Elixir (6 page)

“Nothing really. Just chilling.”

“I made cookies before. Sean said he didn’t want any.” She points at the doorway to the kitchen. “I have a bunch and can’t eat them all myself. Hungry?”

“Man, I knew I smelled something good. Yeah, I’m always hungry.”

She leads him inside, a basket of twelve fresh chocolate chip cookies cooling off on the counter. “Sit. I’ll get you a dish.” Removing his backpack, he hops on a stool. “You want anything to drink?” she asks, plopping a paper plate in front of him.

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“Help yourself.”

He grabs a big one from the top, rips a piece off, and chomps into it. “Mmmm. That’s legit.”

“It’s the sea salt you’re tasting.”

“I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s delicious. You got to send my mom your recipe.” He finishes with a couple bites and goes for a second.

She leans toward him, elbows on the counter, chin on her folded hands. It seems like a lot’s on her mind. “Sean didn’t even want one. Can you believe that?”

“I don’t know what that boy’s thinking sometimes.”

“Have you noticed anything weird about him? Say, in the last three days. Since he randomly went to the school the last time you were over.”

“Yeah, the school thing was kind of weird. I know his classes are like super-strict and stuff though. He probably was late dropping off a paper or something. Weird other than that? Ugh, not really.” He takes a bite and says with a full mouth, “Well, he’s been kind of quiet at practice. Coach has been on him lately. He hasn’t been hitting good.”

“Did he mention anything to you about a problem with a certain class?”

He swallows. “Nah. Not to me.”

“Well. He hasn’t been himself. Not talking much. Not eating much. Not even watching TV much.”

“That is strange.”

“If you do hear anything, do me a favor and let me know.”

“No worries.” He gobbles the last of the cookie, wipes his fingers on his jeans, and climbs off the stool. “I’m heading up. Thanks for the cookies.”

She collects the crumb-filled plate. “Glad you enjoyed them.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves the kitchen. He barrels up the steps and knocks on Sean’s door. “Yo. It’s me.” He goes in. “Sup man.”

Sean is on the edge of his bed in baggy gray sweatpants and an old Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt, hair matted and unwashed, eyes vacant. “Do you have it?” he asks without looking at him.

Kyle checks the hallway to see if Mary is around, then closes the door. “I asked my brother to get what you said. He knew exactly what it was.” Kneeling, he unzips the front pouch of his backpack, takes out a see-through medicine bottle with a brown tint, and rattles it.

“OxyContin, forty milligrams?”

“Scope it.” He lobs it to him. Sean examines the eight tiny yellow pills, then slips them in his pocket and opens a desk drawer. He grabs three hundred twenty bucks, in sixteen fresh-from-the-ATM bills, and hands the money to his friend.

“What do you want them for anyway?”

“Just wanted to try it.”

“Cool,” Kyle says with a trace of doubt, cramming the cash in his purple-and-gold LA Lakers wallet.

“Is that not okay with you bro? If it isn’t, give me back the money and you can keep them.”

“Whoa man. I’m only asking. Your aunt was grilling me about you downstairs. I just want to make sure you’re cool.” Kyle inspects his unkempt appearance. “My brother said the forty milligrams are pretty strong.”

“I’m...fine dude,” Sean says, yanking his sweatshirt sleeves down, hiding his hands inside.

“Enough said.” Kyle shimmies two DVDs from his bag, flashing the covers with enthusiasm. “I got the new zombie one and the one with that hot British chick.”

“I can’t do a movie today. I’m really tired.”

“Sure homie?”

“Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.”

“All right.” He jams the film cases back inside, between his ninth-grade Math and Social Studies textbooks. He extends his hand, Sean sliding his from the sweatshirt and meeting it with a halfhearted slap. “Hit me up tomorrow.” Kyle loops a strap over his shoulder and exits.

Sean closes the door, then goes in the dark bathroom and flips on the sink, only a few dabs of light from the falling sun making it inside through the bedroom window. The sound of running water in the background, he lifts the OxyContin container from his pocket, twists the cap, and shakes a pill into his palm. He observes the small yellow circle, hoping it’ll get rid of the terrible panic attacks he’s been having the last three days like online forums said it would.

Popping it in his mouth, he levels his head with the faucet. He sips, some water splashing across his face into his left eye. Standing, he gazes at himself in the mirror, droplets trickling down his cheek. He swallows.

He returns to the bedroom, glancing at the digital clock by the
Die Hard
poster. 4:23 PM. He figures it should kick in around 4:43. He counts the seconds in his head. He wonders what it’s going to be like, having never experimented with OxyContin or any other recreational drug before.

In a short while the muscles in his neck ease. The same happens with the ones in his shoulder blades, lower back, and legs. He sits on the floor and stares at the blue rug fibers. His thinking slows. He enjoys it, an escape from the intensity of his mind for the first time in his life. He doesn’t budge for a while, other than to blink.

A rush of blood dizzies his head as he pushes himself to his feet. He wanders to the closet, tossing towels and a suitcase out of the way, grabbing a dusty green photo album. Setting it on the carpet, he lies beside it with his stomach flat. He’s surprised he let himself near the album, been years since he had the courage. He guesses the OxyContin must be working, taking off some sort of edge.

The plastic jacket sticks to his fingertips as he peels open the cover. He glances at a photo of himself with his parents in front of a fireplace at a ski lodge in the Poconos when he was three, both adults in their early thirties. They’re all drinking mugs of hot chocolate, smiling. His parents were good-looking, mom with high cheekbones and silky brown hair, dad with a strong build and warm eyes.

Studying their faces, he remembers the moment the picture was snapped, its slice of space and time in the universe. He recalls the musty smell of his father’s ski jacket and the corny joke his mother told a lady the next table over right after the camera flashed. He finds it strange how happy they are in the photo, as if they should somehow all be aware of the plane crash killing the two adults in a few months.

His anxiety spikes. He peeks at the clock. 5:16. He realizes he’s not supposed to have another pill for a few hours but feels he should regardless. Heading back to the bathroom, he turns on the sink. Gripping the brown bottle, he decides he might as well do two to be positive. He rests both on his tongue, leans to the faucet, and swallows. He puts the medicine container in a drawer and closes it.

He paces, waiting for the additional dose to hit. Twenty minutes seem an eternity, the drug fogging his perception. The cold sensation of the tiles on his bare feet isn’t like the one he’s used to. It’s muted, as if he was wearing socks he thinks. The voice in his mind sounds the same way, muted. He doesn’t recognize the person he is right now. And likes it. A goofy grin spreads on his face. He stops moving, looking at himself in the mirror.

He spots his shower in the corner of the glass and convinces himself to take one, curious how the touch of the liquid will be on his skin in the state he’s in. He pulls off his Steelers sweatshirt, tugs open the polka-dot curtain, and runs the water. Waving his hand under it, he gauges the temperature. A little hot. He nudges the knob, then checks again. Lower a bit still. Good. He wiggles out of his loose cotton pants and steps in.

As he’s drenched he notices he was wrong about the heat, his whole torso filling with goose bumps. He turns it up. Now too high. Then down again. While he fiddles with the handle his neck starts to lose feeling, his head seeming disconnected from the rest of his body. The fog in his brain thickens. His eyelids get heavy, the three pills in his system combined with only an hour of sleep last night creating a conking effect. His legs weaken.

He’s nervous now. It becomes hard to breathe, Sean gulping for air but only absorbing bits in his lungs. To support his weight he gropes for the stainless-steel-wire basket hanging from the showerhead. The shampoo and soap bottles plummet to the wet surface with a smack.

He starts wobbling, then his world goes black, his knees giving out, his fingers slipping from the metal rods. He smashes into the wall and topples to the tub facedown. Water keeps dumping on his motionless, unconscious body.

A faint beeping noise repeats every couple moments. Sean’s eyelids flicker open, a blurry hospital room in front of him, a mess of lights and colors. He blinks a few times, vision getting better. He looks left, an EKG machine measuring his heartbeat, then down at his chest, three round white sensors attached to his skin, then at the window, black outside. “Sean,” Mary says from the foot of the bed in a relieved tone, wrapping her arms around his legs. “Thank God.”

It’s a comfort to hear a recognizable voice. He tries to speak but can’t, his mouth too dry. Squeezing his stomach muscles, he pushes spit up his esophagus, a tad of moisture coming to his tongue. “What the hell is this?” he asks, raspy.

“You fell asleep in the shower.” She circles her hand on his thigh in a gentle motion. “You banged your shoulder pretty hard, but the doctor says you’re okay.” She points up. “I heard the water running upstairs for an hour and knew something was wrong. If you landed on your back you could’ve drowned for Christ’s sake.” She hugs him again. “Oh thank God.”

Memories start clicking in his head, the polka-dot shower curtain, the faces of his parents in the photos, the yellow pills. “Hi Sean, I’m Rebecca,” a tall, tan, fortyish lady says in a Midwestern accent. She strides toward him, hospital-employee badge dangling from the top of her knee-length skirt. She turns to his aunt and touches her forearm with familiarity, seems like they’ve already been talking.

Mary nods, then says to him, “I’m stepping outside to get a cup of coffee. Rebecca is going to chat with you while I’m gone. It’s very important you listen to her. Love you.”

“Wait—”

“You two need to talk.” She closes her eyes and holds up her palm. “I’ll be back in a little.” She gathers her purse with nervous hands, then walks to the doorway, lingering on him before she leaves. He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him, reminds him of how she appears when she watches a sad movie in the theater and fights the urge to cry in public. She exits, silence other than the chirp of the EKG.

The lanky woman drags a chair by the bed and sits. She rests a clipboard on her lap with a stack of documents attached. His body begins emerging from the numb trance it’s been in. The aching is unbearable, his head, shoulder, and back throbbing. He wishes he could just be unconscious again. “Not a fun place to wake up, huh?” she asks.

He tries to peek at the text on her top page but can’t get the right angle. “How do you know my aunt?”

“I met her tonight, an hour ago maybe. She loves you very much. All she wants is for you to be happy. More than anything in the world. She’s concerned, obviously.” She slides a pen from her jacket pocket. “I am too.” She twirls it for a bit, then clicks the button and jots a couple things down. “I’m here to help you get through this. I have conversations with people at the hospital, especially young people like yourself, who’ve made a bad decision with drugs or alcohol. Do you want to tell me what was on your mind earlier?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, gazing out the window.

“Well Sean, all addictions start somewhere,” she says, voice slowing with dramatic intention on “somewhere.” Still attempting to meet his eyes, she lurches over the mattress. “Understanding why you did what you did can prevent a potential dependency from developing. That’s what we need to get from this conversation. An understanding of the motive.”

“Let me chill out for a little. I just got up. Okay?”

She flips through the papers on her clipboard, stopping five down. “I have your medical history here. I understand this isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to a psychiatrist.”

“Once.” He pauses. “Wasn’t even my idea to go. I got forced into it.”

“Why do you think the court made you go?”

“I guess they thought I had anger issues or something. Who knows.”

“How about you tell me in your own words what happened that day?”

“I don’t get the point.”

“According to the record, it seems like anger wasn’t the problem. More guilt. Your aunt actually thinks your issues dealing with guilt are still there. She mentioned one thing that took place recently she didn’t like very much. Feelings about a bird you came by while you—”

“Why do I have to talk about all this now?”

A few moments go by. “She realizes you took an excessive amount of OxyContin. She found a bottle in your room, and it came up in your blood test. That’s not a light substance to toy with. If I can’t give her a clear explanation of your behavior, she’ll push you into counseling until someone else can. You’re going to have to face this one way or another. She’s...scared of a potential drug problem. Imagine how hard this is for her.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, fine,” he says as if surrendering. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t see us figuring out what caused today’s incident unless we get down to the core. Previous incidents are the best place to start.” Legs crossed, her right foot bobs in anticipation. “Why don’t you give me your story about that day five years ago?” He’s quiet for a bit. “Sean?”

He clamps a patch of the bed sheet and says, “I was playing basketball at the park with a few kids from my neighborhood back in Pennsylvania and I got into an argument with this jerk over whether or not the ball was out of bounds. He said something to me and I broke his nose. That’s the story.”

She writes a few notes down. “What did he say?” No reply. “I’m aware these memories tend to be a little uncomfortable to discuss. But the only way we can learn about things they trigger is if we have a conversation.”