Heart Bones(66)

That thought forces me to lay my head on my arms. I’m tired and I want answers, but I know I won’t get any until I get to speak to Samson. The only answer I really want to know is whether or not he actually grew a heart bone. If he did, is his breaking right now?

Because mine is.

“She really doesn’t know anything else,” my father says. “It’s late. Can you guys just call if there are more questions?”

“Sure. Let me check on something real quick before you leave. We’ll be right back.”

I hear both officers leave the room, so I finally lift my head and then lean back in the chair.

“You okay?” my father asks.

I nod. If I say I’m not okay, he’ll want open dialogue. I’d rather not speak.

The door is open, which gives me a good view of the activity outside this room. There’s a man who is obviously strung out on something being detained in a room across the hall. The whole time we’ve been in this room, we could hear him making unintelligible noises for no reason. Every time he would do it, I would flinch.

I should be used to that behavior because it was so common in my house. My mother mumbled to herself all the time. Especially in the past year. She’d talk to people who weren’t even there.

I almost forgot what it’s like to live with an addict. It makes me sad seeing that man here. Jail isn’t going to help him with his addiction, just like it never helped my mother. If anything, it made it worse. Being locked up and released over and over is a cycle that gets stronger with every arrest.

My mother was arrested several times. I’m not exactly sure what she was arrested for, but it was always drug related. Possession. Intent to purchase. I remember a neighbor coming to get me in the middle of the night and taking me to her house to sleep a few times.

My mother needed more help than I was capable of giving her. I tried on more than one occasion, but I was in over my head. Looking back now, I wish I’d done more. Maybe I should have reached out to my father.

I don’t think she would have been a bad person if she wasn’t sick. And that’s what addiction is, right? It’s an illness. One I’m susceptible to but determined never to catch.

I wonder what she could have been like had she not been addicted to drugs. Was she like me in any way whatsoever?

I glance over at my father. “What was my mother like when you met her?”

He looks jarred by that question. He shakes his head. “I don’t really remember. I’m sorry.”

I don’t know why I expected him to remember. It was a one-night stand when he wasn’t much older than me. They were both probably drunk. I sometimes want to ask him how they met, but I’m not sure I want to know. I’m sure it was at a bar and there isn’t a romantic moment he would be able to recall.

I wonder how my father turned out somewhat normal while my mother turned out to be the worst version of herself she could be. Is it strictly because she was an addict? Was it an imbalance of nature vs. nurture?

“Do you think humans are the only species that get addicted to things?” I ask my father.

“What do you mean?”

“Like drugs and alcohol. Do you think animals have any vices?”

My father’s eyes scroll over my face like he can’t understand the questions coming from my mouth. “I think I read somewhere that lab rats can get addicted to morphine,” he says.

“That’s not what I mean. I want to know if there are addictive things in an animal’s natural environment. Or are humans the only species who sabotage themselves and everyone around them with their addictions?”

My father scratches his forehead. “Is your mother an addict, Beyah?” he asks. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

I can’t believe I’ve gone this long and still haven’t told him she’s dead. I can’t believe he hasn’t figured it out yet. “She’s not an addict anymore.”

His eyes are narrowed in concern. “I didn’t even know she used to be.” He stares at me, unwavering in his worry. “Are you okay?”

I roll my eyes at his question. “We’re sitting in a police station in the middle of the night. No, I’m not okay.”

He blinks twice. “Yeah, I know. But your questions. They just…don’t really make sense.”

I chuckle. It sounds just like my father’s chuckle. It’s my new least favorite thing about myself.

I stand up and stretch my legs. I walk to the door and look out of it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Samson somewhere, but he’s nowhere.

It’s as if there’s a gap sitting between the moment I sat down in the police car and the moment I’ll get to speak to Samson again. A huge emotional gap where I feel nothing and care about nothing else but that potential conversation.

I refuse to open myself up to whatever is happening, which is probably why my thoughts are all over the place while I wait. If I open myself up to this moment right now, I might convince myself that Samson is a complete stranger to me. But last night, that felt so far from the truth.

For the second time this summer, I find myself amazed at how much life can change from one day to the next.

Officer Ferrell returns, gripping a mug of coffee with both hands. I back out of the doorway and lean against the door. My father stands up.

“We have all your information. The two of you are free to go.”