Page 11 of A Hidden Past

I sigh, and the strength leaves my body. My hands unclench, and I collapse onto the bed for a moment. Then I stand and walk toward the closet and the relief that waits hidden inside.

CHAPTER FIVE

One-oh-five. The heatwave continues to worsen.

This should be good news for me. It is good news. I have appointments scheduled through the next six workdays, a total of sixty-six pools. It’s a tall order, but I have the hang of things now, and it won’t take me so long to clean the pools as it took me to clean Vivian’s and the Kensingtons’. I can get a pool done in an hour, I figure. Allowing a few minutes to get from house to house and fifteen to drive the van to and from the company lot to Autumn Downs, and that’s twelve to thirteen hours a day. Not bad for a young man looking to earn extra money.

The heat isn’t even that terrible. Okay, that’s a lie. It fucking sucks, but it’s not going to kill me. I can handle sweating for a few months while I save some money.

The problem is twofold: first, I don’t start early today. It’s now ten o’clock, and I won’t get started for at least another twenty minutes because I have to get my vacuum back from the Kensingtons. Second, I’m not in a good spot to be dealing with heat right now.

Both of those problems have the same cause. The security guard—whose name is Danny, I now know—picks up on the most visible symptom of that cause but thankfully doesn’t figure out the actual cause.

“You okay, buddy? You’re sweating like a pig in there. You don’t have AC in that van?”

I do have AC, and right now it’s at full blast. I smile at him and hope that my pupils have reduced to a normal size. “I’m good. I’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t look very sure about that, and to be honest, I’m not so sure myself. “All right, buddy. Let me know if you need anything.”

I need you to stop calling me buddy. Can you do that? Think that’s possible, sport? Champ? Danny, old pal?

“I will. Thank you.”

I drive on and release a breath I don’t know I’m holding. The irritability is another symptom of the cause that makes this heatwave unbearable today.

I used last night. Not much, but “not much” is a relative term when it comes to heroin.

God, just thinking that word, I feel an itch in my arm.

I resist the urge to scratch. It'll only peel the scab, and it won't do anything to hide the welt in the crook of my elbow.

I’m lucky. A lot of places are drug testing now. Even fast-food places are starting to require random drug checks. I’m damned lucky Best Pool Cleaners isn’t one of those companies yet. Not that I had anything in my system when I interviewed, but if they did a random test right now, I’d probably end up in jail before the end of the day.

Fuck, my mind is all over the place. That’s another symptom of coming down.

Heroin’s a hell of a drug. When I’m high, I’m high. I mean, I’m on cloud nine. I’m so far above the problems of life that it’s like I’m not even human anymore. I’m some angel or demigod happily floating through existence.

When I shot up last night, the relief was immediate. There’s nothing like it. It hits harder and faster than pills and stays longer. My dreams fade almost immediately. I can’t even remember the dreams I had about Vivian and Lila. I can still remember the dream of my sister, but it’s muddy and it doesn’t affect me the way it does when I wake up in the middle of the night. That feeling is gone, and I am free.

But, like every other drug, there's a time to pay the piper, and I'm paying for it now. I feel like I've just run a marathon. At the same time, I feel like I'm ready to run another one. My body is exhausted, but my heart's pounding. I'm shivering, but I'm also melting.

God, today’s going to suck. It’s supposed to hit one-eighteen today, and I’m going to be working in the sun. I’ll probably end up sweating twenty pounds off today and come home a beanpole.

That thought causes me to chuckle. Would Mom even notice if I came home skinny and bug-eyed? Probably not. She never noticed when I used before, and I was using every day for a while.

What if I didn’t come home? Hell, it’s not out of the question that I’ll pass out on the job and fall and hit my head. Would she even realize I was gone?

Yeah, she’d realize it. Rent is due in three weeks. When I didn’t show up to give her the four hundred dollars, she’d realize I was gone.

It occurs to me as I pull in front of the Kensingtons’ house that I don’t promise myself never to use again. That concerns me. After I quit, I promise myself I’ll never use again. Obviously, I do, but very rarely, and only after a night like last night. I’ve used five times in the last three years, and the first four times, I promise myself I’ll never use again.

But I didn’t make that promise this time. And even now that I’m thinking it, I can’t quite make that promise.

“God, I hate this neighborhood,” I mutter under my breath.

I follow that with a bitter chuckle. Typical junkie response, blame something else for my own choices. I sigh and get out of the van, and it’s not until then I realize that the Kensingtons are about to see a sweaty, shivering mess of a pool boy walk up to them and tell them he forgot the two thousand dollar vacuum he used to clean their pool, and can he please come and get it so he doesn’t get fired?

Why the hell didn’t I just get it last night?

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