Harry Jones...according to Dateline, that’s slang for heroin.
My knees buckle beneath me and I brace myself with a tree limb to stay upright. It’s as though someone sucked all the air from my lungs and I’m gasping for breath through a cocktail straw. I feel like I’m looking at Liam through an entirely different pair of eyes. He’s become a photonegative where the dark spots are light and the light dark. This is him in front of me, yet entirely different, terribly skewed and disturbing.
Oh, how stupid am I?
How could I buy the lies he’s been selling me?
How did I not see this coming?
Was I blind by choice? By love? By my own innocence?
Ultimately, the reasons don’t matter. I’m a right fool because Liam is high. Liam’s not just high, but he’s chasing the goddamned dragon. Dateline’s Lester Holt was right—Liam’s moved on from opioids to opiates, exactly like the show predicted. Dateline even had a flowchart and he’s following it perfectly. Local rumor is the illegal stuff is even easier to score than its prescription cousin and Liam’s now living proof.
Goddamn it again.
I wrestle him off the ground and up the bluff. I seat him on a bench and he squirms around like a toddler who refuses to have his shoes tied. I practically pull teeth to get the barest idea of his afternoon. I glean he was in such a bad way from withdrawals that a quick trip to the rough areas north of town seemed a far better idea than white-knuckling his way through AP Government.
My parents were right.
My parents were right and I’m an idiot and Liam is in too deep. I thought that whatever it was with him and the pills, I could love him past it, but I was kidding myself. Liam’s self-destructing, regardless of who cares for him.
Liam is in danger.
“Let’s get you home, get you sorted,” I say, trying to drag him up by his sleeve.
He remains planted. “Nope. Home is no bueno.”
“Liam, please. You can’t stay here, you’re not safe. Come along, let’s go.”
He offers me what I assume he believes to be his sweet, slow smile, the one that makes me weak in the knees, but it comes across as rather menacing, particularly with how his tooth catches the split of his lip. I feel a small stab of fear, just a tiny prick, but enough to register.
“Negative.”
Warhol’s growing more and more tense right alongside me. The fur on the back of his neck rises and he flattens his ears. He lets out a low, guttural growl. “Warhol, behave.” I flick the braided leash to quiet him down. “Time to go home.”
“Time to stay here.”
How messed up is he right now? I can’t leave him; what if he takes more? Is he smoking it? Or snorting? I can’t imagine him using a needle, but then I never envisioned him doing anything even remotely related to this. We’re in uncharted territory. I’m desperately afraid for him.
I look around to see if there’s someone I can call for help, but the area’s deserted. I’m on my own. This is my problem and mine alone.
He slumps down on the bench and then suddenly he’s clawing his legs, as though they’re covered with biting insects. Who is he right now? I don’t know this man at all. He’s almost completely nonsensical and I’m terrified at what might happen next if he’s left alone.
I’m starting to fear for my own safety. Yet if I show agitation, I worry the situation will worsen.
Projecting fake serenity, I pretend to keep calm. To carry on. To channel Queen Elizabeth II when she woke up to find a psychiatric patient had broken into her chambers and was sitting on the edge of her bed. Did she scream or throw punches? No. She kept her head. She was the quintessential Brit, engaging the intruder in polite conversation about his family until a footman woke up and seized him.
As patiently as I’m able, I say, “Do you have anything left from what you bought? You need to give it to me.”
He swings his head side to side, as if it were a pendulum, and finally replies, “That does not sound like something I would like to do.”
I bend over and bring my face down close to his. My resolve seems icy, but my heart may well fly out of my chest. In my sweetest voice, I tell him, “Listen, Liam. I will fight for you. We didn’t come this far for me to not fight for you. I love you, okay? But you’ve a problem, that’s clear now. I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I was in denial. Thing is, I will stand beside you. I just need you to get up and give me the drugs.”
His eyes, which have always been so soulful and intense, turn cold and hard. He’s a stranger to me now, a zombie inhabiting what once was Liam’s shell. The outside hasn’t changed but the inside’s all different.
“Don’t think so.”
My anger supplants my fear. While I care desperately for Liam, I have no love for this alien in front of me. Fury infuses me with a burst of strength and my muscles feel taut, primed for action. I’ve always opted for flight, but today I choose fight.
“Damn it, Liam, let’s go!” I hook my hand in the space under his arm and pull him up. We’re both surprised when I succeed in lifting him off the bench. I pat at his jacket, searching for something, maybe a Ziploc bag or plastic bottle. I locate a small square of folded aluminum foil in his pocket and I take it from him.
I half-expect him to be grateful, to be reticent, to recognize that I love him enough to try to save him from himself.
“NOT YOURS.”
With that, he pitches forward, lunging for the packet. Warhol, my sweet little fatty, my loving boy, dives at Liam to protect me, but he’s stopped short by the leash. Once Liam reclaims his great prize, he sweeps me aside with his forearm and sends me toppling down onto the rocky path. I land hard, skinning my hands and knees as I stop myself from rolling right off the edge of the ravine. Sharp stones and twigs pierce my skin but the pain of my broken skin has nothing on my breaking heart.
Liam takes off down the path at a slow jog, which is likely faster than my most balls-out sprint, and disappears into the gathering darkness. I’m in such shock that I don’t try to follow him.
I don’t know what else to do, so I text Kent.
Now that my aggressor is gone, Warhol concentrates on administering first aid via kisses, licking away my tears almost as quickly as they fall.
Almost.
Minnie Cho
9:08 AM
Kent, are you free sometime soon?
I’d like to talk to you. Pls
call/email/text and let me know.
38
KENT
“This is some bullshit.”
The five of us from lunch head over to the Goodmans’ house. I’m so mad about the school board nonsense that I don’t even want to go exploring in the hopes of finding a stray pair of Mallory’s underwear.
(Clarification: I’m not saying I wouldn’t be interested to see a thong, I’m just saying that’s not my purpose.)