Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [112]
I glance back over at my son, or rather the remnants of my son. Besides being unshaven, his face is dirty, and several open sores look slightly infected. I recently read that this is another symptom of meth use. The sores resemble bad acne, something Jacob never had, but these nasty-looking lesions are caused by the toxic chemicals that have been injected into his bloodstream. Perhaps it’s the tortured body’s attempt to excrete the corrosive substance that is slowly killing it. But it makes this mother’s heart sick.
The heater in my old Taurus has finally come to life, and the car is getting warmer now. I turn my attention back to my driving, but I can’t help but wonder if life will ever change for Jacob. Will it ever get better? Or is my son one of the lonely ones—one of those unfortunate people destined for a life of addiction, failure, and finally and unavoidably an untimely death?
These thoughts pierce me like well-aimed arrows, but at least I am trying to be realistic now. I am trying to face facts and come to grips with this horrifying life my son has chosen. Oh, I still pray for him. How could I not? But my prayers have slowly changed from begging and pleading tantrums to calmer petitions where I remind myself (and God, too?) that he is Jacob’s Creator, Jacob’s heavenly Father, and I believe that his love for Jacob is greater than mine. As difficult as it is, I know its the only way I will survive this thing. I am entrusting my son to God.
Jacob moves slightly, and I glance over and wonder where he’s been these past two weeks. What has he been doing? How long did the goods stolen from his father finance his habit? Was he sleeping in Dumpsters once his money was gone and he was too high to notice? Selling his plasma? Or perhaps he peddles his poor emaciated body to strangers? I know such things happen in Seattle. Even so, I can’t bear to think about it.
I want to ask him about the break-in at his father’s house, but I know he’s in no condition to answer me right now Perhaps that will come later. If there is a later. It’s just as likely that he will sleep this off, eat some food, then disappear before I have a chance to question him. Besides, I know the answer. I know that he’s responsible for the theft and vandalism at Geoffrey’s. In the whole scheme of things, in the shadows of life and death, it seems a small thing now anyway.
Hot silent tears streak down my cheeks as I exit the freeway and head toward town. But as I wait at the light, before I turn down the street to the apartment complex, I hesitate. What am I doing right now? Haven’t I been trying to remain firm on my boundaries? Haven’t I made it clear that Jacob is not allowed to stay at my apartment unless he is willing to get help? Meaning residential rehab therapy like Marcus has recommended. But here I am, driving him home again—whatever is wrong with me?
Even as I drive toward the apartment, I don’t know what to do. Despite my recent steps of faith—of giving Jacob to God—he is still my son. And I still desperately want him to get the help he needs. I pray silently as I approach the apartment, begging God to give me some direction, some help, some answers, something. And then I simply continue driving past.
Jacob called me, I remind myself, and he’s the one who said he needed help. And it’s true; he does need help. Well, maybe that’s just what I will give him today—help. I continue driving with a