Chapter 21

21

PORTER

I drove home after work, intending to grab a shower and a change of clothes before meeting Gina at the diner. When I got to the house, however, I found her sitting on the front porch steps. She looked incredible, her hair different somehow, flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall. But there was something wrong; she seemed small. It was as if she had folded in on herself, arms around her knees, head down.

"Hey." I came close, slipping my keys into my pocket.

"Porter," she sniffed, uncurling to stand. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, falling against me before releasing a sob.

"Hey, hey," I soothed, running a hand along her spine. She either didn't notice or didn't care that I hadn't had a chance to shower. There seemed to be more important considerations at the time. "Come inside." I led her through the front door, into the foyer with its consistently disreputable appearance. The trash in the communal trash can was overflowing, the mail stuffed haphazardly into people's boxes. "I'm sorry you have to see this."

"It's nothing." She attempted a laugh. "My building is hardly any better."

"I find that hard to believe," I said, holding her hand as we mounted the stairs. I imagined her living in a fancy high-rise in Nashville, with a butler to open the door. That was unlikely, but I was positive her lobby was at least swept on a daily basis. "It's a third-floor walk-up." I continued to apologize.

"Okay." She nodded bravely.

We passed one of my housemates on the way up, a young woman who was screaming angrily into her cell phone. "I don't care what you have to do, just get it!" she roared as she thundered down the stairs. She disappeared out the front door before we could hear any more of her conversation.

"Do you think she was trying to score?" I asked wickedly, trying to lighten the mood.

Gina shrugged, intent on her own misery.

"Or maybe she's ordering dinner?" I tried again.

This time I was rewarded with a thin smile. We reached the third floor, and I unlocked the room, standing back to let her pass. She took one step inside before realizing there wasn't any more to it. Standing on the threshold, you could see all four corners of the room, the bed in the center, the dresser, and both windows. At least it's clean and smells fresh , I thought to myself, inching inside behind her.

"Wow," she said.

"Yeah." I nodded, throwing my keys on the dresser. "I told you it was small."

"I didn't think it would be this small," she whispered.

I sat down on the bed to pull my boots off, tossing them back toward the door. She shifted deftly to avoid the missiles, momentarily shocked into action. I grabbed the one pillow and propped it against the wall, making myself as comfortable as possible.

"Come here," I instructed, holding my arms open.

She collapsed against me without any further prompting. I held her close, stroking her shoulder and smoothing the hair from her face. She decompressed for a few minutes, crying softly into my dirty work shirt.

"I haven't had a shower yet," I said gently.

"You smell like sawdust," she answered, her eyes hopeful beneath the tears.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" I asked.

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.

"I said no, of course." She gave me a worried look. "He's always pulling this crap. I've talked to him two times since Mom died, and both times he asked me for money. I think he's in really big trouble."

I sighed. It certainly sounded like it. You didn't get desperate and call your sister at a drug treatment center asking for drugs if everything was fine. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel and had come up with the one person he thought he could bully into helping him. But Gina's access to medication, one cup at a time, checked out from the pharmacy and delivered to her patients, wouldn't satisfy a street dealer, much less a kingpin.

"I didn't give him my number," she admitted. "I don't know how he found me."

"Alright, well," I said, not knowing where to begin. "At least he doesn't know you're here."

"He's my brother, Porter," she sighed. "Don't I owe him something?"

"You don't owe him anything," I insisted. "You definitely don't owe him any money or drugs. Just be there when he's ready to come clean. It doesn't sound like he's there yet."

She wrapped a firm hand around my middle and snuggled in. "You're the only one who could understand."

I didn't think that was exactly true. If there was one thing all the group therapy sessions had taught me, it was that there wasn't anything unique about me as a user. All of us were selfish and traumatized; the specifics didn't matter. Gina was acting out of a childhood need to feel useful, to help those who were suffering from the same ailment that claimed her mother's life. I could see it clearly, even if she didn't. Her attachment to her brother was classic, and I knew he would use it to his advantage if he could.

I almost felt like I had to protect Gina from herself. If she was wound so tightly around her dysfunctional family, then maybe I could help her disengage. We could start by letting her brother face his own demons.

"I feel the same way myself," I told her, inching down so that my head rested on the pillow. "I know we're not supposed to be together, but it seems like two people with so much in common should help each other out."

She smiled; I could feel the muscles in her jaw working. "Is that what we're doing? Helping each other out?"

"That and having fantastic sex," I admitted.

I held her until she fell asleep, until she gave up her worry and surrendered to her fatigue. Her body felt so sweet, curled up next to mine, on this old mattress in my cheap apartment. I didn't have a lot to offer her, but I could understand where she was coming from. My own childhood had been less than ideal.

In middle school and high school, I had spent as much time with Mike as I could. The stability of his household was a welcome contrast to the chaos of mine. Luckily, I had no siblings to drag me down, and my parents had passed away a long time ago. I was all alone in the world, with only my friends and the woman who now shared my bed.

Even without close family, I could understand the pull of blood relations. No one knew an addict like an addict. I understood that Gina's brother wasn't evil, just mired in the torment of his troubled existence. He was a lost cause until he decided to help himself. Gina, on the other hand, was a different story. With love and support, maybe I could help steer her away from the negative influence of her childhood, into brighter days.

I could start with my own sobriety. I didn't want to be another drain on her resources. We could be partners, equal in responsibility, but only if I was a functional adult. I could be the safe harbor that she came home to, her shelter in the storm. I didn't imagine myself to be a better person than her brother, just sober.

I found myself drifting toward sleep, having completely forgotten about the heroin in the trash.