I've spent the past twelve years lying—to Garrett, to myself, to everyone who ever tried to help me. And look where it got me.
"Scared," I admit. "Overwhelmed. I keep thinking about all the ways I could mess this up."
"You're not going to mess it up."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." His voice is warm, certain. "I know the woman you are underneath all the shit you've been through. And that woman? She's going to be an amazing mother."
I want to believe him.
I want to believe that the woman he's describing actually exists, that she's not just a fantasy he's been holding onto all these years.
But I've given him so many reasons to doubt me.
So many broken promises.
So many nights when I chose the needle over him.
"What if I relapse?" I ask, voicing the fear that's been eating at me all day. "What if I'm doing fine, and then something happens, and I throw it all away? What happens to the baby then?"
"Then we'll deal with it," Garrett says. "But Van, you're not going to relapse. I can hear it in your voice—you're different this time. Something's changed."
"The baby changed it," I say quietly. "When Dana told me I was pregnant, it was like... I don't know. Like everything suddenly had a point. Like all the suffering I've been doing in here actually meant something."
"It always meant something. You just couldn't see it before."
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I needed something outside myself to fight for.
Something small and innocent and completely dependent on me making the right choices.
It's terrifying. But it's also, somehow, clarifying.
"I'm going to do this," I say, and for the first time, I actually believe it. "I'm going to stay clean. I'm going to finish the program. And I'm going to come home and be a mother to our baby."
"Our baby." I can hear the smile in his voice. "God, Van. I never thought I'd hear those words."
"Me neither." I'm crying again—happy tears this time, or maybe just overwhelmed tears. It's hard to tell the difference anymore. "Saturday. I'll see you Saturday."
"Saturday," he confirms. "I'll be counting the hours."
I hang up and stand there for a moment, my hand still resting on the phone.
The other residents are starting to line up for their turn, so I step aside and make my way back to my room.
I sit on my bed and stare at the wall, my hand pressed against my stomach.
Three days.
In three days, I'll see my husband.
I'll let him hold me and promise me that everything's going to be okay.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll start to believe it.
The road ahead is long and uncertain.
