“We’ll find out what it is in a few minutes. If it’s an SSRI for depression, I probably won’t feel anything immediately. If it’s a benzodiazepine, I’ll get calm and sleepy.”
Anger flares inside me. “You’re being very intrusive right now. You’re crossing a line, Preston. Why are you doing this? What does it matter what kind of drug it is as long as it works?”
Instead of answering me, he goes back to studying the contents of the bag. “How long have you been taking this?”
“Since I went to the hospital six months ago. After I got home, Dr. Rutherford came to the house and gave me my own prescription. Can I have it back now?”
“No.” Preston shoves the baggie deep into his jeans pocket where I know I can’t get it unless I knock him out or something.
Which doesn’t sound like a terrible idea at the moment.
“Just give it back,” I say, low and serious.
“Afraid I can’t do that, baby. Not until I know they’re not harmful.”
I laugh—cackle, actually—and I’m aware I sound slightly insane. “You can’t take away a crazy person’s medicine. Even if I wanted to get off it—which I don’t—I’d have to wean myself. I’ve tried to go a couple days without it before, and it wasn’t fun.”
“What did it feel like when you quit cold-turkey?”
Shrugging, I sit on the side of the bed. “I was achy. Tired. Just kind of sick feeling.”
“When was the last time you had a dose?”
“Last night before I left my house.”
Preston brings the bag back out, and for a second, I think he’s going to relent and hand it over. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes one of the whole tablets and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger.
He holds it in front of my face. “What do you see?”
“A white pill?”
“Anything else?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“True prescription pills have markings,” he tells me. “Little indents to help identify them. Sometimes numbers or lines. This has none.”
“So?”
“So, whatever you think this is, it isn’t. It’s not from a real pharmacy.”
“My mom takes them, too, so they can’t be bad,” I argue. “She’s a total health nut, always making us eat the same boring foods. I mean, she drinks a lot of alcohol, but I’ve never seen her smoke a cigarette. And—and Dr. Rutherford has come to the house to see me for other things before, like when I had a bad chest cold. He gave me antibiotics…”
My voice fades away as my defense weakens.
Being away from my home, even for a day, has allowed me some perspective. I’ve met people. People with alert faces and clear speech.
Mom almost always has glassy eyes, a slur to her words, and a wobble in her step. I’m used to seeing her that way. It’s just how she is.
But what if it isn’t?
What if she’s intoxicated? What if her medicine isn’t medicine at all?
“Is Dr. Rutherford even a real doctor?” I whisper, more to myself than to Preston.
He answers me anyway. “I highly doubt it.” Sitting next to me, he takes my hand in his. “When you accidentally OD’d, do you remember if Loralee’s bottle had a label on it?”
“I didn’t,” I confirm. “That’s one of the reasons I got myself into trouble. I didn’t know how many to take, but I’ve seen her pop four or five at a time like it’s no big deal.”
“That’s because she built up a tolerance.” Slowly blinking, Preston shakes his head a little as his eyebrows go up. “There it is.”
His face relaxes as the drug takes effect. He closes his eyes as his shoulders slump. And I’m jealous because I know he’s feeling the bliss I get every time I take a dose.
With my fists tightly balled, I watch his serene expression turn to worry.
And then I start to worry. “What?”
His slightly glazed eyes go to mine. “It’s an opioid. I’m almost positive.”
“As in, the opioid crisis I watched a documentary about?” I ask, and he nods. “How could you even know that?”
“Because I’ve done enough drugs to know what a painkiller feels like. This is some potent shit. You take a full one of these?”
“Not all the time.” Crossing my arms, I explain that I used to, but I started cutting my dose in half and saving the rest for my getaway.
“Good girl,” Preston praises. “That’s good. Without meaning to, you’ve already been weaning yourself off.”
“But I don’t want to stop taking them.” I sound pathetic and whiny, but I feel lost when I think about not having my pills anymore. They’ve become something I look forward to, something I depend on.
It’s ridiculous, but they’re the closest thing I have to a friend. Besides Preston, of course.
Draping an arm over my shoulders, Preston’s voice is soothingly soft when he says, “You have no idea how dangerous these are. Not only are they highly addictive, these counterfeit pills can be laced with other drugs. Deadly drugs.”
“Why would my mom put me in danger like that? She loves me.”
“My best guess? Addiction is a common way a captor holds onto their captive. When she realized her hold on you was slipping, she made you physically dependent on her.”
Mentally, I feel like someone just whacked me in the head with a baseball bat to knock some sense into me. Because my mom’s batshit, but I’ve never even suspected she’d do what he’s suggesting. But would I put it past her? No.
I look at the pills. The pills I thought were helping me. The pills I thought were a necessity to fix my mental illness.
Lies upon lies upon lies. My mother lied about my age. She straight up lied about me to the public. She lied to me about my medicine. What else has she been dishonest about?
“So, this whole time,” I start, swallowing hard, “I wasn’t being treated for anxiety?”
“No.”
“Do I even need to be?” I glance at Preston. “Am I really sick? A crazy person doesn’t know they’re crazy, right? So maybe I’m not able to be objective about it.”
Preston rubs my back with gentle circles. “Rosalie, I’ve met a lot of people in my life. I’ve known some who were suffering, medicated and unmedicated. It doesn’t make me a professional, but personal opinion? No. Your mind is fine. Your ways of thinking are rational. Your anger is warranted. I do think you’re dealing with some trauma, but anyone in your position would be.”
Validation. Preston’s giving me permission to be who I am, to feel the way I feel.
For the first time in my life, someone’s telling me I’m normal.
Unfortunately, my relief is overshadowed by shock and disappointment.
Betrayal.
I’ve always believed my mom would do what was best for me. That’s what moms do. But she put my health at risk for her own selfish reasons.
“Be right back.” Preston places a kiss on the top of my head before getting up.
“Where are you going?”
“We can’t keep these around.” He shakes the baggie. At my questioning expression, he elaborates, “I’m going to flush them down the toilet.”