The shame was extreme as I carried out the rest of the day without so much as looking at my sister or Moe, afraid they'd sense the cocaine in my pocket. And it was pathetic. The anticipation I felt was like a kid waiting for Christmas morning and the promise of Santa and presents. Except, there was nothing pure about the snow awaiting me and there was nothing jolly or good about the devil on my shoulder, telling me to sneak off to the bathroom to do it now.
Still, it felt better just to have it, to have options. Nothing said I ever had to get high. I'd just hold onto it, like an old security blanket. It would be fine, I told myself, and I held tightly to the comfort in those lies.
But that comfort was rapidly depleting and by the time I got home to the haunting emptiness of the apartment, I felt nothing but desperation zipping through my bones.
Old habits die hard and my body was on autopilot as I quickly moved into the living room and emptied my pockets on the coffee table. Keys, smokes, and lighter. Wallet. And then, the star of the show: my little plastic baggie of pristine, white powder. I laid it down carefully, giving it a place of honor away from the pile of everyday stuff. I hurried to the bathroom, found Pops’s old hand mirror, and quickly went back to the coffee table, to sit down at the couch and pull a card from my wallet. It all came to me as second nature, in the way you never forget how to swim or ride a bike, and I laid out my tools beside the baggie.
For a moment, I sat back and stared.
“What the fuck am I doin'?” I muttered, reeling away from the old rituals and habits.
I didn't expect tears to spring to my eyes and for my vision to blur the sight of coke on the coffee table. Shame and guilt spilled over, wetting my cheeks and dripping off my chin, and I missed my dad. I missed him so much that the cavern in my chest echoed with a silent howl of pain.
“Fuck you,” I muttered to the walls. “Fuck you for leaving me.”
I was deflecting, putting the blame on him for the weakness in my actions. But, really, fuck him. Fuck him for not telling us he was sick. Fuck him for abandoning us, just like she did. Fuck him for all the responsibility he dropped on me without showing me what to do.
“God, I hate this,” I muttered through gritted teeth, wiping a hand over my sodden face.
Quickly, the anger toward my father manifested into a desperate rage toward Andy. She made me forget. She calmed my mind and eased my pain, but where the hell was she now? Andy had left. Just like he did. And just like her. They all did. They all leave me, and now I was left with nothing but this bag of blow.
“Call her,” I said aloud. “Just call her. Tell her you need her now.” And I really did; I needed her. I needed her right now and if she could come, I wouldn't need the coke. But if she couldn't ...
Well, I wasn't sure.
“Hey, baby,” she answered on the first ring.
I wanted to smile at the sound of her voice. I loved her. God, I really did love her. But right now, in this moment, love wasn't enough and there was nothing to smile about. Not even her voice.
“Hey.”
“What are you up to?”
“Nothin',” I answered, making a feeble attempt at sounding calm. “I, uh, I wanted to see if you wanted to come back tonight.”
Andy was quiet for a moment before answering, “Vinnie, I told you ...”
A frantic frenzy erupted in my heart. “N-No, no, I know, but I was just seein' if maybe anything had changed.”
“No, we're making centerpieces right now, so I can't leave. But I'll be back tomorrow. Okay?”
The urge to cry was overwhelming. I hated feeling like this, so weak and unable to control myself.
I rubbed a hand beneath my nose, stifling the sniffle that threatened to give me away. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Baby,” she said, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you okay?”
All I could see now was the bag of coke. All I could feel was the desperation to tell her I wasn't okay, that I wasn't fine or hanging in there. And all I wanted to