LISA
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"Hey Lis, can you give me a hand with this really quick?" I look up to see Mike standing a few feet from me, his body angled underneath the hood of a car.
I started working at Vance's Auto a week ago, thanks to Bobby who had enough pull with the owner to get me a part time job just a few days out of rehab. It isn't anything glamourous, but it's a paycheck and something to keep me busy.
I don't know shit about working on cars, so mainly I've been an errand girl. I help out when a mechanic needs an extra set of hands, clean up around the shop, and make parts runs when necessary. All in all it's been good for me.
"Yeah, what's up?" I make my way over to Mike.
"I'm having trouble getting this hose loose. Can you hold this out of my way?" He gestures to the hose overlapping the one he's trying to pry loose.
"Sure." I lean under the hood and place my hand where he indicates.
"So, how are you liking the job?"
"It's good."
"Good?" He snorts, throwing me a sideways look.
"When you come from the lifestyle I was living, anything that keeps me busy is good."
"Yeah, I heard something about that." He turns his gaze back down to the car. "You just got out of rehab, didn't you?"
"Just a few days ago."
"Drugs or alcohol?"
"Both," I admit, knowing there's no point in hiding it. He's probably heard the entire story from Bobby already anyway.
"Drug of choice?"
My skin instantly starts to tingle and I feel the urge begin to build.
"Heroin." I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
They tell you in rehab that the urge doesn't ever go away, not completely anyway. But since I've never managed to make it this far out of rehab without relapsing, I don't think I realized just how hard it would be.
Every street I walk, every store I enter, I find myself scouring the crowd, looking for the familiar signs of a dealer. Signs that only a user would be able to detect.
"Ahhh, must run in the family," he says, his focus on what he's doing.
"Yeah, something like that," I grumble.
"He get you into it or you him?"
"Neither." I answer once his question has time to register with me. "He left home when I was still pretty young. We only just recently reconnected."
"So you're telling me it's by chance that you both struggle with the same addiction?" He finally gets the hose loose, releasing moments later as he straightens and turns to face me.
"Our father's an addict too. Mainly alcohol, but he's been known to snort shit up his nose from time to time. Guess you can say we were born into the lifestyle."
"That sucks, man. But I feel your pain." He reaches for an oil stained rag, wiping his hands on it moments later. "I'm coming up on my three year. Whiskey was my weakness, but honestly I would have drank anything I could get my hands on."
This news surprises me, as Mike seems like the kind of guy who has his shit together. In the week that I've worked with him, he's always on time, always on task, and is an overall hard worker.
"Shit, I didn't realize."
"It's not something I really make known." He shrugs. "I know it's hard to stick with the program, but you can do it. If I can do it, anyone can."
"I'm trying."
"You been hitting up meetings?"
"Every day." I nod.
"Good. As long as you do that, there's hope for you. It's when someone stops that I get worried. People have this misconceived notion that once you're clean for so long, you can go back out into the real world like nothing happened. Those are the ones that usually end up at the bottom of a bottle. Or in your case, with a needle in your arm."
Again, my skin tingles. I swear, if I close my eyes I can almost taste the sweet relief of the high I crave so much.
"Yeah," I croak, looking down to see my hand wrapped around my left forearm, my spot of choice.
"Sobriety is a lifelong commitment. The minute you let your guard down, you're a goner. You gotta really want it."
"Can I ask you something?" I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "Was there something that snapped you out of it? Did something happen that made you realize you had to get sober?"
"I don't know if it was one specific thing. More like a bunch of little things. One day I woke up and looked in the mirror and realized I didn't like what I saw. I was living in a roach infested apartment, barely able to make rent. My girlfriend had left me. My family hadn't spoken to me in over a year. I don't know, it's like it all just slapped me in the face. How utterly alone I was and it was all my own doing. Admitting that I needed help was the hard part. Once I got into a program, things started to get easier. Don't get me wrong, I have bad days like everyone else. Days when I will stand outside of a liquor store for an hour trying to convince myself not to go inside. It's like my body and my mind wage war against each other. Thankfully, there are meetings all over town at various times of the day. Because days like that, those are the days when I really need them."
"It's the first thing I think of every day when I wake up." Until now I hadn't admitted that to anyone.
"It'll be that way for a while. It's kind of like quitting smoking. The first few weeks it's all you can do to get through the day without thinking about it. Then, after a while, you start to know life without it."
"Smoking, that's one thing I haven't given up yet. Baby steps." I smile.
"We all have our vices. We just have to pick and choose which ones we can live with and which ones will likely kill us."
"Well, cigarettes probably will kill me… Eventually."
"I put them down about three months ago. It was almost as hard as putting down the bottle. You just gotta take it one step at a time and don't overwhelm yourself. Otherwise you'll end up saying fuck it and giving into every urge you have." He clasps me on the shoulder. "You're lucky to have Bobby. He's a good example at how hard work and determination can get you through just about anything."
"Yeah, he keeps me in line, that's for sure," I agree. "You need anything else here?" I ask.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks for the hand."
"Anytime." I nod.
Heading to the side entrance of the garage, I slip outside. All this talk of smoking has got me craving a cigarette. Sliding the pack out of my pocket, I pull a cigarette out and press it between my lips. Shoving the near empty pack back into my pocket, I light the end and take a deep draw.
The nicotine buzz hits me instantly and I immediately take another drag. This is about the only relief I get during the day. The only thing that even mildly takes the edge off.
I know it's awful for me but given all the shit I've put in my body over the years, I figure it's the lesser of the evils.
I'm about halfway through my cigarette when the door behind me opens. Turning, I nod when I see Bobby step outside.
"Can I bum one of those?" he asks.
"Sure." I pull one out and hand it to him. He lights it, and then hands me back my lighter.
"Thanks. I forgot mine at home this morning." He blows out a cloud of smoke that seems to stick in the humid air around us.
"No problem."
"So, how's it going today? You doing alright?" He bounces on his heels, seeming a bit more anxious than usual.
"Yeah, I'm good. I was just talking to Mike. I didn't realize he was an alcoholic."
"Is," he corrects me, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"Huh?"
"Is. You said was an alcoholic. He is an alcoholic. Even if he hasn't had a drink in years."
"Right." I nod.
That's another thing that's difficult. Admitting that you'll always be an addict, even when you aren't using.
"Fuck, this day is dragging." Bobby reaches around and scratches the back of his head.
"You doing okay? Seem a bit on edge?"
"Who me?" His gaze swings in my direction. "I'm good. Just ready to get the fuck out of here. It's been one of those days."
Someone who's not familiar with the telltale signs of an addict might overlook Bobby's behavior. But I'm all too acquainted with what it feels like to fight off an urge when it hits you seemingly out of nowhere. Even when there's nothing around to trigger it. Sometimes that's how it happens.
"I'm gonna hit up a meeting tonight after work. You want to come with me?"
"Nah, I'm going to wait and go in the morning."
"You sure?" I take one more drag of my cigarette before snubbing it out in the ashtray next to the door.
"Yeah. I've got some shit to do tonight."
"Bob, if you need a meeting you shouldn't put it off."
"Look at you, fresh out of rehab and already telling me what I need." He seems annoyed, a little pissed off even.
"Sorry. I wasn't trying to imply… It's just…"
But he cuts me off, clearly not wanting to hear what I have to say. "Listen, I get that you need something to focus on other than what you're going through right now. But do us both a favor and don't make your new favorite pastime mothering me. I'm not new to this process and when I need a meeting, I'll go to a meeting."
"Okay." I tug open the door. "But just so you know, my sobriety hinges on yours. So if it seems like I'm overstepping, I'm sorry."
"Fuck, I'm sorry." He blows out a heavy breath. "I'm just frustrated."
"I get it. It's cool. I'm going to head back inside." I gesture into the shop.
"Yeah, cool. I'll see you in there in a few."
With that, I step into the garage and let the door close behind me.
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The remainder of the day is pretty uneventful. After leaving work with Bobby right after five, we grabbed some pizza and headed home. I went to a meeting and he took off shortly after seven to go see a friend, though he didn't specify who or what it was that he was doing…not that it's any of my business.
I have to remind myself that I'm not his keeper. He's managed to stay sober for a year without any help from me. But even still, I can't help but worry about him. Maybe because worrying about him keeps me from worrying about myself.
I headed to bed a bit after ten but haven't been able to fucking sleep to save my life. That's one thing I miss – sleep. When I was high, I would pass out for hours. Now, I'm lucky if I get a solid two or three hours in without waking up. I toss and turn constantly and have the most vivid fucking dreams.
I roll to my side, peering at the bedside table I picked up from a local department store and built myself. It's a little crooked and one of the legs is out of line with the others, but it serves its purpose just the same.
The clock on top reads just after one in the morning.
"Fuck," I grumble, pushing myself out of bed. The parking lot light outside shines directly into my room, giving me enough light through the blinds to make my way to my door without running into anything.
Tugging open the door, I head toward the kitchen to grab a slice of left-over pizza before heading onto the small balcony that overlooks the parking lot.
It's a little chilly out tonight. Not cold by any means, but chilly for Southern Mississippi in June. Sliding down into one of the worn outdoor chairs, I tear off a bite of pizza with my teeth and slowly chew as I look out over the parking lot.
It takes me a few to realize that I don't see Bobby's car in the lot. Wondering where the hell he could be at this hour, I stand and head back inside.
Grabbing the cheap, prepaid phone Bobby got me from where I left it on the kitchen counter, I pull up my contacts. There are only two in there - Bobby and the shop - so I don't have to scroll to find his name.
Hitting call, I press the device to my ear. It rings a few times before an automated voicemail picks up. Ending the call, I immediately try again. This time the voicemail picks up after one ring.
A nervous knot forms in the pit of my stomach. In the few days I've been here, Bobby has never stayed out this late. He's usually in bed by ten and up at six a.m., like clockwork. He says his routine is something that keeps him steady.
So then where the fuck is he?
Thinking maybe I overlooked his car, I toss the half-eaten piece of pizza into the trash and head down the hall to his room. Shoving the door open, I flip on the light, my concern mounting when I see that his bed is empty.
Heading back down the hall and out onto the balcony, I lean against the rail to get a better look at the cars lining the near full lot.
Of what I can see, there's no sign of his rusted, black Civic anywhere.
Deciding to call him again, I have to resist the urge to chuck my phone off the balcony when his voicemail picks up instantly, telling me he likely shut the fucking thing off.
Heading back inside, I drop my phone on the coffee table and flop down onto the couch. Running my hands through my hair, I drop my head back and look up at the ceiling.
If this were Parkview, I'd probably already be out looking for him at all the usual spots. But I'm not familiar enough with this area to even know where to begin looking for him.
And while a part of me is wired to think the worst, the other part is excusing away him not being home. For all I know, he could be balls deep in some chick right now which would definitely explain why he shut his phone off.
"It's nothing," I mutter to myself. "I'm sure he's fine."
Crossing my arms over my chest, I relax a little, letting my eyes fall closed.
I went from not giving a shit about anyone or anything, including myself, to freaking out over my grown ass brother being out late.
I really need to get a fucking grip.
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