Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [4]
“Mom?”
“Jacob, is that you? Where are you?”
“Mom, I need some… some help.” His voice chokes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Can you come get me? Right now?” “Sure, honey. Where are you?” “Just outside of the city.”
“But where exactly?” I demand. Of course I imagine some of the worst areas outside of Seattle. Trailer parks. Crackhouses. One of those places I would never have seen if not for my son.
“I’ll meet you at Ambrose Park,” he says,“in the west parking lot.”
“Okay,” I tell him in a firm voice although my hands are shaking. “I’ll be right there.”
And, of course, I feel relieved. Just to hear his voice on the phone reassures me that he’s not lying dead in a Dumpster somewhere, the result of an overdose or a disgruntled drug supplier who hasn’t been paid on time. Despite my departure from what used to be my life, I still read the paper and watch the news, and I know for a fact that these things do happen. And while I realize I should be thankful this isn’t the case with Jacob right now, times like today always unnerve me. I never quite know what to think or do. I wish I had someone like Geoffrey to lean on right now. But that, too, is over. And I need to move on, to stand on my own two feet.
The problem is, I’m always second-guessing myself when it comes to Jacob. I’m never sure whether I’m doing the right thing. As I hang up the phone where it belongs by the breakfast bar, words like codependent or enabler or just plain fool roll through my brain like those metal balls in a pinball machine that go around and around but never find a place to rest.
And so I dash like a madwoman down the stairs, fumbling through my purse with shaking hands as I search for my keys. The adrenaline is already racing through my veins as I climb into my decrepit Ford Taurus, and I am praying that, despite the freezing temperature, it will start. I’ve long since quit missing the silver Range Rover I used to drive around this town. I am attempting to forget its luxurious heated leather seats and eight-slot CD player as well as all the other amenities. Really, it seems nothing more than a faded memory now or perhaps something I’ve imagined altogether. If only I can get this temperamental engine to cooperate with me today.
The Taurus finally turns over, and I am driving down the street with a cloud of black smoke trailing me. And now I begin to run all the possible scenarios through my head. Has Jacob been mugged and beaten by one of his “friends”? Or perhaps he has overdosed again and needs medical attention. Has he reached the end of his rope and attempted suicide? Who wouldn’t in his situation? Or maybe he’s simply in trouble with the law.
Finally I settle on the most positive possibility Maybe my son is at last willing to get help. Maybe today is the big day—the big turnaround I’ve been hoping and praying for, for nearly a year now. But, like I said, drugs are deceptive, and the users aren’t the only ones who get taken for a ride.
Six months earlier
“I will not go to Al-Anon,” Geoffrey informed me in no uncertain terms.
Jacob had been missing for several days by then, and racked with worry, I had desperately phoned an anonymous help line and sobbed out my greatest fears. Unfortunately, the phone counselor had been trained to give support to actual drug addicts, not distressed and slightly hysterical mothers.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said a young female voice. “But maybe you should try going to Al-Anon.”
“Al-Anon?” I echoed. “But I’m not an alcoholic.”
“It’s not for alcoholics,” the girl assured me. “It’s a support group for loved ones. Like people who are related to addicts or alcoholics, you know?”
“I know,” I said, although I really had no idea. Then she gave me the local phone number, and still feeling frantic and no longer caring who knew, I gave the number a call. Although I did manage to sound a bit more controlled on the second phone call.
“We meet at St. John’s Presbyterian Church on Thursdays at seven,” the man informed me.
“And this is for parents of teenagers who struggle with, uh…” I still had difficulty using the word addict