Hidden Pictures(63)

This is when I started leaning on my classmates—asking them to snoop in their bathrooms, in their parents’ bedrooms. You would be shocked by how many people have OxyContin in their homes. And when those sources finally dried up, I had a friend with a boyfriend who knew a guy. Buying Oxy from a dealer is a pretty easy thing to rationalize. These were, after all, the very same pills my doctors had required me to take. I was buying medicine, not drugs. But the markup was outrageous, and within a month I had depleted all my savings. I spent three miserable days suffering from cold sweats and nausea before one of my new pill-seeking friends introduced me to a cheaper and more sensible alternative.

Heroin is such a big scary word but it feels like Oxy at a fraction of the price. You just have to get past any squeamishness regarding needles. Fortunately, there were plenty of YouTube videos to help me along—tutorials (ostensibly for diabetics) showing how to find a vein and how to gently draw back the plunger at just the right moment, to make sure you’ve made contact with the bloodstream. And once I figured that out, everything turned from bad to shit.

I finished high school, barely, thanks to sympathetic teachers who felt sorry for me. But all the coaches understood what was happening, and somehow Penn State weaseled out of their offer. They blamed the car accident and my injuries; they said no amount of physical therapy would have me ready by fall, and I don’t remember being disappointed. I don’t even remember getting the news. By the time they reached out to my mother, I was already spending my nights in Northern Liberties, crashing on the sofa of my new friend Isaac, who happened to be thirty-eight years old.

There was a long stretch after high school where I lived primarily to take drugs, and to obtain money to buy more drugs—any kind of drugs. If Oxy and heroin were unavailable, I’d sample anything on the menu. My mother spent a great deal of time and money trying to help me, but I was young and pretty and she was old and broke and fat; she didn’t stand a chance. One day she got on the 17 bus and found herself having a heart attack; she almost died before the ambulance got her to the hospital. And I didn’t even know until six months later, until I landed in rehab and tried calling my mother to tell her the good news. She just assumed I wanted money and hung up.

I called back a couple more times, but she never answered, so I left these long rambling voice mails, confessing that the accident was all my fault and apologizing for everything. By this point I was living at Safe Harbor and completely sober but of course she didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me, either. Finally one day this man answered the phone. He said his name was Tony and he was a friend of my mother’s, and she didn’t want to hear from me anymore. And the next time I called, the number was disconnected.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in two years. I’m not really sure what happened to her. Still, I know I have many, many reasons to be thankful. I’m grateful that I never got HIV or hepatitis. I’m grateful I was never raped. I’m grateful to the Uber driver who revived me with Narcan after I passed out in the backseat of her Prius. I’m grateful to the judge who sent me to rehab instead of prison. And I’m grateful I met Russell, that he agreed to sponsor me and motivated me to start running again. I never would have come this far without his help.

Adrian doesn’t interrupt my story with questions. He just lets me talk and talk until I can finally get to my main point: “I’m always going to feel guilty about what happened. Everyone blames the driver with the mountain bike. But if I had been paying attention—”

“You don’t know that, Mallory. Maybe you could have swerved out of the way, or maybe not.”

But I know that I’m right.

I’ll always know I’m right.

If I went back in time and did everything over, I would just change lanes or cut the wheel or slam on the brakes and everything would still be okay.

“We used to share a bedroom, did I mention that already? We slept in bunkbeds and we hated it, we complained to our mother all the time. We told her we were the only kids on our block who had to share a room, and it wasn’t even true! So anyway, after the accident, the day I left the hospital, my mother drove me home and I went upstairs and—” And I can’t even describe the rest. I can’t tell him how the room was too quiet without Beth, how I couldn’t sleep without the sounds of her breathing and her rustling sheets.

“It must be hard,” Adrian says.

“I miss her so much. Every day. Maybe that’s why I lied to you, Adrian, I don’t know. But I swear I never lied about anything else. I didn’t lie about my feelings and I didn’t lie about the pictures. I have no memory of drawing them. But I guess I must have. I know it’s the only logical explanation. I’m leaving Spring Brook on Monday. I’m going to live with my sponsor for a couple weeks. Try to get my head screwed on right. I’m sorry for being such a psycho.”

We’ve reached the part of the conversation where I hope Adrian will say something—maybe not “I forgive you,” I know that’s asking for too much, but at least some acknowledgment that I’ve just bared my soul, that I’ve shared a story I’ve never shared to anyone outside of an NA meeting.

Instead, he stands and says, “We should get going.”

We walk across the grass toward the parking lot. There are three little boys playing next to Adrian’s truck, pointing finger-guns and firing imaginary bullets. As we get closer, they all sprint across the asphalt parking lot, whooping and hollering and waving their arms like maniacs. They remind me of the boys at the Big Playground. They’re all around five or six years old and they’re nothing like quiet and introspective Teddy, always reaching for his picture books and sketch pads.