It was hard not to compare my shitty solutions with all the ways he’d managed to cope. Treatment meetings had taught me that addiction was a disease, one that I had and Zachariah didn’t. According to them, I wasn’t supposed to compare myself to Zachariah, because he didn’t walk around all day with a body that craved smack.
It sounded nice on paper. The problem was that I remembered the exact moment my friends offered me a line of painkillers to snort. I’d said yes instead of no, even though I’d known it was a dumbass thing to do. The rest is (ugly) history.
My name is Jude Nickel, and I am an addict. Also, I’m a big fucking idiot.
*
After dinner I helped clear the table. And while May did the dishes, I dried.
“What’s it like being back at home?” May asked me, handing over a dripping-wet mixing bowl.
“It’s… awful,” I answered.
May laughed. “That is uncharacteristically candid of you.”
“Isn’t it?” We worked in silence for a couple of minutes. “The problem is that it’s hard to behave differently in the same old environment. Every time I step inside my old room, I feel like the junkie I used to be. Like the air in there is fucking toxic.”
She gave me a quick glance that was brimming with empathy. “Isn’t there somewhere else you can be?”
“I do the math, like, hourly. But I can’t get a decent job until I’ve been clean and out of prison for a while. And without a real job, I can’t move away. Besides, even if I had some kind of roommate situation for cheap, there’s no telling what the roommates might be into.”
And who wants a felon for a roommate, anyway? Shit.
She shook her head. “Look, if you ever just need to get away for a night, the bunkhouse is always there. Zach is the only one sleeping out there right now.”
I seriously did not want to have to take her up on that offer. But, hell. It was better than relapsing. “I appreciate it,” I said.
“Anytime, honey,” she said. “Now let’s have dessert.”
Chapter Five
Jude
Cravings Level: 4
I felt saner after my evening with the Shipleys. When I drove home to Colebury afterward, I was full of food and not so itchy. And, as I said my goodnights, the family made it clear that I was expected for dinner again next week.
This made a huge difference to my outlook on life. If I didn’t show up next week, they would wonder why. And if I relapsed, I wouldn’t be able face them.
Somehow, their expectations were just enough to get me through the weekend, which I spent changing out snow tires.
My father’s appearances in the garage could be measured in minutes these days. Apparently, my reappearance had made a good excuse for him to go on a bender. I saw him carry a case of malt liquor into the house on Saturday night while I worked late in the garage, my fingers freezing numb. I worked with the garage door open so that passers by would see activity inside.
At least I had my anger to keep me warm.
Sunday’s last customer paid by cash, which meant that when his car pulled away, leaving me tired and completely alone in the darkened garage, I had two twenties in my hand.
My first thought was: I wonder how much smack I can get for this?
Thank you, rewired neurons. For how long would my opiate-addled brain reach for that idea first? One year? Two? Ten?
I shoved the money into the pocket of my coat and went right to the grocery store, where I put $38.29 worth of food into my cart. It was loser food, of course, because my cooking resources were limited to things I could nuke in the crappy little microwave I’d bought at Goodwill on Friday afternoon.
I chose a frozen meal to have as my dinner. I only bought one, though, because I didn’t have a freezer. So the rest of the stuff in my cart was mostly canned soups and stews. For a treat, I bought a package of cookies and a carton of milk, which I could keep cool by putting it outside my door on the staircase up to my room.
While I paid for this feast, the checkout girl kept sneaking looks at me from underneath her too-long bangs. Either she was someone who’d known me in high school, and was therefore sneaking looks at the druggie felon who’d killed his girlfriend’s brother, or else she was admiring my tats.
It could really go either way.
On my way out of KwikShop, I saw a guy standing under the awning, hoodie up over his head, hands in his pocket. “You need anything, I got it,” he mumbled as I passed by.
My gait quickened as I headed for my beater of a car. Great. As if I needed to know one more place in the world where drugs could be found.
I dropped my grocery bags on the passenger seat and went home to my quiet little cave of a room.
At rehab, they say, “Be kind to yourself.” I was trying to do just that. In less than a half hour, I’d be eating a (microwaved) meal. I had enough food, and some cookies. And I wasn’t in prison or coming down off a high.
Progress, I chanted in my head.
Progress.
*