Life of the Party (56 page)

“Just write
what you’re feeling.” He encouraged. “It doesn’t have to rhyme.
Just make it … flow.”

I took the
notebook from him, chewing on the end of the pen for a moment.

“Write what I’m
feeling?” I asked again.

“Yeah.” He
nodded.

Immediately, I
put the pen to the paper, scrawling out one single word.

Happy.

And I was.
Things had never been more perfect. Day after day of wondrous,
contented bliss passed us by. Everything I’d ever wanted. And with
every one, I loved Grey just that much more. He was my world, my
everything. I wished I had the capacity to write it all down, like
he did. I wished I could express my feelings for him properly. Just
the way his blue eyes lit up when I came home from work, or the way
his arm would find me sometime in the dark reaches of the night and
pull me close to him was enough to fill my heart with delight, to
make me sigh with such happiness that I never thought possible.

Poor Grey. He’d
have to be satisfied with me showing him.

The only real
interruption to our comfortable little pattern was the coming of
the holidays. I dreaded them, knowing I’d have to go and pretend
the whole big-happy-family scenario at my parents’ house. I hadn’t
spoken to any of them since my birthday. Not once. There’d been no
invitations to dinner, no phone calls to check in, no unexpected
visits. I wondered if they knew how much I’d stolen from them.
Maybe they were so disgusted that they didn’t want anything to do
with me now. I clung to the hope that somehow, someway I’d be able
to avoid them this Christmas.

Of course it
was only a fool’s hope. Eventually my phone rang—as I knew it
would—and my mother’s overly happy, chipper-to-compensate voice was
buzzing in my ear, eager to find out what my work schedule was like
and how long I’d be able to stay with them over the holidays. I
gave her Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, knowing that if I stayed
any longer Christmas would turn into a negative experience for all
of us. She was satisfied with my agenda—though Marcy and Greg were
going to be staying longer than I was, she’d take what she
could.

Grey actually
laughed at me as I was packing. I shot him a glare and stuffed a
sweater into my overnight bag.

“You could come
too, you know.” I threatened.

“I wouldn’t
dream of it. I don’t want to interrupt your happy family time.”

“Please?”

“Sorry sugar.”
He shook his head. “But the boys and I have plans.”

“You do? What
plans?” I frowned.

“
Die
Hard.
They always have a marathon on Christmas day.”

“Well, I
wouldn’t want to wreck that for you.” I scoffed. I really wasn’t
upset that he didn’t want to hang out with my family. I couldn’t
blame him, and in truth, it would bring down the awkwardness level
by far if he weren’t around. But I was going to miss Grey, and miss
him badly. I hadn’t spent one night away from him for months.

I frowned again
as he put my favourite pair of pyjamas in the bag for me. He smiled
at my glum expression.

“Hey, don’t be
like that. It’s only for two days. We’ve done weeks at a time
before, remember?”

“Yeah, and I
almost went crazy.”

He chuckled.
“Mackenzie, I’ll be right here, in town. I’m five minutes away. If
it gets too bad, you can escape them and come see me.”

“Yeah.” I
relented. It was nearly time for me to go. I zipped up the suitcase
and sat back on the bed, eager now, and excited, but for a
different reason than seeing my family. I pushed the sleeve of my
sweater up and glanced meaningfully at Grey. “Can we do some more
now? Before I go?” I’d been waiting for this for hours, ever since
we shot up the last time.

“Sure.” He
agreed, smirking casually. But I knew he was just as eager as I
was. And then, a sudden thought occurred to me.

“Oh shit, Grey.
What am I going to do tomorrow?”

“Open
presents?”

I giggled. “No,
I mean … for heroin. I’ll have to do some. It won’t be a very Merry
Christmas for anyone if I turn green and start convulsing on the
floor.”

I meant it as a
joke, but Grey frowned at my predicament. “Well … is there any way
you could leave? You could come here quick and I could … fix you
up.”

“But how would
I explain that?” I wondered. “Maybe I should just take some with
me. Then I can do it myself, I can just slip to the bathroom or
something.” I looked down at my forearm riddled with little red,
tiny dots. It couldn’t be that hard.

He raised an
eyebrow at me. “Will you be able to?”

“Maybe. I’ve
seen you do it like, a trillion times.”

“Yeah, but I’m
not deathly afraid of needles.” Grey frowned. “Here. Why don’t you
try doing this one, then? See how you do.”

“Okay.” I
picked up the supplies and began, taking a small chunk of the dark,
sticky, tar-like heroin and placing it on the spoon. I added a
splash of water and then heated it all with my lighter until the
mixture was a dull, oily brown. Taking a tiny piece of cotton, I
placed it in the spoon and then, grasping the needle shakily,
sucked it up into the syringe. This part I’d done a hundred times
before, but I still looked up at Grey for reassurance.

“How was that?”
I wondered. Grey nodded thoughtfully.

“You did good.
Take a bit less though, if it’s just you. Just to be careful.”

“Okay.” I
breathed nervously and made a fist with my left arm, holding the
needle in my right hand. I waited until a vein was apparent,
glowing bluely beneath the translucent veil of my skin. I took a
deep breath. I couldn’t believe what I was doing, that I could
actually be capable of sticking a needle into myself. But I had to.
Slowly, trying to keep my hand steady, I sunk the sharp steel
through my skin, hitting the vein with ease.

Carefully I
retracted the plunger, watching as my blood splurted up into the
syringe. Then, at Grey’s nod, I shot the drugs into my veins.

It felt good,
almost better than usual, because this time it came with an odd
sense of power. I was able to do it myself. I could get myself
high. I felt so independent, so … in control. I slumped over, a
heavy smile on my face, and looked up at Grey.

“How’d I do?” I
wondered breathily.

“You’re a
champion.” Grey chuckled. He took a tiny chunk of the heroin and
wrapped it up in a separate balloon for me, hiding everything else
I’d need in the bottom of my bag. “Be careful, Mackenzie, and don’t
let your parents catch you with this stuff.” He warned. “There’s
only one conclusion they’ll jump to, and it’ll be the right one
this time.”

“Okay.” I
nodded slowly. I watched, overcome by waves of bliss, as Grey got
out some supplies for himself. He was so quick, such a pro, it took
him seconds to inject rather than the minutes it took me. When he
was done he fell back heavily, putting his arm around my shoulders
and drawing me near to him.

“Merry
Christmas, Mackenzie.” He smiled drowsily, kissing my cheek.

“Merry
Christmas, Grey.”

Christmas. So.
This was it. I sat on the leather couch in my parents’ house,
wrapped in a cozy blanket and watching the scene play out before
me. I was happy. I had just shot up not ten minutes earlier, and I
was in my happy place. A smile lit my lips as I watched my father
pass out the presents in joviality. A fire crackled on the hearth.
My mom had out the camcorder and every few minutes she’d scan the
room, though nothing had a chance to change from last time. Marcy
and Greg were snuggled up on the other couch; Greg was actually
wearing a striped two-piece pyjama set with matching robe and
slippers. That guy was sixty if he was a day, and every time I
looked at him, I laughed.

But Christmas
did seem to hold some kind of special power, besides goodwill and
peace and all that. Maybe the magic was all in the drugs, maybe my
attitude had changed because I was too blissed out to resent
everyone like I normally did. But it was like I’d been totally
forgiven for the last six or seven months of what I knew had been
less than desirable behaviour. My mom, my dad, my sister, her
husband … no one seemed to harbour any ill will towards me, not
like the last time I’d seen them. When I’d finally made it in the
door last night, winded from the cold walk, my dad had actually
hugged me. Mom was beside herself with excitement. Marcy offered me
a drink, and Greg put his arm around me like it was a natural place
for it to be.

I couldn’t help
but be touched. My family was brutal, they drove me crazy in thirty
different ways, but it was hard to resent them when they were being
so … nice, so accepting of me. It was like they’d had a meeting and
unanimously voted to make me feel like I was loved, instead of the
usual constant judgement passing and dirty, intolerant looks. I was
surprised. Baffled even—and wary at first, just in case this was
some kind of trick. After awhile though, I settled in comfortably.
I couldn’t help myself. It felt good. For the first time in a long
time, it felt like I belonged again.

No one
mentioned Craig. No one mentioned the wedding. No one mentioned my
birthday dinner. Someone did mention Grey. It was my mother, her
face totally devoid of any agenda or intent, asking if Grey were
coming over for dinner. I was flabbergasted by the question.

“No … no, I
think he has plans.” I answered quickly, suspicious.

“Oh, well.
Maybe next time.” She had said. And it looked like she meant
it.

I couldn’t
believe it. It was like aliens had come and taken my old family
away, replacing them with identical twins—nice identical twins. As
the time passed—harmoniously, for once—I felt all the anger I had
towards them slowly fading away. Their treatment of Grey at the
wedding, how they’d tried to set me up with Craig … it was easy to
forgive them for all of it. Maybe it was the months spent apart
that had cooled my jets. Or maybe it was a sign; maybe I was
growing up or something. Maturing.

Or maybe it was
the drugs.

Either way, I
was still happy. Dad exclaimed over the putting machine I’d given
him—which had been Grey’s idea, he said every executive needed one.
Mom loved her pink Cashmere sweater, Marcy her silver earrings, and
Greg his pipe. I had to get him a pipe, come on, look at the guy.
But he liked it. Apparently, it reminded him of his grandfather. I
was glad now that I’d scraped up enough money to actually buy them
all presents, though at the time, I’d really wanted to save it for
dope instead.

Marcy gave me a
diary, it was beautiful—leather bound with brown and blue
embellishments. Greg gave me a chess set which I was actually
afraid of, it seemed way over my head. But he promised to teach me.
My present from mom and dad was small, it fit into a little tiny
box that they gave to me last, after all the other presents were
opened.

“What’s this?”
I wondered. My parents became noticeably more animated as I held
the box in my hands. “It’s not going to explode, is it?”

“No! Open it!”
Mom could barely contain herself.

I grinned and
unwrapped the gift as slowly as I could, just to make her go crazy,
until even I couldn’t handle the suspense anymore. I ripped the
paper away and tore the lid off the box. Inside sat a set of
keys.

“Is this ….” My
eyes were wide as I looked down at them. “Did you get me … a
car?”

“Yes!” Mom
clapped, jumping up and down. “It’s in the garage.”

“An actual
car?” I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned, shocked into a stupor.
I was terrible. I was a horrible, horrible child. I looked up at my
parents, into their happy, shining faces—and was overcome with
guilt. All consuming guilt.

“I don’t
deserve this.” I decided, tears welling up in my eyes.

Dad shook his
head. “Sure you do. Come on, don’t you want to see it?”

I nodded
briefly. I couldn’t believe what they had done for me, after
everything I’d done to them … so much they didn’t even know about.
I tried not to remember how much I had stolen from them; I tried to
push the guilt from my mind. I couldn’t tell them about it, not
now. It would only give them reason to hate me again. But I could
be good now, couldn’t I? I could try to be someone worthy … I could
try ….

“Thank you
daddy.” I whispered, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

“Thanks mom.” I
squeezed her into a hug. I think they were both surprised by my
affection, but I couldn’t blame them. They’d had months and months
of nothing from me. Marcy and Greg sat nearby on the couch, smiling
at the scene without a trace of jealousy or resentment on their
faces. I hugged them too—just because I could—and though it took
them by surprise as well, they seemed content—happy that I was
happy.

My car was a
thing of beauty. It wasn’t fancy or rare or expensive, which I
loved. It was an old Ford Thunderbird, light blue, made in the late
eighties. It made my entire day. The seats were cushy with soft
blue upholstery. It was necessarily an automatic and had a large,
roomy back seat with plenty of space in the trunk. I couldn’t stop
thanking my parents; I thanked them over and over again. They were
overcome with my happiness. I actually saw tears in my mother’s
eyes.

Dinner was a
festive affair. I had only one glass of wine, which was a big
restraint on my part. Even though my family wasn’t watching me like
a hawk—which again surprised me—I didn’t want to wreck the evening.
The whole day had been so lovely. We talked around the table, and
ate until we were stuffed—which didn’t take much for me—but then
we lingered around our dessert plates, chatting and drinking
coffee. Had I known such a relationship was possible with my
family, I would have come over a lot more often. It boggled my
mind; I kept trying to put my finger on what had changed, why we
were suddenly able to get along. But there was no real explanation
for it.