Scars from a Memoir (23 page)

She got up from the couch in a rush, and I ran to the door. “You're not leaving,” I said, blocking her with my body. That didn't stop her from trying to get past me.

“I just need a taste.” Strands of her hair still stuck to her wet lips, and her shirt was soaked with splatters of puke. “Get out of my goddamn way!”

Asher moved behind her, picked her up, and carried her to the couch. She kicked her arms and legs the whole way, crying, “I just need a taste. A little one. Then I'll come right back.”

“You only have to get through one more day, and then Dr. Cohen will give you some medicine to make you feel better,” I said.

Allison had sent me a text, confirming Tiffany's admission for tomorrow. In her message, she said they were still working on a plan and that, due to the circumstances, the treatment would be aggressive and short term.

I sat next to Tiffany, and she put her head on my lap. “But it hurts, Nicole. It hurts so bad.”

“I know,” I whispered, combing my fingers through her hair. “I know.”

And I did know—at least the detox and addiction parts. I remembered going through withdrawal in Sunshine's hotel room without the help of any medicine. My stomach cramps were like a combination of food poisoning and PMS. I tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, my head would spin. Sweat dripped down my forehead and cheeks. Then I'd shake from the chills. It was as though the heroin gods were moving the thermostat from right to left every few minutes. I would have done anything to take that pain away; I would have killed for a hit. But I wasn't dying from cancer. Tiffany's situation was so much worse than mine.

She crawled off the couch but moved only a few feet before falling flat. She screamed when her face thumped against the wood floor, stabbing her nails into the ground. She tried to pull herself up; she didn't have the strength. Instead, she scraped her fingers back and forth and cried out in pain. Asher put a wet washcloth on the back of her neck, and she flung it at him. She asked for water, and he handed her a plastic bottle. She dropped it on the way to her mouth and licked the puddle on the floor.

I stared at Asher, but I couldn't get his attention. He leaned against the counter, and it looked like that was the only thing keeping him standing. His face was filled with emotion. Overcoming his own demons had made him strong, but this was different. This was a lot to deal with, even for me, and I had witnessed some screwed-up things in my life. But we still had twenty-four hours to get through; we were only at the beginning stages of her withdrawal.

*   *   *

“N-Nicole,” Tiffany screamed through chattering teeth, “I n-need a t-taste.”

She was on the floor, her head in my lap. Drool had left wet spots on my jeans, and hers were wet from when she had peed, refusing to let us change her clothes. I looked at the clock on the microwave. “Twenty more hours.”

“I can't wait that long.”

I rocked back and forth, hoping the movement would ease her. She began to gag and threw up on my stomach. Asher rushed over with a towel and sat down to take my place while I got in the shower. Despite the humming of the water, I could hear her screams. I curled up in the corner of the tub, letting the stream beat over my legs, and covered my ears with my hands. The rocking didn't soothe me either.

I thought back to all the times I had spoken to Allison during my monthly call-ins and when she had asked how things were going. I'd never told her about Tiffany because I thought it wasn't my news to tell. Maybe I should have. The drugs might have caused her tumor to grow even faster. And maybe her withdrawal would have been
less intense if we had stopped her using earlier on. Maybe she could have stayed in sober living while getting treated by an outpatient program instead of having to check in.

*   *   *

Asher ordered pizza for dinner, but neither of us touched our slices. We gripped our mugs of coffee, willing it to keep us awake, and clasped fingers under the table. Tiffany had finally fallen asleep, but I knew it wouldn't last long; her churning stomach, the pounding in her bones, or the drips of sweat that felt like knives swiping her skin would wake her up.

The bags under Asher's eyes matched Tiffany's. I was sure mine did too. The caffeine had stopped working hours ago, and we had thirteen more to go. When Tiffany stirred in her sleep, we both jumped. Had I dozed off for a minute? I didn't know. My head was fuzzy, and my eyes were too tired for my vision to be sharp.

Her breathing was loud and grunt-like, the pain seeping into her sleepy state. Arms jerked and hit the couch, legs kicked against the floor. She popped up, eyes wide and mouth open, and slid to the ground. Asher's hand tensed, and I squeezed his fingers. She moved on all fours and landed in front of me, wrapping herself around my knees. Her face rested on my shin. I rubbed the back of her head, my fingers shaking from her sobs.

*   *   *

“Nicole! Get in here!”

My eyes shot open, my mind disoriented. I was resting on top of the kitchen table, the slice of pizza inches from my face. My legs were numb from Tiffany using them as a pillow. Had I fallen asleep? I sat up carefully so I wouldn't wake her. But as I looked down, she wasn't on the floor.

I bolted from the chair and followed Asher's voice. I stopped in the doorway of the bathroom. An empty bottle of aspirin was in the sink along with an uncapped bottle of cough syrup. Asher was leaning into the bathtub, holding her limp body.

“Call 9-1-1,” he shouted.

He threw his phone at me, and I dialed with shaky fingers. When the call was answered, I told the operator about the aspirin and cough syrup and gave him my address.

“Turn her on her side,” I said, repeating the operator's directions. “Open her mouth, and if nothing comes out, stick your fingers down her throat.”

Her mouth was empty. Her face didn't move even when Asher gagged her.

“Is she breathing?” I asked.

“Barely.”

I hung up after the operator told me to unlock the downstairs door. There was a bag of phonebooks by the mailboxes that I stuck in the doorway to hold the door open, and then I rejoined Asher. He was sitting on the edge of the tub, holding Tiffany's head up.

“Where did she get all this?” I asked, picking up both bottles.

“They must have been in my bag from when I was sick last week.”

“Didn't I tell you to hide all your stuff?”

Tylenol was the only medication I had, and along with the kitchen knives and my razor, I'd locked it all in the trunk of Asher's rental car.

“I put my bag under your bed.”

I couldn't blame him for this. As far as I knew, Asher had never been around anything like this. He hadn't known Tiffany would search his bag, and now that didn't matter. The most important thing was getting her to the hospital. Her skin turned bluer every second. When I put my fingers under her nose, I could hardly feel any air passing by.

I heard the sound of feet and moved into the hallway. “She's in here,” I yelled.

The paramedics forced us out of the bathroom so they would have enough room to work. Asher and I stood in the hallway, his arms wrapped around me. When he started to say something, I quieted him and tried to listen to the paramedics. After all the times I'd been in the hospital, medical language should be something I understood. But none of the numbers they were saying back and forth told me anything about her condition.

The stretcher wouldn't fit in the bathroom, so the paramedics carried her to the hallway, secured her under the straps, and brought
her down the stairs. Once we got outside, they told us which hospital they were taking her to, and Asher hailed a taxi. When I told him we should take the rental car to save time, he said it was six blocks away and there wasn't much parking at the hospital.

Once we got in the cab, he banged his head against the back of the seat. “Ten more goddamn hours, and she would have been in rehab.”

I reached for his hand and kissed his fingers. He'd been through a lot in the last two days, and it was all for me. “When you're going through withdrawal, every minute feels like an hour.”

“Do you think she was trying to kill herself?”

If Tiffany had wanted to score, she would have left my apartment and gone out on the streets, or she would have taken only the cough syrup. A bottle of Robitussin, after you stopped puking from the way it tore up your stomach, would make you trip like acid. But the bottle of aspirin confirmed her real intentions.

“I think so.”

“But she saw how well you're doing—”

“I don't think her withdrawal symptoms were the only reason she did it. She was sober for three years; she knew exactly what it would take to get there again. She also knew the tumor was eventually going to kill her…” I didn't want to think she had succeeded in taking her life. Although her breaths were shallow, she was still breathing; after they pumped her stomach, she would be fine. She couldn't have been in that bathtub for more than fifteen minutes. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how wrong I was. The last time I had looked at the clock, there were thirteen hours left. That meant I'd slept for almost three.

I knew how it worked when someone was taken to the hospital. The nurses wouldn't let you in farther than the desk, and you sat in the waiting room until someone came out to speak with you. I'd done just that when Sunshine had overdosed and after Michael was shot—and now again, when the paramedics wheeled Tiffany in. Asher got me a cup of water from the bubbler, and I pretended to watch TV. During the taxi ride, I'd called the rehab center and told Allison what had happened. After three sets of commercials, she arrived at the emergency room. She was dressed in her counselor uniform: a white lab coat with her name pinned on the pocket and some type of pants that weren't jeans.

The first thing she said was, “This isn't your fault.” Then she hugged me and introduced herself to Asher.

“I shouldn't have fallen asleep.”

“I shouldn't have either,” Asher said.

“That can happen, you two, especially after being up all night,” Allison said.

“But I was supposed to watch her.”

“You did your best,” Allison said. “You both did.”

“My best wasn't good enough.”

“Nicole—”

“I'm sick of this place.” I moved out of my chair and stood in front of them. “I've been here way too many times and seen too many people die. When is it going to stop?”

“Dying is part of life,” Allison said.

“But the people I've lost didn't deserve to die.”

“No one does, Nicole.”

A doctor wearing blue scrubs and a white lab coat walked toward us. There were two expressions doctors wore when they came out to the waiting room: survived, and died. I'd witnessed both looks, and I knew Tiffany's fate even before he said the word.

My friend was gone.

-27-

MY CALL-INS WITH ALLISON HAD ENDED once I'd moved out of sober living, but after Tiffany died, we started talking a few times per week. She thought I needed the extra counseling. I did, especially after Tiffany's cause of death was ruled as aspirin toxicity. Addicts knew which drugs could get them high, and aspirin wasn't one of them. Allison agreed that Tiffany had taken the aspirin to commit suicide, but we didn't tell the police or the hospital that; we didn't want suicide to appear on her record.

I couldn't find Professor Allen's number in Tiffany's cell phone, so Allison and I went to Northeastern to notify him in person. Allison didn't think it was something I should do alone. When we stopped by campus billing and admissions, we learned that Professor Allen was in jail. He had been caught dealing coke to an undercover cop. We also discovered that Tiffany had dropped her classes a few months ago, around the same time Professor Allen had been arrested. The timeline made sense. For the last several months, her behavior had gotten much worse. That was the difference between coke and bath salts. Coke had kept her awake all night so she could study; bath salts made her psychotic. And the whole thing was disturbing. I hadn't missed all the relapse signs; I'd just chosen to ignore them.

A few days after our trip to the university, Allison called and asked if I would come to the rehab center. They kept updated records on all their employees, even those who no longer worked there. I figured Allison wanted to document Tiffany's behavior—how she treated the roommates and me, where the pharmacist lived, and the drugs she took—and she'd probably want me to sign my statement.

When I arrived, Dr. Cohen was in Allison's office. He stood and hugged me. “Three hundred and forty-five days sober. We couldn't be more proud.”

I felt my face turn red. The last time he'd said those words to me was at the graduation ceremony; they had meant a lot then and meant even more now. But Dr. Cohen treated too many patients to keep track of their sobriety. He must have checked my records. I wondered why.

“Dr. Cohen and I have an offer we'd like to present to you,” Allison said. There was a folder on her desk, and she slid it over to me.

Inside was a brochure from the University of Massachusetts explaining its online Addictions Counselor Education Program Certificate. The program consisted of five courses, pre-practicum, and practicum experience.

“You think this program will help with my sobriety?” I asked.

“Well, yes, but that's not the reason we'd like you to enroll,” Dr. Cohen said. “Allison was impressed with the way you handled Tiffany and your friend Sunshine. The program will prep you for your certification, and eventually we'd like you to consider getting your bachelor's, even your master's.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” I said. “Why do you want me to get certified?”

“What the doctor left out,” Allison said, winking at Dr. Cohen, “is that we would like to offer you a job. As you may know, we require one year of sobriety for our entry-level positions. We don't want to start you at entry level. We'd like you to work with our patients, which requires a minimum of an addiction certification.”

“You're offering me a job?”

“We'll cover the cost of your schooling,” Dr. Cohen said. “We'll even lend you a laptop if you don't have one, as long as you sign a contract with the center, guaranteeing five years of employment once you've finished the certificate.”