5. Nicole

It's funny how memory works. Our brain decides what's most important and retains it—the rest, it just lets go. Song lyrics we remember for years, decades even. Are they important? Most likely not. But they're tied to salient moments. I know all the words to "Californication" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers because I kissed the first boy I ever loved while listening to it back in 1999. I can recite all the lyrics to "Last Resort" by Papa Roach because that song was blaring through the speakers of my parent's car as I drove alone, right after getting my driver's license. It meant the world to me, freedom, or at least the first taste of it. And I remember the lyrics to "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails because it was playing when I overdosed the first time, and I thought it would be the last thing I'd ever hear. I remember mouthing the words. My lips were the only thing I could move; they were coated in vomit, shifting back and forth and up and down. Then there are random memories permanently lodged in my mind, like phone numbers, despite the fact that cell phones store them for us now. I remember my dad's, though I haven't dialed it in years. And I remember my sister's. Two lifelines, but only one to call upon. Today, she picked up, and I'm surprised she did.

"How are you feeling, Nicole?" the nurse asks as she enters the hospital room where I'm laid up. She's young and vibrant with bright eyes and dewy skin. Actually, she's probably my age but I don't look like her. After all, time isn't the only thing that ages us. She smiles, not like she's happy to see me, but like she's happy she's not me. Pulling a clipboard from the end of my bed, she flips through several pages that must detail all the damage that was done. This isn't the first time I've been attacked. When you chase all the wrong things, you're bound to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I'm fine," I say, although I'm not.

My right arm is cocooned in a cast, not from today though. That injury happened four weeks ago, and the cast was supposed to be removed this week. But now the doctor wants to keep it on a little longer, just to be safe. My face is throbbing so I'm sure my skin is a swollen mix of colors. Several of my ribs are bruised. It hurts to inhale deeply, like I'm only sucking in enough air to survive, not enough to thrive. But I've felt that way about life for a long time. The doctor told me I was lucky my ribs weren't broken. I suppose he and I have different definitions of the word lucky.

A dose of methadone has helped to dull the withdrawal symptoms. I was supposed to get it earlier today. They asked me why I didn't go in for my treatment. I lied, making up an excuse about transportation or something like that. I was on my way to get my daily dose when I saw the text from my sister. I didn't read it fully, just the notification preview, just enough to get the gist as to why she was reaching out to me. Mom is going to pass today, it said. I'm on day twenty-nine of my sobriety, the longest I haven't used since my addiction started. I've tried and failed to stop more times than I care to admit. When I got the text, the craving intensified far beyond my control. Every ounce of my being wanted it... no, needed it, and I knew a dose of methadone wasn't going to cut it.

"How's your pain on a scale of one to ten?" the nurse asks.

I hesitate, deciding on the correct response and, by that, I don't mean the honest answer. They won't give me any more pain meds anyway because they know I'm an addict. Instead, I aim for a low number, one that'll get me out of here.

"Three," I say.

She scribbles it down on the chart, checks a few of my vitals, jots them down too, and returns the clipboard to the end of my bed. "The doctor is still advising that you stay overnight for observation. Are you sure we can't get you to stay?" The nurse tilts her head.

"I'm sure."

She slightly nods and delivers a sympathetic look. "Okay."

There's a knock on the door. It opens slowly and my older sister appears in the doorway. Although Beth's face is expressionless, her bloodshot, swollen eyes tell me she's been crying. Mom's dead. She doesn't even need to say it. The nurse greets her before slipping out of the room to get the doctor.

Beth stands awkwardly at the foot of my bed, uncomfortably adjusting her oversized navy green raincoat. Her dirty-blond hair is damp and hangs past her shoulders. She wears no makeup except a cherry-colored lip balm. Beth's always been pretty in an unassuming way. Her eyes skim over me, carefully noting each injury. It's how she always looks at me now, like a claims adjuster appraising the damage and deciding whether or not I'm salvageable. A year ago, she determined I wasn't worth saving. I can still hear her words. They cut deep, deeper than any physical injury I had ever endured.

I can't have you in my life, Nicole. I've tried to help you, but every time I do, I get burned worse than the last. I don't even know who you are anymore, because you sure as hell aren't my sister.

I remember Beth was calm when she said it. There was no emotion in her voice. No tears in her eyes. It was like she had already grieved the loss and was delivering the message to my ghost.

"How ya feeling?" she asks.

"Like a million bucks."

She nods, cracking a small smile. She's always liked my humor, but I think she's just humoring me right now because she feels bad for me.

"Money must have lost all value then," she quips.

I chuckle but stop myself when I feel a sharp pain in my ribs. I wince, holding my breath for a moment while pressing a hand against my abdomen.

Beth takes a step toward me. "You good?"

I blow the air out of my lungs. "Yeah. I'm surprised you came."

Her eyes are laser-focused on mine, the way Mom used to look at me when I came home late for curfew. "Yeah, I am too. So, what happened?" she asks.

I look away, focusing on the white wall behind her. I've never been fond of eye contact. It feels too intimate. It's a way to establish trust—but no one should trust me. I don't even trust myself.

When I don't answer, Beth continues, "Police said you got beat up pretty bad. Do you owe someone money?"

"No," I lie. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

She cocks her head. "Are you using?"

Even if I tell her no, she won't believe me. You can't trust people with an addiction because in many cases, like mine, their addiction is stronger than their word.

"Hello." Dr. Cline raps his knuckles against the partially open door. He's an older man with graying hair and a bulbous nose that keeps his glasses perfectly in place, despite his slick, oily skin.

He gives a routine smile and picks up the clipboard. "Pain level is down to three." He looks to me for confirmation.

I nod, and he continues. "Vitals look good. The radiologist reviewed your MRI scan and that came back normal as well."

I tried to refuse the MRI, but I was in and out of it when they brought me in, and they must have decided it was necessary. Now, I'll have pretty pictures of my brain, all for a whopping two thousand dollars. I should frame them like they're valuable pieces of artwork.

"Sounds like I'm good as new," I say.

"Not exactly. I want to see you back in two weeks so I can look at that cast. You have a mild concussion and several bruised ribs. So, no heavy lifting or strenuous exercise. Ice, ibuprofen, and rest. Just take it easy and keep up with your methadone treatments." Dr. Cline tilts his head.

I glance over at Beth. The whites of her eyes show at the mention of treatment. She's probably thinking she finally has her sister back. But I know that's not entirely true. Only part of me is here.

"Any questions?" he asks, slipping the clipboard back into its place.

"If you had to live with one leg or one arm, which would you choose, Doc?" I keep a straight face.

Beth stifles a laugh.

Dr. Cline raises an eyebrow. "I meant medical questions, but I suppose one arm," he says, cracking a smile. "I'll have the nurse get you checked out. Take care of yourself, Nicole." He nods and backs out of the room.

Beth looks to me, like that same claims adjuster, deciding there's still value, despite the damage. "How long?" she asks.

"Twenty-nine days."

"Good," she says with a nod. "Keep it up."

It's the most encouragement she's capable of offering me because I've let her down far too many times to warrant any more.

"Is Mom...?" I don't finish my sentence, and I'm not sure why I even started it in the first place. I know the answer. But sometimes we question the things we already know.

Beth nods. "Yeah, she's gone."

I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing one of the last times Mom smiled at me. We were out shopping at rummage sales on a Saturday morning. She always loved a bargain and truly believed one man's garbage was another man's treasure. At a garage sale, I spotted a Remington Model 5 vintage typewriter. It was beautiful, priced at over four hundred dollars, less than half of what it was worth, but more than I could afford. I admired it for a few minutes before pulling myself away. Mom went up to pay for a small knickknack and tossed me the keys to her vehicle, telling me to turn on the air. She was going through menopause at the time and couldn't stand the humid Wisconsin summers paired with her hot flashes. Ten minutes later, she returned to the car carrying the typewriter and gifted it to me. I told her it was too much. She disagreed. I asked her how she could afford it. She told me not to worry about that. I told her I would pay her back. She smiled and said I could pay her back by writing a book. I promised her I would, but I never did, and years later, I sold the typewriter for drug money. She was as patient as a mother could be, but I wore it so thin, it became dust.

Beth rests her hand on mine. It's warm and comforting, something I haven't felt in what seems like forever. Day twenty-nine. I was one day away, just one day. I can hear my mother's words. The last ones she ever said to me. Come back when you have a chip.