Missing Dixie(54)

“What were you addicted to?”

Now there’s the million-dollar question. Most addicts have a drug of choice. Heroin. Meth. Coke. Narcotics. Alcohol. Not that some people won’t just take whatever for the hell of it, but actual addicts tend to have a preference.

Mine was none of the above.

“I don’t know that I was ever actually addicted to one particular substance. My addiction issues were more . . .”

“Let me guess. Complicated?”

I nod. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Dixie hates the generic use of that word and I don’t blame her. It’s vague as hell and basically a cop-out.

“That still doesn’t answer my question. What exactly were you addicted to then, Gav?”

A dull throb begins at my temples and lands in the center of my forehead. She waits patiently for my answer.

“Oblivion, Bluebird,” I finally answer. “I was addicted to anything and everything that helped me to check out, to escape my reality, to forget.”

“Forget what?” Her eyes are wide and round and shining with the promise of tears. Answering will only cause them to fall. But I have to. She deserves to know the truth.

“You.”

An hour has passed since I answered her final question and she went outside to get some air. She must’ve needed a lot of air.

I step out onto the front porch but she’s nowhere to be seen. Walking around the side of the house, I’m reminded of playing hide-and-seek as kids, of me and her and Dallas running and laughing and daring each other to do ridiculous things like mix Pop Rocks into a bottle of Pepsi and drink it all at once.

This house has been my safe place since the day I met the Lark siblings on the worst day of their young lives.

I’m so lost in memories, I think I see a younger version of myself sitting on the cracked concrete garden bench in the backyard.

He’s got dark hair like me, ill-fitting clothes like I did at that age, though at least his are clean, and I can see from a few steps away fingerprint bruises around the back of his neck. I sported those once or twice in my childhood as well.

I glance around but there is only me and him. The overcast day makes it seem like a dream or maybe a hallucination.

“Hey there,” I call out to make sure I’m not crazy.

He flinches and when he turns I know why. The last time this kid saw me I was beating his dad half to death right in front of him.

“This bench taken?” I ask, pointing to the other half.

He doesn’t answer, just returns his gaze to the empty field behind the house.

I take that as permission to sit.

Well . . . this is f*cking awkward. Dixie was wrong, I’m not kid friendly at all.

A small flock of birds take off nearby as if we have offended them with our presence.

“Guess the birds didn’t want to hang with us,” I say, hoping to show him I’m not the monster I probably seem like.

He turns dark eyes briefly on me then goes back to staring. “They’re blue finches.”

“Yeah, I know.” I remember a day when Dallas and I found one by a pond where we mowed grass for summer money. It was beautiful and delicate and despite seeming as if it was done for, it eventually chirped loudly at us and flew off. That day I understood something, something about myself and about Dixie.

As long as she had hope in me, I would have hope in myself.

I’ve called her Bluebird ever since.

I tell my unexpected company the story about the bird and when I’m finished he actually looks slightly interested.

“What do you think happened to it? After it flew away?”

I think on this for a long minute. “I think it explored the world for a while until it met another bird to explore the world with it.”

“Or maybe it died. Everyone dies. My mom died.”

Fuck. Me.

I suck at kids.

I have no words for this. Except, “I’m sorry to hear that, man. That was probably tough to handle.”

He doesn’t respond. Taking a closer look, I realize he can’t be more than six or seven or so. I try to remember what that is. First grade maybe? Second?

“Hey, what grade are you in?”

“First,” he says quietly. “But I don’t really go to school much. They don’t like me there.”

I remember that. Being the addict’s kid, being dirty, being made fun of. You learn how to use your fists instead of your words pretty quickly. “Well, I like you. And I know Miss Dixie likes you. Maybe we can just have school right here. I bet she could teach us some stuff.”

He actually almost smiles. He wants to smile.

I know why.

It’s her. If anyone could reach this kid, it’s her.

She reached me, after all.

“Have you seen her out here recently?”

He nods. “She went for a walk. She asked me to go but Mrs. Lawson told me not to go past this point and I didn’t want to get . . .”

“Punished?” I finish for him because I know exactly what he’s afraid of. Thankfully I put what he’s afraid of in the hospital.

He just nods and looks away again. My instinct is to nudge him lightly but I don’t because I know better. It took me years before I was okay with unexpected physical contact.

I glance over my shoulder and see Mrs. Lawson standing at her back patio door talking on the phone. I wave and she lifts a hand in response.