I answer the phone and start to apologize, but Kimiko cuts me off.
“Do you know where Helen’s dorm is? She keeps repeating her childhood address fromIowa.”
In the background, I can make out Helen slurring, “Sixteen thirty-eight Jacaranda Drive. It’s got a little red mailbox, can’t miss it.”
“We’re in Los Angeles, not Des Moines,” Kimiko tells her, not bothering to hide her irritation.
“I don’t live in Des Moines, I live in Davenport,” Helen says.
“You live in a dorm room inLos Angeles.”
Now I’m definitely awake. “Wait, is Helendrunk?”
“I’m not drunk, I’m just—” Helen stops talking, and then there’s a moan and an “Oh God” and, finally, loud retching.
I demand to know where they are, and ten minutes later I walk up to them on a corner just a block from the frat house; Helen is still throwing up.
“What the hell, Kimiko?”
“I know. My shoes are soaked. Thank God I’ve never been a sympathetic vomiter,” Kimiko remarks dryly, apparently misunderstanding my tone.
I hand Helen the water bottle I took from my minifridge. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
“You’re gonna want to sip, not chug,” Kimiko advises after Helen downs half the bottle in one go.
“How the hell did this happen?” I demand as I pull Kimiko away and skirt around a puddle of vomit.
“I tried to explain the dangers of mixing liquors, but Helen was determined to try all of them to see which one she liked best,” Kimiko explains with a laugh.
“I don’t likeanyof them.” Helen moans. She looks at me and continues, her voice small and pitiful, “Are you mad at me?”
I take a deep breath and try to remain calm. None of this isherfault.
“I’m not mad at you,” I assure her, then turn to Kimiko. The evening has completely wiped all my energy, and I realize I don’t want to fight. “I can take it from here.”
“Wait a second—are you mad atme?” Kimiko scoffs.
“Of course I’m mad, Kimiko. You promised you’d take care of her.”
“Ididtake care of her,” she says. I dart a pointed glance at Helen, then back to her, but Kimiko ignores me and pushes on. “Which is more than you did. Were youasleep?”
“You did the bare minimum. Itold youwhat happens to her—”
“What happens to me?” Helen mumbles, but she’s lost all steam and sounds half asleep.
I step away from her and lower my voice, even though my building frustration has my volume crescendoing with every word.
“Itoldyou I was worried, and you promised you’d help.”
“I did help. I watched her all night. I made sure nothing bad happened. I held her hair while she threw up. It’smyshoes covered in her vomit. Meanwhile, you fucked off to screw your billionaire boyfriend andlefther there.”
“I left her with you because I thought I couldtrust you,” I yell. My voice cuts through the silence of the night.
“News flash, Joey—this isn’t some multiple-choice question with a straightforward, easy answer. There’s no quick solution. She isn’t an addict, she’s an eighteen-year-old girl who wanted to drink at a party. If you think you could talk her out of drinking a beer because shemightbecome addicted toheroinadecadefrom now, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“That wasn’t your choice to make.”
“It also wasn’t yours. It’s hers. But here’s some free advice: If you want to protect your friend, you’re going to have toalwaysbe there forher. You can’t just change one moment in time and fix all her problems. You said yourself she developed her addiction years after you two lost touch. If you want to keep that from happening, there is not asingle thingyou can do now to protect her—except maybe become a better friend and not abandon her at a party when you’re actively worried about her substance-abuse problems.”
