But the nurse lunged, pushing my shoulder back down to the mattress. “Don’t do that. You have stitches.”
Boy did I ever. Pain bloomed in my side, and I blinked back tears. “Please take it out,” I begged. “Please.” And even if she did, I knew exactly what would happen anyway. Whether I got rid of the drug in my arm now or tomorrow or whenever, I was going to have withdrawal symptoms. First I would get the shakes and feel panicky. The panic was almost the worst part. Then the nausea would come. My stomach would rebel, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep. And even if I withstood the hours of shaking and puking, I’d be left with cravings far worse than anything I’d felt in months.
Again. I’d done this to myself by taking drugs in the first place. I’d taught my body to want it. And for the rest of my life, I was shackled to this problem.
“Uh,” Teen Doctor said, his hand behind his neck. “You need something to control the pain.”
“I can have ibuprofen,” I said, trying to stay calm. But I wasn’t calm. I was doomed.
“Let me look into it,” Teen Doctor said, scribbling something on my chart. Translation: I don’t have a clue what to do for you. “I’m going to evaluate our options.”
“Good,” I said. “Take this shit out of my arm while you evaluate.”
Nobody moved.
That’s when I figured out how to solve the problem myself. Raising the IV hand to my mouth, I secured the little tube in my teeth and—
“Hey!” the nurse said, grabbing my hand. “I’ll take it out.”
And, God bless her, she did, while my twelve-year-old doctor slipped out of the room.
The nurse put a Band-Aid over the IV wound and then gave me an appraising look. “How is your pain for now? Is it manageable?”
“Yeah.” The pain was the least of my problems.
“I’m going to bring you a drink of water.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Who can we call for you?” she asked. “You were brought in alone.”
“How did I get here?” I asked suddenly.
“Ambulance. I believe they said your father called 9-1-1.”
“Did he, now.” Impressive.
“Should we call him?” the nurse asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “He doesn’t really drive because he’s drunk all the time.”
She frowned. “Who then?”
“Nobody.”
“A friend?” she pressed. “Unless there are complications from your surgery, you’ll be out of here in a couple of days. Your arm is broken and you’re recovering from major surgery. You’ll need somewhere to go.”
I closed my eyes and fought off a shudder. “And I’ll be detoxing. Don’t forget that.”
She squeezed my good hand. “There’s got to be someone.”
Sure, lady. Because addicts have so many friends. I couldn’t even ask Sophie, who would probably want to help me. But she couldn’t. And there was nobody whose job it was to look after assholes like me…
My eyes snapped open. Actually, there was someone who did that job on purpose. “Father Peters,” I said. “At the Catholic church.”
“Okay, honey. You mean St. Augustine?”
No, that didn’t sound right. “The church in Colebury.” Fuck, I didn’t even know where I was. The hospital outside of Montpelier, probably.
“All right,” she said soothingly. “First water, then I’ll call Father Peters.”
She walked away, and I closed my eyes again. When would I stop being surprised at the shit that happened to me? In the back of my loopy, angry brain, I knew that the IV and the broken arm weren’t even the worst of my problems. The assholes who’d beat me up were still out there, still looking for their missing stash. And I would probably get a visit from a police officer, too.
Fuck my life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jude
Cravings Meter: Just Kill Me Already
It took Sophie a day to find me.
Too bad it didn’t take her longer. By the time I heard her gasp at the doorway of my hospital room, I was sweating and shaking and cursing God for my existence. Against Teen Doctor’s advice, I’d refused to continue with the IV painkillers. My big plan was to detox before they kicked me out of the hospital. I knew it was going to be bad, and I had this perverse idea that the people who did this to me should see that.
Also, there were nurses here ready to bring me ice chips and to tell me to stop shouting “FUCK” at the top of my lungs. More than once already they’d threatened to sedate me against my wishes. They said that if my withdrawal symptoms didn’t fade soon, it would fuck up my healing and put a strain on my heart.
But Father Peters had turned up to calmly demand that Teen Doctor listen to me. “He says he doesn’t need the narcotics. Why don’t you give him more over-the-counter painkillers?”
“We’ll let you try it your way,” the doctor said. “But if your vital signs don’t improve soon, we’ll have to use something stronger.”