Heroine(27)

From the kitchen, the scanner squawks.

Unit 32, respond to 1525 County Road 46 for a Code 12.

“Somebody’s got no cash for their stash,” Josie says. “That’s the third B & E this week.”

“Seriously, that’s impressive,” I tell her.

“I’m even better at scanner codes than I am at blow jobs,” she says, sucking on her fork.

“Josie,” Edith chides her.

“Not that I give those,” she adds easily.

I laugh, no longer caring that Carolina is with Aaron and Mom is at the hospital. My empty house fades into the background as the knives are replaced with a line of skin-care products, and Josie pops a pill.

“It’s the weekend,” she says. “Have an 80 on me.”

I feel fine, my legs stretched in front of me, muscles sore—in a good way—from working out. But I take it. I take it because it’s free Oxy, and an offering of friendship from Josie. I take it because she just took one too, and that means I don’t have to feel bad about it. I take it because I don’t have to justify to anyone that I’m taking it even though I’m not in pain.

I’m taking this Oxy because I like the way it makes me feel.

And nobody here is going to call me out on that.

By ten o’clock Josie has raided Edith’s liquor cabinet and I’ve texted Mom to tell her I’m spending the night at a friend’s house. She answers quickly—ok. In the midst of a delivery I doubt she has time to even question it.

Josie offers me a shot of something amber-colored, but I hold my hand up.

“I don’t drink.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” I say. “If I get caught drinking, I’m off the team. Not worth it.”

“Um, but Oxy is fine?”

“That’s different,” I explain. “I’ve been prescribed Oxy.”

“And that pill you just took was given to you by a doctor, right?” She throws back the shot she poured for herself, then mine as well.

“Dr. Edith, accredited by the School of Hard Knocks,” Edith shouts from her recliner, where she’s taken up residency after a failed attempt at standing. “You leave Mickey alone, Josie. No fighting.”

“We’re not fighting, Grandma,” Josie says, gathering up the bottle and reclaiming her spot next to me on the couch. “You don’t drink, whatever. More for me.”

“’Kay,” Edith says, her eyelids drooping.

Josie mutes the TV and leans her head back on the couch, two bright spots of intoxication sprouting on her cheeks.

“Wait, Edith is your grandma?” I ask.

Josie starts to shake her head, then thinks better of it when it goes too far to one side. “No,” she says. “I just call her that.”

“Oh,” I say. “My mom isn’t actually my mom, but I call her that.”

It’s more than I’ve ever said to anyone about being adopted, even Carolina. I touch my face, as if I’m wondering how this is the same Mickey who makes friends on the field but can’t seem to find things to say in the hallway. I’m never guilty of oversharing, unless I’m talking to Carolina about that underwear you can menstruate in, which might be my new religion. I’m about to ask Josie if she has a pair when I realize I must be high to even consider it.

She’s moved again, anyway. Off the couch and over to the end table next to Edith’s chair, where her purse sits. Josie waves her hand in front of Edith’s face, and when she doesn’t react, motions to me to be quiet as she reaches into Edith’s purse and pulls out an orange bottle.

“So you’re like her granddaughter, but the one that steals from her while she’s asleep?”

“Yep,” Josie says. “Go ahead and tell me you’ve never stolen anything.”

I don’t.

“Uh-huh.” She tips a single pill into her palm and hands the bottle over to me. “Besides, she’s like my grandma, but the one who would totally tell me she deserves to be stolen from if she’s stupid enough to leave pills out of the safe when there are two junkies in the house.”

“One junkie,” I correct.

“Yeah, you’re here for the green beans. I forgot.” I don’t argue with her, instead proving my point by putting the cap back on the bottle. Josie rolls her eyes.

“They’re only 20s, anyway. Just topping myself off.”

I check the label. She’s right. It’s a bottle of 20 milligrams of Oxy, prescribed to Betsy Vellon.

“Who is Betsy Vellon?”

“One of the ladies from the senior center,” Josie explains, curling up opposite me with a throw pillow.

I remember the van I saw in Dr. Ferriman’s parking lot, the frail woman Edith was leading down the hallway there. “She drives for them, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, that’s her job.” Josie puts air quotes around the last word.

“Job,” I echo back at her, with my own quotes. “What do you mean?”

“The county doesn’t pay Edes shit,” Josie says. “So she supplements her income with the old people’s meds. Betsy’s got rheumatoid arthritis, Ruth has something going on with her nerves, and Helen . . . I don’t remember what Helen had.”