“Better than roulette.”
He laughed weakly. “Anything’s better than roulette.”
“You could beat the odds and stay clean for the rest of your life, but Tug, even if you didn’t, it’s not a failure. It means you need to revisit your treatment plan, figure out where things went wrong, and fix them.”
“Right.” He rested his arm over his eyes. “It’s that easy.”
I ached for him. He was exhausted. Half-starved. His skin had taken on a grayish pallor that reminded me of finding him on the bathroom floor in respiratory arrest.
“Echo’s the expert, not me.”
“I know.” Tears leaked into his hair. I reached out and brushed the trail of moisture away with my thumb. “I can’t seem to stop crying.”
“You’re being torn apart at the cellular level, so obviously you’re on a roller coaster of apocalyptic proportions. Your physical and emotional balance is gone, but that’s normal. It will be a while before you feel better.”
He frowned. “So this is my new normal? Great.”
“This is today. Tomorrow will be different.”
“But not better.”
“It might be better.” I couldn’t offer more than that.
“What if it’s not?”
“I don’t know.” I couldn’t do optimism for the sake of optimism. “One thing I do know is it will definitely be the same if you don’t make different plans.”
He groaned and grabbed a pillow to hug. “There’s going to be a lot of that kind of talk, isn’t there?”
“What kind?”
“Poster talk. Climb high. Just Breathe.”
“Aphorisms. Yeah, Echo is full of those. Best prepare yourself.”
“Great.” He sat up, dragged his sticky t-shirt away from his body, and flapped the fabric to cool himself.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “If you feel a little more human than last night, we can get something hot to eat.”
He eyed me. “Like, go out?”
“We could drive through somewhere for breakfast sandwiches. It might be nice to get out of the room.”
“Might be.” He didn’t look like he believed that.
The cleaner’s cart rumbled nearby. I peeked out the door and saw a woman in a brown polyester uniform getting ready to knock.
“Cleaning?” I stepped outside and asked her name.
“Yesenia. No inglés.” She might have been hoping I’d give up trying to talk to her. I wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me, at that point.
“Encantado de conocerte, Yesenia. Espere aquí, por favor.”
I went inside and got her one of our bottled coffees. It was still sealed, still cold. She warmed up a little after that, but she still didn’t want to talk to me.
Who could blame her?
I could totally imagine what people got up to at this motel. After all, I was detoxing a heroin addict. I didn’t blame her for not making eye contact. She’d probably seen some shit in her time there.
I put our soiled linens and towels into the laundry bag. She gave me a hard stare but reached for clean sheets, plus extras, and lots of towels.
I tipped her for her service, and I’d be sure to leave more when we left. The awkward moment drew out for what seemed like hours, but I didn’t know what else to do.
“¿Este motel tiene instalaciones de lavandería?” I asked.
“Allá.” She pointed to the end of the building opposite.
I thanked her again.
She gave me the tiniest hint of a smile when she passed our door, so maybe we weren’t causing too much trouble.
“I have new sheets. Do you—” I broke off because Tug had fallen back to sleep, and I had a solid rule: Never wake babies or sick people.
I stacked the clean sheets on the second bed and hung fresh towels in the bathroom. I wanted to do laundry, but that faint prickle on the back of my neck—my lizard brain, or my bullshit meter, or my instinct for survival—was telling me not to leave Tug alone, even to go across the parking lot to wash clothes.
Until he was safely in the hands of a proper facility, I would not leave his side. The responsibility staggered me. For now, though, Tug’s breathing had evened out, and he drifted safely in fitful sleep.
I did like him. Or I thought I did. I’d liked him back when he was only a kid, soaking up all the attention and affection he could get at Comix and Games. My entire family had fussed and fretted and—privately—worried over him.
There was nowhere else I had to be. Nothing better to do than watch over Tug while he battled his demons.
I told myself my interest had nothing to do with his striking brown eyes, or his high sharp cheekbones, or the V-cut I’d seen when he was naked.
I told myself I had my boundaries firmly in place.
I told myself a lot of things. Some were actually true.
Chapter Eight
The rest of the weekend featured more of the same. Outside the world had turned gray and uninviting. Inside the motel room, we faced intervals of illness and emotional outbursts, but also longer and longer periods of silence. Tug was finally able to sleep deeply. I felt the tension in my body lose its achy grip.
On Sunday afternoon, the sky revealed itself, wearing just a few fast moving, puffy white clouds.
I decided laundry would give us something constructive to do. Tug and I carried our dirty clothes and towels across the parking lot. There were folding chairs in the laundry room, and during the was cycle, we pulled them outside and sat in the parking lot, soaking up the brilliant rays of the afternoon sun.
My mood had improved. I was almost optimistic again.
Tug stayed quiet, except when one of the motel’s many doors opened and a woman walked past us to have a smoke.
“Look, do you think it would be okay if I bummed a cig off her?” asked Tug.
“You smoke?” He nodded. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Do you have cigarettes?” he asked.
“No, but I wouldn’t make you go cold turkey from that at the same time you—”
“Didn’t matter. I was so fucking out of it. Now though…” He glanced longingly at the woman who’d lit up. “It will make the room smell like tobacco. You’re okay with that?”
“Sure. Jesus. Who cares at this point?” He was concerned about the weirdest things.
“Thanks.” He got up and left to approach her.
On the way, he flipped some internal switch and his whole demeanor changed. He no longer appeared frail. He smiled in a way I’d never seen before. As if he could pull the smooth on like an old comfortable sweater, he swaggered with each step he took.
Our neighbor responded with a toss of frosted blond hair and an assessing glance his way. She must have liked what she saw because she brightened and offered him a smoke from her pack before he asked.
I had a hard time believing a sensible person would voluntarily stay at the Palm Court, so I wondered what had brought her there. I guessed she was about thirty. She was too thin, wearing a tight band t-shirt, low slung jeans with enough holes to make them superfluous, and flip flops.
It was obvious she was intrigued by Tug and interested in me by extension. The two of them glanced my way more than once. I got the feeling they were laughing at me.