In the Nick of Time (7 page)

“Tell me about how you felt when you first began the pain medication, Taryn. How did it start?”

Taryn looked up at the woman, surveyed her from the top of her head down to her ample chest, then back up again.

“At the time, it helped me manage my pain. It was, as they say, an innocent thing.” She grinned ever so slightly. “And now my body is revolting against me, Frieda, and my mind sometimes, too. You know what? I don’t think I really told the truth.” She sat forward, wanting to set the record straight as she sorted out her emotions that bore down on her in jagged spells. The damn things rolled towards her like migrant snowdrifts threatening to cover her whole, steal her breath, and freeze her right then and there. “I feel…” She swallowed, her throat suddenly scratchy. “I feel foolish as I crave the relief it provided. Some days are okay.” She nodded, relishing the memory of those moments.

“I barely think about it and other days I go insane, contemplating signing myself out of this damn place and making a go of it on my own…not to use, but yeah… No… a lie. That’s another damn lie… I’d use, because I know myself better than anyone else, Frieda. And then, if I failed, if I give in to the impulse, I’d just be right back where I started. I have to kick it, this time for good. I’m runnin’ out of time!” Panic suddenly seized her, as if she’d just witnessed her own death certificate being signed. “I am running…out…of time.”

“Do you believe the pain is in your mind now since you are in remission?”

“No.” She sucked her bottom lip as her thoughts coasted into something soft and lax…something safe, but it was short lived. She had to answer; the clock was ticking. “It’s
definitely
real. It’s like I have nerve damage. I haven’t been okay—you know, felt right, like myself—since the chemotherapy.”

Frieda nodded in understanding, then closed her laptop.

“Okay, let’s pause, take a break right here. You’ve shared a lot right now, Taryn. This was monumental. Therefore, we need to take you to the next level, set a new goal. Let’s make a promise.”

“You mean, let
me
make a promise to you and you just sit there and listen.”

Frieda burst out laughing.

“No, I hold a part of the deal too, Taryn, trust me. Look, I know you want to succeed.” The woman paused, blew her nose, then continued. “I know you want
this
time to be different. You’re a hard worker. You are also a very determined person, and that is what is helping you get through. Also, you know that I,”—she spread her hand across her chest—“of
all
people, know what you’re going through.”

Taryn nodded. “Yes, I recall your story. Your drug of choice was Vicodin. I like Vicodin too, but just not as much.” She offered a crooked grin.

“Yes, and though I’m obviously not a former supermodel and haven’t endured everything you have, I did have that dependency. Now, I want you to come to group tomorrow morning and be
open
. I want you to speak as you typically do, earnestly. So many people respect and look up to you.”

“Respect flutters and flies away like a mosquito after it discards its host.” She smirked. “People only respect who they fear or who they
think
they can get something from. They draw blood and go on about their way.” She rolled her eyes dismissively.

The woman looked truly mortified.

“This isn’t the Taryn I know. I think this goes
deeper
than you being in pain this morning, okay? You have never struck me as a cynical person, Taryn. Sarcastic at times? Sure, but this is on a different level.” Those perceptive eyes narrowed upon her as she dug a bit deeper, and was apparently ready to go much further with her inquisition, shovel in hand and a hole in mind to begin her excavation. There was no need; she was gaping open at the bloody wounds, an eyesore for the human spirit to wrap around and squeeze the fermenting life out of…

Taryn simply stared back at her for a moment or two, wondering if she should release the missing piece of the puzzle, make the bullshit complete… Besides, seconds were precious. Why waste another, and then another after that?

Sure, why not? Treat it like an exposé for Vogue France and let the shit be taken totally out of context, and then I’ll be crucified on Twitter… Hmmm…on second thought…

“I’m usually upbeat, in good spirits. That’s true.” She shrugged. “Everyone has a bad day, Frieda.”

“Not you, not like
this
. You went ballistic about me saying your name incorrectly today. You laid into Oliver, though it wasn’t unprovoked, but that was a bit much and atypical of you. Now you’ve gone on a rant about the modeling industry being full of bobble heads and your ex using you and being a complete waste of time. Now
tell
me what’s
really
going on…”

She sighed, blustered and turned away. Tucking her misgivings within the confines of her own skin, she balled up inside herself like a roly-poly bug. “I don’t feel well because… because the agency dropped me. This is the
third
one in the last ten months. They sent me an email last night and I read it during our break after dinner. Not even a damn call…just a generic email and the whole good luck with your career bullshit. It kinda messed up my whole night and morning, too.”

“Oh wow, Taryn… I’m so sorry.”

Taryn had once again been dethroned, and this time, she hadn’t even gotten accustomed to wearing the new fangled crown.

“So I wasn’t about to let everyone know that today in group… not because I’m ashamed or can’t process it; believe me, I have. It’s because I hate whining about my job, which I hate and love at the same time.” She toyed with her fingernails once again. “If I can’t get a decent gig, a designer to hire me for their show, catalog or advertisement, I will go broke, Frieda.” She threw up her hands in frustration, let them fall fast and slap against her thighs. “I have to take care of myself. I’m a grown woman, and I don’t want anyone’s help to do it! I don’t want any handouts, loans from my friends, or to become a damn charity case. I’m not an invalid! I want to be hired because the photographer or whoever thinks I’m the best woman for the job! It’s…it’s just so frustrating!” She scratched at her forehead as her mood shifted from bad to worse. “My treatment bills are six figures, Frieda! Six damn figures!

“And my health insurance company is dicking me around, trying to weasel out of some of the bills. I’ve had to hire a lawyer and that is costing me an obscene amount. I’m racing through my savings like it’s the hundred-yard dash. Most of these places know I’m desperate now, that I
need
the gigs, so they propose shit offers for days and days of work with crappy amenities. They want full layouts and spreads, runway shows, editorials—the works—and for me to pay for my flights upfront and hotel and meals, too. That
never
used to happen to me.” Her eyes narrowed as she recalled the good ol’ days. “They think I’d be happy just to get the measly check they cut, chump change. Sometimes I barely break even.”

“And this scares you because you don’t have control over your income, your career, your livelihood. Thus, you have no control over your stability. I get it, Taryn. I really do. An independent woman like you is suffering in more ways than one.”

“Yes…that’s exactly what’s going on and since my time is running out…” She looked away once more, smiling sadly. “When do I get cut some sort of break, huh? When does the time expire on bad luck and bad times?” She shrugged, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “It seems good times are always too short, but the bad shit, well…that just lasts forever…”

They were silent for quite some time.

“And where does that leave you, Taryn?”

“Where does it leave me? Stuck. Jammed up.”

“And how do you feel right now?”

“Afraid. I feel
very
afraid, Frieda.” A lone, slow tear trekked down her freshly made up face. She didn’t swipe it away, ask for a tissue. No, she just let it be free, allowed it to do what it needed to do. “And… and I’m so
tired
of being scared, too…”

T
he place smelled
of burnt plastic and the type of perfume old ladies doused themselves in before an early afternoon jaunt to the corner grocery store. Nick stood in the chipped doorway of the place after his partner secured the perimeter. The victim, twenty-five year old Maria Rodriquez, he’d seen a time or two before. Maria’s puffy dark burgundy eyes were practically swollen shut, and her lower lip had ballooned to three times its normal size. On one hip, she carted her eight-month-old daughter about and in her free hand, she held a bottle full of what appeared to be watered down formula, frothy with bubbles.

“He didn’t mean it,” she whispered between blubbery lips that could no longer fully close. He marched past her, ignoring the bullshit bellowing out of her bloody mouth and helped Officer Tomas handcuff the son of a bitch responsible for the ferocious display.

“What type of man are you, huh?” Nick barked. “Beating up on your woman! Your kids are in the goddamn house watching this shit!”

“Maaaan, you don’t know what she did!” the guy screamed out. “And some of that shit I didn’t do to her!” He struggled a bit, trying to plead his case as his legs drooped then bounced about as if he were jimmied from some chain. “She fell! Tell ’em, Maria! Tell ’em the
truth
!” he hollered out, twisting and turning, the veins in his neck looking like they’d soon burst as he struggled for his damn freedom. The bastard kept right on, putting all of his lying heart into his star blazed performance. “She fucked around on me! She’s uh whore!”

“…Shut up, Miguel.” He snatched his wrists hard; the motherfucker howled in pain and Nick enjoyed his wailing so much, he twisted him a bit harder, and then again, getting off on the encore.

“You got ’em too tight, damn it! You got ’em too damn tight, Nick! Goddamn it! Fuck! Nick, come on, man… come
on
!”

“Don’t call me by my first name, you piece of shit. Only friends can call me that and no guy that beats up on his wife is a friend of mine!”

“But I’ve known you since—”

“I don’t care how damn long we’ve known each other! You beat the crap outta her. It’s amazing that she’s still standing. I’ve already told you that you and Maria need to leave each other the hell alone.”

“I tried, man.” The guy smirked. “But she loves my lovin’!” His heavily hooded eyes turned to dark slits as a kitschy grin snaked over his face in a twisted sort of way.

“It’s not funny…it’s not even
close
to funny. The constant arguing, the physical fighting…you’re messing up your kids, Miguel, messing them up bad.”

He turned him towards him, made him look him dead in the eye.

“Be a fuck up on your own time!” Grabbing the man, he hauled his stiff body past Maria who was now leaning against the wall, bawling her bruised eyes out. He paused and stared at her a bit harder, sickened and feeling sorry for her all at once.

“Maria, please,” he stated calmly as Officer Tomas took over and dragged the bastard away like the trash that he was. “Get away from him, okay?” He pointed towards the darkened, graffiti covered hall as the screams for mercy and tainted lies continued to pour out of the coward’s mouth. “One day, he’s gonna kill you… Your kids will have no mother; you are all they really have. They’ll have nobody if you’re dead. Is that what you want?”