The Seventh Wish (12 page)

Abby's not using heroin. She's probably having stomach troubles again, is all, and somebody made a mistake.

We learned about heroin in the D.A.R.E. Program, when Officer Randolph came to talk to all the fifth graders about drugs. We had to watch a movie, and in the heroin part, these raggedy, greasy-haired people were sitting around a smoky room, sticking needles in their arms.

Abby looks nothing like those people. She washes her hair every day and pulls it into a bouncy, curly ponytail.

Abby's an athlete. She takes care of herself. She's smart. She did Model UN and had the second-highest grades in her whole senior class in high school.

Abby doesn't even like to take Advil when she has a headache.

And she signed the car.

Every year when Officer Randolph comes to Thomas Elementary School, he brings the police department's D.A.R.E. car, and all the fifth graders get to sign it in permanent marker as a pledge not to do drugs. Abby signed that car. I saw her name on it when I signed six years later. Abby's name was in purple, her favorite color.

The health center people are wrong.

I go back downstairs and stand in the doorway to the living room. Mom and Dad are on the couch. Mom's elbows are on her knees, and her hands are over her face. Dad's arm is around her. He looks up.

“I heard what they told you,” I say. “But Abby would never use drugs.”

Mom sits up. Her eyes are puffy and red. She looks at me and takes a breath as if she's about to talk. Then she looks at Dad.

“It's hard for us to believe too,” he says.

I shake my head. “Why are they saying that? Just because she has stomach problems—”

“Charlie, listen.” Dad reaches out and takes my hand. “Abby's suitemates found her in her dorm room this afternoon. She was having trouble breathing, so they took her
to the university health center. Abby told the nurse she'd injected heroin. They say from the bruises on her arm, it's obviously not the first time.”

I feel like someone punched me in the stomach. I look at Dad. “She told me those bruises were from lifting weights.”

“You saw her arm?”

I nod. “At the hospital. When she was home before.” My eyes fill with tears. “She told me not to tell you.” Abby lied. She said she didn't want Dad on her case about lifting weights without a spotter when really, her secret was so much bigger and uglier.

And I kept it.

“I'm so sorry.” I barely get the words out before I'm crying so hard I can't catch my breath. Mom and Dad wrap me in a hug.

“It's okay,” Mom whispers. “We're going to get her help. She's going to be okay.”

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “Really?”

Dad nods. “She told the truth, Charlie. When her friends took her to the health center, the nurse asked if she had used any illegal drugs. Abby told the truth. That's a very good thing.”

“It means that she wants help,” Mom adds. Her voice is a little stronger now. She sounds a little more like her school-nurse-get-things-done self. “She gave the health
center staff permission to talk with us, and the nurse we spoke with was wonderful. She gave us the name of a treatment center in Vermont.”

“Are you going to send Abby there?” I can't imagine my sister locked up somewhere with those people from the video.

“She has to call and admit herself. Technically, Abby's an adult,” Mom says, even though I can tell she wants to swoop in and take over. “But the nurse says the center has beds available right now. If Abby calls in the morning, they should be able to admit her on Wednesday.” Mom looks at Dad. “We'll need to go with her to deal with insurance and sign papers.” She takes a deep breath and looks at her watch. “Do you want to get dinner ready while I call Dr. Porter? I want to see what he knows about this treatment center.”

Dad nods and turns to me. “Come set the table, okay?”

I lay out the plates and silverware while Dad heats up the chicken we were supposed to eat an hour ago. Mom comes back with her cell phone. “Dr. Porter says that treatment center is excellent, with a great program and a nice farm setting. He says Abby will do well there.” She says this as if we're sending Abby off to summer camp.

Dad nods. “That's good.”

Then we eat the quietest dinner in the world.

I finish and start to clear dishes, but Mom takes my
plate. “Try to get some sleep. It's late, and you have school tomorrow.”

I go to bed. I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see Abby in that room of people from the video. She looks scared and lost, like she can't understand how she ended up there.

Neither can I.

All through school on Tuesday, I can't stop thinking about Abby.

In science, Catherine asks me about science fair possibilities. I can't think about potato starch or moon phases, so I just nod. “Let's talk about it later.”

At lunch, Bobby O'Sullivan plops down next to me with a big box of chocolate he brought to share. “Hi, Charlie!” He gives me a huge smile and holds up his hand.

“Hey, Bobby.” I sigh and give him a limp high five. Bobby's been following me around so much that we sort of made a deal. He's allowed to sit with Dasha and me at lunch as long as he promises not to write me any more dragon notes.

Dasha leans around Bobby to ask what we have for social studies homework. I shrug because I don't remember and can't care about that today.

“What's wrong?” Dasha asks. “You act as if you didn't hear me.”

“Have some chocolate,” Bobby says, shoving the box in my direction. “Did you notice they're shaped like hearts?”

I push it away. “Sorry, Dasha.” I shake my head. “I'm just tired.” I don't tell her it's because I was awake all night, imagining my sister in a room full of scary-looking people and smoke and needles. I don't tell anybody. Because saying “my sister has a problem with heroin” is like saying she's a criminal. It makes me feel like a criminal too, even though I haven't done anything wrong.

I don't wait for Dasha after school. I go straight outside. Mom's there in the car. “How was your day?” she asks, like it's any other day. Like we're not waiting to find out if Abby can get into a treatment program for people who break all their elementary school promises and tell their sisters liar-stories about lifting weights to cover it up.

“Good,” I say. Because a stupid question deserves a stupid answer.

When we get home, Dad's listening to a message on his phone. “Dr. Porter wants us to call him back.”

“Let me get changed and we can conference call, okay?” Mom starts for the stairs, then says over her shoulder to me, “Get started on your homework.”

“I wanted to go out fishing with Mrs. McNeill and Drew while it's still light, okay?”

“Sure—be back before dark.”

I'm glad she's too busy to argue. All day, I've been craving the quiet of the ice, the bigness of the frozen lake.

And I keep thinking about the wish fish. I don't know what I'll do if I catch it today. If I've ever needed a wish, it's now. Even if it were the last wish in the whole lake, I'd use it to help Abby if I could. But it feels like this might be too serious for wishing. Like wishing wrong could be more dangerous than not wishing at all.

But either way, I want to fish. By the time I get dressed, Mrs. McNeill and Drew are out on the lake. I run-slide over the ice to meet them.

“Watch that spot by the dock!” Mrs. McNeill hollers. Her voice bounces off the concrete seawall by shore. I slosh past the dock and see what she means. It's been sunny today, and the ice is a little mushy here. But it's fine. Even with slush on top, the ice must still be more than a foot thick.

“You need to slow down, Charlie,” Mrs. McNeill says when I slide up to her and reach for a fishing pole. She catches my wrist and makes me stop to listen. “It's March first, and we're on the back end of this fishing season now. Every warm day means a little more melting. That happens faster near docks and streams.”

“Okay,” I say, and she lets my hand go. I don't see why she's worried; the ice is plenty thick.

I sit down on my bucket and drop my line in the water. The fishing's crummy. We get a few bites, but Drew's the only one who manages to bring in a fish. It's the tiniest perch ever. For a second, I think it might be the wish fish with the green eyes, but this fish is even smaller.

“Aw, man! Billy ain't even payin' a nickel for this thing.” He throws it back.

“
Isn't
,” Mrs. McNeill says. “He isn't paying a nickel.”

“Not now, he ain't. I threw it back.” Drew laughs and looks over at me. “You getting bites?”

“Not really.”

“Let's call it an afternoon,” Mrs. McNeill says, and we help her load up the gear. She swings wide around that slushy spot by the dock, and I follow to make her happy, even though it would have been fine to cut across.

When I get home, Dad's car is gone. Mom's in the kitchen making sandwiches. “Good news,” she says, spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread while I sit down at the table. “Abby's being admitted to Forest Hills tomorrow.”

“Forest Hills?” It must be the name of the treatment center, but it sounds more like a senior citizens' home in the woods than a building full of drug addicts. “Are you taking the day off to drive her there?”

“Dad and I both are,” she says, and something twists
in my gut. They have all kinds of time now that it's Abby who needs something. I know this has nothing to do with my feis—this is bad and serious and totally different—but I can't help feeling a twinge of jealousy. Everything feels so messed up.

“Well, that's nice,” I say. Denver pads across the floor and sniffs at Mom's sandwiches. She shoos him away, so he comes over to me for some love. Dogs are so much better than people sometimes.

“It's a pretty drive, and we'll only be there about half an hour to fill out paperwork and say good-bye,” Mom says. “Do you want to come with us?”

“Are you kidding? I don't want to see those people.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think. I was picturing the people from the video. But we're not talking about them. We're talking about Abby. “I mean . . . sorry. It's so weird.”

“It's okay,” Mom says, slicing a turkey sandwich in half. She blinks, and a tear falls onto the bread. “I understand. Believe me, I do.” She shakes her head. “I never thought I'd be in a place like this, but here we are.” She wipes her cheek with the palm of her hand and goes back to cutting sandwiches. She arranges them on a plate and sets it in the middle of the table.

Mom's so careful about everything, so careful about taking care of us. What's happening with Abby feels impossible.
You'd think the school nurse would be able to keep her own kid away from heroin.

Ever since Mom found out about Abby, she's been on her computer, looking up things about addiction and treatment and how to get your insurance to pay for it. Before school this morning, I saw her reading a website about why teenagers use drugs, as if she could figure out what she did wrong to make this happen. As if there would be a how-to solution like the directions for fending off a shark in Drew's survival guide.

But there's no answer for this one. Mom didn't do anything wrong.

It's not fair. Life has rules, and if you follow them, things are supposed to work out.

If you place in all your dances, you get to move up to the next level.

If you brush your teeth, you're not supposed to get cavities.

If you love your kids and take care of them and send them to a good college, they're not supposed to stick needles in their arms.

But I guess it doesn't work that way. None of this is working the way it should. Because Abby was stupid enough to try drugs.

“You know what?” I say. “I think I will go with you tomorrow.”

Mom nods and hands me a pile of napkins for the table. “I think that would be nice. She'll be in at least two weeks. Maybe more, if insurance covers it. You'll want to wish her well.”

“Sure.” There are some other things I want to say to my sister too.