Читать книгу Cost - Roxana Robinson - Страница 13

Heroin.

The word was too large for her to absorb; she felt its sickening impact. It had a dark, absorbent presence, lethal and endless. It became suddenly so large in her mind that she could not think exactly what it was. Was it from poppies, or was that opium? Were they the same?

“You inject heroin, right?” She was groping for balance, trying to keep herself upright with facts. Injection, addiction. She wanted something hard and substantial.

Steven nodded. “Or sniff it. Most addicts shoot it up.”

Julia tried to focus. Nodding off, that was heroin, wasn't it? Wasn't it what you dissolved in a spoon? Or was that crack cocaine? The rubber hose tugged tight around the arm, the glinting needle, wasn't that heroin? She'd seen it in movies, but what she knew had turned incoherent and confused. None of it could have anything to do with her son.

“You don't know this for sure,” she said.

“I don't know it for sure. It's what I think.”

Something was swinging back and forth in her brain. “Why do you think it's heroin?” Julia asked.

“A lot of things. The way he acts,” said Steven.

“Which is?”

“Different from the way he used to be.”

“How?”

“Not like how he is on pot. Pot makes you goofy, it's kind of mindless and innocent. Everything's funny, and then you go to sleep. But on heroin, everything is slowed way, way down. It's heavier,” said Steven. “People act like they're nearly asleep. You've been pulled into somewhere separate from the rest of the world.”

It was like receiving a penal sentence, each word felt hammered into her skull. She did not believe it, though this very word was the one she'd dreaded. The word was killing, toxic. She'd heard it, but could not receive it into her mind.

“You might be mistaken,” she said.

“Mom,” Steven said soberly, “you should see him. He's living in this filthy place, everything's a mess. After he buzzed me in, it took him a really long time to answer the door. I had the feeling that he'd just done something. He acted weird, and his eyes were pinned. The pupils were like pinpoints. That's what happens with heroin.”

She looked at Steven. He met her gaze.

“You could be wrong,” Julia said. Her chest had grown larger, it had grown huge, and her heart was laboring to work inside its chasm. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

“I could be wrong,” Steven agreed. “But you asked me what I thought. He had blood on his shirt cuffs, from shooting up. I think he's on heroin.”

Julia put her face down on her knees and closed her eyes. People died from this. She could feel the sun on her hair. She saw sunspots in the darkness behind her eyes. There was a roaring in her ears. Without lifting her head she spoke.

“But wouldn't we know, if he was?” Julia asked. “Wouldn't it be obvious? I mean …”

She stopped. She didn't know what she meant.

She felt as though she'd been bargaining with someone, with something, for years. Over and over she'd yielded, reluctantly accepting facts she wanted to deny. She had agreed, reluctantly, to pot and drinking, lack of responsibility, failure to do this and that, yes, they were true. She'd accepted all those things, really, so she'd never have to accept this.

Not that this made any sense, she was raving. Who was she bargaining with?

But she'd had the notion that there'd be some sort of payoff later, some sort of reward. Not for herself but for all of them, for the family, a badge of merit for entering the crisis, accepting it. How could this be right? Over and over, all those crises over Jack; the family had gone through them and they'd done well, hadn't they? They should get badges, not this body blow. Jack, her beautiful pearly darling. People died from this.

Everything in her mind had been slowed down. Every thought was dragged from her.

“I think you're wrong, Steven,” she said with great certainty. “I don't think this could be true.”

Steven said nothing. Julia put her face down again on her knees. She felt the hot sun on her hair.

“If he is on heroin,” she said, “what should we do?”

“Talk to him,” Steven said. “You and Dad.”

“Yes,” she said. “Would it work?” She lifted her head.

“I don't know,” Steven said. “You could start with that. Maybe he's ready to quit.” Steven didn't think so.

“Yes.”

“I think he needs help,” Steven said.

Right. Of course, thought Julia, he needs help. She understood that. She'd get him help. She was a professor; if he were her student, she'd know what to do. She'd refer him to Mental Health, she'd walk him over there. She'd call Mental Health now, they'd know what to do. The university had systems to deal with this.

Heroin, she thought, Jesus.

She felt frozen. It was her child. Any decision might be the wrong one. The wrong program, the wrong therapist, errors could be fatal. It was her son.

She would call Mental Health and ask for advice. It occurred to her that they would ask her name, her social security number. These strangers would know that her son was on heroin, that this was how well they had succeeded as a family. She thought of her father, shaking his head with disapproval. She wondered if she could keep it from him. From her sister. Julia felt a sudden ferocious glow of resentment at her judgmental family.

“But are you sure?” Julia asked again. “This is speculation. You don't know about the blood, it might be from a cut. You could be wrong.”

“Stop it,” Steven said. “This is what I think. If you don't want my opinion, don't ask for it, but don't keep asking me to change it. I think Jack's a junkie.”

Julia looked at him.

“Cocaine speeds you up. Heroin slows you down,” Steven said. “Jack is slowed way down. There's something wrong. He's not there.

He's gone.”

He's gone. He's gone.

“So—” but Julia spoke out loud only in order to keep the words from repeating themselves in her mind. She couldn't find the next thought. What was the next thought? The landscape of her brain was shattered.

“So,” Steven said, “if he's on heroin, he needs help.”

Julia nodded. She could not focus. What was the matter with her? How could she know so little about something so important? She knew nothing about this, she realized, nothing.

“If you're on it, how often do you take it?” she asked. “I mean, once a day? Three times? What?”

Steven shrugged. “Depends on the habit. If you're really an addict, more than once a day. I mean lots. It can be really expensive.”