Los Angeles, CA – February 2009
Lisa is a wreck. She's a walking disaster. Her body is wracked with painful muscle spasms. Her heart is racing, and she can't sleep. The nausea is relentless. The sweats are endless. She needs a fix, and she needs one now. It's been this way for too long—years: two of them. The first year was hard. She didn't think she was going to make it. The second year wasn't much easier, but the high had begun to change. It was no longer the euphoric bliss she had been chasing. She only uses to not feel like this. But this is the way it always starts. It gets worse and worse. She can't take it anymore, and she needs more and more heroin. Then, she's so desperate she does things to get more. Things she never thought she'd do. Things that disgust her.
Walking to the LA pier alone in the middle of the night is, well... Dumb. And so obvious. But it's the best place to score, and she has no choice. She can't stand not having it. At this point, it is much more physical than mental. She needs the drug like she needs food and water. It's a necessity. She can't live without it. And she has a fifty-dollar bill folded and shoved in her bra. It's all she has left, and she has to use it tonight. She'll do anything to get some, but she hopes that tonight she won't have to.
The night air is cold, and the wind coming off the Pacific is salty and strong. She pulls her hood up over her head and puts her hands in her pockets. It's the perfect night to score, she thinks, a cold, moonless night. The pier is nearly empty. It usually is this time of night. LA isn't a twenty-four-hour city like New York or DC. Only people doing things like she's doing are out this late. And there are a few, but not many.
She's walking slowly. Her feet are heavy. The pain in her limbs is overwhelming. Every step is agony. But she pushes through. She always does. But her shoulder is so painful, and the nausea is overwhelming. It's too much, and she has to stop and dry heave in a nearby trash can. It's humiliating. She's sure people are staring. And why wouldn't they? A girl hunched over a trash can, obviously in distress and withdrawing. She wipes her mouth and takes a deep breath. Her legs shake as she stands, and her stomach tightens.
She walks to the end of the pier, and for a second, she thinks about jumping. She could end it all right now. There's no one to stop her, no one who would care. No one would notice. It would be a relief. No more pain. No more shame. No more drugs. No more guilt. It's a dark and tempting thought. She looks down into the dark water and considers the idea. Not for the first time. It would be so easy. She could walk a few more feet and fall. And she could sink into the depths of the sea and disappear into Henry's heaven. A shiver runs up her spine. The idea is so appealing. She puts a foot up on the ledge, her toes just dangling over the edge. The ocean below is a dark, black mass. A shadowy mass that's deep and endless. If she fell, would she be swallowed into nothingness? Would it be easy for her not to fight the water? She thinks she could let herself sink. She could let herself die. And for a second, she almost does.
"Lis?" She hears her name and spins around. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and her breath is labored. She's terrified that whoever it is has seen what she's thinking of doing.
"Hey," She says weakly and smiles. She hopes she doesn't look as sick as she feels. But her voice is weak and cracked. "Chris?" She asks and squints. It's hard to see in the darkness.
"You okay?" He asks.
"F-fine." She stutters. They haven't seen each other in a while. He got sober the last time she checked. He left a note the night he left. She wasn't surprised. It was bound to happen eventually. "What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? I thought you quit?" She asks him.
"I did," Chris nods.
"Then what are you doing out here?" She's confused. Why is he here? This is the place dealers go to find people to buy. It's not the place to be when you're clean.
"I owe people some money." Chris sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets, "I don't have it. They told me I could work it off."
"Work it off?" She asks, and her eyebrows knit in a way that is reminiscent of the person she used to be. The curious, suspicious analyst. He moves his hand slightly, and she sees the baggies in his hand.
"You know what I mean." He nods and looks down. She nods and retrieves the fifty from her bra. It's warm and wrinkled, and she hands it to him.
"Here." She sighs. He looks at her for a moment and shakes his head. Then he retrieves a baggie and hands it to her.
"Sorry, Lis."
"For what?" She shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry for. You did what you had to do. Right?" She puts the bag in her hoodie pocket.
"LAPD! Hands in the air!" Her hands fly up above her head, and her eyes widen. Chris is running. Running as fast as his legs will carry him. Lisa closes her eyes. This isn't the first time this has happened. All the illegal things she's been doing, and she's never once gotten caught. Now that she's about to, she can't help but think the world has a cruel sense of humor.
She turns slowly, her hands still above her head. She won't run. She won't fight. If she's going down, she's going to go down. The police officer, a large man with dark hair and dark eyes, cocks his gun.
"Hands behind your head." He says sternly, his voice is deep and commanding. She has to close her eyes. She can't stand the thought of someone holding a gun on her. Her breath is coming in quick gasps. She's having a panic attack. She's frozen in place. She can't hear anything over her heart beating. The sound is loud in her ears. And her bad arm is roughly grabbed and forced behind her back.
"Ow," She yelps and cries out. Her knees hit the ground, and the rough wood pier scrapes her skin. Her shoulder is wrenched back, and it's agonizing. "Please don't. Please. No." She might seem like she is begging the officers not to arrest her, but she's not. She's not talking to the officer at all.
"Stop resisting." The officer yells at her and jerks her bad arm again.
"Please don't," She pleads again. She's begging the man—The Man, not the officer. She's in Iraq, and she's on her knees, and the officer is Him, and she is back there. The officer is hurting her arm, and it's a painful memory, and she can't deal with it. She's on her knees, and he's in front of her. Bite me; you're dead. The words repeat in her head over and over.
"Stop fighting me. You're making it worse." The officer growls and shoves her onto the hood of the cop car. Her shoulder hits the frame, and the pain is white, hot, and blinding. It takes her breath away. Not that she was breathing. She can't breathe. There's not enough air. The world is closing in, and she can't catch her breath. Her chest is too tight. She can't see.
"Mark, I don't think she was meaning to resist." A woman's voice. A woman. Not a man. Not Samuel. Lisa looks up. A woman is standing there. Her uniform is crisp, her badge is polished, and her hair is pulled back tightly in a bun. She's young. Younger than Lisa. Maybe thirty. And she's concerned. Lisa closes her eyes and tries to get her breathing under control.
"She's got heroin." The other officer, Mark, is pissed.
"Yes, and we have the possession charge, but that's real panic," Kate says. Lisa catches a glimpse of her tattooed forearm—77th Infantry Div.
"So? I've seen people panic before. People don't like getting arrested."
"This is different. She was pleading for someone to stop. Not you. She was pleading to the air."
"Kate, she's a junkie."
"She's a person." Kate snaps, and her hand replaces Mark's on Lisa's back. She's gentle, "Ma'am?"
"I'm okay." Lisa pants.
"Can you give us your name?"
"El- Lisa Aldin." She almost slips under pressure. Elizabeth is dead, especially on paper.
"Alright, Lisa, I'm going to search you, okay? Do you have anything sharp or dangerous?"
Lisa nods. She figures there is no point in making this worse, "In my bra."
Kate reaches into her bra and pulls out a needle. It's not used. Lisa is always careful. She only uses her needles once. They are expensive, but she always finds a way. Kate puts the needle in an evidence bag and then looks her over. She pats her down quickly. Lisa closes her eyes and disassociates the way she does when she has sex with random strangers.
"Okay, I'm going to put you in the back of the car, okay?"
"Okay," Lisa sighs.
"So tonight you are being arrested for Possession of a schedule one narcotic and paraphernalia. Okay?"
"Okay."
...X...X...X...
She's sitting in the fetal position in the corner of the holding cell. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing is shallow. And she's crying. It's happening again and again and again. He's on top of her... Inside her... Ripping her apart. And she's sober. Painfully withdrawing and sober. There are no drugs to hide in. No heroin to chase the nightmares away. The walls are closing in, and she's stuck. She is stuck in her body and her mind. Her skin is crawling.
She was processed quickly. Fingerprints. Mug shots. She was given her clothes and put in a holding cell. Her hands were shaking, and her stomach was doing flips. And they gave her water and crackers. That's where she is now.
"Do I... Do I get a phone call?" She finally asks. Her throat is hoarse and sore. She doesn't remember screaming. But her mouth is dry.
"Yeah, you do." The officer, a tall woman, responds.
"Can I make it now?"
"Sure, Come on."
Lisa stands on her shaky aching legs. She swallows a gag and follows the officer. Her hands are sweaty, and her heart is pounding. She doesn't want to make the phone call. But it's time. She can't do this anymore. George was right. He was so, so, so right. And she has no pride. None. So, she'll grovel. She'll beg and plead and crawl and kiss ass. Whatever it takes.
She dials the number from memory. The numbers are ingrained in her brain.
"Hello?" His sleepy voice answers.
"George... I'm ready. I need help. I'm... I'm done. Please."
"Where are you?"
"The LA County Jail." She lets out an embarrassed laugh.
"I'll be there soon, kiddo. Hang in there." He's not angry. He's not mad. He's just happy that she called. He'll be there, and he'll help her, and she'll get clean.
…X…X…X…
Her arraignment was quick, though her public defender warned she got a hanging judge: A judge who has little patience for drug users and their excuses. It took the judge less than a minute to read the charges and a mere thirty seconds to set her bail for a thousand dollars cash only, which she doesn't have. So here she is again, in a cell. No control. No power. At the mercy of the justice system.
She's curled in a ball on the floor. Her shoulder is throbbing, and the withdrawal symptoms are at their peak. It's excruciating. She itches everywhere. She's nauseous and dizzy. And she is sweating and shaking. She wants to crawl out of her skin.
"Lisa Aldin!" A deputy calls, and she drags herself off the floor and stands.
"Here," She answers weakly.
"Your bail's been posted. Come on."
She follows the deputy. The walk down the hallway is endless. Her legs ache, she wants to fall, and the lights kill her head. The fluorescent bulbs are blinding. And she's so tired. It's too much. And her body is achy and stiff.
"Bess," George's voice is soft and gentle, and she's immediately filled with shame.
"George..." She doesn't know what to say. She's embarrassed and ashamed, and she wants to hide.
"Are you okay?" He asks. She's not, but she nods anyway.
"I'm so sorry," She cries. He pulls her into a hug (even with the vomit on her shirt), and she sags into him.
"Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" She nods. He's not angry or disappointed. He's relieved. And he's helping. She knows, without a doubt, he loves her.
He takes her to his hotel room, no need to find wherever she's been staying. A clean break from all of it is what she needs. He runs her a bath and puts her clothes in the wash. They're covered in vomit, and God knows what else. He gives her a fresh pair of sweats he got her at Target.
"You're going to rehab in three hours." He says. He hands her an oxy, "That'll get you through until then."
She's never snorted a pill faster. And it works. Within minutes, the symptoms of withdrawal are gone, but she's not high. It wasn't nearly enough for that.
"I'm really sorry." She whispers. She sits on the edge of the bed and lets the tears fall.
"It's a sixty-day inpatient program. They specialize in psychiatric addiction care. It's not a twelve-step program. I know that's not your style. I'm going to stay at a hotel, so I'm close by."
"I'm not crazy." She gets defensive.
"They'll also assess for PTSD, depression, and anxiety."
"I'm not-"
"Bess." George interrupts her and sits next to her. "You can't live like this. I don't think you're crazy. You suffered a lot of trauma. You haven't begun to process it because you've been using drugs as a way to cope since you were found. I need you to trust that I know what you need better than you do right now. I can't see you destroy yourself anymore."
She doesn't answer him. He's not wrong. She hasn't begun to process what happened to her. She was tortured. Raped. Beaten. All for the fun of it. Then she lost her family. Her children. She lost everything. And she was left alone and traumatized.
"You're going to detox while you're there. They'll make sure you have something for the physical symptoms." He says, gently grabbing her hand.
"Okay," She nods. He's being kind and patient—more patient than she deserves. He's trying to help her. Trying to make her life easier. "George, I'm so sorry."
"It's alright." He takes a breath, "Everything is going to be okay. I know the way out of the hole, okay? I've been there. You're not alone. I'm going to help you. But you have to do the work. I can't do it for you."
She nods. She didn't used to be afraid of hard work. But it's all she can do, not to give up. She wants to. So bad.
"I wanted to die." She whispers. She feels like it's something he should know.
"You've had a terrible time. And I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much, but I am. And it's going to be a rough ride, but I think we can get you out the other side of this."
"I want my family back," she sobs, "There is no other side for me. Getting sober doesn't fix that I can't be with them." She should run. She could run. And find drugs. And get high. Overdose. She could do it. She wants to do it. It would be so easy.
"We can figure that out, too. Okay? Let's get you well first. Then we can find a way to get back to them."
She shakes her head, "There is no going back, George. I'm sorry, I lied... I can't do this. I'm not ready. I'm sorry."
"Bess." He pulls her to him. He hugs her. She doesn't hug back. But she doesn't push him away either. "I know the reality is setting in, and your cravings are insane at this moment. You want to get high more than you've ever wanted anything right now. I know. I've been there. I know you can do this. You are the strongest person I have ever met. I know you can do this."
"I don't want to get high... I want to be dead." She admits the truth for the first time, and it's terrifying.
"We're getting you help." He whispers.
"It won't matter." She's sobbing. Her whole body is shaking.
"It will." He reassures her.
"I have no one. I have nothing. My life is pointless."
"Your life is not pointless." He says sternly. It makes her jump, and he immediately regrets his tone.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not angry." He whispers and holds her, "You have me, and I'm not leaving. Your life isn't pointless, and you're not alone."
She shakes her Head. The string on her neck holding her wedding band is heavier than it's ever been. Henry. She might have George. But she doesn't have Henry. She doesn't have her babies. And it's killing her.
"Let's go." He says.
"Now?"
"Yeah." He says.
She nods and takes a shaky breath. She's ready. She can't do this anymore.
...X...X...X...
She can't do it. They let George walk with her to the room. A room. She can't be in a room. Alone. No. Not safe. She's not safe. George can't stay with her. There are no lights. There's no one to call. This isn't good. It isn't good. Her hand shakes, and she turns around. George reads the panic almost instantly.
"Bess. You're safe." George says, and only then does she realize she was mumbling under her breath.
"I'm not safe. I can't. No. It's dark. No." She's shaking her head, and her vision blurs with tears.
"You're safe. I promise." The nurse reads her body language and turns on the lights, "It's okay; we default to dark for detox, but you can have the lights on."
"Okay," she whispers, and her whole body relaxes. George helps her sit down on the bed. He squeezes her hand, "You can do this."
She feels ridiculous. She was able to keep it together before.
"This is normal." The nurse says and gives her a sympathetic smile, "You've been using for a while. You have an addiction. Withdrawal is rough, especially with your history. Okay, so this is a very mild sedative. It will help with the anxiety," She says, handing Elizabeth a pill. Elizabeth looks at it, then at the nurse, then at the pill again.
"Aren't I supposed to be quitting drugs?" She asks, confused.
"Yeah, sweetie, Heroin. That is point five milligrams of lorazepam because you're having an anxiety attack. It won't get you high. Okay?" The nurse responds.
"Oh," Lisa responds, and her cheeks redden.
"You're okay."
"Okay," she takes the pill and swallows.
"Okay, it's time for your friend to leave." The nurse says gently.
"Oh... Okay?" She looks at George, and he gives her a reassuring smile. He kisses her forehead.
"I'm proud of you, kid. You're going to get through this. I'm a phone call away."
"Thanks, George." She smiles.
"See you in a couple of weeks, kiddo. Love you." He says.
"Love you too." She responds. And he's gone. She's alone. Again. But this time, she's hopeful. Is that what it is? Hope? It feels foreign, like a word she hasn't used in a long time. Maybe she can do this.
