I shrug. “I use a little here and there. Not a ton, I mean. Just to wake me up. Better than coffee.” I smile, but she doesn’t. Lame joke, I guess. Nonchalantly, I tug my sleeve below my elbow, covering the recent track marks.
She jots something down on her page. “You may suffer some unpleasant symptoms during your first few days here, just—” she looks up, drops her voice “—just let us help, okay?”
I huff out a breath. The sooner I let these people do their thing, the sooner I can get back to my life. Or what’s left of it. “All right.” I glance around the room as she fills in her reports.
The walls are covered with all kinds of helpful info. From the many toxins that are in our average cig, to the number of steps it takes to reach maximum sobriety, there’s a poster for it all. Damn. I’ve been smoking formaldehyde? Like embalming fluid?
Regardless of that less-than-appreciated knowledge (I could have done without that, really), my craving to light up hits me hard. I swing my gaze back to the nurse. “So…is this place like super strict? Can I smoke here?”
She pushes a hank of blond hair behind her ear and glances up from her paperwork. “Oh, yeah. It’s not that kind of facility, Melody. You can smoke, have caffeine. I don’t think I could survive without my three cups of coffee a day habit.” She laughs.
I smile awkwardly. Yeah, the coke and coffee jokes don’t really fuse. If this is her attempt to form some bond with me, like we’re in this together, one addict to the next—I’d rather punch myself. We’re nothing alike, me and this chick. She screams tight-ass. Control freak. Covered head-to-toe in intricately placed details, not even a stray hair out of place on her slick blond head.
I lick my lips and lean forward. “Can I also use a phone?” Her eyes widen, and I add before she can shoot me down, “I
know not my cell. But can I make phone calls? I have a friend I need to check in with soon.”
“You can make calls once a week. So that’s no problem. Family only, though. Or someone you add to your contact list. But they have to sign a waiver if they’re not a relative before you or they can be contacted.”
Well, fuck. “This person wouldn’t be able to sign anything.” At least, I don’t think. I don’t know if Jesse’s made it out yet and I hate it. I hate not being able just to hop on my bike and ride wherever, to see whoever. I also hate that he’s the one being convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit.
I hope his pricey defense lawyer is better than mine.
I should have gotten out of this shit—no charge. No DUI on my driving record, no nothing. Because I was there at the scene, and ended up passing out and needing medical attention, I got tested for alcohol and drugs. I was a damn .02 over the legal limit for alcohol, and tested positive for narcotics later in the lock-up medical ward.
And even though I wasn’t behind the wheel when the police arrived, I left the keys in the ignition. They charged me on a technicality. What kind of shit is that?
The state of Florida is a tough bitch. Regardless that it’s my first offense, they find it their duty to make it my last. Getting me all the help they deem I need through their government issued programs.
Like if I checked myself into rehab I could afford it. Right.
But Jesse…he was the one driving the bike that got pulled under a truck. A truck whose driver blew past both our alcohol levels combined. A driver who registered the red light just a second too late.
That probably doesn’t matter for Jesse’s defense, however. He’s a tatted biker who was coked up at the time. Last I heard from him, the state was pressing charges against him in Darla’s defense. Involuntary Manslaughter.
At least he didn’t get too hurt. A fractured rib and some bruises. He was thrown from the bike on impact, out of the path of the truck. Not like Dar...who was sitting on her customized seat, and got trapped underneath.
I swallow the hard lump in my throat, forcing it down to the pit of my stomach with the rest of the pain. I don’t know if I’ve even processed it all just yet. That one of my best friends is being convicted of killing the other.
“Melody?”
The nurse’s voice pulls me out of my dark thoughts. I glance up at her.
“Did you hear me? I said that in case of an emergency, special communications can be made. Someone can contact your friend for a specific reason, if need be.” She smiles. “But just so you know, you can send them a letter. Most patients get therapeutic benefits out of writing letters…writing their thoughts down.” She smiles wanly again. Like she’s just imbued me with some great wisdom.
I smile wide, grudgingly curling my fingers into a tight ball.
Great. Snail mail to the rescue. By the time I get it written and then mailed, it’ll probably arrive just in time for my release. How the hell is that therapeutic?
“Okay. You’re all ready.” She leaps from her chair, excitement speeding her steps toward the door, like we’re two kids entering an amusement park. Maybe we are—the mad house.
She waves me along. “Just in time for your first meeting.”
A half-laugh, half-sob escapes my mouth in a huff. “Joy.”
Boone
Starve, and be redeemed