Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,72
telling me she wasn’t overly sentimental and that there was no reason to waste money on trinkets when there’d be plenty of black tar to pay for.
The wedding went well, and the day after the four of us went up to MacMillan Provincial Park and played hide and seek in the big trees. It didn’t take long for Ashley to get lost; Callum cheerfully advised us to just leave her out there and head back to the resort for dinner.
Kara eventually found her, quite a ways off the trail, in a hole in the trunk of a giant Douglas fir, one that was big enough to hold two or three junkies of average girth. She was heating a spoon with her cigarette lighter and wasn’t the least bit concerned about cleanliness.
Kara shook her head. “That girl’ll be dead soon,” she said. Her lips pursed into a strange sort of smile. “Sounds like a nice change of pace, actually.”
“That’s not funny,” I said. I grabbed her arm and squeezed. “You need to take care of yourself.”
“Don’t get all mushy, asshole.” She frenched me with extra tongue.
By that point Ashley had finished shooting up and it was time to join Callum in the task of dragging a decidedly fucked-up Ashley over to his Mitsubishi.
After we dropped her off at what she claimed was her parents’ house in North Vancouver, I never saw Ashley again. We didn’t mention her anymore and to be honest I’m not sure Kara ever gave her another thought; I guess to her Ashley seemed dead already.
I’m not sure why she decided it had to be that way.
Callum moved out of the apartment. He and I had argued briefly about who got to stay, but my argument was boosted by the fact that my name was the only one on the lease.
I found out quickly that I was allergic to Kara’s cat, but luckily she knew a guy who had suspiciously cheap allergy tablets for sale over in Fraserlands. I found with practice that every fifth tablet or so caused me to black out for a few hours, so I set my alarm to take them each morning at 3:30 in order to give myself a little wiggle room.
Things were great, mostly. Living together was great, the sex was great… but the drugs were becoming a problem.
I’d originally thought Kara needed heroin like I needed my Irish coffee, just a hit to get through the day. But she was using more and more often as time went by.
She started bringing home new clients, guys who looked like they couldn’t really afford the $350, guys so shady I became convinced that I should start bringing my tire iron in from the car. Pretty soon she wasn’t making enough money to cover the drugs, and after a month or so I was starting to have trouble making rent.
“I think it’s becoming a problem,” I told her after her scuzziest client yet had left, and as she grabbed her over-sized handbag from its drawer in the nightstand.
“I know,” she said.
“I think we need to get you some help.”
“I’ll handle it.”
She opened her purse, took out her spoon and began to swab it.
“How come you never ask me to join you?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t use drugs,” she said as she gingerly took out the sticky dark powder.
“Are you joking?”
“It’s not a joke.” She grabbed her syringe and squirted the water, and then gave the mix a little stir with the plunger. “I don’t ever want to see you using. There’s nothing good about this.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“My god you’re an idiot. It’s called being a drug addict, douchebag.”
I watched as she loaded up the needle and injected into the freshly swabbed skin on her arm. She took a deep breath and gave me a little smile.
“It’s a few hours of Jesus between my thighs,” she said. “After that it’s the worst thing a person can ever live through. You know... until they die.”
“I want to help you.”
“I’m headed out to Granny’s Cave. Don’t wait up.”
“I want to come with you.”
“You’re bad for business,” she said.
“You’re not serious, Kara. You’re not going to solicit random guys at the bar.”
“And how did we meet?”
I tried to understand what she was going through, the opiates coursing through her body... but she was being such an asshole.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, straightening my spine like my therapist had once told me to do.
“Everybody pays... we’re just using the barter system.”