She rubbed her chin on the rough surface of the stuffed bear. Its fur was worn beyond her five years even though she had been its only owner. The eyes were missing, and some stuffing was peeking out of one leg. Two voices entered her space, one thundering, cursing, and the other pleading, but she appeared not to hear. She just rubbed her chin against the bear and stared out the window.
She stopped and caught her breath. “Did we do it? Did they see us?” The fear in her eyes betrayed the haughty tone of her voice. A few blocks back, a patrol car aimed its penetrating search beam towards the woods. She and her companion were safely hidden in an alley between two garbage cans. “They’re looking the wrong way. We made it,” her companion said. “I hope you got the bottle,” she quickly whispered, just as one might ask after family photographs rescued from a fire. “Yes, I did, but what are you going to give me for it?” he leered. Without decorum, her blouse was off exposing her prepubescent breasts to his rough hands as they passed the whiskey back and forth.
“Just a minute!” She hastily slid the tray with the pot and rolling papers under the bed. The edge of the tray caught on the rug and spilled the red-tinged marijuana. “Damn! I told you to go to bed! No more drinks! No more excuses! What do you want now?” she screamed through the closed door. “I have a paper from my teacher you need to sign,” came the small voice from the other side. She took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and forced a smile. She opened the door. “I’m sorry I yelled. Mommy needs to take her medicine. Where’s the paper?”
“Is she breathing?” The two figures in the doorway, one male, one female, look nervously at the shape of the woman lying on the bed. Her mouth was slack with spittle at the corners. Her skin had an unnatural waxy sheen. “Take her pulse,” said the man. His companion refused. “I don’t get paid for this. If she’s dead, I’ll have a nervous breakdown.” The man took her wrist and felt for a pulse. “I don’t feel one, but I saw her breathe.” They counted the breaths together: one . . . two . . . three. Three respirations per minute. “What do we do?” The man looked at her again. “Leave her here. We’ll find her in the morning, and then maybe this will be all over.” Just then, the woman on the bed stirred. She opened her eyes with apparent effort. She reached for the key around her neck and made eye contact with the woman standing over her. “Medicine. Help?” The sight of the portable safe, guardian of the little brown bottles with names like Oxycontin, Vicadin, and Valium, seemed to revive the woman. “Bathroom?” she implored the woman, who then helped her into a sitting position, guided her to the wheel chair, and wheeled her to the bathroom. “You know she’s going to be dead soon, don’t you? Chris, why even try?” the man asked. The young woman wheeled the frail woman out of the room and down the hall.
She hugged the blanket around her trying to cover her hospital gown. The nurse appeared impatient waiting for someone to notice her charge. She grabbed a middle-aged woman by the elbow. “She’s here for the AA meeting. Can someone call extension 1514 when she’s ready to go back to her room?” The older woman smiled. “Sure.” People around the table had cups of coffee from some unseen source. The shivering woman licked her lips but said nothing. The meeting began. Her eyes darted from one seat to another looking at the occupant of each. When it came her turn to speak, she said, “I’m Jane. I’m an addict. I’m an alcoholic. I don’t really know what I am, but I’m sick and I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
The telephone at the side of the bed rang softly as it always did. She had never been very aware of noises when she slept, but she didn’t sleep through the ringing this time. The man next to her began to reach across her, but she stopped him. “I’ve got it.” She picked up the handset and put it to her ear. “Narcotics Anonymous calling. I have a call for Jane. May I put it through?” She rubbed her eyes, sat up and grabbed her cigarettes. “Yes, put it through, please.” On the other end of the line, there was a click, then a meek sounding voice. “Hello?” Jane stood, grabbed her cane, and walked across the room. “Hi, my name is Jane. I’m an addict. You’re not alone anymore.”
© Sugah (jlk), September 15, 2004.