Crystal Lies (27 page)

My biggest concern, as usual, was where Jacob was. What was he doing? And how long would it be before his whole world caved in on him? It seemed it could only be a matter of time.

December

Then I get the phone call, which brings me back to the present and my drive toward Ambrose Park to meet my son. And despite all I’ve been through with him already, I am still worried about what I’ll find there.

From my parking spot near the playground, through the mist I spot a hunched-over figure that I recognize as my son. He’s sitting on a picnic table with his back to me. His olive drab coat, one that he got at the army surplus store, drapes over him like a small tent. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was a bum. I suppose he is.

“Jacob?” I call from where I remain standing in the parking lot. I pull my jacket tighter around me and wait. It’s a foggy kind of day where the freezing cold air crawls beneath your clothes with long, damp fingers. After what seems an unreasonable amount of time, he turns and looks at me, then slowly stands and meanders my way. His knit cap is encrusted with grime and pulled so low on his brow that it’s hard to see his face, but he appears not to have shaved for days, and I can tell by the blank, dark look in his eyes that he’s been using again. No surprises here.

Jacob’s pattern seems to be to “binge on crystal meth.” Or at least that’s the way Marcus puts it. This terminology about drugs, addiction, and treatment is still something of a foreign language to me. But I am learning.

Without speaking, he gets into the car, and soon we are driving. I glance from the corner of my eye to see his head leaned against the window of the passenger side. He is already asleep. Probably coming down
from his meth high. I can see that he’s tired and sick and probably needs a good long rest, but I’m tempted to drive him straight over to Hope’s Wings and simply drop him on their doorstep. However, I know that it will do no good. They will refuse to admit him unless he is willing to stay.

At a red light, I resist the urge to reach across the front seat and push a strand of greasy blond hair away from his face. It’s obvious he could care less. Worried that he might be cold, although he appears to have several layers of clothing on beneath his oversize coat, I turn up the heater. I’m sure this layering of clothes is a trick he learned after his car was impounded and he was no longer able to spend nights sleeping in the back of it. I wonder if his “friend” Daniel kicked him out, but I don’t think I will ask.

I wait for the light and watch as a young mom and two small boys cross the street. She’s walking between them, securely holding on to their little hands. Bundled up against the cold, the boys both have flushed cheeks and happy smiles, and judging by the candy canes in their free hands, it looks as if they’ve just been to see Santa Claus at the minimall across the street. I vaguely recall a time when life was simple and sweet like that. Too bad I didn’t fully realize or appreciate it then. I remember how I could hold on to my son’s hand as we crossed the street and how he would cling tightly to mine. I never worried that he wouldn’t make it to the other side. Now I’m not so sure.

It’s hard to believe it’s only two weeks until Christmas. I suppose I’ve been pretending that Christmas doesn’t really exist this year. And it’s too painful to imagine how it will feel to spend it with our family split up like this with Sarah in Arizona, me in my crummy little apartment, and Jacob…well, only God knows where Jacob will be by then.

The light turns green, and I get on the freeway for home, or what I have learned to call “home” during these past several months. But lately I’ve decided that little apartment is not my real home. It’s not a place I’d
care to live permanently. Despite the improvements I’ve made, I know I need to move on when my lease is up. If not sooner. Still, I am hesitant to look for another place. I worry my money will run out if I don’t stick to my strictly regimented budget. I know I should probably get a job, and I’ve already checked into substitute teaching, but it seems to take all my energy to simply make it through one day and then face the next. Even so, I am plagued by the nagging fear that I will be completely broke someday. I wonder what will happen after my savings account is finally depleted. What will Jacob and I do then? Where will we live? It’s not that my savings account was so small, but even so, it is steadily dwindling. I am slightly surprised that these are the thoughts trailing through my head right now. I am actually thinking about myself, my own welfare. Could it be that my codependency training is finally sinking in?

I glance back over at my son, or rather the remnants of my son. Besides being unshaven, his face is dirty, and several open sores look slightly infected. I recently read that this is another symptom of meth use. The sores resemble bad acne, something Jacob never had, but these nasty-looking lesions are caused by the toxic chemicals that have been injected into his bloodstream. Perhaps it’s the tortured body’s attempt to excrete the corrosive substance that is slowly killing it. But it makes this mother’s heart sick.

The heater in my old Taurus has finally come to life, and the car is getting warmer now. I turn my attention back to my driving, but I can’t help but wonder if life will ever change for Jacob. Will it ever get better? Or is my son one of the lonely ones—one of those unfortunate people destined for a life of addiction, failure, and finally and unavoidably an untimely death?

These thoughts pierce me like well-aimed arrows, but at least I am trying to be realistic now. I am trying to face facts and come to grips with this horrifying life my son has chosen. Oh, I still pray for him. How could
I not? But my prayers have slowly changed from begging and pleading tantrums to calmer petitions where I remind myself (and God, too?) that he is Jacob’s Creator, Jacob’s heavenly Father, and I believe that his love for Jacob is greater than mine. As difficult as it is, I know its the only way I will survive this thing. I am entrusting my son to God.

Jacob moves slightly, and I glance over and wonder where he’s been these past two weeks. What has he been doing? How long did the goods stolen from his father finance his habit? Was he sleeping in Dumpsters once his money was gone and he was too high to notice? Selling his plasma? Or perhaps he peddles his poor emaciated body to strangers? I know such things happen in Seattle. Even so, I can’t bear to think about it.

I want to ask him about the break-in at his father’s house, but I know he’s in no condition to answer me right now Perhaps that will come later. If there is a later. It’s just as likely that he will sleep this off, eat some food, then disappear before I have a chance to question him. Besides, I know the answer. I know that he’s responsible for the theft and vandalism at Geoffrey’s. In the whole scheme of things, in the shadows of life and death, it seems a small thing now anyway.

Hot silent tears streak down my cheeks as I exit the freeway and head toward town. But as I wait at the light, before I turn down the street to the apartment complex, I hesitate. What am I doing right now? Haven’t I been trying to remain firm on my boundaries? Haven’t I made it clear that Jacob is not allowed to stay at my apartment unless he is willing to get help? Meaning residential rehab therapy like Marcus has recommended. But here I am, driving him home again—whatever is wrong with me?

Even as I drive toward the apartment, I don’t know what to do. Despite my recent steps of faith—of giving Jacob to God—he is still my son. And I still desperately want him to get the help he needs. I pray silently as I approach the apartment, begging God to give me some direction,
some help, some answers, something. And then I simply continue driving past.

Jacob
called
me, I remind myself, and he’s the one who said he needed help. And it’s true; he does need help. Well, maybe that’s just what I will give him today—
help
. I continue driving with a resolve I’ve never felt before. It’s as if some kind of force is pulling me down the road. I am going to Hope’s Wings, and I hope I get there before he wakes up.

I don’t know what else I can do. Of course, I realize that Jacob will probably get angry and defensive, and he may just storm away and perhaps never call me again. But, really, what else can I do? For all I know his life might be in danger from an overdose right now. I convince myself that I’m doing the right thing, and I pray for God to help me this time. Help
us
. Help this to work and help Jacob to see that he needs this.

Jacob abruptly sits up as the car comes to a stop and I turn off the engine. Looking around as if he’s not sure where he is, he turns and stares at me. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“You called me for help today, Jacob,” I remind him.

He nods. “Yeah?”

“And I can’t help you.” I take a breath. “But this place can.”

He looks across the parking lot to the drab buildings on the other side, frowning as full realization sets in. “Oh, Mom,” he moans.

“You
need
treatment.” I use the firmest voice I can muster. “If you continue using crystal meth,
you are going to die
, Jacob.” I reach over and touch the shoulder of his filthy coat. “Can you hear me, Jacob?
You are going to die. Do you want to die?
”

He shakes his head. “No…”

“Then just try this,” I tell him. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.” Even as I say these words, I have absolutely no idea whether they can even take him right now. It’s only a couple of weeks before Christmas, and I don’t even know if there’s a bed available. But I don’t know what else to do,
where else to go. I continue to pray silently now. Hoping for a miracle, I guess.

“I don’t need this, Mom,” he says, and I sense that his strength and resistance are returning to him.

“You
do
need this, Jacob. Without
this
you are going to die.”

He closes his eyes tightly, as if trying to shut out my words.

“I don’t want to lose you, Jacob,” I tell him, choking back a sob. “I’ve seen Sherry after losing Matthew… I don’t want that to happen to—”

“I’m
not
going to die, Mom.” He sounds seriously agitated now. I know that I am pressing too hard.

I take a deep breath. I want to be strong, to play this out the best I can. “Okay, maybe you
won’t die
, Jacob. At least not physically. But your soul is dying every single day that you continue using meth. Your spirit is dying.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I
do
know that, Jacob. When I look in your eyes, I see emptiness, hopelessness. Death. How can you stand it? Don’t you want to be alive again?

“I
want to
get out of here,” he says in a tight voice. “Lets go, Mom.
Now!
”

I know this is my last chance, and I feel desperate. Very desperate. I consider the one thing I’ve been holding back, my final possibility to persuade Jacob to rethink this thing. I know that it could either work or blow up in my face. And if history repeats itself, I should be prepared for an explosion.

“Okay,” I finally say. “You say you’re not going to die, Jacob. And maybe that’s true. I certainly hope it’s true. But how do you feel about going to prison?”

“Prison?” he looks at me and shakes his head. “Yeah, sure.”

“It could happen, Jacob. In fact, it’s quite likely.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You made it very obvious that you broke into your dads house, Jacob.”

He looks surprised now, confused even. As if he barely remembers the incident, as if he never expected to be found out. “
What?
”

“You broke the law, Jacob. You vandalized and stole expensive items, I assume to be pawned for more drug money”

“Huh?”

“Maybe you don’t remember it clearly, Jacob. I’m guessing you were high at the time. But, believe me, you left plenty of evidence behind. Notes, fingerprints, you name it. Not very smart unless you wanted to get caught. Did you want to get caught?”

He shrugs and looks away. I can tell he is getting very uncomfortable.

“Your father could press charges against you, Jacob. Maybe he already has. I don’t know for sure, but he was very angry Has it occurred to you that you could be picked up by the police at any time? That you could end up in jail and eventually prison? Is that what you want?”

“Do you think Dad would really do that to me?” He turns and looks at me with slightly frightened eyes, as if this is somehow penetrating the tough exterior that he has created to protect his addiction.

“What do you think, Jacob?”

He looks down at his lap now.

I reach over and put my hand on his hand. “But what if you were in treatment?” I ask in a gentle voice. “What if you were really seeking help, Jacob?”

He looks at me again. “You mean you’re going to use this to pressure me into rehab?”

I shake my head. “Obviously, it’s your choice, Jacob. You know as well as I do that they won’t even admit you if you don’t go in willingly. To be honest, I don’t know if they even have room right now.”

He frowns and sighs. “I don’t know what to do, Mom.”

“Jacob,” I say. “Look at me.” He looks at me again.

“I am your mom, Jacob. I’m sure that I love you more than anyone on earth loves you. Do you honestly believe I would try to get you to do something that would hurt you? Have I ever tried to hurt you?”