Some Are Sicker Than Others (16 page)

“Don’t do this, Monty. You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because it’s my fault! I’m responsible! I killed her!”

“Monty.”

“She knew it wasn’t safe, but I made her do it. I didn’t stop. I didn’t pull over.”

“What about the other car? What about the other driver? He came into your lane. He forced you into that reservoir.”

“They never found him. No one ever came forward.”

“So?”

“So, maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it was just my imagination.”

“You’re drunk, Monty. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do. I know exactly what I’m fucking saying. She should’ve never been with me. If we hadn’t met, none of this would’ve ever happened. She’d still be alive. That kid would still have his mother.”

“It was an accident, Monty. Plain and simple. Shit happens. Life on life’s terms. Remember?”

“Don’t you quote that AA bullshit to me, Robby. You should know better than that. Save that shit for your little lackeys. Not me, man. I’m done with all that shit. I’m gone. Four more weeks and I’ll be as good as dead.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Oh no? You think I’m just fucking around? Is that it? You think I’m just playing games?”

“You’re not going to kill yourself, Monty. You and I both know that. That’s just the alcohol talking. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so.”

“Okay, okay, alright. You wanna see some games, Robby? You wanna see who’s playing? Alright, okay, I’ll show you some fucking games. I’ll show you who’s fucking playing.”

In one swift turn, Monty hurled the phone across the kitchen. It bounced off the wall and shattered into two pieces. He grabbed the gin bottle and turned it up towards the ceiling—the gin streamed down his cheeks and spilled out across the linoleum. Wiping his mouth, he charged across the dining room, his hand around the bottle, his eyes aimed on the bathroom. When he got inside, he flipped on the light switch then laid his hands flat on the counter and stared into the mirror. “Look at you. You’re pathetic, you’re disgusting, you’re a fucking coward. You took the one thing good in your life and you fucking destroyed it.”

He lifted the bottle and took another swallow then cocked his elbow and drove his fist into the mirror. Shards of glass rained down on the counters. He brought his hand out in front of him. His fingers were bleeding, the flesh torn wide open. He clenched his teeth, shook off the throbbing, then lifted the bottle, and took another swallow. He opened the medicine cabinet, reached for the pill bottles, and grabbed one of six that were lined up against the paisley patterned wallpaper. This ought to do the trick, he thought, as he popped open the bottle, dumped the pills into his mouth, some of which spilled out onto the counter. Keeping his jaw relaxed, he reached for the gin bottle, and holding it with both hands, he turned it upward. The first gulp nearly made him vomit, but he was able to choke it back just enough to get about half of the pills in one swallow. As he took another sip, he shut his eyes, breathing slowly in and out through his nostrils. He could feel the pills rubbing against his larynx, sharp and obtrusive scraping against the soft and fleshy tissue. But he worked them all down, inch by inch, swallow by swallow, pill by pill until they were all settled inside his stomach. He opened his eyes, went back to the medicine cabinet, and grabbed the next bottle in line…the Zoloft. He wasn’t sure if it would even do anything. It was just an antidepressant. Wouldn’t it just be like swallowing Tylenol? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter, because he was too far gone to really care about anything. So, he tore off the cap and lifted the bottle, dumped the pills and started to swallow. Some of the pills fell out and danced around the sink basin then disappeared down the drain, never to be seen again. But it must’ve done the trick, because his shoulders went limp and his knees buckled. He slumped back against the wall and down towards the toilet. Everything became dark and he could feel his breath shortening, as if someone was stepping on his throat and slowly squeezing the air out of him. He tried to move his head but couldn’t—it was like something was holding him down, like an elephant was sitting on top of his abdomen. He moved his eyes around, but he couldn’t see anything; the walls of the bathroom had completely closed in on him. All he could see was Vicky screaming, her legs trapped under the dashboard as the icy water rushed in on top of her.

Chapter 12

Angie

ANGIE lay motionless on the grimy twin-size mattress, eyes wide open, following the blades of the fan as they slowly rotated around and around. She was completely naked, except for a pair of pink, fuzzy bunny slippers that were hanging precariously off the ends of her feet. Her bones ached, her muscles were tender, and the stench of stale smoke emanated from her skin. Where was she? And how long had she been here? Had it been days? Maybe weeks?

She sat up on the mattress and looked towards the window. The soft glow of sunlight was seeping in through the shades. Cradling the back of her head with one hand, she thrust her chin up with the other. “Ah.” The cartilage in her neck made a grinding sound like a fork lodged in a garbage disposal’s blades. As she shrugged off the pain, she moved her eyes across the floor of the bedroom. It looked like a garbage truck had driven right through the place. There were playing cards and aluminum foil scattered all over the brown shag carpet. Empty mason jars and two liter Pepsi bottles stained with a reddish brown residue, lay nearby. The mattress was speckled with splotches of red, brown, and yellow that made it resemble the back of a toad. As she breathed through her nose, she got a whiff of something strong and chemical, like some kind of cleaning fluid, maybe acetone.

Just as she was about to get up, she felt something stirring beside her, tickling the flesh of her left knee. When she looked down, she saw a lump of bare flesh underneath the bed covers, rising and falling, twitching and churning—was it an arm? Or maybe it was a leg. She leaned over and carefully peeled off the blankets. Oh, it was just Rick. His eyes were shut, but his mouth was wide open—he looked like an overgrown baby breathing in short, shallow breaths.

She leaned over him and put her lips within an inch from his ear. “Rick sweetie, time to get up.”

Rick just groaned and rolled over, revealing his pasty-white butt cheeks. She sighed and reached over him, her breasts like pink udders draping across his back. She grabbed the remote and powered on the television, cranking up the volume and sitting back against the bed. “Hey Rick,” she said as she flipped through the channels, trying to find the one with the list of shows.

Rick’s legs twitched underneath the covers. He let out another deep groan.

“Rick, please wake up.” She grabbed the sheets and ripped off the covers, exposing his scrawny, hair-covered legs.

His eyes shot open. He looked up at Angie. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Where’s the menu channel?”

“The what?”

“The menu channel.”

“What in the world is the menu channel?”

“You know, the thing that tells you the time of shows and stuff.”

“You mean the channel guide?”

“Yeah, whatever it’s called. What channel is it on?”

Rick sat up and rubbed his eyelids while taking in a long, persistent yawn. “Crap, I don’t know, Angie. Try fifteen.”

Angie punched in the numbers, but the screen just turned completely blue. “What the heck?” She looked down at the remote and slapped it against her thigh. The fat jiggled like a dropped carton of cottage cheese. “I don’t think there is a fifteen.”

“Well then try thirty-three.”

She hit the channel button up a couple times and unlocked it from the blue screen. “Oh wait. Never mind. I found it.” Straining her eyes, she leaned forward and read the time from the bottom of the screen. “Hey Rick?”

“What do you want now?”

“Is this right? The TV’s saying its Thursday, but that can’t be right, can it? I thought we went to bed on Tuesday? Didn’t we go to bed on Tuesday?”

“Jesus, I don’t know Angie. If it says Thursday then it must be Thursday.”

“You mean to tell me we slept through the entire day yesterday?”

“I guess so.”

“Oh no.” The remote slid out of Angie’s hands and clunked on the floor. “That can’t be right. That just can’t be right.” She straddled Rick and reached for his cell phone from the nightstand beside the bed.

“Ouch,” Rick shouted. “Watch the nuts, Angie. Jesus.”

“It can’t be. It just can’t be.”

Angie opened the cell phone and read off the numbers. Her stomach began to tighten. She was gonna be sick. “I can’t believe it. I can’t frickin’ believe it.”

“What?”

“It is Thursday.”

“So?”

She slammed the phone down against the mattress. “I was supposed to go to Sarah’s volleyball game last night.”

“Who?”

“Sarah.”

“Who in the hell’s Sarah?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Rick. You know damn well who I’m talking about. Sarah, my daughter, the girl you used to date.”

Rick smirked coyly. “Oh right. That Sarah. Sorry, I forgot for a minute.”

“You didn’t forget. You’re just trying to be a prick.” Angie picked up a pillow and hurled it at Rick’s face.

“Well shit Angie, don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one who made you miss her damn game.”

“Screw you Rick. If you didn’t get me so god damn high I wouldn’t have missed it.”

Rick laughed and sat up against the headboard. He pulled his hair back into a ponytail and grabbed his cigarettes from the nightstand. “That’s hardly my fault. I didn’t force you to smoke.”

“I can’t believe I missed it. I told her I’d be there. I made a promise.”

“Just call her up and apologize. I’m sure she’d understand.”

“Oh yeah right. I’m sure that would go over real well”—Angie lifted her hand like she was placing an imaginary phone call—“Hi Sarah, I’m sorry I missed your volleyball game, but I was too busy getting high with your old boyfriend, Rick.” After she put the phone in its imaginary cradle, she turned to Rick and said, “Yeah, right, I’m sure she’d understand.”

“Well shit Angie, don’t tell her you were with me. Just make up some bullshit story. Tell her you had a doctor’s appointment or something.”

“I’m not gonna lie to my own kid.”

Rick laughed and reached for his lighter. “A little too late for that, don’t you think?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Oh, come on now baby, I’m just teasing you.” Rick scooted forward and wrapped his arms around Angie’s soft belly, but his breath was so vile it made her cringe. “Hey,” he said, as he inched in closer, one hand in between her legs, the other massaging her left breast. “Since you’re not gonna be doing anything today, maybe you can give me a hand with a few things.”

She sighed and removed his hand from her nipple then got up from the bed and pulled on her robe. “Just tell me what you want me to get. And write it down this time. I’m not a frickin’ mind reader, you know.”

“Don’t worry baby, I will.” Rick leaned back, playing with himself underneath the covers, a sly smirk on his twenty-nine year old acne-scarred face. “Hey Angie.”

“What?”

“You know I love you right?”

“Uh.” Angie made a gagging sound as she tied the robe around her waist. “You make me sick.”

“That’s not what you were saying the other night.”

“Yeah, well I was high.”

Angie pulled back her hair and stomped through the hallway, her steps sounding hollow against the trailer’s cheap, fake wood floor. When she got to the kitchen, she had to plug her nostrils. The smell was so revolting it nearly made her puke. The sink was piled high with empty mason jars and plastic bottles, covered with that reddish-brown residue and lumps of uncooked meth. There were half eaten pizza slices, rotten banana peels, and pieces of bread covered in a thick layer of furry black mold.

Angie took a deep breath and put her hands on the sink counter. The coffee decanter was wedged underneath a frying pan at the bottom of the sink. That’s what she needed—a cup of steaming hot coffee to warm her insides and revive her soul. She reached in and pulled out the decanter then opened the overhead cabinet and stood on her toes. She pulled down the can of Folgers and set it on the counter. It looked like there was just enough for a few fresh cups. She scooped up the grounds and threw them into the little paper basket, poured in some water, and hit the power button on the bottom of the percolator.

After a few minutes, she pulled out the decanter and poured herself a fresh cup. She took a small sip and walked over to the kitchen table, stopping at the counter to grab her cell phone from the wall charger. She flipped the phone open. Damn, no missed calls. Should she try and call Sarah? Would she even pick up?

She took another sip and sat down at the table, staring at the phone’s display glowing green in her palm. Screw it. What did she have to lose? She punched in the numbers and brought the receiver to her ear. It went right to Sarah’s voicemail. Shit. Should she leave a message or should she just hang up? Sarah’s message ended and the phone went beep.

Angie cleared her throat and set down her coffee. “Hi sweetie, it’s me, uh…it’s mom. I’m sorry I missed your game last night. I know I said I’d come, but I uh…I had a doctor’s appointment in the city and by the time I got out, it was too late to drive all the way up to Estes Park. Anyway, I hope you girls had a good time. Give me a call back when you can. I love you sweetie. Bye.”

Angie put down the phone and began to sob softly. What the hell was wrong with her? How could she do that? How could she lie to her only daughter? She only had one thing to do this week and that was to make it to that frickin’ volleyball game so she could show her ex-husband, Bill, that she was capable of staying clean. But she couldn’t even do that, could she? She couldn’t even go one day without Rick and his meth and this godforsaken trailer. What the hell was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she just stay clean? Now, there was no way Bill was going to let her visit Sarah. She’d be lucky if she could get him to drop that restraining order.