Good Rich People(41)

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    BACK AT THE apartment, I get down to business. I open her e-mail account and research her voice. I try to discover who she is, who I am in her, the hand in her sock. Then I find her lead at work and I send a sloppy e-mail:


This is so embarrassing but admitting you have a problem is the first step, so here goes. . . . I am drug addict. I regularly use heroin, OxyContin, even fentanyl. I have used them at work. Last night I had an overdose and slipped into a coma. The people with me thought I was dead. It’s only by the grace of God (Godette???) that I survived. I need to take some time out at a long-term rehab facility. I need to take a deep look at myself and figure out what went wrong, how I ended up here. . . . I hope you can support me.



I expect immediate approval; instead a barrage of e-mails comes through:


We need to TALK.



PICK UP THE PHONE

Her phone is gone. She lost it that night.


You can’t do this again.



We are well aware of your issues but WE NEED YOU AT WORK.

Everyone’s got problems.

I’m kind of shocked. If I’d admitted to using heroin at any of my small-time jobs, I would have been fired without compensation. I might have even been arrested. Demi’s lead doesn’t care that she almost (except actually) died.

I am so incensed that I want to message her, Hi. This is really (technically) a criminal impersonating Demi, who IS dead. PS You’re an asshole. But I really didn’t steal Demi’s life so I could learn a lesson about poor little rich girls.

And then I feel a different species of anger. My dad did drugs. His friends did. And they were called the scum of the earth. Demi is called back to work. There is no such thing as a rich junkie.

My finger twitches, searching for another tack.


I’m sorry. I have to prioritize my mental health.



Her response is fast: Selfish bitch. I’m turning this over to HR. Which is a little ironic.

Ten minutes later, I am hit with an e-mail from legal.


We understand that you have had a traumatic experience but we do need to see something from a doctor, as per your contract. There is a process on these things unfortunately.



And here my web design degree comes in handy because I build a person, a doctor with a website, and I message them, saying, overdose, risk of organ failure, trying to stick as close to the truth as I can.

Demi doesn’t seem to be in touch with her parents, so I decide it’s best not to say anything, but to keep monitoring the situation.

One friend from New York has messaged her on Facebook, so I write her a long, rambling message about how I’m going into rehab and won’t be in contact.

Self-care! Be my best self! Gotta do me!

All phrases that have never come out of my mouth, the phrases privileged people use when they want to steal our sympathy, too.

I hit send and sit back. And I’m done. That’s it. That’s all it took.

A night that lasted a million years, one dead body, one lost soul.



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THE NEXT TWO days are as close to perfect as any I can imagine. I keep the curtains drawn on all sides but leave the back windows open. I wear warm clothes and take long showers and savor designer food.

One night, a crazy wind picks up and howls deep through the canyon. I watch it from behind the double doors, sipping whisky, and I hope the wind keeps blowing. I hope the whole world blows away and all that remains is me and my house. I forget it’s not mine—I forget it’s not real—for as long as I can.





DEMI



I am cooking eggs the next morning when I hear the quick patter of steps falling toward me, a fast pounding on the door.

Reality rushes in, in stereo sound. It’s the police. Of course it is. Did I really think I would get away with this? And the worst part is, it wasn’t even worth it, not yet. Two days of having dinner wasn’t worth a lifetime in jail.

They can’t come in, I remind myself. They need a warrant.

But I know that doesn’t work in practice. Once my dad was arrested for shouting at someone in the street. The police showed up at our door. We made the mistake of answering and they burst in, wrestled my dad to the floor. I kept repeating, “You don’t have a warrant! You don’t have a warrant!” But what did that matter? It was my word against theirs; they could do what they wanted.

But this time, I won’t answer the door. I will disappear if I need to. I will shut my eyes until I’m gone.

“Hey! Open up!”

My stomach drops. I completely forgot about Michael.

“I’m coming,” I tell him. I wrestle with the lock, not wanting to let him in.

He bursts into the living room, carrying masses of shopping bags that clink with booze. “Before you start,” he says, “she went out.”

He removes a bottle of Guinness and drops the rest of the bags in the middle of the floor.

“I brought supplies,” he says as if I have been needing two dozen bottles of ale, three packs of sour worms and a box of Emergen-C.

“How did you get through the gate?” I ask.

“S’broken.” His eyes catch mine and then he bites the cap off the bottle, spits it out on the floor.