Page 26 of Dying to Meet You

Flush the fucking things. Walk your ever-loving, fucking ass into the nearest restroom and toss ‘em. Now.

Now.

But I don’t. I let them remain in my pocket while I call my brother-in-law, Chris.Pick up, please pick up.

“Yo. Any word on the whole cult thing?” That’s how he answers his phone. But at least he did.

“Hi?” I chuckle indulgently at him. “Nothing new. Still have agents watching the house and Eden. I’ll let you know right away if that changes. How are you? Any weird shit going down?” From his location in southern Illinois, he would be on the radar of the lasting cult members since he never moved after that summer seven years ago. Tried like a motherfucker to get him to. He’s got more stubbornness than Hutton and Eden combined.

“Nah. I haven’t been online much lately. Did I tell you about Sugar?” I let him give me more details than necessary about the new stripper he’s dating. His roster consists of strippers, aspiring strippers, or topless servers.

Pulling the baggie out as he talks, I count the pills. Two longer yellow pills, two greenish-blue round pills, four white pills with a number on them, and six I immediately know are Adderall. Jesus Christ, the space-cadet feels I’d have rolling on a couple Addys with a couple oxy. That foggy, disconnected nothingness. A break. A mental check-out.

I choose not to tell Chris about the drugs, spending the rest of the day in a debate with myself. The addict assures me “I can throw them out at any time”, they’re just in my pocket in case I need them. But, fucking hell, I don’t need them. I start toward the restroom half a dozen times to get rid of the contents of the baggie, each time making the argument I should hold onto it a little longer.

In case. In case what though? I want to relapse causing problems in every relationship that matters to me?

It’s the picture of our family on my desk that makes me decide to hit an Alcoholics Anonymous/Narcotics Anonymous meeting on the way home, mentally berating myself for not having the strength to toss the pills.

We have a possible psycho hunting us, but instead of being a source of strength for Eden, for anyone in our family, I’m wondering if a pill might make it better. Stop the fear from creeping in about losing any of them.

Eden texts asking me to pick up Waverly from dance. I call her back. “I think you should do it.” Not just because Waves needs time with her, but I need that meeting. Fuck…yeah, I do.

“Zinnea needs to be picked up from therapy at the same time.” She sighs. “Switch? You pick Zin up and I’ll get Waves? That would work.”

Fucking fantastic. Not only do I dread having to make conversation with our scary little evangelist, but now I won’t be able to get to a meeting. But Waves really needs some time alone with Eden, not that I’ve talked to her about it. Life has been coming at me like a freight train recently.

“Text me the address.” Stuffing the pills back in my pocket, I tell myself I’ll get to a meeting tomorrow morning. First thing. “Hey, before you go…Waverly misses you. I’m not telling you how to parent…” I don’t need to; she’s better at it than me. “Maybe stop somewhere and talk?”

Eden has already thought about making time to get ice cream or doing a painting project together. Once the call ends, I lean back in my desk chair. Biting my fist I let loose an agonized yell. Between the door being closed and my hand muffling it, it goes unheard.

I left the pill-popping, drunk, irresponsible grad student in the past. I did. Why can’t I fucking throw these damn pills away?

Rain pours down in sheets. The only sound in my car is the windshield wipers or turn signal. Zinnea sits eerily still, hands in her lap, eyes straight ahead. I want to like her…care more for her than just a kid in trouble but fuck she is creeping me out. “You don’t want your cupcake?” I’d stopped getting a package of treats, hoping she would be more forthcoming.

She shakes her head.

This is going so well. Not. “Yeah, it kind of tastes like someone messed up.” I make an exaggerated face before pressing the one I took a bite of into the bakery bag.

She doesn’t react. Not a giggle, not a hint of a smile. She’s a tough cookie. For some reason I keep trying to get a response from her. “When Eden and I were in college we caught a friend of ours mixing boxed cake with his hands because it said ‘mix by hand’ in the directions. Gross, right?” Well, okay, I was the one who did that when I was high…fuck. Just one of many times, Eden cleaned up a mess I made.

I ask if she’s warm enough, whether she wants to listen to music, tell her she can adjust her seat…I try damn hard to engage her with no success.

Maybe I’m doing this wrong. When it comes to her brothers, Zach and Zeb, she hovers protectively. Discussing them could draw her out. “Zinnea, is Zach still sleeping under your bed at night?”

Her soft mumbling forces me to turn the radio off, “What was that, honey?”

“He sleeps on the floor next to Weston.” The sadness in her tone makes me look at her in my periphery.

“Are you comfortable in your room?”

We roll to a stop at an intersection, and she speaks a little louder this time. “God will come back and whoever is not found written in the Book of Life will be hurled into the lake of fire.”

It’s chilling to hear this small child spout such dastardly sounding things. Her lips are shaking when I look down at her, ignoring the opportunity to make our turn. Thank god no one is behind us. “Zin, what makes you say that right now? What does it mean?”

Those pills are screaming at me to toss a couple back right now.

Her chin lifts in defiance. Looking me in the eye she says, “I don’t want to die like everyone else in our house.”

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