“What kinds of things will he need?”
“Toiletries, cheap t-shirts, sweats, boxers, socks. He’s going to feel like a sick, sick puppy for a while. How much do you want to be involved? Because he’s going to need help. And fair warning, he could change his mind at any time. He could walk out the door, and you might never see him again.”
“I want to give him whatever chance I can. What he does with it is up to him.”
“Great.” She nodded. “I’ll text you if anything comes up.”
“Thank you, Echo. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Behavioral health is my job, and harm reduction is my passion. Too many people are dying because we blame the addict for the problem, and we treat them like throwaways. Humans are not disposable.”
God, I loved the light in her eyes when she soapboxed. “You’re my favorite cousin. You know that, right?”
“Of course.” She hugged me hard, then pushed me away. “Go get a breath of fresh air. What happens next is not for the faint of heart.”
For the first time since finding Tug, I didn’t feel like I was in freefall.
I drove to my place almost on autopilot. I had so many different things on my mind, it was hard to focus on one. I had the strangest, most persistent urge to call my parents, which of course I ignored.
It wasn’t because they wouldn’t support Tug, or that they couldn’t handle knowing he had problems. It wasn’t that I thought they’d think any less of him for falling prey to the disease of addiction.
Their reaction would have been the same as mine: grief that our Thuong was in this terrible place. Grief that we’d somehow let him slip away from us. Grief that he’d been in enough pain to harm himself like this and we hadn’t been there to help. I didn’t want to pass the pain around like some poisoned blunt, so I kept Tug’s problems to myself.
At home, I gathered up some old clothes, which probably wouldn’t fit him, and a comprehensive first aid kit. I got a box of trash bin liners, and all the washcloths and hand towels I had. Whenever I thought about returning to Tug, fear made me lightheaded.
What if I fucked everything up?
What if I was making things worse by calling Echo and Gayle and smoothing the way for him like this? He’d already OD’d. What if he died the next time he used?
How would I feel if we tried everything and it wasn’t enough?
I knew Echo would remind me that effort and outcome were two separate things. The effort was my choice. The outcome… that would be up to Tug, and fate, and a thousand things I couldn’t control.
I found myself between two fairly significant truths: I believed in second chances, but I didn’t trust addicts. At all.
Tug and I were going to have to straddle the line between these truths to get through this.
Whether we could do that remained to be seen.
Chapter Five
Echo and Gayle left me with medication, advice, hotline numbers, and written instructions. Tug was choosing to undergo the wait for a spot in the specific rehab facility Echo had mentioned.
Echo would try to slot him into an intake on Monday. That meant toughing out two days before he could enter the program.
Tug’s teeth still chattered from withdrawal when I arrived back at the motel, but an hour later, sweat poured from his body as if he were burning up inside.
“Go ’way.” Combative was the word of the day, apparently. “Don’t need your help.”
“Fine. Let me know if you need anything.” I’d brought plenty of books with me, along with my tablet for use with the Palm Court’s spotty internet.
“’M okay.” He’d dragged the sheet from the second bed around his naked body after a cool shower. “You don’t gotta stay. ’M fine.”
“Echo would kill me if I left.” Probably not true. She’d advocate for his autonomy over mine, but I thought this was a gray area. Like when a lifeguard drags a flailing drowning victim to shore. People don’t always know what’s best for them in a moment of crisis. This had the look of a crisis, and we’d barely begun.
“Don’t need you.” He lay down and dragged the sheet over his head. Twenty minutes passed before he was shivering again.
And so it went. Hot, cold, anger, submission. The drugs Gayle had prescribed for him helped mitigate some of his discomfort, but she’d warned me he’d probably sleep fitfully and only for a few minutes at a time. He’d be emotional. He’d lash out.
He didn’t sleep at all that night. His legs twitched rhythmically as he rolled around to get comfortable. I had to unwind him from the sheets a couple times.
“Everything hurts.” He winced with each movement.
“Gayle said you’d have joint aches and spasms.”
“They’re not spasms.” He closed his eyes tightly. “They’re like, alive. My legs… are killing me.”
“Tell me about your legs?”
“Painful, tingling, creepy.” He rolled over, then back again.
“Do you want to try getting up for a few minutes. We could walk around.”
“Hurts.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood stiffly. I helped him stagger around the room with the sheet draped around his body. “Hurts so bad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Like fuck you are.” He glared at me. “What do you get out of this?”
“Nothing. It’s just a thing I’m doing.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious. This is just another day in paradise.”
“I hate you.” Tears slid down his cheeks. “Why’d you bring me back if you’re just going to be a dickbag?”
“Because you don’t get to die in my library.”
“Wish I had. Wish I had died.” After a very few minutes, he sagged onto the bed. “It hurts so fucking bad.”
“I have my phone and earbuds. You want to listen to music?”
“Oh, sure,” he sneered. “I’ll be cured for good if I listen to your crappy new age—”
“Listen to whatever you like.” I got my phone off the charger and handed it over, along with my earbuds. “Go ahead.”
“No.”
“Why not? Music can take you out of your head.”
“Out of my head?” he asked. “Are you high?”
“No.” Hand to God though, I’d have done almost anything for a drink. For the briefest instant I considered it. There was probably a liquor store or a bar somewhere close by…
As if he’d read my mind, he said, “You don’t have to stay, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then. Leave.” He bit off each word.
I pretended to think about it. “Nah. I’ll stick around a while.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m sure there’s something I can do to help. Here. Have a sour gummy worm.” When he opened his mouth to protest, I fed him the candy like a baby bird—not with my mouth or anything, but I felt like a bird parent. “How can you eat those? My salivary glands hurt just thinking about them.”
He chewed, his face turned away. “You don’t know shit. They’re awesome.”