Page 72 of One Foggy Christmas
“Sadie, we need to talk to you about something,” her dad begins. “We’ve just been waiting for the right time to tell you.”
Creases slowly form across her forehead. “Okay.”
Lynette grabs Jay’s hand, giving him the strength to start.
“A few months into your internship, we found out that Tate was addicted to pain medication. It was an addiction that he’d been hiding from all of us for almost eight years. Something that started after his football injury in high school.”
Lines deepen as Sadie’s brows drop, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“We found out about his addiction because he’d been stealing money from us and using it to buy Oxycontin.”
She bites her bottom lip nervously, and all I want to do is reach out and take her hand, but I can’t—not yet, at least.
“So we got him help, right?” Her eyes move back and forth between her parents, looking for answers. “Right?”
“We wanted to, but everything blew up when we caught him stealing, and we all said things we shouldn’t have. Tate ended up leaving that night,” Jay’s voice cracks with emotion.
“Where did he go?” Panic tears through Sadie as she tries to keep up.
“At the time, we didn’t know, but he drove to Syracuse and bought more painkillers from a dealer on the street. But the pills he had weren’t just Oxycontin. They were laced with fentanyl.”
“No.” She shakes her head, visibly upset.
“Tate didn’t know,” Lynette defends her son. “They looked the same. He didn’t know.”
Jay draws in a breath, fortifying himself for the final blow. “We got a call the next morning that Tate had passed away on his friend's couch. He’d overdosed.”
We all silently wait for Sadie to react, ready to pick up the shattered pieces as best we can.
A single tear falls down her cheek. “Was it suicide? Did he leave a note?”
“No. Tate’s friend said they didn’t know they’d bought fentanyl.” Lynette’s shoulders lift. “It was just an accident.”
“I want to see his grave,” she says after a few seconds of it all sinking in.
“Honey, it’s so cold out,” Lynette tries to convince her.
“I want to see it.”
“We can go tomorrow,” Jay offers.
“Are you really not going to take me to his grave?” She pounds the table with her fists. Dishes clatter at the sudden movement.
“I’ll drive you.” I place my hand on her shoulder as I stand. “Let me get your coat and a few blankets.”
Sadie pulls in a ragged breath, numbly sitting at the table.
Jay stands too, following me out of the kitchen to the stairs. “Nash, you’re not going to start up all that nonsense again about tough love and it being our fault that Tate’s gone, are you?”
“I was never the one who thought that.”
“I know, but I’m sure all these years, you didn’t help defend us to Sadie.”
“The last thing I want is to drive a wedge between you guys. She can draw her own conclusions about Tate’s death, but it won’t come from me and never has.”
I don’t wait for his response. I run up the stairs, gathering enough warm stuff from Sadie’s closet to keep her outside for as long as she needs.
I help put her coat, hat, and gloves on while she stands unmoving. The ride to the cemetery is silent. I rush around the car to open her door and help her out. Then I lean back down to grab a few blankets. The only other time I was here was at Tate’s funeral. I hate that I’m back under similar circumstances.
