Crystal Lies - Melody Carlson [56]
I carried the object to the kitchen to examine it in better light. And then it became obvious. Of course, it was a hypodermic syringe, probably the kind they used for insulin injections, the sharp-looking needle still intact. It was a wonder I hadn’t poked myself with it. As I stared at the bright orange plastic syringe lying there on the kitchen counter, my first response was to wrap it back up and hide it. It felt wrong and illegal and frightening, and I couldn’t imagine what I would do if someone walked in here and found me with it. Could I be arrested? Then I told myself to calm down and think clearly. Why was this in Jacob’s room?
Suddenly I wondered if Jacob had used this needle. Yes, now it seems silly that it wasn’t more obvious to me, but that’s exactly what I thought back then. “Has my son used this on himself? Has he really filled it with some horrible substance, actually inserted it into his flesh, pushed the plunger, and”—well, it was just too horrifying to imagine the rest. Somehow I convinced myself that he had only been playing with the idea. Or maybe he had found the syringe somewhere and didn’t know how to get rid of it in a safe way. Even so, I felt as if my world was caving in, and I knew I would have to ask him—face to face.
I considered confronting him at work as I did my daily rounds that afternoon. But I felt that wouldn’t be right. I waited for him to come home that night, and when he wasn’t in by midnight, I thought about making another surprise appearance at Daniel’s duplex dump, then reconsidered. Going during the day was one thing; at night was altogether different. Even so, I don’t think I slept more than an hour or two that night.
The image of my son sticking a needle into his arm and injecting himself with—well, poison—made me sick to my stomach.
“It’s not mine,” he told me the next day when I finally had a chance to corner him in the kitchen with my “evidence.”
“Really?” I made no effort to hide my skepticism.
He looked me straight in the eyes now. “I found it at work,” he told me. “I was cleaning the bathroom, and it was sitting right on the counter.”
I made a face. “And you touched it?”
“Not with my bare hands,” he explained. “I was just starting to wrap it up in tissue so I could put it in the garbage, you know. But then my boss walks up and I got scared, like he might see it and think it was mine, so I slipped it into my pocket.”
“Your pocket?”
“Yeah, it was stupid, I know, but the garbage can was already out the door, and I didn’t want him to see it and think it was mine.”
“You put a used syringe in your pocket?”
He nodded. “And I forgot about it until I got home.”
“But what if you’d jabbed yourself on the needle?” I demanded. “You could’ve gotten HIV or hepatitis or who knows what.”
He nodded with wide eyes. “I know, Mom. That’s what I thought too. That’s why I wrapped it up so carefully. I didn’t want anyone to get poked by it. Especially you.” He looked at me with real concern now. “You didn’t, did you?”
“No. But it could happen.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. If I had remembered, I would’ve thrown it away in one of the trash cans outside, but it was really busy that night.”
“And that’s the truth?” I questioned, still not completely convinced.
“Yeah, Mom.” He looked down at the needle and frowned. “You don’t really think I’d pump that kind of crap into myself, do you?”
I considered this. “Well, not really.” I kind of laughed then, in relief I suppose. “I remember how much you hated getting vaccinations as a kid, Jacob. It was hard to imagine you would inflict that on yourself.”
“Want me to throw it away for you?” he asked.
“Be careful,” I warned him. Then I grabbed a paper towel. “Here, wrap it