Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
She sighed, rearranging herself on the bed.
“Take off your shoes,” I encouraged her. “Stay awhile.”
She smiled, reaching down to remove her sneakers. “My brother called.”
“Oh?” I shifted again.
She lay back down, oblivious to my predicament. I put a hand around her, resting it against her collarbone. “He’s an addict.” I had heard some of this before, but I let her get it out.
“Shh.” I stroked her hair.
“After Mom died, I didn’t speak to him again. I know he was drifting around different cities. He called me once from Austin, and I got a notice that he had an appointment at traffic court in Baton Rouge. He was high at our mother’s funeral, and I have no reason to suspect he ever got sober again.” She sniffed.
Her story wasn’t finished. “He’s never had a job or an apartment. I think he lost his car in Austin when he was pulled over for a DUI.” She rearranged herself in my embrace, lost in her memories. “It was like he died too that day. I never went back. I never checked on him. I just continued living my own life. I was wrong to leave him in that situation. I should have done something.”
“What could you have done?” I asked.
“I could have… called child protective services.” She twisted to bury her face in my chest, her shoulders heaving. “Why didn’t I understand that Mom was leading George down her own horrible path?”
“Hey.” I straightened, taking hold of her arms and stabilizing her. “You were just a kid.”
“I know, but…” she rallied against my logic, collapsing inward.
“But nothing.” I pulled her to me, feeling her convulse as small earthquakes of self-pity raced through her. “As an addict, I can tell you, no amount of love or sacrifice would have convinced me to stop drinking. I had to hit bottom myself. There was absolutely nothing you could have done to prevent your brother from turning to drink and drugs.”
“But I…” she moaned into my shirt.
“No,” I said sternly. “You’re not responsible.”
She quieted, looking up at me with hope in her eyes.
“I just had to tell my best friend that his cookouts were triggering for me.” I smiled. “Do you know how hard that was? To tell your best friend that being included in his plans makes you want to drink?”
She settled back down, grabbing a fistful of my work shirt, like a child with a blanket. “I never thought of it that way.”
“I think you’re too close to this.” I kissed the top of her head.
“What do you mean?” She frowned, all traces of sadness evaporated.
“Don’t you think you got into this field because your mom was an addict?”
“Of course.”
“So, you’re continually retraumatizing yourself by hanging out with us,” I concluded.
She shook her head seriously, “Don’t put yourself in the same category, Porter.”
I looked away uncomfortably. I was in the same category. Just because I was currently clean and sober didn’t mean I hadn’t done plenty of damage to people I loved when I was using. I let the subject drop because I didn’t want to follow it to its logical conclusion. She shouldn’t be in a romantic relationship with another addict. Her experience with her mom and her brother was enough. I didn’t want to run the risk of a relapse that would devastate her, but I was too selfish to point that out.
“So what did your brother want?” I asked.
“What he always wants.” She wilted again, lying back against me. “Money. Drugs. Money. I don’t know.”
“What did he say exactly?” I had a sinking feeling. I knew only too well how the friends and loved ones of drug users could get dragged down into the muck. What if her brother was into something bad? Lord knew I had created my own drama, dragging Mike into my problems to a detrimental effect.
Without meaning to, I had sent my buddy to jail and compromised the only woman he had ever loved. Just because I had experienced a brief sobriety and had been of some assistance in rectifying the situation didn’t mean I wasn’t to blame. Her brother was potentially into the same shit that I had been involved in, and that was bad news. That kind of trouble had a tendency to spill out and affect everyone within a ten-mile radius.
Gina sniffed, trying to recall the conversation. “He said he had to come up with a quarter of a million dollars or enough pills to move to make that up. He thought because I was a nurse, I had access to pharmaceuticals.”
“Do you?” I asked because I wanted the whole story.
“No,” she said. “Well, yes, I do,” she amended her statement, sitting up again. “I have to give the patients their medication. Some of what’s prescribed does have a black-market value.”
“What did you tell him?” I pressed.