Life of the Party (63 page)

I love you
….

More time
passed. More time of lying like a dead thing across the bed,
oblivious to anyone and everything except the needle, curled up in
a ball and clutching Grey’s pillow. People would come and check on
me, try to talk to me; try to shake some life back into me … but to
no avail. I waited as they spoke their words of comfort, blinking
at them until they were done their spiel, ignoring the concern in
their eyes, the hopeful tenor ringing in their voices—the
encouragement. I wanted them to give up, just like I had. Because
there was no point anymore. Not without him.

But Charlie
forced me out of bed one morning, waiting until after I’d shot up
so I was in no state to fight her. She dragged me to the bathroom
and into an awaiting bath, the water hot and deep, sudsy with
bubbles. I let her wash my hair. Neither of us spoke, not once the
entire time. Even afterwards—first when she was doing my make-up,
then later when she straightened my long, dark curls with her hot
iron—we did so in silence. I sat willingly enough under her capable
hands. I was too out of it, too numb to really pay much attention,
too anaesthetized to care about what she was doing.

Until it was
time to get dressed. Charlie pulled out an old familiar dress from
the closet and laid it on the bed for me to wear. I stared at it a
moment, lifting my weary eyes to her beautiful face, barely curious
enough to ask.

“Where are we
going Charlie?” My voice was dull, lifeless.

She answered
softly. “To the funeral.”

“The funeral?”
I whispered.

“Yeah.” She
nodded. She tried to help me out of my housecoat so I could get
changed, but I shook my head and pushed her weakly away.

“You want to do
this on your own?” Charlie wondered.

I nodded. The
drugs were waning; the thoughts were starting to emerge. I needed
to shoot up again and I just wanted a moment alone, away from all
the watchfulness, away from all the concern.

“Okay.” Charlie
gave me a squeeze and then left me to change, shutting the door on
her way out. I sighed, lifting a hand to finger the soft black
fabric of my graduation dress, the dress I had wore on one of the
happiest days of my life. It was impossible not to remember my
graduation then, impossible to fight the sudden memories that
flooded my mind. They were bright—Technicolor, compared to all my
dull, drear thoughts of late. I swallowed heavily, shut my eyes,
and let them come.

I heard it
first. The sound of Grey’s rumbling motorcycle as it tore up the
street. I remembered the surprise, and then the overwhelming joy I
felt when I ripped open the front door and saw him there along the
curb, straddling his bike, waiting for me. I saw him smirk, saw my
own reflection in his shiny aviator glasses, saw my smile. I heard
the sound of our distant laughter, coming from somewhere removed,
somewhere far off. It felt so good to climb onto the seat behind
him, the sun warm on my shoulders, my heart nearly bursting with
happiness. How free and promising and full of possibility the world
had seemed to me then ….

And then I was
hunched over, reeling, gasping with the force of the pent-up sorrow
breaking its way out of me. Grey. I missed him so much. I couldn’t
bear it without him; I couldn’t live without him. It hurt. It hurt
so badly.

Blindly I
staggered my way over to the nightstand, seeking the refuge of the
needle, the comfort of the heroin, the numbness of the drugs. They
were the only thing that could make it all go away. The only answer
to all my soundless pleading.

Within moments
of the delicious steel piercing its way through my flesh, the
memories had faded from my mind, the pain had receded, my breathing
had calmed. I was back where I belonged, in a world without
feeling, in a place of total indifference; of essential, embracing
apathy. In a place where I didn’t care, where I didn’t have to
pretend that I was okay. Because I wasn’t. And I never would be
again.

After a few
moments, I put my dress on. Not a thought crossed my mind as I
shrugged into the silky black gown and pulled it down around my
body. Where before the dress had fit me perfectly, now it was loose
and baggy, hanging unflatteringly upon my frail frame like a potato
sack on a stick. I stared at myself in the mirror. Despite
Charlie’s beauty expertise my face was gaunt and tired looking. My
eyes had lost their sparkle. I let them roam down—down my body—over
the ribs protruding through my chest, along the long lean arms
hanging from my sleeves, over the bony wrists and my long, skeletal
hands.

I smirked
mirthlessly at myself. I felt dead. I looked dead.

Why fight
it?

Slowly I sunk
back down onto the bed, traced a finger down the ragged bloody
scabs that were slashed across my wrist … and realized that I
wanted to die. There was nothing left for me here. Death would end
it all; end all the pain, all the hopelessness. The thought
actually gave me hope in a crazy, desperate sort of way. Knowing
that I had an out, that I wouldn’t be forced to suffer through this
agony forever, it … relieved me. It almost made the day … bearable.
I would go to the funeral. I would endure. And if it got too bad
….

I had a
plan.

Before Charlie
or any of my other guardians could see, I shoved everything I’d
need—all my supplies, the balloon full of drugs, the needle, the
spoon—roughly into my purse. I held it there on my lap a moment,
and for just a brief second, I felt less helpless. I smiled a bit.
This was something I could do, some way to take control again.

His funeral.
Grey’s funeral. I was so determined not to remember anything and so
strung out that it mostly became a blur. A sickening blur
interrupted by sudden moments of utter clarity. Like I wasn’t
permitted to just sit and observe the whole thing—like a cold,
detached bystander—like I’d hoped. I was being forced to feel, to
live through these horrible, devastating moments of lucidity before
the blur would come again, would swallow me up and help protect me
from the torment.

My parents were
there. They hugged me the moment we pulled up at the church. I was
ready to blame them, to call them out for their actions, to see if
they were happy now that Grey was dead. But then they hugged me and
I didn’t know what to do. I let them wrap their arms around me, let
myself feel their warmth, let myself hear how sorry they were, how
much they professed to love me. My resolve crumbled. I let them
lead us through the foyer and into a back room where we could hide
until the service began.

The church
reminded me of Marcy’s wedding. Candles glowed softly and flowers
were everywhere, but this time they weren’t white. They were black.
Black calla lilies on graceful green stems, placed artfully in cut
glass vases. They were perfect. Grey would’ve loved them.

I whispered
lowly in Charlie’s ear. “… Who? Who did all this?” I wondered. Grey
didn’t have any family. I was his family. And I doubted that Tom
and the band ….

“Your parents
did it.” She answered back. “They’ve done everything … they’ve been
so great, Mackenzie. They paid for it all.”

“What?” For a
moment, I was shocked with disbelief. “But they hate Grey.”

“No.” Charlie
shook her head. “They don’t.”

I bit my lip.
Tears warmed my eyes. Marcy got a wedding, I got a funeral.

It was fitting,
almost.

When the
service finally started, Charlie gripped me tightly by the hand and
helped me walk down the long aisle, past the countless pairs of
sympathetic eyes to a pew at the front of the church. I was amazed
by the amount of people present to honour Grey’s memory, people I’d
never seen before, people I’d never met. I should have expected it
though. Grey had that affect on people—he touched them, he warmed
his way into their hearts without them even knowing. He was
popular, he was loved.

He was
gone.

Alex, Zack,
Tom, and the rest of the band filed into the pew beside us. We were
considered Grey’s family. The Minister started speaking, but I
couldn’t listen. I couldn’t do anything but stare at the large,
gleaming oak casket that dominated the stage of the church, holding
the body of the man that I loved. He was in there, he was inside. I
raised a shaky hand to my mouth in an attempt to quiet the sudden
sob that burst through my lips. He was so near to me, but he was so
far away, forever removed. A large picture sat next to the coffin
upon an easel; Grey’s happy, smiling face in life—his blue eyes
shining, his smirk dimpling his stubbled cheek. I stared at his
picture as the tears flooded my eyes, as they fell cascading down
my cheeks. No amount of heroin could have prevented this hurt.

I felt it in
the deepest pit of my soul, felt the terrible yearning for someone
forever lost to me, the desperate longing for something I would
never know again.

What I would
give to have you hold my hand. What I would pay to feel your breath
on my face. I love you Grey, I love you with all my heart.

Why did you
have to die?

We drove out to
the cemetery. I couldn’t find my parents, but I just knew they were
there. I could feel them there. And Riley. Somewhere, deep inside
me, I knew Riley was there as well. He was keeping his distance,
which I could understand. But he wouldn’t have left me to do this
alone. I suppose the thought should have comforted me. But at the
moment, I was beyond comforting.

Before Grey’s
coffin was lowered into the ground, I set a rose upon the shining
lid. I pressed my hand against the silky lacquered wood and held it
there a moment—the tears pouring freely—and in that instant my mind
was made up.

I couldn’t do
it. I couldn’t do it without him. It was too hard. Even with the
drugs, it was unbearable. There was no point living. Not without
him.

I didn’t say
goodbye to Grey then. More like … see you soon.

I cried the
hardest as we pulled away from the cemetery. It didn’t feel right
to just leave him there, alone. Wouldn’t he get cold? What if he
was afraid?

It was a long
drive to my parents’ house. They were hosting a luncheon, which
touched me, deeply—but was something I wanted no part of. The house
was packed, but I didn’t want to socialize, I didn’t want to accept
condolences. I stole one of my father’s super thick, heavy winter
coats and escaped outside, leaning against the house and chain
smoking. I could feel the nausea hitting, my stomach churning, the
craving pulsing within me. This was the longest I’d gone without
heroin in weeks. I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer.

Nor did I want
to. I was exhausted, weary, ready for everything to be over. I
clutched my purse against my chest and threw my cigarette butt into
the snow. Everything felt strangely clear—sharpened, almost—as I
walked back into the house and hung my dad’s coat back up in the
closet. My steps had purpose for the first time in what felt like
eternity. I’d been so lost for so long. It felt good to have
direction again.

I slipped
through the crowd of mourners in their dark dresses and suits, up
the stairs and into the bathroom. I set my supplies out on the
counter, slowly and methodically. I wouldn’t allow myself to think
of my family, my parents, my sister, Greg—the sixty-year-old man
stuck in the twenty-something body—my friends. I wouldn’t let
myself picture Charlie or Alex or Zack, or Toby and Ben. Or Riley.
I refused to think of Riley. They’d all just have to understand. It
was way too hard.

It was kind of
poetic, in a way, going out the same way Grey had. At least it
would be peaceful. And quick. I put as much heroin on the spoon as
it would hold, diluting it just enough to make it liquid. The mix
was dark—darker than normal—much, much stronger than normal. I
heated it all, sucking up the lethal combination until the syringe
was nearly full.

I kept Grey’s
face before my eyes. My hand shook as I gripped the needle. I
didn’t want to lose courage, not now, not when I was so close.
I’m coming, Grey.
I promised.
Soon, we’ll be together
forever. Nothing will keep us apart.

A smile bent my
lips as I pressed the needle against my skin. It was like I could
already feel the sweet relief of death, like I could taste its
promise. The needle slid in easily, found my vein effortlessly,
sucked my blood fluidly up into the chamber. I sat down on the
toilet seat, ready; gripping the needle, shutting my eyes in sweet
anticipation.

I love you Grey
….

I pressed the
plunger down, slowly, prolonging the moment. I smiled as the drugs
took hold of my system. And then they just kept coming, rushing
through my blood stream, taking my breath away with the sheer force
of them—my heart pounding harder and harder as they slammed through
my swollen veins. Taking over me. Surrounding me. Drowning me. I
didn’t fight them; I let them have their way, giving up, giving in
to the sweet surrender of blackness that loomed on the very edge of
my being.

I fell over,
slowly—it seemed to take forever. Everything was in slow motion.
Was this how it felt, Grey?
I wondered.
Did you feel this
way when you died?

I fell, slumped
over between the toilet and the wall, and knew no more.

There was a
banging noise. Like a fist on a door. Muffled voices were coming
from somewhere far, far away. I was removed from the noises; apart
from the chaos unfolding. It was peaceful where I was. Tranquil.
Heavenly.

“How long has
she been in there?” Riley’s voice, frantic with worry.

“I don’t know.
I didn’t even see her come up here!” Charlie wailed.