, I was raped by a family friend in high school, and my head’s been messed up ever since. I felt like I needed the drugs to dull the pain.” I was surprised by the ease with which she confided in me, and I felt an instant connection to her because of her background.
Remy talked to me about her rape, describing it in detail, and even discussed it openly in group therapy with the rest of the patients at LOHP. Parts of me admired her—and parts of me hated her for her candidness. She was amazingly strong, and just being around her gave me my own type of strength. At the same time, she reminded me of my own weaknesses.
As it turned out, Remy was the closest thing I’d had to a friend since Claire died. We ate our meals together and stayed up late, whispering about the boys at the clinic we deemed as cute.
Three weeks later, I told Remy the truth about me and my own story. It flowed out easily, and it felt good to finally tell someone. It was after midnight on a Saturday when I told her. We’d been up late, painting each other’s toenails and filling out one of those childish Mad Lib games. She was blurting out one dirty adjective after another to fill in the story lines, and out of nowhere, I said, “What happened to you…it happened to me too.”
She urged me to tell her everything. I thought that if and when I ever told someone the truth that I’d water down the story and leave out the terrible parts, like what I saw happen to Claire. But I didn’t with Remy. I told her all of it, even the grisly, shocking details of Claire’s death. Some of the things I told her I’d barely remembered myself until I said them aloud. Remembering my time spent in that house was terrifying, but getting it out of my head and into the open felt like an enormous relief.
“Your name isn’t even Elsie?” she asked suspiciously when I was done. She lowered her voice to a whisper.
I shook my head. “It’s Wendi,” I admitted, smiling. It felt good to say my real name aloud. I’d gotten so used to being Elsie that I was starting to forget my own real identity.
“You have to go to the police. What about your parents? What about your friend who was murdered? What about her parents? What if there are other girls trapped there?” she asked, her eyes widening in fear. Her questions were giving me a headache. She asked a few more, but I wasn’t listening. In fact, I’d resorted to my old habit of covering my ears with my hands, blocking out real voices as well as imagined ones.
I’d never considered the possibility of other victims. Or maybe I had, but had just pushed the thought aside because I didn’t want to believe it. The way Remy was looking at me now, I could tell she thought I was a bad person for running away from the truth. Hell, maybe she was right. My list of redeemable qualities was getting shorter by the day. But I’d told her my story in confidence because I’d trusted her. In truth, I’d wanted her sympathy. Maybe I even wanted her pity. But I certainly didn’t want a guilt trip.
“Even if I went to the police, I have no accurate information to share with them, and I don’t have any physical evidence,” I whined. That last part was a lie. I still had the fingerprints I’d been saving for years now. “Plus, they threatened to kill me and my parents.”
“But that was almost seven years ago. You are almost twenty now, Wendi! It’s time to go forward. It’s time to call the police,” she urged softly, reaching out to take my hand. I yanked my hand back from her and stood up abruptly. “No!” I shouted loudly. “And you better not tell anyone! It’s not your story to tell!” I added, angrily.
I was so pissed off at Remy’s reaction that I vowed never to speak to her again. Who did she think she was, sitting on her high horse? Did she think her rape story was better than mine? That she was a better person because she turned in the family friend who molested her, and I did nothing about mine?
I thought about those questions for hours on end, sitting on my cot by myself, and later when I was standing in the shower. Somebody was always watching us, making sure we didn’t try to off ourselves. I’d gotten so used to it that it didn’t bother me anymore. The woman who was watching tonight was one of those young, churchy, stiff-backed types. I stuck my tongue out at her childishly. What did she expect me to do? Gag myself on a bar of soap?
Maybe Remy was better than me. Maybe she was even right. I don’t know why I was stupid enough to think she wouldn’t react the way she did. Her story ended differently than mine, and because of that, she didn’t understand where I was at or what I was going through. I considered forgiving her. I considered never forgiving myself. I should have told someone the truth, and that is the real, awful truth that I wasn’t ready to accept.
I was worried she might tell my story to someone else, one of the staff remembers at the clinic, or a worse possibility…she might call the police. I considered begging her not to tell, but my pride wouldn’t let me do it. I avoided her like the plague.
Two days later, my fears were realized. I was sitting on my bunk, staring out the window, trying to make out shapes in the clouds, when I saw a police cruiser pull into the lot. Officer Milby stepped out.
Chapter 23
Officer Milby was not alone. Miss Ally was with him, much to my dismay. I was too ashamed to see her. She’d helped me get my life together and believed in me wholeheartedly, and I’d blown it all within the first year. In fact, if I’m being honest here, I’d started blowing it the first day I moved to the apartment. I’d lost my job and my place. I’d even lost my furniture and most of my meager belongings she’d helped me collect. I was a loser and I couldn’t face her. Not to mention the fact that I knew Officer Mil
by was here to discuss the story I’d shared with Remy. I had to get out of here, and quickly.
Luckily, I still had the boombox and a backpack filled with personal items, particularly the bag with the fingerprints. I hated to leave the boombox behind, but as long as I had the prints, did it really matter? It’s not like I wanted to listen to The Doors anytime soon anyway. I also didn’t mind leaving behind that dreadful suitcase Jeanna had given me either. I slipped the pack on my back, preparing myself for what I had to do next.
I watched through the window as Miss Ally and Officer Milby approached the building. They were talking heatedly amongst themselves, wearing worried expressions. Within minutes, they would be in my room, asking questions about my supposed rape and witness to a murder.
I had no doubt Remy was responsible for this. She had violated my trust, just like everyone else. I know she thought she was doing the right thing by telling, but right now I could just kill her for it.
I stood up, tightening the straps of the backpack. I took off running down the hallway, keeping my eyes fixated on my feet. If I fell down now, I might not make it out in time.
I could run out the exit in the back. LOHP did not have a court order to keep me here, so they technically couldn’t force me to stay. But if a policeman wanted to question me about an old murder…well, that was a different thing entirely. I had to get the hell away from this place.
I slammed into the heavy metal exit door and took off running across the rain-soaked blacktop. My feet sounded good on the thick pavement.
I had no idea where I was going. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me, Wendi!” I heard a voice shout out from behind me. I didn’t have to look back to know it was Officer Milby. He was pretty far away, but not too far to catch me. He called me Wendi, I realized, panic rising up through my chest.