Pulled Within (2 page)

The streetlamp showed dried blood caked across his mouth, and
in the corners. Both eyes were black and swollen; his cheeks
matched. His bare arms were marred with scratches, deep wounds that looked fully infected. His hands were crossed over his chest, gripping his T-shirt like he was using it to bear the ache—or take the edge off, at least. Nothing but more drugs could take away the incredible pain he had to be feeling.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

I jumped from the sound of his voice. It was even raspier in
person than it had been on the phone, like his throat was coated in resin. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“My eyes are swollen, not shut.”

I squatted onto the bottom step and gently pulled his head onto my lap. My fingers slid through his greasy hair. It was the only part of him that wasn’t covered in blood. I didn’t know if the massage would make him feel better. I had to try something. I’d never seen him like this…not this messy or bruised. Not this broken. “Fuck, Brady. What the hell happened to you?”

He slowly reached for my free hand and used it to pull himself
up. He sat on the second step above me and leaned forward, his
hands covering his forehead. Even through the hair and dirt and swelling, I could tell how much weight he’d lost in his face.

He looked hollow.

And he smelled like something wicked. The stench of pee came from his jeans, a huge wet spot circling his zipper. He also reeked of
chemicals, of unwashed skin and something metallic, which I
figured was the blood.

He wobbled on the step, flinching each time his body rocked or his thumbs grazed his temple. It wasn’t a whimpering cry, like a wounded animal might make as it lay in the middle of the road. This
was deep, guttural. Primal. He was more than just battered
physically.

He was crumbling mentally, too. Right in front of me.

My heel slipped on the wood, and I stood to regain my balance. Brady responded so quickly. Before I could move, he’d clamped his arms around the back of my legs and pressed his cheek against my thigh. “No,” he cried. “You can’t leave me.”

My shoulders melted and slouched from the sound of him. I
tried to stop my own sobs from matching his. “I’m not going
anywhere. I would never leave you.”

He tilted his neck to look up at me. His hands tightened. His lids were so dark and swollen, I couldn’t see his pupils. But I knew he was staring at me; I could feel his gaze, and the tears that dripped off
his chin soaked through my jeans. This was only the second time
he’d ever cried in front of me.

The first was the morning after I’d gotten my scar.

“Help me,” he begged. “Help me, Rae…I hurt so fucking much.”

“RAE!” BRADY SCREAMED.
“
Raaaaaaae!
”

For the two hours we’d been back in Bar Harbor, he’d been
shouting
my name non-stop. He’d even yelled when he was in the shower while I was sitting just a foot away on the closed toilet seat. He was in agony.

So was I.

His muscles ached so badly that he couldn’t get comfortable in the bed. I’d covered him in a blanket when he shivered, but he’d just kicked it off. His skin throbbed too much. The fan didn’t help; beads of sweat formed and pooled across his body regardless of the air it
blew on him. The only thing that would make this go away was
more drugs…but they were the reason he felt like this in the first place.

There was nothing I could do to help him.

That didn’t mean I’d stop trying.

With a bowl of ice and a wet washcloth, I crawled behind him in the bed. “I’m here,” I whispered as I placed the damp cloth over his forehead. We didn’t have any paper towels, so I wrapped the ice in a piece of toilet paper and ran the cold nugget down his arms. He was in one of his hot phases. I could smell the drugs seeping out of him. And the booze.

And the vomit he’d gotten on himself since the shower.

“Kill me.” He was tucked in a ball, his head resting on my lower thigh. His hands were just above his hair, wrapped around my leg,
squeezing. There was dirt under his nails and cuts all over his
knuckles,
but they were still the same hands: kind and patient. Fingers that
weren’t always wise with their decisions but had faced demons for years and had clawed their way through to survive. “Give me a fucking needle, a knife—anything. I just need to end this.”

The toilet paper wasn’t holding up, so I used straight ice cubes on his skin. “You’re going to get through this, Brady.” I remembered when he’d said those same words to me.

“No, Rae.” His body started shaking and still burned to the
touch, even though he was freezing. “I can’t do this.”

I’d said those words once, too.

I leaned down to lend him some of my warmth, covering his
neck with my arms. His hands released my thigh and reached up,
grazing
my chin on the way to my hair. A gasp shot through my lips. My
body began to match his, tremors tormenting my whole shell. His fingers twisted into my strands and pulled them taught against his palms.

It was too much.

My eyes filled with tears, but I said nothing.

“Shit, Rae, I’m so sorry.” He knew…he knew I couldn’t take it—
anything but
touching my cheeks or my hair. “I didn’t mean to. I
forgot…”

I wiggled out from under his hands and moved to the far corner
of the room. I didn’t want to leave him, but I needed some kind of comfort, and the walls gave me that. They hugged me; held me. Supported me. So I rocked between them, my arms clinging to my
knees, bunched together
as close to my chest as I could get them. My ass rolled back and
forth, back and forth over the sticky, filthy floor.

“Come back,” he begged. “Please…I need you. Rae, I fucking need you.”

Back and forth.

I covered my ears with my hands, my face tucked into the darkness.
At some point, I’d wondered if I could handle Brady’s hands being there, tangled in my hair. Just his. No one else’s. Today had proved I couldn’t.

Thirty-two
days
.

“Please, Rae…
pleeeeeeeassssse!
”

Back and forth.

***

“Call my dad,” he yelled.

I was in the bathroom, rinsing the bucket from his last round of
puking. I held my breath, but the smell was still seeping in
somehow. I was doing everything I could not to gag.

“Do you want him to come over?” I asked as best I could.

The physical withdrawal he was going through could last up to a week; we didn’t have that much time before we’d be kicked out of this apartment. The first eviction notice came just before Brady had
taken off. The second had been delivered yesterday. We had
seventy-
two hours to pay two months of back rent, or we’d have to leave. I
didn’t have the money. I knew Brady didn’t either.

“I want him to come get me.”

He didn’t want me to take care of him?

I left the bathroom and sat on the bed. He was on his back, his
knees
bent, staring at the ceiling. I touched his arm, and his hand closed
over
my fingers. “I just want to help you.” My voice was so soft…so
fragile. I almost didn’t recognize it.

“I’ve hurt you,” he said, “and I’m just going to keep doing it. I need help, Rae…real help this time.” His teeth chattered. I covered
him with the blanket, but he kicked it right off. Beads of sweat ran
into his eyes. When I tried to dab the beads, he clenched down on my skin with his nails. “Call my dad…
please.
” His eyes rolled back into his head. Spit flew from his tongue and landed on his lips, strings of white goo stretching between them. “Tell him I need rehab.”

I was relieved that he wanted to get help. He never had before, which meant he’d inevitably gone back to using after every one of
his breaks. Internal silence would be impossible for him, every
addict I knew had told me that, but rehab would help him identify
his demon and teach him how to quiet it. And then, once the facility
thought he was ready—or once his money ran out, whichever came
first—they’d spit him back onto the street. I’d be there when it
happened. I’d make sure he didn’t fall again. Or I’d try to, at least.

But I had no idea what I’d do in the meantime.

I’d sent Brady’s dad a text when we’d gotten back to the
apartment.
He probably wasn’t awake to hear it. I was happy the ringing had woken him. “Shane,” I said, holding the phone up to my ear. “Brady’s here.”

“What? When did he get back?” The sleep in his voice began to vanish. “How is he?”

Either in person, on the phone, through text, or during our
weekly lunches, Shane and I had talked about Brady almost every day since
he’d disappeared. It was comforting to have someone else want
Brady to return as badly as I did. But having Shane to talk to did more than just comfort me where his son was concerned. It was a reminder that not all dads were assholes.

Not like mine was.

Not long after Brady had taken off, Shane had called his
connection at the rehab center. He wanted to be prepared for when Brady came home…if he came home at all. He’d been told there was a waiting list. But Shane had done most of the carpentry work at that facility,
so they knew him well. If anyone could get Brady moved to the top
of
their list, it was him. “He wants to go to rehab,” I said. “Can you
help him get in?”

“You’re at the apartment?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

Setting the phone down next to me, I ran my hands along the ends of his hair, careful to keep my fingers off his sweating face and the beard he had yet to shave. I didn’t touch him enough to hurt him, just enough to let him know I was still there.

He could barely open his swollen lids. Through the slit between them, the light blue of his irises looked foggy. He was an overcast morning. “How did I get here?” he asked.

“I practically carried you from the shower.”

A drop fell from the corner of his eye when he shook his
head…just one. It slid slowly to his mouth. Most of the blood was gone from his lips, but there was still evidence in red. “No…how did I get
here
?”

He meant his addiction.

It was something he’d struggled with for a long time.
Sometimes, he used several times a day; sometimes, only once. And sometimes, he went weeks or months without touching anything. But he’d told me the urge was always there.

My stare drifted to the corner of his room, where my clothes
were
folded in piles on the floor. My shampoo was in his shower. My
rotten
loaf of bread was in his kitchen. I didn’t know how I’d gotten here,
either.

Thirty-one days
.

“I’m no better…no different,” I whispered. “You know that.”

“It took me further this time.” He rubbed his knuckles over his
chest. When he’d gotten out of the shower, I’d noticed all the
bruising. Someone had beaten him, and it didn’t look like they had used their fists to do it. “It got so fucking dark out there.”

He hadn’t told me what had happened on the streets. But I knew dark. Most of my life had been continuous cloud cover.

“Your dad’s getting you help. You’re going to be okay.”

He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. I didn’t need to; I saw the uncertainty on his face. A few of his boys had gone to the same rehab. After getting out, they hadn’t stayed clean for more than a few days. I had no doubt this knowledge was among the many things eating at him.

“Don’t think beyond right now,” I continued. “We’re going to
get through this moment, just like we’re going to get through the next.”

I needed to take my own advice.

My phone began to ring. Shane’s name appeared on the screen.

“They can get him a bed in two days.”

“Two days?” I echoed, but with greater disappointment.

“No…I can’t wait two fucking days,” Brady groaned.

I agreed. There was a good chance he’d change his mind by then. We needed to get him in sooner.

“But he’s in rough shape, Shane, and he’s so sick.”

“They’re going to write him a prescription that will help with the withdrawal. I’m on my way to the pharmacy to pick it up, then I’ll swing by the apartment.” He hesitated. “Do you think it would be best if Brady stayed…with
me
…in the meantime?”

A tiny bit of Brady’s swollen lids popped open. I wasn’t on
speakerphone, but Shane spoke loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve
gotta go to his place.” He wiped the back of his hand across his
forehead. His skin was drenched. “The meds aren’t going to do shit. I’m only going to get sicker.”

I pressed the phone against my shoulder so Shane couldn’t hear what we were saying. “I’ll go with you. I’ll—”

“No.” He sat up and moved to the other end of the bed. When
his
back pressed against the wall, he winced. “I don’t want you to see
me like this.”

“Brady, I want to take care of—”

“You’ve done enough. I’m not dragging you down anymore. Tell him to come get me. Now.”

All I wanted to do was care for him. It hurt that he wouldn’t let
me, but I had to do what he’d asked. I pulled the phone off my
shoulder and held it to my cheek. It pressed against my scar. “Come get him, I guess.” I didn’t try to hide the emotion in my voice, and I didn’t say anything more. I ended the call and stared at my hands. It was too difficult to look at him…I had to think very carefully about what to say. He felt horrible, and I didn’t want to make him feel worse.