Under Her Care(82)

But she was wrong.

Here I am.

There you go.

And I am strong.

I’ll bring my words back.

I’ll tell on you.

Don’t be a tattletale. That’s what she said. Look what happened to Daddy.

She made me watch.

Stuck that needle in between his toes. He’ll be quiet now.

Put her finger to her lips. Shhh.

But she’s not the boss of me anymore. I am.

I’ll tell on you and keep telling on you.

To the eyes that listen. The ones that are kind.

Not like yours. Or That Monster’s.

I didn’t want to do it. He made me.

Just like you always do.

Ugly pink man with little pink hands.

Put that rock in my hands.





THIRTY-NINE


SAVANNAH HILL



I hold my breath as I slip myself out from underneath the covers inch by inch. Brett is a terribly light sleeper, and if he wakes up now, everything will be ruined. I tiptoe around the bed and crouch, keeping one eye on him while pulling out the backpack I slid underneath earlier. I got everything ready before Brett arrived last night. I’m so glad he showed up. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he hadn’t.

I slowly unzip the backpack, making sure it doesn’t make a sound, and pull out the handwritten letter, rereading it a final time.

Dear Brett,

I’m sorry but I can’t do this anymore. I love you but I can’t be with a junkie. I’ve tried my hardest. Done everything to try to save you but you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

I just knew when you didn’t come home on Tuesday that you’d relapsed and gone on another binge. Your sister told me this is probably where I’d find you. I swear I came down here trying to work things out. I was going to drag you to detox another time, but I got down here and saw you all messed up again and I just don’t have it in me.

I’m going home. I hope you get help.

Love,

Savannah

I put the note on the TV console. I made sure to smudge and wrinkle it up yesterday so it looks like it’s been handled. I slip on my backpack and tiptoe to the other side of the bed. It’s been such a journey, and as hard as things have been, this is the most difficult part. It all led up to this. The final step where one part of my life ends and a new chapter begins.

I tower over Brett, staring down at his sleeping body. Everyone always looks like they did when they were a baby while they’re sleeping. It’s one of the reasons I love watching people sleep. My first roommate at Ole Miss thought it was creepy when she found me standing over her and asked to move rooms. I was more careful with my second roommate.

Brett isn’t any different. His lips are puckered like he’s giving someone a huge kiss, and a small drop of spit hangs in the right corner of his mouth. It’ll have slipped out by the end of the night. His lashes flutter on his cheeks. Those unbelievably long lashes that house some of the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. That’s how I knew I’d found the one.

I’m going to miss him.

I open the fanny pack tied around my waist, take out a pair of plastic gloves, and slip them on before pulling out the syringe. I fixed it last night when he thought I was in the shower. My pulse races. I hope I did it right. There’s only one chance to get it right. I can’t screw this up. I tap it just like the guy in the video did, and then before I can second-guess myself, I stab it into Brett’s biggest vein on his arm and push the heroin into him.

His eyes snap awake, and he scrambles back against the headboard, wincing in pain at the sudden movement. He grabs the needle out of his arm and chucks it on the mattress. He rubs his arm, blinking rapidly, staring back and forth between the needle and me.

“What the . . . what the . . . what?” His brain scrambles to make sense of what’s happening to him. “Savannah? Babe? What’s . . .”

“You’re okay, baby. Don’t worry, it’s all right,” I soothe him as his body slowly melts against the headboard and he starts sinking down. His pupils shrink and his eyelids grow droopy. For a second, he tries to fight it, but then his body remembers how much he likes it, and he relaxes into the high.

I stand next to the bed with my hands at my sides, watching him as he nods in and out. He’s got that dopey look on his face, and the skin on his left side is lopsided, like he’s having a stroke. There’s more drool coming out of the sides of his mouth than there was when he was asleep. I’ve never understood heroin junkies. Nothing about it looks attractive—just ugly and pathetic.

He was never permanent. Only for the moment. This is where he would’ve ended up no matter what. He can’t stay clean for more than a few months anyway. It’s always been that way. I’m just speeding things up to their inevitable end. Probably saving innocent people pain, because addicts are some of the most heartbreaking people to love.

We hadn’t met in person since the hospital, and he spent our first round of drinks at The Library going on and on about how hard it was to be an actor. That was his first problem—being an actor in Oxford, Mississippi. You’ve got to get out if you want to do that, but he didn’t have enough ambition or drive to make it across the county line, let alone to Hollywood. But he liked me, and that’s all that mattered, because southern boys will do anything for girls they love. Genevieve taught me that. She taught me lots of things.