Page 7 of Beneath the Surface

The shock of seeing Alex at the playground has my nerves frayed and on edge. The fact that my child saw him, and the way my memories are playing like a TV show when all I want is to see static, has my mind desperate to find a way to numb the pain.

And when it gets like this—when the cinnamon gum, and the thought of being the best mother I can be isn’t enough to curb the craving—I grab onto my son’s Play-Doh and squeeze it between my hands. Something about focusing on the silky texture as it molds under my fingers reminds me that everything is reshapable. Nothing is permanent. Things are always under my control, and I canchooseto do things however I want.

That’s all anything is, really. A choice.

Breathing deep, I shake off the ache that’s filtering through my bones, whispering a want so visceral, that even after almost four years, my muscles stiffen and my lungs lock up tight.

Grabbing my phone, I pull up the only number I have in time of emergencies, when the feeling becomes too much and I feel like I might drown from its weight.

Derek.

“Hello?”

I breathe out a sigh. “Hi, Derek. I’m sorry to call but—”

“Lily,” he breathes. “Don’t you ever apologize for callin’. Talk to me.”

Derek Andrews is my sponsor, of sorts. I’ve never been to rehab. But Ihavebeen to a meeting. Just one. And that’s where I met him.

He’s saved me countless times from falling off a deep, dark ledge. Picked me up off dirty bedroom floors in rotting, drug-infested houses when I couldn’t stand to stay sober, and he’s talked me down every single time I’ve wanted to relapse—my body speaking lies to my mind, making me feel like I’m not strong enough to survive the words they spit.

He lives in Sweetwater, Tennessee. And he’s one of the only people who knows where I am.

“I just…” I blow out a breath, watching as the red clay oozes between my fingers. “It’s a rough day,” I whisper.

“So make it unrough.”

Laughing, I lean back against the shelf of hand-me-down toys and stare up at the popcorn ceiling. “Your amazing ability to see through bullshit astounds me, Derek. Calling youisme making it unrough.”

He chuckles. “Listen, you’re a strong woman. And you’re a hell of a mother. The urges that are spinnin’ through you right now? They’re liars, and they’re testin’ your strength. But just like you do every other time, you’re gonna prove them wrong.”

Closing my eyes, I swallow around the knot lodged in my throat. “Okay.” I nod.

“You’re gonna choose to be strong today just like you did yesterday, and the day before, and every day before that since the moment you walked into that clinic and realized you had someone else to live for.”

I close my eyes, memories of when Derek took me to the walk-in clinic four years ago flashing through my mind. I had tried at that point—unsuccessfully—to get clean. But my boyfriend at the time, Darryl, always managed to drag me back. And like flycatcher’s mud, my vices wrapped around my legs and sucked me down until I was covered in their thick, wet dirt, unable to pull myself out.

I was scared, desperate, andhigh. Living on the streets of Tennessee, hiding in plain sight, making sure that my family and friends could never find me.

But I remember waking up that morning, throwing up the bile and acid that lined my stomach. I assumed it was withdrawal. It’s how I usually woke up—with the shakes setting in, desperate for the chemicals I had trained my body to need. So while it seemed a little aggressive, I did what Ialwaysdid to take away the pain.

But two hours later, with half an eight ball of coke swimming through my veins, and a rock inhaled into my lungs, I still felt like death. So my friend Amy grabbed up all the spare change we had, and went with me to the store to get some medicine. And when we were there, I walked past the feminine aisle, and something made me stop, a sledgehammer knocking against my insides, threatening to smash everything to bits.

I knew it before I even took the test. Even with snow flowing through my veins, my intuition was rarely wrong.

Pregnant.

And a junkie. Just like my mom.

4

Mason

Glancing around the motel room, I sigh. After telling Lily that I was staying at the Motel Eight, I felt like a piece of shit for notactuallystaying there, so I checked out of the room just outside of town and checked into this shithole instead.

Lily’s morning shift started two hours ago, and I want to give her a couple hours before I head in to see her. At this point, I know her waitressing schedule like the back of my hand. It never changes. She works Thursday through Tuesday, taking Wednesdays for herself.

Flicking on the TV while I get changed and ready, I turn it to the local news—not because I actually give a damn about what’s going on in the world, but because the quiet is stifling. Silence allows the ghosts from my past to whisper in my ear, and the noise takes it all away.

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