Day Twenty-Nine

Day Twenty-Nine

It's as familiar as an old sweater you thought you lost but find buried on the bottom of the closet under shoes and old comics. Or shoved inexplicably underneath the back seat of a car. It smells fusty from disuse but you put it on anyway and instantly its warmth, that feeling of comfort, rushes right back to you as you bury yourself in it. You feel like you're home.

Only, this home is not a comfortable sweater. It is sweat on my forehead and pinpricks of pain shooting sharply behind and in front of my eyes. It is everything inside my head and heart suddenly weighted down, again again again, after twenty-eight days of what I realize now, sitting in the stinking goat pen, curious noses pushing at my cheek, and staring at Tracy, who is watching me, who is sitting on the pen floor with me, who is waiting for me to say something, I realize now it was a gradual lightening I felt all this time, even though I didn't want to. Even though I fought it. Even though I didn't want to admit it felt good.

To not wake up this way. The way I am now. The way I was for so long.

I push myself up into a sitting position. Bits of hay and feed fall from my cheek. A few chickens skitter over with excitement.

Tracy takes a Polaroid of me and stands before me, flapping it slowly.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"The Feed Dude," Tracy says. She stretches her neck. I wonder how long she's been waiting for me to come to. "Was it the Feed Dude?"

I look over at the supply room door, the padlock hanging open. I know that inside, among the stacks of bags, is one with a tear and a small smiley face on the side.

I nod slowly. Which is a mistake, because I have a crick in my neck from being passed out on the ground. I don't know how long I've been in here. I only remember Charlotte, and the bottle, and shhh shhh and doesn't this feel better now.

"Where is Charlotte?" I ask. My mouth is dry. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

Tracy reaches into her jacket pocket. Her nose and cheeks are red from the cold morning. She throws a bottle of water at me. I catch it, drink, swirl the water in my mouth. I wonder why I don't have to pee and then I realize why. I peed myself. I'm sitting in wet, smelly jeans.

Tracy says, "She's gone. She was here for two and a half months. She turned eighteen yesterday."

"Oh," I say.

"I think," Tracy says slowly, "that the reason she acted out, didn't complete steps, maybe, was so she could stay here longer, until she turned eighteen."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I don't think she wanted to go home. And now she doesn't have to. Someone picked her up a few hours ago. It wasn't her family."

"Bella," Tracy says. "Charlotte didn't care about you. You were a sport to her. Today was your day twenty-nine and Charlotte did you dirty."

I burst into tears. Giant, slobbery, snot-from-the-nose tears. Giant, gut-wrenching, shame-filled sobs.

I had twenty-nine days. Charlotte didn't do me dirty. I did myself dirty.

"You'll meet more people in life like that, Bella," Tracy goes on. "They're all around us. Sometimes we don't see it right away, but we learn. You're fifteen. You're just beginning at life."

She stands up, brushing off her backside and knees.

"Come," she says.

I look up at her. "Where are we going? Are my parents here?" My stomach feels rotten; I'm filled with shame and sadness at the thought of having to face them.

"No," Tracy says. "They aren't."

"I don't understand."

There's no pity on her face. There's no sympathy or disappointment. There's only matter-of-factness. She must have been through this a million times before.

"We're going to Detox," she says. "You're back at Day One."

The thundering in my head gets louder and louder as my brain screams Nonononononono want to go home, want my bed, my sister, my mother, my father, my fairy lights, my home my home my home, nonononononono. The thundering mixes with my sobs as Tracy waits, patiently, hands in the pockets of her parka.

I worked hard and then I didn't and then I worked hard and then I broke but then I had hope and then I could just see the light at the end of the tunnel and all I had was one more day, twenty-four hours, and it was just going to be a little, just the smallest bit, and it felt so good in my mouth, my throat, and those first few sips hit hard, setting my blood on fire and it felt so good and I felt me, I felt me again, I felt—

I bury my head in my knees and smell the damp piss on my jeans as I choke and cry.

Tracy throws the Polaroid picture at my feet.

I lift my head and look at it in the dirt.

I look…unreal.

"Do you like sitting in your own waste, Bella? Is this how you want to remember yourself, years from now?"

That girl's face in the picture. Smudged with dirt and snot. Puffy and unkempt. Her body soaked in her own pee.

"No," I say.

"Do you need help, Bella?" Tracy asks.

Do I answer? Do I make a sound, other than my crying? I can't tell. I'm breaking into bit after tiny bit, watching myself float away.

"Do you need help, Bella?"

I wipe my face clean with my hands.

I had twenty-nine days and now I'm sitting in my own piss.

Wasted and hungover.

I can't do this anymore.

"Yes," I say. "I need help."

I look up. I take her hand.