Five Boroughs 01 - Sutphin Boulevard (29 page)

Well, that was humiliating. And news to me.

My face burned. “That was—that was like four years ago.”

“I know,” Raymond said with a smirk. When I stared in horror, he laughed, clearly smug and proud of his ability to stun his asshole of a big brother into silence.

“Are you messing with me?”

“Nope. Neither of you remembered. I didn’t bring it up before because you nearly had a heart attack when I told you I’d already figured out you’re gay.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

I wanted to believe he was just having fun at my expense, but now many things about that trip made sense. Even years later, I remembered waking up wrapped around Nunzio with my clothes askew, and Raymond making weird, joking comments for weeks after.

“You’re such a dick.”

“It runs in the family.”

“Facts.”

Raymond smiled, but it faded quickly. “I’m gonna go give them your insurance card. I didn’t bring it last night, and next thing you know they’ll be claiming you owe them thousands of dollars for shoving a tube up your nose.”

“You don’t have to do that, Ray. Seriously, you’ve done enough for me.”

“Nah, I’ll do it. You just wait here, okay?”

I wondered if he planned to stall in order to ensure that I was trapped in the hospital long enough to not duck out on the social worker. A tingle of resentment wanted to work its way up my spine at the notion, but this time it lacked conviction.

“What a fucking mess.”

It seemed impossible that Raymond was sitting here giving me life tips, but I had never imagined a situation that would lead to me winding up in the hospital twice in less than a month because of drinking.

Would my insurance reject the claim just on the basis of me costing them money by bringing problems on myself? I imagined some clerk behind a desk, frowning at the hospital bills and sending me an automated letter about rehab.

Any social worker would take one look at my file and recommend I join a program, probably at some government-sponsored shithole with a bunch of heroin addicts and crackheads. I didn’t think my situation was comparable to theirs, but then again, they were mandated to an inpatient program because they’d pawned some stolen jewelry; I was the one who had nearly killed myself.

I groaned softly.

Even with Raymond trying his best to put me back together, the part of me that craved Nunzio felt very lonely. And there was something about being sick and alone that was more dangerous than a game of Russian roulette. Every ache and pain, every whisper of fatigue, and every hopeless thought was magnified to an immeasurable scale.

There was no question that, even as shameful as my situation was, I needed him here with me so badly that my insides felt hollow. And the ache in my chest was anything but platonic.

I cast a longing look at the hospital phone, wanting to call him just so I could hear his voice. It would be easy to dial his number—the only number I had memorized—but I knew I shouldn’t. I’d repeatedly pulled him in and shoved him away since the summer, and it wasn’t fair to keep doing this to him. He couldn’t be the crutch I held on to only when I felt unsteady.

The weight of a hundred dismissive comments and oblivious actions settled on my heart until it grew so heavy I thought it might rip out of my chest.

Why did I keep pushing everything that was happening between us—that had been happening for months—aside? What was the point of packing away reality when I could think back to the last time we’d been together—his body crushing mine to the bed, our fingers twined together while we stayed locked in a languid kiss—and see so clearly that there was more between us than being best friends who had good sex? Yet… I’d given him the impression that there
wasn’t
more between us or that if he thought there was, it was all in his head.

I dialed his number before I could change my mind, my pulse jumping with each ring. By the fifth time, I knew he wouldn’t be picking up, but I was still unprepared when the recording started.

Hey, this is Nunzio. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

I’d heard the message hundreds of times over the years, but the sound of his voice cracked a wall inside me. My eyes burned, and I convulsively swallowed as the piercing beep filled my ear.

“Hey,” I croaked out. I cleared my throat. “I uh… I’m not really sure when this all got so fucked-up. When I got so fucked-up. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m just—”

Low voices drifted into my room from the hallway.

“I’m so sorry, Nunzio. For being so caught up in my own head that I… really fucked things up with you. Got us to this point. I never meant to hurt you—to hurt us. To drive you away and say things that… that we both know had zero fucking basis in reality. God, I was lying to myself and lying to you, and now I’m terrified that I’ve lost you. I was just so scared of wrecking our friendship that I acted like an idiot and now—”

I heard Raymond talking from the other side of the door. My fingers tightened around the phone’s receiver.

“Please just wait for me,” I said, speaking lower. “Just give me time. Let me fix things. Fix myself. Please. You mean everything to me.”

I hung up and thudded my head back onto the bed. I wondered where he was and why he hadn’t answered. If he would even check his voice mail. Whether it was too late. At this point, I wouldn’t blame him for saying
fuck it
and walking away.

Stupid. I was so stupid and careless.

I’d been careless with my father, with Nunzio and Raymond, and with myself just so I could wallow in the self-pity that had only led to me repeating the same missteps again and again. And even knowing that, I still just wanted to lose myself until I didn’t have to think about my failings anymore. But that was starting to not seem like an option.

Rehab.

Therapy.

Talking about my feelings with strangers when normally I didn’t like talking to people at all. Could I do it? Dumb question. I knew I could do it. And even if I didn’t want to do it, I could fake it.

A little voice whispered that maybe I’d see a psychiatrist inside, and maybe that psychiatrist could give me a script for some Xanax or Klonopin. Maybe he or she would see that I was clearly drug seeking, but would also identify that I was decaying from self-contempt that flayed my insides every time I thought about the last few months.

And then I could stop dropping six bucks a bar when I copped Xanax on the street.

The irony of going to rehab for easier access to benzos was not lost on me. I was utterly pathetic.

With resistance becoming less substantive, I lay in bed and waited.

T
HE
SOCIAL
worker arranged for a thirty-day program at a clinic that was connected through OASAS. She’d made the arrangements with the diligence of someone who handled this type of thing every day, and she had called me a cab to the facility in Queens Village less than forty-eight hours after entering my hospital room.

The place was a dump. When the social worker had described the privacy and in-depth treatment I’d receive at the center, she’d failed to mention it was located on the same property as an abandoned mental hospital. But then again, New York State sponsored it, so I’d been naive to expect anything more glamorous. This wasn’t rehab for celebrities and Upper East Side geriatrics.

Slinging my backpack over one shoulder, I nodded at the cab driver. He didn’t seem particularly interested in whatever plight had landed me here, and it was anticlimactic when he sped off and left me standing on the curb.

Raymond had heeded the social worker’s advice and stayed behind. No one was there to see me off. No hugs and teary good-byes, and no fist bumps of pride because I was doing the right thing. This was not panning out like a scene from the movies. Apparently, in the real world, no one threw you a party when you finally decided to get your shit together and be a grown-up.

I approached the long brick building, looking for signs of life. I could hear the distant sound of a television and laughter. At least someone was having a good time even if the place looked like an old folks’ home from the ’70s.

Weeds shot out through cracked concrete and bits of broken glass crunched under my boots when I ascended the steps. All of a sudden I could think of twenty-five things I should have done before making this commitment, and told myself to come back later. I could walk home from here. It would take me two hours, but it would be two hours of freedom.

Tempting. So very tempting. But I’d sworn to myself, to Raymond, and to Nunzio, that I would try. There was no going back.

The intake process took longer than I’d imagined, yet not long enough. They combed through my bag, gave me a piss test, and had me fill out a couple of surveys and questionnaires before assigning me a tentative program schedule and a roommate all before the sun went down.

The staff was nice enough, and the inside of the facility was cleaner and more modern than I’d expected, but I still felt like I’d been dropped off on another planet where everyone spoke a language I just happened to understand. Without my phone, the ability to leave when I wanted—unless I decided to check myself out—and the knowledge that visitors were only allowed once a month, I had been cut off from the outside world in a handful of hours.

Reality, and the sense of being trapped, set in. I stared at the daily schedule, but it only made the creeping dread inch along faster until I was cringing and crinkling the paper in my hand—breakfast, individual counseling, group counseling, lunch, another group session, and an appointment with a psychiatrist later on. What did these people think was wrong with me that I needed this much therapy? Did they actually believe I’d intended to off myself? Was this the standard procedure for every drunk and junkie who walked through the door?

A sharp knock on the door broke the silence, and I jumped. One of the counselors I’d met at intake, an older light-skinned Puerto Rican guy named Jones, stood at the door next to a wiry white kid with spiky black hair. He couldn’t be any older than twenty or twenty-one.

“How’re you finding everything?” Jones asked.

“Well enough.”

“How’s the schedule looking?”

“Fine.”

The kid nailed Jones with a nasty stare. “This is who you thought would be a good match for me?”

“Yeah, he is.” Jones nodded, light eyes fixed on me. “Michael is a teacher. He’ll have thicker skin than the others.”

I raised my brows at the authority in his voice, but he only smiled in response.

“Yeaaaah. No.” The kid crossed his arms over his chest.

“What are you talking about?” I asked tiredly. “Thicker skin for what?”

“Michael, this is Drew. He’s going to be your roommate for a while.”

Jones looked down at Drew. He was lolling his head against the doorjamb but took the cue and released a long-suffering sigh.

“Sometimes I don’t… mesh with the other inmates.”

“Inmates? Come on, Drew.”

Drew sighed again and crossed the room to flop onto the bed next to mine. “Patients… fuckups… crackheads. Take your pick.”

Great. My roommate was a royal pain in the ass. Just what I needed.

I resumed my stare out the window. “I’m sure we will be fine.”

“You will be.” Jones rapped his knuckles on the side of the door again. “I’ll see you both tomorrow in group.”

When he was gone, Drew rolled over on his bed with a squeak of springs. I sensed him scrutinizing me and returned the stare.

“I got used to having the room to myself.”

I resisted the urge to scoff. “Sorry, I guess.”

“No problem,” he said, oblivious to the sarcasm in my voice. “I’m sure it’s not like you’re dying to be here or something.” He surveyed my meager belongings. “You didn’t bring much.”

“I pack light.”

“You in for a fourteen-day run or something?”

“Thirty.”

“Not a big talker, huh?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Me neither.”

It didn’t seem that way, but commenting on the obvious would have just extended the conversation. I concentrated on my beautiful view of the abandoned hospital looming in the distance. It was the type of place Nunzio would have pushed me to explore when we were kids.

“So what are you in for?”

This time I sighed. “Similar to you, I’m sure.”

“Doubt it.”

The kid sounded so smug that I spared him another glance. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, swinging his leg, and flashing his shiny white teeth and his dimples at me. He reminded me of Mac.

“Well,” he drawled. “Just so you know, I’m so desperate for a smoke that I’d give my ass away for free.”

Christ Almighty.

“Just so
you
know,” I said, “if you’re selling your ass for cigarettes, it’s not for free.”

“Touché.”

I thudded my head against the wall. This couldn’t be my life.

Week One

“H
OW
ARE
you feeling?”

“I’m okay.”

The lie was so automatic there was no conceivable way of stopping it. “I’m fine” and “I’m okay” had become my standard reply to any question.

I cradled the phone between my chin and shoulder to turn sideways on the couch. I was alone in the office, but it still wasn’t very private. Windows extended along one wall, and a smaller office was attached via a short corridor. I heard faint voices in that direction.

I’d sneaked in to make the call without half a dozen people listening. They did it with exactly zero attempts at discretion. Maybe they were monitoring calls to ensure patients weren’t arranging for kilos of coke to be smuggled in.

All I wanted to do was talk to my boss without an audience.

“Listen, Ms. Price, I’m sorry about the way things have been.” I picked at a loose thread in the slumping tweed couch. “I know you had reservations about me when the year first started, and I validated every one of them.”

“My reservations had nothing to do with the situation you’re in now.” There was a pause, and I heard someone talking to Price in the background. “I know you’re worried about your job, but this conversation doesn’t have to revolve around you apologizing to me.”