Take Me Home

I wake up in a white room. Machines beep around me. I roll my head to the side and see my dad slumped forward in a plastic chair, his head in his hands.

Deja vu.

“Dad?” My voice is croaky, my throat feels like it’s got sandpaper in it. He raises his head and I wince at the redness of his eyes.

“We thought we’d lost you too…” His voice is low, almost thoughtful.

“Your mother…your mother went to look for you in the car…” He swallows dryly. “We thought you were gone…”

A lone tear snakes its way down his stubbly cheek. He wipes it away with a shaky hand and stands up, then walks over to the window, keeping his back to me.

“Heroin? Christ, Rosa-Lee! Tommy said you were drinking heavily, but fucking drugs?” His voice is heavy with emotion.

I want to get up and hug him, to feel the warmth of my dad’s arms around me. Then, I realize I really ache all over, like I’ve been hit by a bus.

“Your mom and I have made arrangements for you to go to a center for people…like you.”

“What do you mean, like me?” Christ, my throat burns.

“Young people who aren’t coping with the world very well. They’ll help you get over the drugs, and will help you deal with Dy…”

“Don’t say his name,” I interrupt with a hiss. My dad’s shoulders slump.

“Sweetheart, it’s been a year and you still can’t hear his name.” He walks over and sits on the bed next to me, taking my hand in his.

When I was younger, I was obsessed with the size difference between our hands; his dwarfs mine even now, and men with big hands scream protector to me. I keep my gaze on our hands, not wanting to meet the judgement in his eyes.

“It’s not healthy, and it doesn’t help us grieve for our son when we can’t do it in front of you.” I bite back the sob welling up inside of me, and nod slightly to acknowledge what he’s saying.

“The people from Rainbow House will be here soon to collect you. They have advised us it will be best to let you go through the withdrawal completely before we come see you.”

The sobs burst through the dam I was trying to build, and I cling on to my dad with all the strength I can muster.

“Shhhh. It’s okay baby girl, it will all be okay.” He rocks me gently, stroking my hair.

***

I sit, shivering with fever, on one of the most uncomfortable chairs I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit on, watching the nurse change my shitty bed sheets. Again.

It’s so humiliating having to press a buzzer to get someone you don’t know to haul you out of a pile of your own stinking diarrhea, wash you, and change your clothes. T

hey obviously expect this kind of thing to happen, though, because the mattress is covered in a wipe-down plastic sheet.

“All done, hun.” The nurse, Katie, shoots me a warm smile. I shuffle back to the bed and burrow my way under the new sheets, amazed at the sweat already soaking my clean pajamas.

If it’s not the shit, it’s the sweat, which means I need my sheets to be changed at least once a day. I feel disgusting.

“I’ll bring you some more water and tablets to help settle your stomach.”

“H-how mu-uch longer w-will…” I try to stutter out the question. She smiles again, picking up the bucket, brown water sloshing slightly inside.

“How much longer will you feel like this, hun? Well, it depends on how much and how often you were using drugs, but I would think in a few days you’ll be feeling a bit better.”

She flicks off the main light, leaving the room bathed in the warm yellow glow of the bedside lamp. “Try and get some sleep now, m’kay?”

The door clicks closed behind her. I lie shaking in the half dark, trying to go to sleep. If only it was that easy.

I feel like someone is trying to bend my spine in half and repeatedly punch me in the stomach at the same time. My legs twitch spasmodically, causing them to get entangled with the sheets.

As soon as I feel myself drifting off, a new round of pain kicks in, jolting me back to consciousness.

The noises close by don’t lend themselves to a good night’s sleep either. I can hear nearly nonstop moaning, punctuated with loud incoherent shouts and bangs.

***

I’ve been here in Rainbow House for almost two weeks. My body is nearly back to normal. My skin feels itchy, and I’m still finding it difficult to keep much food down, but my fever has broken, and I’ve stopped shitting myself. Go, me.

My doctor here, Dr. Greene, has decided I need to have therapy sessions with my parents. Starting today.

Sitting on one end of a deep purple sofa, I have my knees tucked under my chin, and my sweater pulled down over the top of them. My mom sits next to me, trying to hold my hand and hold back her tears at the same time, while Dr. Greene tells them all about how my treatment is going to go.

I chew at the skin on the inside of my cheeks, and wrap a thread from my sweater around my finger, watching as it slowly goes red.

I glance up at my dad, who is sitting stoically across the room. He looks like he’s aged about ten years in the last twelve months.

I feel a nauseous ball of guilt at the extra pain and worry I’ve caused him.

Dr. Greene opens his notepad and asks us to talk openly, no holds barred, about how we are feeling in this moment.

My parents spend the rest of the hour talking about how relieved they are that I am finally getting the help I need, and how much they miss having me at home.

I sit silently, my eyes staying on the finger with the thread wrapped tightly round, watching it slowly go purple. I’m vaguely aware of my mom kissing the side of my head and my dad mussing up my hair.

Dr. Greene clears his throat, jolting me from my reverie.

“Well, for three people who are all dealing with the loss of someone they claim they loved, you are all doing an excellent job of talking about it.” I glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow.

“At last! Some kind of emotion from you.” He smirks, and I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

“If you learnt how to deal with your feelings from those two, then I know why you turned to drugs,” Dr. Greene continued, gesturing toward my parents.

“This doesn’t really sound like the kind of thing a therapist should be saying,” I retort.

“Well, maybe I think you need a friend more than you need a therapist right now.” He sits back in his wingback chair, the leather creaking slightly under him.

“I don’t think you feel like you’ve had a friend you can talk to since Dylan died.”

My breath stops. The pain in my chest feels like it’s going to tear me in two.

I drop my feet to the floor and lean down over them, pressing my chest as tightly as I can to my thighs. Lights dance in my vision.

“Breathe, Rosa.” A heavy warm hand rubs up and down my spine. “You’re having a panic attack. Breath in deeply through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I feel myself floating away into the darkness.