Traffick (11 page)

to go very far. They're on-site.

Rumor has it they come in with

one or two members of the staff,

but more often on our weekly

Sunday visiting day. And when

they arrive that way, they might

be hidden in flower wrappers

or the hem of someone's skirt.

Mostly they're pills, but I hear

every now and again the Lady

will make an appearance. I can

leave the pills alone, but I'm afraid

if I see heroin I'll give in to temptation.

Of course, I'd need money, at least

after the first time, and I have no

available cash. So maybe I'll be

okay. I really don't want to take

that ride again, but I'm not the strongest

person in the world, and just thinking

about dropping down the shaft

into purgatory makes my mouth water.

Talking to Naomi about it,

in fact asked for a meeting

today to discuss it specifically,

but she can't bring herself to

agree that there could reasonably

be a problem. Her response:

Have you actually
seen
drugs

in this facility? No? Then I suggest

you keep quiet about that possibility

until you do. We work extremely

hard to maintain a drug-free

program, and even a hint of

impropriety could make our job

a lot more difficult. Understand?

“Sure.” I say it, knowing that's

what she wants to hear. But when

her expression turns smug, I change

my mind. “It's just, I'm worried

if someone offers me powdered

goods, I won't be able to say no.”

That's why you're here—to learn

how to say no. What happens

when you leave? Do you think

all drugs will magically disappear?

You have to want to stay clean,

and you have to reach deep down

inside to find strength of character.

Let's give you some tools to do that.

I've got “tools in my recovery

toolbox,” as Naomi put it.

They sound pretty basic to me,

and I'm relatively sure I could

have written this list on my own:

One: Find a trusted acquaintance

I can confide in, especially

when I feel like backsliding.

Programs like Alcoholics or

Narcotics Anonymous would call

this person my “sponsor.”

Two: Join one or both said programs.

Three: Avoid old friends who might

tempt me down the rabbit hole.

Four: Make new, wholesome friends,

who'd never, ever use and abuse.

Five: Work very hard on rebuilding

relationships with my family.

Six: Keep in mind the times I'll

be more likely to succumb—when

I'm tired, lonely, hungry, or angry.

Seven: Find fun in simple things.

Dancing. Biking. Swinging.

Singing. Long walks on the beach.

With all seven tools.

One: Who the hell might

that be? I don't trust one single

soul on this pathetic planet.

Two: Sit around confessing

my history and feelings to strangers,

most of whom are just as messed

up as I am? Not going to happen.

Three: If I do that, I won't have

any friends at all. Everyone

I'm comfortable around hangs

out through the looking glass.

Four: See three.

Five: Rebuilding relationships

is a two-way street. Only Mom

seems interested in reconstruction.

Six: Even if I force myself to

eat three massive meals every

day and get the requisite eight

hours of sleep, I'm almost always

lonely, and regularly pissed off.

Seven: Long walks on the beach

will forevermore remind me

of how very much I miss Bryn.

How it's possible

to miss the person

who brought me down

in such a profound way.

He lied to me, and not

only that, but he lied

about loving me, and

that is unforgiveable.

He used me, almost

all the way up. Pimped

me out for his own

selfish purposes. Hurt

me by allowing me to

be abused by a long

parade of johns.

He hooked me on

the vicious Lady, to

keep me at his mercy

completely, and within

that addiction, he made

me suffer. He swore

I was beautiful, and

then he made me ugly.

I won't forgive him.

But how do I forget

him when I can't fall

out of love with him?

To Naomi, who's heard it

before, and won't accept

my emotional attachment

to a man she views as evil.

She isn't totally wrong.

Neither do I argue tools and

toolboxes with her.

She's only doing her job,

and it doesn't include

convincing me, just repeating

the stuff she tells everyone.

Before I can leave, however,

she tosses a wrench at me.

One last thing that might

help your recovery, especially

in the early stages, when

things are likely to be most

difficult. Find a purpose, and

I don't mean just returning

to school and getting decent

grades. Try volunteering

somewhere—at an animal

shelter, or maybe mentoring

a child who needs help learning

to read. Retrain your focus

away from yourself, toward

others. Happiness requires

cultivation. I'm here to show

you how to plant seeds of change.

Sounds good, and that's what

I tell her, right before I go.

But the truth is, I'm scared

of change. Every time I try

it, something goes wrong.

Still, I'll be out of this place

in a few days. I've only been

here three months, and I'm not

sure I'm ready to go, but there

it is. Rehab costs a ton, and while

Mom would probably like to see

me stay longer, Dad's paying

the bill, and I don't think

he believes seeds of change

have actually been planted.

Maybe he's right, because

the idea of going home scares

the crap out of me. What if I

go ahead and relapse right here

instead? Would he have to let

me stay then? Wow. I might

have found the solution.

There's still the problem with

having no cash. What could I

barter? The answer comes rushing

at me, slams against my gut.

Duh. My body is a commodity.

I just have to find the right dealer.

Has burrowed into my brain,

it sprouts and grows quickly.

I've overheard this girl, Dana,

talking about disguising

her highs. I seek her out, hoping

Naomi et al. will be happy

I'm making a new friend.

I find her, just finishing breakfast,

plop down across the table.

“Hey. Delicious cardboard

pancakes, yeah?” She looks up

from her plate, offers a smile.

Frisbees, you mean?
Dana

swallows what's left of hers

anyway, then asks,
Did you

need something from me?

“I was wondering if you might

happen to know where I could

score something to help me sleep.

Every time I actually doze off,

these goddamn nightmares wake

me back up. I'd give just about

anything to stay out an entire night.”

She looks me right in the eye,

trying to figure out where I'm

coming from. Whatever she sees

seems to satisfy her.
I might.

But that's all she says, so I go

ahead and add, “The only problem

is I don't have any money, so I'd

have to work out a trade.”

She studies me harder.
What

do you want, and what can

you give in exchange for it?

I shrug. “Powder or pills,

doesn't really matter. What

I've got is a talent for great

sex.” Still, she makes me wait.

How old are you, anyway?

And are you really sure you

want to fuck up your rehab?

“I'm sixteen. Age of consent

in California, so whoever is safe

that way. And yes, I'm sure, or

I wouldn't be asking. Will you

help me, or point me to someone

else who will? I'll be generous.”

My delivery arrives on Sunday.

She reaches her hand across

under the table, rests it on my knee.

So have you ever been with a girl?

Gives me pause.

I figured she'd hook me

up with a male staff

member who'd cut loose

with a finder's fee.

The truth is, though

I've been with more

men than I want to

consider, I haven't ever

had sex with a girl.

But how hard could

it be? “Of course.”

The lie slips past

my lips like custard.

You're pretty. I can

spare a couple of pills.

No powder. Too risky.

Sunday night, my room,

after lights-out. I promise

you'll sleep like a baby,

no dreams, good or bad.

Until then . . .
She flicks

her tongue, serpentlike.

You can dream about me.

A course of action,

I can hardly wait to put

the car into gear, even if

it might mean motoring

over a very steep cliff.

I've chosen a dangerous

route, and yet I feel safer

than I did an hour ago.

Not like my morals

are going to take a hit.

Guys. Girls. What can

it possibly matter?

I suppose I might have

believed I could put

Las Vegas all the way

behind me. But something

like that tails a person,

teeth bared for the bite,

doesn't it? Guess I'll have

to develop a tough butt.

God knows the rest of me

is tougher. I think back

to Lucas, how devastated

I was learning he never

cared about me at all.

I was just a little girl

seven months ago.

What am I now?

Until Sunday, when I, too,

have a visitor—my mom,

who arrives all excited about

the prospect of my coming

home at the end of the week.

We sit out on the patio,

bundled against the chill.

The sun does its best, but

it's no match for the sharp

November breeze.

Mom doesn't seem to notice.

So, I've talked to your school,

and it's no problem for you to

start midterm. They'll bring

you in for an assessment next

month to see how far you've

managed to catch up, okay?

I nod, robotlike, knowing

it doesn't matter at all what

they've got planned. Safe.

You won't believe this, but

I'm actually going to attempt

to cook Thanksgiving dinner.

I've been taking some culinary

classes, and I think I can manage

it, with your and Kyra's help.

She's flying home for the weekend.

I want us to feel like a family.

Yeah, well, good luck with that.

I half listen to her talk about

everything she's got planned for me,

though she frames it with the word

“us.” Through the window, I see

Dana talking with her visitor,

who might be her sister. They

look alike. All I can think about

now is what's coming later,

and anticipation creeps along

my spine, manifesting itself

in a huge crop of goose bumps.

Mom notices me shiver.
Cold?

Let's go inside. I should probably

think about leaving anyway.

Whitney? I want you to know

how proud I am of you for

hanging tough in the program

and digging yourself out.

I was so scared for you. And me.

I know I haven't told you enough,

but I love you very much, and

I promise to do better as a mother.

She gets to her feet and I join

her for the short walk to

the front door, noticing

Dana's wink as we pass.