I always have a choice
present
There have been times in my life I prayed for change.
For rescue.
For strength.
For answers.
There have been times in my life I blamed others for everything that went wrong, bypassing accepting responsibility, because it was easier.
And didn’t require self-analysis.
Or growth.
Or maturity.
And there was a time in my life I hit rock bottom, like a boulder dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. It was ugly.
And soul-splintering.
Like the darkest death.
Death that I survived.
Even though I shouldn’t have.
It shed perspective.
And in time, it led to research because, at that point, I had nothing to lose.
Everything, and anything, to gain.
Going to Kansas City again felt like a necessity, like picking a scab or scratching a mosquito bite, because in the end I knew it would only serve as an antagonist. An aggressive antagonist that’s selfish and unconcerned about others. When I arrived I intended to stay, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t think I had a choice.
Claudette reminded me I always have a choice.
And she bought me a bus ticket.
Back home to the only place that’s ever felt like it accepted me— imperfections and all.
The air, when I step off the bus, is warm. The warmth of an old friend I’ve missed, even though I’ve only been gone for a few weeks. I can’t resist taking deep breaths, filling my lungs with California, someplace I thought would always remain a memory.
The month is almost up, Mrs. Lipokowski will be renting my apartment to a new tenant. I don’t have the money to pay next month’s rent and renew the lease, but at least I’ll have a roof over my head for a few days. My heart explodes into a riot thinking about Seamus. I think about him every day, but knowing he’s just miles away is so tempting.
I’m good about not giving into temptation. It’s not an option. Temptation leads down a path of destruction.
But Seamus is so damn hard to resist.
It’s late when I reach the apartment on foot. I only have fifty dollars to my name, and I wasn’t about to spend any of that on a cab, so I walked the eight miles to my apartment.
My scooter is sitting in front of Hope’s apartment where I left it. I gave it to her though I doubt she’ll ever learn how to ride it. I hope she does. It would make life easier for her and might encourage her to get out.
The lights are out in all of the apartments. The neighborhood is sleeping.
When I unlock the door of apartment two, it smells musty, like it’s been locked up for eternity and not allowed to breathe. I open the windows, change into my nightshirt, and sleep comes for me when my head lands on the pillow.
I wake to the sound of children talking. Even freshly roused from deep sleep I know those voices, Seamus’s kids. Kira is singing, and Rory is complaining about not liking celery packed in his lunch—it doesn’t sound right in an American accent. I lay there a few seconds and listen because it makes me smile—Seamus got his kids back. And then I crawl to the window and peek between the curtains hoping to catch a glimpse of Seamus and his kids leaving for school.
It’s not Seamus. It’s his ex-wife.
My heart drops initially, but then it backpedals because partial custody is better than visitation out of state any day of the week. They’re obviously going to school—the kids all have on their backpacks and are carrying lunch sacks. Maybe she moved back to California with them. Or maybe she’s visiting during the week, rather than the weekend. So many possibilities, but all of them work in Seamus’s favor. I’m happy for him. I’m happy for his kids.
Before I tuck away back under the blanket, I see movement on the stairs. Cautious movement. A cane and a beat up pair of Doc Martens. Then dark denim. Followed by a navy blue sweater. And finally the back of a head covered in hair so dark and so soft. Seamus. Goddamn. How is it possible that he looks better than I remember?
And what I remember was breathtaking.
I want to open the door.
I want to invite him in.
I want to take off his clothes.
I want him to take off mine.
And I want to feel us again.
So badly.
But I can’t.
He’s headed to work. I don’t know the whole story yet on his kids and their custody, and I would never jeopardize any of that.
So I stay hidden away.
At lunchtime, I venture over to Hope’s.
“You’re back.” She sounds surprised. Happy surprised, which isn’t like her.
“For a few days, yeah. How’ve you been?” I don’t know how to describe it, but she looks different, healthier. She was always so pale before, but she’s has some color like her skin’s seen the sun. Her hair has been washed and is pulled back in a ponytail.
“I been good,” she says, and I know she means it.
She asks me to stay and watch her favorite movie. I do. Just like we’ve done dozens of times before. We eat toast and applesauce and play a board game afterward.
But at four o’clock she announces, “I gotta go. You wanna come with me?” and walks to the door and slips on her flip-flops.
I’m puzzled because she never leaves during the day. “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs to help my friend, Miranda, cook dinner,” she says it like it shouldn’t be news to me, like I haven’t been gone for weeks.
“Miranda?” I question. Seamus’s ex-wife? My stomach turns, and I wish I could take back the question. I wish I could take back being here right now. I wish I could take back seeing her this morning. I wish I could take back a lot of things, because the next thing Hope says, stomps all over my heart.
“Miranda lives with Seamus. They’re a family.”
I want to look brave and take the news stoically. He’s not mine. He was never mine. He belonged to her for years. They share a connected past. And children. I should be happy for him.
But, I’m not. I feel like I want to beat my head against the wall, throw up, and scream all at once.
I walk out of Hope’s to my apartment without saying a word. She didn’t notice. She was already walking upstairs when I shut her door behind me. I saw the envelope with Seamus’s name written on it that I left with Hope still sitting on her floor, unopened, half buried under a pile of junk mail. I guess she didn’t get around to giving it to him. Which, is for the best, given the news I just received.
The minute I’m inside my apartment, I’m sitting on the floor crying. I’m grieving a man I have no right to. I’m grieving birth parents I’ll never find. I’m grieving this apartment I’ll have to leave in a few days. I haven’t been this down in years. It’s all mounting. And suddenly ugliness is rearing its head. The demon I slayed years ago is back clawing its way from the inside out. Breathing down my neck, leaving a trail of sweat covered goosebumps.
I’m shaking my head, chanting, “No, no, no, no, no. I won. You don’t own me. I’m stronger than you are.”
I want to use.
I want to use so fucking bad.
I can’t see through my tears.
I can’t hear through the voices in my head.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
Packing up my bag takes minutes.
I set out on foot.
And I pray like hell that I find strength.
I don’t know who to call. The last thing I want to be is a burden. But I also don’t want to be a statistic. I fought too damn hard to get clean. And I promised myself I’d never go back. I take my cell phone—which will be canceled in a few days—out of my bag and call Claudette. She’s the only person I can confess this to. She helped me fight this monster once before.
“Hello,” she answers.
I take a deep breath and jump in. “I need to get high. Right now.” As soon as I say the words out loud I’m crying again. “I need help. I can’t do this, Claudette. I’m not strong enough.”
“Honey, Faith, listen to me. You are strong enough. You don’t need to use.” Her voice is calm, but I can hear the subtle vibration that worry adds. “Where are you?”
“I’m walking to the beach,” I answer. I don’t know where else to go.
“Whatever you do, do not hang up the phone. Do you hear me?”
I sniff. “I hear you.”
An hour later I’m walking in the door of Good Samaritan House. It’s a homeless shelter that Claudette tells me offers counseling and other services.
I’m met at the door by a gentleman in his late forties or early fifties, who introduces himself as Benito. His hair is graying and his eyes are thoughtful and wise, like thousands of stories and lessons are housed behind them. He’s the shelter’s crisis manager. After a brief, no holds barred, verbal retching of my guilt and doubt, he asks me to leave my bag in his office and follow him. “Before we do anything, you need to eat. It’s dinnertime.”
The tables are all full of men and women in various stages of neglect and vagrancy. I try to turn down the food because I ate a few hours ago with Hope, but he won’t hear of it. “Eat. We’ll talk after you eat.”
I give in and eat.
And afterward, he talks, addressing our earlier discussion and my confessions. “Since you were brave enough to share your story with me earlier, please allow me to share mine with you because I think you need to hear it. I was a heroin addict for fifteen years. I lived on the streets for many of those years. My family disowned me because I lied to them, I stole from them, I disrespected them. I chose getting high over them. I chose getting high over everything. Until I overdosed and woke up in a hospital bed, being told that not only had I almost lost my life, but that I was HIV positive. HIV positive. There aren’t many other words that will get your attention like those will. Every drug addict gets a wake-up call, and if we’re lucky, the wake-up call isn’t death. That was my call. It was also, coincidentally, the moment my little brother, who I hadn’t seen in five years, reentered my life. When I was released from the hospital, he took me directly to an inpatient rehabilitation facility. My little brother saved my life. I haven’t used since. That was twelve years ago. I don’t let my past define me. For a long time, I did. I carried a lot of guilt. Then I realized that I had potential and something to offer the world, everyone does. So, long story short, I see myself in you. I like your spirit. You overcame. You have so much potential, Faith. You just need a little help.”
“But, I almost threw away four years of being clean tonight,” I say. I don’t feel worthy of the help he’s trying to give.
“The important thing is you didn’t. You had an urge, and you managed it. That’s what sobriety is. And I believe deep down that if you had access to drugs, you wouldn’t have given in. You would’ve fought for yourself. Because the young lady who walked in here looking for help is a fighter. A fighter with a gentle heart. That’s the best possible combination.” He sounds convinced.
By the time I lie down on a cot in the women’s room, I’m convinced. The demon is gone. Chased away. The fact that I’m unemployed and homeless remains. I’ll take that trade any day.