“I just want you back. Come back to us. Be healthy. Be okay.” She shook her head at me, but I continued pleading. “Don’t do this. It’s killing me,” I beggedsoftly.
“You? It’s always about you. I have this big, empty hole in my heart and I’m filling it with drugs, and you want to talk about you?!” sheshrieked.
“Then tell me how to helpyou!”
“All I want to be is high. I hate my fucking life, Dylan. I hate it. You knocked me up.I didn’t want any of this.” Her face turned bright red, and spit flew out of hermouth.
“That’s fucking wonderful to say, thanks. Just great,” I said, throwing my hands up in theair.
“It’s the truth, you asshole. I hated being pregnant. I hated not getting high then. I hate you. I fuckingHATE YOU!”She punched her hands into the mattress as sheyelled.
“How are you getting it?How?” Iroared.
“Any fucking way I can! I need to numb everything.You. I need to numbyou.”
“You were good. For so long, you were clean,” Iwhispered.
She climbed out of bed, shoulders slumped, jaw slack. “I haven’t been clean since I was nineteen. You just never noticed because you’re a selfishprick.”
It’s the drug I hate, not the addict.It’s the drug I hate, not the addict. It’s the drug I hate, not the addict. If I kept repeating the words in my head, I could save her. I could saveus.
“You need an intervention. But I’m still paying for the last one, thirty-four grand I owe for you. How much are you using aday?”
“Fuck you,” shespat.
That’s not my wife talking, that’s a drug addict. My wife is somewhere inside therestill.
“No, she’s gone!” Sheri shrieked, flailing her arms atme.
I must have said the words out loud, but there wasn’t time to think. Sheri’s fists pounded into my chest, my arms, my face. It was weak, a pathetic attempt atrage.
"I hate you. I hate you. I want a divorce! I hate you! If you don't leave, I'll fucking jump off the fucking balcony.” She lunged for the sliding glass doors to the balcony. “Get away from me. I swear, I’ll fucking doit!”
I stumbled out of the room. Outside in the hallway, Addison stood frozen at the bottom of the staircase, eyes wide; her little body painfully rigid.How much did she hear? Holy shit, my little girl. What the fuck did she hear her mothersay?
“Daddy?” she cried out as tears welled in hereyes.
“Hey, babycakes.” I smiled, walking toward her. “Let’s go get Ben. We’ll visit with Grandma another day,okay?”
“What’s wrong with Mommy? Why is she mad atyou?”
I scooped my daughter up into my arms and held her tightly.Mommy’s a fucking junkie. Mommy’s sick. Mommy is going to fucking die doing thatshit.
“Mommy bumped her elbow and hit her funny bone,” I stammered, trying to think of something reassuring or just plain okay for a four-year-old to hear andunderstand.
I rushed her back up the stairs and found Claudine with Ben in theplayroom.
“We’regoing.”
All she could do was nod her head inunderstanding.
“I need to focus on finding a safe environment for the children while I go to work. I’m going to visit a few placestoday.”
I didn’t even look at her while I spoke—just concentrated on getting our belongings together and leaving as quickly as Icould.
* * *
“Ihopethat’s not a forty-ounce hidden in thatbag.”
