“Cheyenne.” Dr. McCartney had half a smile and half a frown when she came into the examination room. “You’re still having pain?”
Idiot that I am, I didn’t realize that I couldn’t get a prescription for pain meds until the end of time just because I wanted one. The pain from the miscarriage was gone. I wanted the meds for everything else. The Vicodin had become the one and only thing that was filling the hole in my life. I don’t think I’d really understood that until I was sitting back in the examination room.
I probably waited a whole five seconds before lying.
“Yeah, I am still having pain. Can you give me something?”
“We need to take a look and see what’s going on in there,” she said, very gently tapping her finger on my belly.
I was nervous. I wanted to run, but I went through with it.
The doctor didn’t say a word as she did the ultrasound and did the cervical exam. When she was done, she had me get dressed and meet her in her office. When I sat down she was writing on a pad, and for a second I was pretty psyched. I was going to get the pain meds after all. Only, when she handed me the paper, it wasn’t a prescription.
“This is the name of a psychiatrist friend of mine. He can help you with what you’re feeling and can help you stop wanting or needing to take the Vicodin.”
“I don’t need—”
She held up a hand for me to stop. “Cheyenne, I’ve seen a lot of girls come in here, and I understand what you’re going through. But there’s nothing physically wrong with you that would require Vicodin.”
I slunk out of there with my tail between my legs. I didn’t even look at the piece of paper she’d handed me until I was on the bus. I was too embarrassed. When I finally did look, I laughed out loud. It was the phone number for Dr. Kenneth Hirschorn, Harry’s shrink, Dr. Kenny. I crumpled it up and shoved it in my pocket. No way was Dr. Kenny the answer to my problems. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all Harry’s shrink. No, I would just have to find another way.
There was only one person in my life who knew enough creepy people to help me get meds without a prescription, and that was Theresa.
Theresa and I have one thing in common. We’re both fearless. I don’t mean that we’re not afraid of things. We are. It turns out I’m terrified of God and Theresa is scared of spiders. But we’re both willing to put ourselves out there, to take chances. Like when I tried out for the Scar Boys or went on the road with the band. Or like the people Theresa chooses to hang out with.
Her group of friends is pretty loose with drugs and sex and stuff; they’re not the kinds of kids you’d bring home to meet Mom and Dad. I think my sister hangs out with them to get attention because she has a self-image problem. She’s a really pretty girl, and she’s pretty smart; if she would just realize that, maybe she would pick better friends.
Anyway, I thought maybe she could help me get the pain meds. I was wrong. (I’m wrong a lot.)
“You want me to get you what?” It was later that same night, and we were alone in our room.
“Vicodin. I just need them for a little while, to feel better, that’s all.”
She snorted. “No, Cheyenne. I can’t help you get prescription meds. Why don’t you just drink, like a normal person?” she said, and she put her headphones back on.
And that’s just what I did.
PART FIVE,
EARLY DECEMBER 1986
We’re the Oakland A’s of rock and roll. On the field, we can’t be beat, but in the clubhouse, well, that’s another story.
—Glenn Frey
Of all the places you’ve played over the years, what’s your favorite venue?
HARBINGER JONES
Without a doubt, it’s CBGB’s.
RICHIE MCGILL
CB’s.
CHEYENNE BELLE
It’s not actually a nightclub or an arena. It’s the basement in Harry’s parents’ house. That’s where we jammed in the early days of the band. His mom would always have a snack and drinks for us, and we just had fun. It was all about the music and about friendship. It will never get any better than that.
HARBINGER JONES
My dad was home from Albany for all of December. The legislature wasn’t in session, and politics tended to quiet down at the holidays. Even though he and I had managed to make a kind of weird peace, the level of stress in my life always grew by leaps and bounds when my dad was in the house. I was about to change all of that.
“I think I want to apply to college.” My parents both looked up from their morning newspapers—my dad, the Times; my mom, the Herald Statesman—like someone’d sat down at the kitchen table and started speaking Chinese. “You know, for real, this time,” I added.
A smile stretched from one of my mom’s ears to the other, but my father looked suspicious. The whole pretending-to-apply-and-get-accepted-to-college was a dick move on my part, and I didn’t blame my dad for harboring some resentment.
“Why?” my father asked. He folded his hands on the table and tried to bore a hole through my face with his eyes.