Toxic (Better Than You) (22 page)

             
It’s been a while since I’ve driven it; Jenson demands to drive me anywhere I need to go, so the engine  turns over once, twice, three times and then finally chugs to life. The gas light blinks on and I groan. Buying gas means spending money and that’s something I’ve got none of. Hopefully it’s got a couple miles left. I back out of the driveway and head west towards Mom’s house. As I drive, the streets get dirtier, the people trashier, the artwork more frequent. There’s people sleeping in little alcoves all along the street. Children run around barefoot and covered in dirt. The street that leads to my house is congested, men standing in huddles around clunky supped up cars. They turn as I pass, their conversations stalling and their interest piquing. I don’t know any of them, but I know not to trust them.

             
Mom’s house looks empty. The grass is dead, dried and brown and breaking before it ever has the chance to grow. The walls are covered in a layer of what looks like rust but is probably mold. There used to be shutter on the windows, but they’re piled on the floor underneath them and covered in a thick layer of dirt. Everything is dirty and rotting, worse than it ever was before. I jump out of the car and run towards the door, dodging a whole in the front step on the way. My hand is on the doorknob, already turning it, before the gravity of what I am about to do
really
hits me. Nothing good ever happens in this house. No good memories have ever come from Mom. But I feel obligated to check on her. She’s my only Mom, after all. And after what I’ve done to Dave…

             
I push the door open and the stench of rot hits me in the face like a slap. It sends me reeling back a step, almost off the edge of the stoop. The urge to vomit is so strong I can taste it. Lifting my shirt to cover my nose, I step back inside the house, afraid of the disaster I’m positive exists. There aren’t any dishes in the sink, which isn’t a surprise because we never had dishes. The counters aren’t clean, but they’re empty. Nothing in sight yet that should smell so incredibly terrible. I scan the living room quickly before walking down the hall. Stop to kick open my door but that room, too, is empty of everything besides a thick layer of grime. A few feet later I come to Mom’s door and I pause. It’s closed. I’ve never been one to be cautious of germs, but I’m afraid to grab the doorknob with a bare hand, so I wrap my shirt around it before pushing it open. It doesn’t budge at first, almost like it’s suction closed. It finally gives with a push from my shoulder and I stumble in. The shirt falls from my nose and I gag from the smell, so much stronger in here than anywhere else.

             
I get a bad feeling. Even before I look to the bed and see Mom, I know something is very, very, wrong. But when I see her lying there, I’m sure that nothing will ever be okay.

             
My feet start moving toward her, instinctively, involuntarily. She’s lying on her side, curled in a ball much the same way I curl into a ball when I try to disappear. Her hair is thin, plastered to her face and covering most of it. All that’s sticking out is her sharp chin. I move my eyes down the rest of her, taking in her skin, how much darker it looks, the strange patterns running along her bare arms and legs. I don’t dare reach out to touch her. Just as I’ve finished taking her in, my eyes catch movement by her mouth and my heart leaps. It looks like she’s exhaled a breath, stirring the hair in front of it.
Is she alive?

             
“Mom?” I caress the hair away from her face, holding my breath to keep from purging the contents of my empty stomach. And then I scream. I scream so hard it hurts my ears, stings my throat. I fall backwards, onto my butt, watching as the fat maggot falls out of Mom’s mouth and onto the stain covered pillow underneath her head. There’s more in there, writhing around like it’s their home. Now I purge the contents of my empty stomach, over and over again, even though nothing comes out. Tears sting my eyes. I’m crying, crying so hard I can barely breathe. Mom’s gone. She’s gone. She’s dead. Just like Dave.

             
But I realize that I’m not crying for
her
. I’m crying because she died alone, in this shithole house, with no one to notice she’s gone and no one to care enough to find her. What were her last thoughts as she drifted away? Was it painful? Did she call out for me? Did she think that I betrayed her, forgot about her? But she was never there for me. She pushed me away. How could she have expected me to be there for her?

             
And then I’m crying for the mother that I never had. The one who would hold me close when the nightmares woke me up at night, the one who would make me sandwiches cut into cute little shapes and take me shopping for prom. Be there to tell me about boys and sex and to stay away from them for as long as possible. The shoulder to cry on when one of them broke my heart. The first one to call when one of them proposed. The fights about wedding dresses and color schemes, cake tastings and baby names. All of it gone when really it never was. It hurts my heart, keeps me curled over on the disgusting floor next to my rotting mother.

             
I cry so hard and long that eventually my throat is raw. My eyes refuse to spare one more ounce of liquid. My arms shake as I push myself off of the ground and walk over to my purse. Dig around for my phone. Dial 911.

             
“911, what’s your emergency?”

             
“Mom’s gone. She’s gone. There’s maggots…”

             
The phone falls to the floor and so do I. The operator is still speaking, her tinny voice reaching through the familiar numbness that’s spreading throughout my body. Maybe it makes me weak, but I give into it, let it pull me under and surround me in a black cloud. I let it make everything disappear, make it all okay, because I can’t take this. I can’t handle being all alone. It was supposed to be me and Mom against the world, and if she’s gone and the world is resting on my shoulders, I know I’ll collapse. I know it will kill me.

~~

              A bright light wakes me. A pinch reassures me that I’m still alive.

“Logan? You with us?” The voice is detached, clinical. I know immediately that the paramedics have made it. Instead of answering, I keep my eyes closed, my breathing as steady as possible. The tangy taste of vomit still sits in my mouth. I have the insane desire to swallow but I don’t want to give away that I’m awake.

“Her pulse is through the roof. What is she on?”

“Let’s bring her in, get her checked out.”

“Start a drip, nothing else until we know what’s in her system.”

“I’ll ride with her.”

I know that voice.

“Sorry, Officer. Not unless you’re immediate family. You’re welcome to follow behind.”

Before I can start to remember who the voice belongs to, I’m no longer pretending to be unconscious. I fall into another black cloud and float away.

November 4, 2009

             
Bright lights. White walls. Tubes and machines and whirring noises and strange smells and scratchy sheets and I have
got
to get this tube out of my nose-

             
“Woah, Lo. Stop pulling at it like that. The nurse is on her way.” A hand on my shoulder, a hand pulling at my arms. Who’s hand is that? Why is it so warm? Why is it so comforting? I don’t wanna know. I just want this tube
out of me now.

             
“Hold on, dear, it’s much easier if you let me do it.” Now the hand that reaches out is smaller, more feminine, wrinkled, cold. “Be still, dear. It doesn’t do to fuss like that,” she says, all mother hen sounding.

             
I still and the tube slides out. It feels like that one time Melissa and I played with our spaghetti and we slurped it through our nose and tried to get it to come back out of our mouths. It didn’t work and Melissa’s mom sent us to her room without dinner. We were three bites in. It had been my only meal that day.

             
“There you go. Do you need to pee? Are you hungry?” the nurse asks me, my hand in hers.

             
I clear my throat. “Just a little thirsty.”

             
She pats my hand. “Of course you are, dear. Just wait one moment and I’ll grab an assortment of juices sure to suit your needs.”

             
Scrubs swishing, she walks out of the door. When someone clears their throat from the other side of the room, I jump, because I honestly didn’t know anyone was still with me. It’s the last person in the world I expect to see.

             
“Lo,” he whispers, taking a step closer. He’s in uniform, hat hanging between his hands. His long hair is gone, now cut close to his scalp and darker than I remember. But his eyes, those eyes are the same. Piercing, probing, wondering.

             
“What are you doing here, Nathan?”

             
“I was on duty when your call came in. I just wanted to make sure you were okay…” he trails off, looking down to the floor.

             
“I’m fine.” But I’m not. I just want out of here so I can go back to Jenson, to his
something
.

             
“Where are you staying these days?” The question sounds forced, like he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

             
“With a friend,” is all I say. His tense shoulders tell me it’s not the answer he was hoping to hear.

             
“Would this friend’s name happen to be Danny?”

             
“No.”

             
He nods once. “That’s good.”

             
He still cares.
There’s a second of silence before I find my voice again. “When can I leave?”

             
“Uh, well, technically whenever you want, but they’re going to insist you stay for further…assistance.”

             
He knows.
Now I really need to get out of here. “Where are my clothes?”

             
“Lo,” he says, warning in his voice. “They can help you. They can-”

             
“They cannot help me, Nathan! No one can help me! Don’t you get that by now?” I’m panting as I slide out of the bed and find my clothes in a bag on a nearby chair. I can feel it when he moves behind me, like the closeness of his body sparks electricity in the air.

             
“You need help, Lo.
Professional
help.”

             
Is he calling me crazy?
I whirl around to face him, point a finger in his face. “You have
no
idea what I need.
No idea.
”

             
Nathan shakes his head, puts his hands up in surrender. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Let me at least give you a ride home.”

             
Clutching the bag to my chest, I look into his eyes. A stream of memories fills my mind; dinners, cheesy soap operas with Emily, Joshua and his girl problems, Nathan’s skin against mine.
Officer Nathan Hawkins.

             
I shake my head. “No.”

             
“How do you plan on getting home, Lo? Walking? A cab? You have no money. Your phone is dead.
Let me help you.
”

             
Damn it, he’s right. It’s just a ride, right? In his issued work car, no less. It’ll be as civil and unfamiliar as possible. Not to mention better than walking. “Fine,” I concede and watch as his features shift to relief.

             
“I’ll leave so you can get dressed.”

             
Twenty minutes later, after assuring the nurses and doctor that I am absolutely fine, thank you, I am walking out of the hospital and into a soggy Miami morning. It smells like rain and wet grass which is one hundred percent better than cleaners and latex. Nathan’s leaning casually against his police car, parked illegally in the fire lane. I guess it’s not illegal for him, though,
because he’s a cop
. Something that I have to remind myself of despite the fact that he’s in full uniform and opening the door to his cruiser for me.

             
Once he’s in the driver seat, I give him Jenson’s address and he types it into his computer. Pulls out of the hospital and onto the road. We sit in silence. There are so many words on the tip of my tongue but nothing I’m willing to say. I don’t miss him, or the way his eyes smile before his lips. I don’t miss the way he says my name, like it’s a prayer that’ll get him closer to heaven. I don’t miss his touch or how it has the power to make me forget. His kisses and how they make me feel higher than any high.

             
I don’t miss him I don’t miss him I don’t miss him.

             
What I think about instead is the family he has, the obligations he has to fulfill, the job he has a responsibility to, and how the last thing he needs is some fucked up girl with a drug problem. Even if there were no drugs in the picture I’m still fucked up. I can say that now because it’s better to tell myself that someone like me doesn’t belong anywhere near someone as good and wholesome as Nathan.