Death Spiral (5 page)

“What do you think?” he asks. I can tell he's nervous. Like maybe I won't see the color, just the black and white.

“Awesome,” I say. He looks relieved.

Jesse shows me around, giving me a gastric tour of his favorite Philly street foods. We spend most of the morning eating, apparently Jesse's favorite activity—not that you'd ever know given the fact the kid is like crossed with a string bean.

By afternoon we've turned our attention from food to friends and Jesse introduces me to some of the people he knows. I meet Clyde, the genius guitar player from the punk band Flesh that Jesse raves about. Then Cyndi, a tattoo artist and homeless rights activist. There's Max, a self-professed Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.

“Lock pick extraordinaire,” Jesse says.

“Big words for thief,” I retort, and Jesse changes the subject.

I like it here. I like the people Jesse introduces me to, even Max, with his misguided idealism. The place is raw, the people are real, and I find myself thinking about my mother again. This could've been her scene if she'd wanted. If she hadn't gotten into drugs instead. Mom had the urban vibe, the funky artist thing going on. She studied art for a year at Temple before she dropped out. She even had some pictures in a gallery once. And there were her causes, too. She was always involved in some social issue. Putting an end to war, animal rights, AIDS, ending hunger, bad hairstyles. She probably started college just so she could be pissed off at the institution.

Sadness and confusion spread through my body like poison. I plop onto a bench and close my eyes. The ghosts of heroin users past claw at my soul—Joplin, Morrison, Holiday, Basquiat—all dead, overdosed on junk. My thoughts change as fast as a Hendrix guitar riff, and I think again about the guy who came to our apartment the day she died and the heroin in the bathroom. Maybe Aunt T is right after all. Maybe Mom
did
die a junkie. Maybe it
was
an overdose that killed her, and it was her own damned fault she died.

My shoulder muscles tense, sending a ripple of pain into my neck and the base of my skull. Heat and pressure bubble up from my gut, turning sadness to anger like graphite to diamond, the hardest substance known to mankind.

I look around for something to smash my fist into, some way of releasing the anger before I burst. As my right hand curls into a fist, I hear the voice of Marta, the school counselor I was forced to see during my brief stint at Germantown Friends after giving Sarah Raye a fat lip for spreading rumors about my mom.
Feelings come and go like clouds in a windy sky
,
Marta would say, quoting some Buddhist master.
Let conscious breathing be your anchor.

Anchor my ass.

But I was given five sessions and I wasn't allowed to leave Marta's office, so I tried, and as much as I hated to admit it at the time, the longer I sat there, the calmer I felt.

I release my fist and concentrate on those words now, letting my breath be my anchor.

“What are you thinking about?” I hear Jesse ask as I take my second breath.

I open my eyes to find him on the bench next to me. “Nothing.”

“Technically that's impossible because if nothing existed then that nothing would be something and therefore nothing can't exist.”

A small smile forces its way across my lips. “Thank you, your holiness, for enlightening me with your wisdom. Any other profound matters you'd like to share?”

“Actually, yes. The meaning of—”

“Kidding!” I say, elbowing him in the ribs.

He elbows me back, and soon I've buried Mom deep in my mind and we're roughhousing like puppies. I swear Jesse even growls. This form of physical contact is so sixth grade. Instead of actually grabbing Jesse and making out with him, like my body's begging me to do, I punch him, call him a dork, and turn away.

We sit there for a while, listening to some rapper dude with a crocheted Rasta hat perched high on top of a mountain of dreadlocks doing his thing. He's actually pretty good and before I know what's happening, Jesse's on his feet doing the human beat box next to the guy, trying to lay down a rhythm. I look around, totally embarrassed because Jesse's not that good. But Jesse's not at all embarrassed. He doesn't give a crap about who's watching. He pulls me to my feet. At first I struggle and try to sit back down, but then I stop resisting and somehow, even though I don't have a musical bone in my body, Jesse has me next to him, making a total fool out of myself, trying to lay down the beat.

I have a moment of total uninhibited truth as I let myself make strange noises in a park I've never been next to a total stranger and a boy I hardly know. The song ends. Rasta man applauds us. We applaud him, and we all laugh and hug in one big feel-good love fest. Then, by reflex, I slip my hand into my pocket to touch the lighter. Instead of the lighter, I find Melinda's note. My stomach tightens. I check my phone. It's four thirty. Game over. Time for business. I turn to tell Jesse I have to go, but he speaks first.

“You know what I like about you?”

“My fantastic looks, charismatic charm, and outstanding musical ability?”

“Besides that.”

“Okay, no, but I have a feeling you're about to tell me.”

“You're so guarded and mysterious. Like there's this whole other person inside you. But then, out of nowhere you're on fire and just go for it. Like in biology the other day, or just now, you're fearless. You just don't know it. Anyway,” he says, checking his phone, “it's getting late.”

“Yeah. I know.” I look at my feet. I should get going. I should turn my back right this second and tell Jesse that it's been real and I'll see him in school on Monday. I don't move though, and I realize it's because I don't want the day to end. Jesse Schneider with his loud music, shaggy hair, and in-your-face honesty has wedged himself into a corner of my heart.

I look up and search his face. “Okay, dare.”

He flashes a wicked smile. “Bring it on.”

“I dare you to go with me to meet a junkie who used to be friends with my mom.”

His smile disappears. “Fine. My turn. Truth. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you going there?”

“Because she has something to tell me about my mom who was a heroin addict and supposedly died of an overdose, and I want to hear what she has to say.” Saying these words about my mother out loud clears away the whole feel-good, chemical-attraction-induced fog, and I kick myself for telling him this stuff. How could Jesse ever understand my life when, from what he's told me, the hardest thing he's had to deal with is turning down a new car from his dad? I jut my hip to the side and fold my arms across my chest. “So, if you're going to be an asshole and ditch me over this or feel sorry for me or say my mother died of an overdose, let's just get that part over with now, so I know where we stand.”

Jesse puts one hand on his heart, and holds the other up like he's being sworn into office. “I, Jesse Schneider, do solemnly swear that I will not ditch you or say your mother died of a heroin overdose.”

I drop my arms. “Fine. Coming or not?”

“Bus fare's on me.”

Six

The stench of piss and trash is the first thing I notice when we get off the bus. If hopelessness has a smell, this is it. Neither of us speak as we stand on the corner beside a sign that says Dead End, and that's just how the neighborhood looks: a dead end for people with nowhere else to go. I think of any number of postings that could be here, like
Beware–Plague,
given the trash blowing around and the probable presence of rats.

“Okay, then,” I say, trying to fill the nervous silence. I point to the east. “Fifth is that way.”

A burned-out factory is the first thing we pass. All that's left is the charred frame, a skeleton of some old place. The only landmark Melinda gave was a liquor store, which isn't much help given the fact we've passed about ten liquor stores, but all my time spent with Mom in neighborhoods like this has given me some kind of ghetto sixth sense. Soon there we are, midway down a street of dilapidated row houses, staring up at number 2750 just like the note said. The place is seriously falling apart. Two of the three first floor windows are boarded up. Fungus-green paint is peeling off in long strips, and there's a milk crate instead of a step leading to the front door.

I hesitate for a minute as I look for the doorbell, remembering the last time I saw Melinda.

She's passed out on our bathroom floor. I stand at the door, paralyzed. Mom rushes out of the bathroom, back in again with a needle and syringe. She fills the syringe. Jabs. Again. Until Melinda sits up, looks at us, and comes back from the dead. Narcon, the junkie miracle drug, Mom explains later. Saves you from respiratory arrest. Mom shows me how to fill the syringe, how much to give. Just in case I need to bring her back from the dead too.

A bus screeches through a pile of sooty slush, spraying my legs and sending a chill straight to my bones. I wrap my arms around my torso and step onto the milk crate. My heart's beating wildly. What if Melinda isn't here? What if the note's a ploy and all she wants is money? What if I have the wrong address and piss someone off by ringing the bell? But there's no bell, and if I don't make a move I'm going to turn around and hail the first cab out of here. That is, if we can find a cab. So, I knock.

No answer.

“Maybe she's out,” Jesse says.

I knock again. Louder this time. I call her name. Still, no answer.

Someone starts shouting at me to chill out. I look up and see a man hanging half his body out a second story window. The guy is fat and bald, and he's wearing a wife-beater tank even though it's winter. The shirt doesn't cover his gut, so the view from below is like staring up at the underbelly of some bloated sea creature.

“What the hell do you kids want?” he shouts down at us.

I clear my throat and reach for the lighter. “My name's Faith Flores. I'm looking for Melinda Rivera. She invited me. She was a friend of my mom's.”

The man grumbles and slams the window.

I stand there for a second, unsure what to do, but there's no way I'm leaving until I find out what Melinda has to say about my mom, so I try the door. The knob turns and the door creaks open.

“Come on,” I say to Jesse. “Let's go.”

“Uh. That dude didn't exactly exude friendliness. Do you think it's a good idea to just walk in?”

“No,” I say, and go inside.

Jesse sighs, then follows.

Our footsteps echo into the cold gray space as we climb a set of rickety steps to the second floor. We walk down a narrow hall lit by a single bulb dangling from an exposed wire until we reach apartment 2E. I glance at Jesse and knock.

The fat guy from the window opens the door and stands in the entranceway, his pants struggling against his belly to stay up. He sticks his face up to mine. “You wanna see Melinda?”

I nod, expecting him to tell me to get lost.

“Follow me,” he slurs instead. The stink of his breath is enough to make me sick. “Your boyfriend coming too?”

I'm about to tell him Jesse isn't my boyfriend, but there are more important things to worry about, so I just nod and follow him into a dark, musty room.

Melinda's hovering at the edge of the room in baggy gray sweats and a faded Phillies t-shirt. I recognize her hair—black by birth, blond by the bottle. I recognize her emaciated frame and black eyeliner smudged around her haunted brown eyes. We stand there, neither of us moving. I can hardly breathe. Melinda's skin is leathery and blistered, like someone who's been in the sun too long. And what's worse are the red dots like zits or chicken pox covering her face. But the marks aren't zits. They aren't chicken pocks. I know that. They're scabs. Melinda has the same scabby, blistered skin my mom had before she died.

Melinda nods at the fat guy, who disappears down the hall, then she takes a tentative step toward me. “Hi, Faith.”

It seems like there should be a different word than “Hi.” You say “Hi” to your friends in the hall between classes, “Hi” to the postman or the salesclerk. Not “Hi” to the messed up heroin addict who overdosed on your bathroom floor, stole from you, and then disappeared. There is no other word, though, and I return the greeting.

Now comes the awkward silence. What is there to say? You still doing smack?

I stand in the doorway and peer into the tiny cluttered kitchen, at the crusty dishes piled in the sink, at the beer bottles littering the table, and the overflowing ashtrays. I breathe in the stink of cigarettes, marijuana, and a room that hasn't had fresh air in about a decade. My heart tightens. This scene is too familiar. I'm about to turn and leave when Melinda speaks.

“Come in,” she wheezes. “I have to talk to you.”

Jesse, Mr. Chivalry, tromps across the floor, hand extended. I take a deep breath and follow.

Melinda shakes Jesse's hand, then fidgets around in her pocket and pulls out a fresh cigarette and a lighter. She lights up with trembling fingers and squints at me. Bones poke at her flesh as if her skin is nothing more than a thin sheet holding her skeleton in place.

“I got your note,” I say, finding my voice. “You said it was about my mom. So what is it?”

Melinda hacks and paces the perimeter of the room. Her eyes dart from door to window like she's expecting someone else to show up. “I'm sorry,” she says, letting the cigarette dangle between her nicotine-stained fingers.

“For stealing from me or for almost dying on our bathroom floor or because my mom's dead?”

She stares at me with her gaunt face and hollow eyes. Television voices murmur from behind the closed door where Fat Guy disappeared. “All of it.” She glances at the window again. “What happened? How'd she die?”

“She was sick,” I mutter.

Melinda rakes her fingernails over her cheek, causing a welt by her right nostril to bleed. “I need money,” she pleads as a trickle of blood dribbles past her lip onto her chin. “You're the only one I could go to, the only one who could understand. I'll pay you back. All of it.”

I slap my hand down on the table, knocking over an empty wine bottle. “Understand? You've got to be kidding. You're really asking me for money?” I shake my head and turn toward the window where a trapped fly buzzes between the cracked glass and screen. “I can't believe you had the guts to come to my aunt's house, leave me some bullshit note about my mom, and ask for money after you stole from us.” I spin back around to face her. “I'm such an idiot. I knew I shouldn't have come here.”

“Wait!” she blurts. “Please. There's more.”

She takes a drag off her cigarette and starts to cough. She coughs so hard I think she's going to crack a rib. For a second I almost feel sorry for her, but I shake off the feeling. I'm not getting suckered into that charity case routine.

“Forget it. We're out of here. Come on, Jesse. Let's go.”

I grab his arm and start walking to the door, but Melinda gets there first. She stands in the doorway, arms out, blocking us from leaving. I could easily push her out of the way if I wanted to—a flick of my hand and those birdlike bones would snap.

“They're telling me not to go to the doctor, like they told your mother,” she whispers.

“Like who told my mother?” I hear my voice rise, feel my face burn.

Melinda cracks the door, peers down the hallway, then closes it again. She's acting like a paranoid drug addict. Big surprise.

“I can't tell you,” she says.

“Oh my god. This is crazy.” I try to push past her, but she's not letting me go without a fight. She grabs my jacket with more force than I would've expected, given her size and state, and gives me a hard shove. I stumble backwards into Jesse. He rights my fall and holds my arm for a second, but I jerk away. I'm angry enough to return the shove, but Melinda's scurried past us and is cowering by the couch, holding out a piece of paper.

“Read this. It'll explain.”

I snatch the paper and read the heading out loud, “You can lead a heroin-free life.” Jesse peers over my shoulder and we read the rest together.

“Neurons are cells that transmit chemical and electrical messages along pathways in the brain. In the center of the brain sits the reward pathway, which is responsible for driving our feelings of motivation, reward and behavior. Drugs, such as heroin, activate this reward pathway, leaving an addict with a high and craving more.

At the Twenty-third Street Methadone Clinic, we are working with researchers from PluraGen, a leading biopharmaceutical company, to run a clinical trial to deliver an experimental new drug to block this pathway. This will stop the cravings/pleasure cycle associated with heroin use, so that normal brain function can be restored and you can once again lead an addiction free life.

Are you interested in participating in this groundbreaking clinical trial? Applicants must be over the age of 18 and fill out our prescreening registration form to determine eligibility.”

I glare at her when I'm done reading. “What the hell is this?”

“The clinical trial.”

“
What
clinical trial?”

“The one I was in with your mother, for addicts.” Melinda's whole body is one jittery motion—foot tapping, fingers drumming, hands quivering. Hardly the bleary-eyed, heroin vibe I've seen so many times. High on some other drug is my guess. She stubs out her cigarette in a beer can and looks at me. “I'm clean now.”

“Clean?” I laugh. “So this clinical trial is a miracle?”

She ignores my sarcasm and breaks into another coughing fit. “I'm the one who told her about it,” she says when she catches her breath. “I'm not supposed to talk about it…but I thought if you knew, maybe you'd help. I think it's side effects from the drug making me sick.” She picks at a piece of skin hanging from her lip and her nervous eyes dart to the window again. “So I stopped going in for treatment. That's why I need money. To see a doctor.”

I raise my eyebrows at Jesse, who gives a helpless shrug. “You're saying my mother was in some clinical trial for heroin addicts?”

“That's right. They say they're the only ones who can treat the symptoms, but I don't believe them.”

“No way,” I say, in a less than convincing tone. And then, my voice now trembling, I add, “Mom wasn't in a clinical trial. She would've told me. Mom didn't keep secrets like that.”

Melinda suddenly lunges at me. She pinches my chin in her scabby fingers and raises my face to meet her eyes. “Look at me.” Her voice is low and controlled and for a second all that twitchy, strung-out energy dissipates. “Your mother and I look the same, don't we? Our skin—the scabs, the blisters—side effects, all of it.”

Staring into Melinda's decomposing flesh, I see my mother and remember that final morning.

She's all elbows and knees standing in front of the bathroom mirror in her underwear and t-shirt, rubbing cream onto her scabs.

“You should really go see a doctor, Ma,” I say, peering at her from the doorway.

“I'm fine, hon,” she tells me, frowning as she checks her reflection in the mirror. “Just a little under the weather. Too much sun at the shore last week. Maybe I have a little cold. Besides, I don't trust all those fancy doctors and hospitals. All they want is money.” She looks at me, sees the worry on my face, and smiles. “I'll be fine, Faith, really. I'm clean now. Everything's going to be okay.”

There was a lie behind that smile. Even then I knew it.

I wonder if the lie was about being clean or because she knew she was dying.

A familiar voice whispers in my head:
She betrayed you. She lied because she didn't love you. She didn't care
.

Angry tears burn my eyes. I blink hard and swallow. Maybe there is a reason Mom wouldn't go to a doctor. Maybe Melinda
is
telling the truth and Mom was in some clinical trial, trying to get better, and something went wrong.

The effect of this thought is relief, but then I look at Melinda again—the washed-out skin, the dark circles beneath her eyes, her tangled mat of hair and trembling fingers—and I remember what she really wants. Money. I twist out of her grip and back away.

“Go to the hospital if you're so sick. Why are you bothering me?”

She starts to say something, but someone pounds on the door. A man calls her name, and she doesn't finish her thought. She looks at me, and in a loud panicked whisper says, “Quick, go. He can't see you here.” She snatches the flier from my hand and scribbles a number. “Call Al,” she says, pushing Jesse and me down the hall into the back room and pointing at Fat Guy, who's perched on the edge of the bed, holding a joint and watching a lion tear apart a gazelle on TV. She stuffs the flier in my bag. “He'll know how to get in touch with me.”

“Wait! What's going on? You're not making any sense. Why—”