Chapter 5

5

PORTER

E verything hurt. Everything hurt, and there was a crashing sound in my ears that wouldn't go away. The crash and the pain and an ache in my soul completed the devilish trio, torturing me as I was sure no creature had ever been tortured before. I rolled to one side, then the other, desperate to get comfortable. The tiny cot seemed like my deathbed, like it was pulling me down, unwilling to let go.

I got up and paced when I was able, in the early morning hours before the flu-like detox circled back to bite me again. I memorized every inch of the cell they had me in. White walls and grey floors left no doubt as to what the room was for. There were no pictures on the walls, no color on any surface. There was a toilet in the corner with a curtain for privacy. Even the curtain was white. I thought they could have added pink or green, something to cheer up the inhabitants of this bleak place.

I threw up into that toilet, feeling my stomach rip through delirious convulsions. I knew I had signed up for this. It had been my own two feet that had walked in the door, my own hand that had shakily signed the intake forms. Those pieces of me were traitors, I decided. A quick death from overdose couldn't possibly be this bad. The only bright spot in my life was the nurse who visited me three times each day.

The first time I saw her, life had been a nightmare. I had only a spotty recollection of her sitting down beside me. It looked as if she had wanted to reach out but had stopped herself. I wondered what her touch would have been like. Her delicate fingers might have swept over my own and taken the sickness away.

I thought she had said something about a landline, but that couldn't have been right. And a cat called Evil. Even in the depths of my madness, it had struck me as odd. That very mystery had been enough to keep me going after she left.

There were orderlies who came in to deliver my food. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and one snack were all presented on the same mint-green plastic trays. They were all prepackaged foods, sandwiches on white bread, potato chips, and apple slices. It was as if an industrial mother had decided to feed hundreds of children but didn't have an actual kitchen. Or more likely, I thought as I sobered up, they had outsourced the food to a company offsite.

If they gave me a utensil, it was always a plastic spork, never a fork and never a knife. The orderlies returned after exactly thirty minutes to collect the trays and whatever I had left uneaten. They were super serious about keeping me hydrated. If I didn't finish my bottled water, the orderlies, usually strong young men, would stand and wait for me to drink it. I was also hooked up to an IV flushing the toxins out of my body.

I wondered if patients ever gave them trouble. I could just imagine some strung-out junkie getting strapped down to one of these cots. I didn't want to press my luck. Still, I spent a good deal of time considering whether I could take on one or all of the orderlies. I didn't consider myself strong, but the job at the lumberyard was no joke. I spent all day hauling logs in the sun; it didn't make me a lumberjack, but I knew I had a good thirty pounds on most of the patients who were admitted.

I didn't know any of their names, and I was too far gone to remember them even if I knew. The one with the bald head was particularly beefy. I figured he could take me down without much of a fight. But the one with the tattoo peeking out from beneath his scrubs was just about my size. If I had to make a run for it, I thought I had a good chance of defeating him.

But who knew what lay outside my door? I had a vague recollection of walking into this trap. This room was at the beginning of the dormitory hall. Dormitory was a poor word for it; it was more like solitary confinement. My room was just past the nurses' station, at the beginning of a long hallway of cells.

The first night I was in here, I had been nailed to the bed with the force of my own addiction. I had been unable to get up for any reason, feeling the world spin and my body convulse. I had been in and out of consciousness, feeling only pain, seeing only colors. They had turned the light down low, which was a blessing. Only the nurse's gentle voice had penetrated the fog, calming me down.

I had felt like I was out at sea during a storm, and her voice had been a life raft, allowing me to drift on the surface instead of sinking to the bottom. That was the first time I had seen her, but it wasn't the last. After a sleepless night, tossing and turning but unable to rise, I had weathered enough of the storm to stand. I explored the tiny cubicle, relieved myself in the toilet, washed my hands, and washed out my mouth with water.

They had given me scrubs when I arrived, a set of pale green pajama bottoms and a top. I thought I remembered trying to claw my way out of them at some point during my stay. They were itchy in the way that all new clothing was itchy. As if the starch from the factory was still embedded in the threads. I could have sworn that I had set myself free, removing at least the shirt before succumbing to unconsciousness.

Either it was a dream, or they had dressed me again. I wouldn't put it past them. It seemed like half of what they did here was just monitor you and try to keep you decent while you went through the inevitable tremors. I was desperately curious to know how other people were dealing with this. Presumably I wasn't their only patient, though I had yet to see another human being besides the nurse and the orderlies.

On the second day, I pressed my nose against the safety glass on the door, trying to see out of my chamber. I tried the knob, and it was locked. I cursed. Why would they lock the door when someone had come here of his own free will? What did they think I was going to do? Then my musings about taking on the orderlies came back to me, and I grinned. That was exactly what they were trying to prevent—some intoxicated patient from attacking the staff.

I wandered back to the chair and sat down. It felt good to touch a surface other than the bed. When this ordeal was over, I was never going to sleep again. Delirious hours spent unable to rise had turned me off sleep in general. But then I felt the heaviness of the world on my shoulders and tumbled from the chair to the mattress. Maybe a little more sleep wouldn't hurt.

In my dreams, I saw the nurse. She was beautiful, short, and curvy with a mane of red hair that refused to be tamed even by the bun she kept it in. It inevitably broke loose and curled around her face, dipping into her eyes so that she had to brush it away.

She wore scrubs like me, but hers were softer, more expensive, and less industrial. They looked as if they were genuinely comfortable, not crisp and new like the ones they had put me in. Underneath the neutral fabric, I could see the swell of plump breasts and the curve of shapely hips. Despite the fact that she was my nurse and clearly out of my league, I couldn't help speculating.

What would it be like to run my hand up one of those graceful thighs? To see the growing arousal in her eyes as I drew closer to her center? I tried to kill the fantasies as they came to me. She was kind, and she didn't deserve my lewd thoughts. Still, in my dreams, where inhibitions couldn't stop me, I picked her up from that wretched metal chair and carried her to my bed. I slid my hands across her chest, lifting her uniform to peek beneath. The view I was rewarded with sparked my lust, sending vibrations from my heart down to my loins.

More than once, I woke with a hard-on. I was pretty sure I was under video surveillance, so I didn't dare try to calm it. Not that I was sure they hadn't seen it before. I was sure they had seen all kinds of things that normal people didn't do in public. But I wasn't going to enjoy myself if I thought any of the orderlies were watching; I wasn't that kind of sick.

There was no window in the locked room, so I had no ability to tell time. They had taken my phone and with it, all connection to the outside world. There was no clock mounted on the wall, and the only indication of the passage of time was the variety of food they gave me. When it was oatmeal or fruit, I knew it was breakfast. Sandwiches meant lunch, and meatloaf or turkey with colorless gravy meant dinner.

The nurse who visited three times a day came right before each meal. Her name was Gina. I had learned that because I asked her, one time in one of my fever dreams. She told me her name and that she lived alone. I wasn't sure how I had come by that knowledge. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or maybe it was the accumulation of many conversations we had had.

She would come in and sit down on her chair, going over her notes in that same melodic voice she had used to bring me back from my nightmare.

"How are you today?" she would ask.

At first, I couldn't answer her, so I would just watch. When I was finally able to speak, I tried to crack a joke.

"I've been better."

"Oh," she crooned, genuinely interested. "You had a bad couple of days."

Couple of days? It had been more than one? I was confused, and the confusion felt like cotton in my ears. How long had it been? How long had I taken off work? Mr. Matthews said he would hold my job, but for how long? It seemed like I had been here forever and also as if I had just arrived.

"How long has it been?" I had asked.

She answered, but I didn't remember what she said. Only her voice broke through the fog, not her words. She tried asking me about my life, and I might have explained that I worked for a lumberyard. She seemed interested in knowing how I had come to be there. How had I maintained a job? Why hadn't I wasted away like her other patients?

I thought we might have had a lovely back-and-forth about heroin, about how addictive it was. She might have opened up about something in her own life, but I couldn't be sure. By the time I had grown comfortable with our routine, I had developed a fantasy about her that went way beyond sex.

We were going to fall in love. I would meet her in a park somewhere, and we would walk hand in hand, pointing out the flowers and the squirrels that dashed from tree to tree. We would walk along a lake, watch people fishing, and talk about our childhoods. Maybe we would take one of those paddle boats out and ride around in lazy circles, drinking up the sunlight.

It would be innocent and sober. There would be no specter of addiction between us, neither mine nor hers. We could do all the things that couples did; go to the movies, go on long walks, maybe hit up a museum. It would be far from the sweaty fumbling I'd experienced with my previous girlfriend. No backseat scrambling or make-out sessions on couches in basements—this relationship was going to be legitimate.

I would spend my time getting to know her. I would share my secrets and listen as she shared hers. We would have nothing but respect for each other. I would get clean and stay clean, and that's where the fantasy broke down. I had no right to pine after Gina. She was in a different league. She would go home with a doctor or a lawyer, have a handful of perfect kids, and never think about the treatment center again.

Meanwhile, I was destined to relapse and maybe wind up in the morgue. It was a chilling thought that put out my ardor immediately. We were of two different worlds, and she was forbidden to me. I could look and lust all I wanted to, but in the end, I could never have her. Those walks along the beach would never happen. I would never pick her up and drive her to a movie, holding hands while we shared a bucket of popcorn. It wasn't going to happen because it couldn't happen. She was a nurse, and I was her patient. I had to remember my place.

But somehow, the sweetness of my dream leaked into my daily routine. I began to look forward to her visits, to count the time between them as lost and the time I spent with her as therapy. She never touched me, never held my hand, though I knew she wanted to. At some point, she had a chart she was filling out and asked me all kinds of questions about my family.

"Did anyone have cancer?"

"Not that I recall."

"Did anyone have mental illness?"

"My mother."

At that, she had nodded and made a note of it, as if there were something more to be said.

"Was your mother sick?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. I remembered vividly because her face fell, and all that beautiful energy she had diminished. "She was an addict. I had a hard time growing up."

At that confession, I wanted to reach out. If we had been in my apartment, I could have wrapped her up in a hug. I could have chased the demons in her memory away by placing loving kisses across her forehead. But that was impossible. I didn't have an apartment anymore. I lived in a damn hostel. What was I thinking about? I would never take her anywhere, because this relationship we had was all in my head.

She was a professional dealing with a client. That she had shared some of her own personal struggles just meant she was good at her job. I was sure she would turn tail and run if she knew what I was thinking, so I kept my fantasies to myself. Instead, we talked about my allergies, any past surgeries, and my history with drug use.

"I was sober for a couple months," I said during one of our visits.

"Tell me about that," she said.

"This buddy of mine went to prison for me. He got out, and I ran into him at a bar. I thought then that I could see how far I had come down in life, and that I owed it to him, not to myself, to get sober."

Her eyes softened as she listened, but she continued taking notes. At every step I was reminded of the clinical nature of the treatment place. You thought you were having a conversation with one person, but it turned out they were recording every word you said. It would all go into your file and be available to any doctor or insurance company who asked for it. I tried to keep that in mind, but there was something about her demeanor. She really cared; I could tell. It wasn't just a job for her; there was something more. Could it possibly be friendship? I hoped that what I was interpreting was something unique to me, something that she didn't share with all her patients, but I couldn't be sure. Maybe she was just that sweet, and I was wrong to assume that I was anything special.

Still, she encouraged me to continue with a reassuring glance, and I obeyed despite all my misgivings. "I was sober enough to help him rescue his girlfriend from some of the dealers that were after me. They were arrested, and my buddy Mike and his girl got married. They invited me around for a while, but then I got to thinking that I wasn't good enough for them. I started using again, and one thing led to another."

I looked up, expecting to see disappointment in her eyes. Instead, all I saw was respect. "I'm glad to hear you were able to take responsibility and save your friend. That shows real bravery."

I scoffed, turning away. "I lost it all."

"You're here now," she pointed out. "You've been clean and sober for a week."

"A week?" I gasped. Had it been a week? Where had the time gone? It felt like years had passed, like I was going to emerge from this time capsule and find flying cars and people living on the moon. It had only been a week.

"It's hard to judge time when you're going through withdrawal," Gina said, understanding my reaction.

I nodded. "How's Evil?"

She blinked. Maybe she wasn't expecting me to remember the name of her cat. Or maybe I was way off base, trying to make small talk. "She's fine." Gina recovered her balance, her smile brightening. I thought I saw something unfolding in her eyes, something that might have been interest. "She caught a bird and brought me the head."

"I guess you did right naming her Evil," I joked.

"She's gonna take over the world," Gina said. "She's just waiting for her opportunity."

"What does that make us, then?" I wondered.

"Her future servants, I guess," Gina mused.

"I suppose I could supply her with lumber to build her palace," I offered.

"That would be good." Gina continued the fantasy. "I'm the chef and maid."

"You may have to step up your game," I told her. "Are you cooking for her or just canned cat food?"

"Canned food," Gina admitted.

"I'm sure the queen of the world is gonna want something better."

"Maybe more birds when she takes the throne," she suggested.

"Or what was that pie with birds inside, from that nursery rhyme?" I struggled to remember.

"Oh yeah." She pointed her pen at me. "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie."

"When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing," I said, finally recalling the poem from my days in kindergarten.

"Something something something." Gina kept time to the beat, twirling her finger in the air.

"To set before the king!" we both concluded, laughing.

I regarded her closely. The joke had brought a splash of color to her cheeks, highlighting the freckles that dusted her skin. I wondered if she was really enjoying herself or if this was just another day on the job. Talking with her was so easy. It had never been this easy before, not even with Mike, and we had decades of history between us.

I hadn't actually spoken to my former girlfriend. It had been more like pass the joint, then climb all over each other. This dialog was refreshing and comfortable; it was like we were actually connecting.

"What were we talking about?" she asked.

"I guess that's the kind of pie you'll have to bake for Evil when she takes over the world." I supplied, not used to being the one who kept up the thread of the conversation.

"Right." She sobered, putting her pen to paper. She thought better of it, looking up at me with mock exasperation. "I think we were talking about your drug use history."

"Oh." I nodded. "It's been about six years since I've really been sober."

She did write that down. Our conversation was an odd mix of reporting and sharing information. She kept a close eye on her phone and wrapped everything up within an hour of when she arrived. I came to anticipate her visits more than anything else. More than evenings that provided me with little sleep, more than the food that needed salt. Her hair, red as a strawberry, was the only splash of color in the room and her voice the only melody. If I had known I would meet Gina, I would have checked myself into treatment a long time ago.