Some Are Sicker Than Others (26 page)

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the form that Deborah had issued him, and began reading down the lines and lines of fine print:

“NOTICE TO PERSONS ADMITTED FOR INVOLUNTARY COMMITMENT: Pursuant to provisions of Section 27-81-111, C.R.S. You are hereby notified that you have been accepted for emergency treatment on the basis of the application as shown above. You are further advised that you may be held for a period no longer than five (5) days unless a petition for involuntary commitment has been filed with the court.”

Ah-ha. There it was. He knew there had to be some kind of time limit. Five days? Hell, that was nothing. He could get through that, no problem.

He blew a sigh of relief as he sank back against the seat cushion, feeling as the anxiety released its grip around his throat. Thank God, that was a close one. He knew they couldn’t legally hold him for as long as they wanted. After all, he wasn’t a minor. He was an adult. He had rights.

He lifted the form and went to read on further, but his hands were shaking so bad that he could barely follow the rest of the paragraph. God damnit, the withdrawals were getting stronger. It felt like a cluster of hand grenades were going off in his head. His teeth were chattering, his hands were shaking, and it felt like his skin was crawling with an army of red fire ants.

He folded the form and shoved it back in his pocket then leaned slightly forward and peered out the windshield. The snow was coming down harder and harder, the white haze of flurries making it difficult to see the highway.

How much longer? How much farther? If he didn’t get some meds soon he was going to have a seizure. He needed something to calm his muscles, to relax his breathing…Benzos, Valium, Ativan, anything.

He reached back behind him and pulled his hood up over his head. Folding his arms, he turned his body sideways then slunk back into his jacket like an eel retreating into its underwater cave.

Sleep? Yeah right. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe this was all just one long, bad dream. Maybe any moment he’d wake up and be back in his apartment resting sweetly in Vicky’s soft, warm arms. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough he could pull himself from this nightmare. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he could make it all go away—the shaking, the sweating, the headaches, the tremors…the bleakness, the mountains, the snow, the cold.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, listening as the tires splashed against the soggy road. He could see her. He could see her smiling, her face illuminated by the rays of sun pouring in through the blinds. She was lying in bed right beside him, her soft, sweet breath blowing against his neck. Her left leg was draped across his stomach and her head was nuzzled tightly against his chest. “I love you,” he whispered, as he stroked her stomach, making a small circle around her belly button.

“I love you too,” she said, looking up at him, her lips pursed together like two rose petals pressed in between a book.

He closed his eyes then fell into her and swallowed her mouth with his lips. As he kissed her, he could feel her body rising and falling, her left leg coiling tightly around his hip. Then something went wrong. Her mouth felt freezing, as if it was filled with buckets of ice. He opened his eyes and tried to separate from her, but his tongue was sealed frozen to her teeth. His eyeballs darted around in all directions as the cold traveled through him and down his throat. It felt like liquid nitrogen was running down his larynx, freezing his body from the inside out. He couldn’t move…he couldn’t breathe…she was sucking the air out of him. The vacuum from the cold was collapsing his lungs. She threw her bare arms and legs around his body and squeezed him so tight that he couldn’t even scream. Almost immediately, their skin fused together, like a moist tongue to a flagpole on a freezing December day. Then, the ceiling and the walls started weeping and the sound of rushing water began to fill the room. The windows cracked, the glass shattered, and a surge of water broke onto the bed. But the water was warm—warmer than Vicky—and melted the seal between their skin. “Go,” Vicky screamed, looking up in horror, as a layer of ice began to encase her skin. “Get out of here. Leave me. Save yourself. Go.”

“No,” Monty said, “I can’t leave you. You’re my only reason for living. You’re the only one I have left.”

“Don’t say that, Monty. You have to get out of here. Don’t worry about me. Save yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I believe in you, Monty. Go now. Get up! Get up!”

Just then, Monty’s eyes shot open as his head bounced against the window’s glass. The bed was gone and Vicky’s screams had vanished, replaced by the squeal of brass horns coming from the van’s speakers.

“Come on, get up, Monty,” the old man whispered, as he tugged and pulled on Monty’s wrist. “Get up. We’re here.”

Monty groaned and peeled himself from the headrest then rubbed his eyelids and let out a deep yawn. He could see the house emerging through the clearing. It looked like something out of a Shakespearean play. It was three stories high, white and colonial, surrounded on all sides by an imposing wall of Ponderosa pines. The trees’ branches were curved, long, and intrusive, embracing the house like a pair of giant, wooden hands. The north side of the house was completely covered in ivy, shrouding the white stone walls with a cloak of ice-laden, emerald vines. An impressive wooden porch painted as white as the snowflakes wrapped from one side to the other like a giant, albino anaconda all the way around the stone. Fat, Greek columns spiraled up towards the heavens supporting the weight of a curved balcony that sat on the top floor. It looked like the only way up was a brass, spiral staircase that commenced from the bottom and wound upwards towards the top.

The old man squeezed the brake as he pulled around the semi-circle driveway, stopping right in front of the grand, white porch. “Alright,” he said as he cut the engine. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

Monty cracked the door open and carefully eased himself down from the van. His legs were still asleep from the long haul up the mountain and he barely had enough coordination to even stand. He stood idle for a moment while the blood returned to his muscles, the pins and needles poking into his skin.

He couldn’t believe this place. Even the driveway was a thing of beauty. Not one stone was the same as the other. Some were rich, like dark chocolate, scattered in crazy jig-jag patterns, while others were smooth and round with a light shade of brown sugar fitting together in perfect symmetry. There was a massive granite fountain overrun with tangles of ivy, its impressive four tier stone basins casting shadows against the snowy ground.

The old man shut the trunk and came around with Monty’s green gym bag. “Alright Mr. Monty, you ready to go?”

Monty nodded and moved forward slowly, following the old man up the creaky porch steps. His legs were so weak that he could barely keep his posture. He had to take a break about halfway up the porch.

“You alright?” the old man said, looking back at him.

Monty nodded then grabbed hold of the icy, iron railing and used both hands to slowly pull himself up the steps. When he finally got to the top, he pressed his back up against one of the spiral columns and put his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath.

“You sure you’re alright?” the old man said.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.” The driver dropped Monty’s bag then turned his fist into a knocker and pounded it against the door so hard that it sounded like he was trying to break it in. “Hello? Is anybody home?”

They waited a few seconds, but there was no answer. So, the old man mashed the doorbell with the club of his thumb. But still, there was nothing—no answer—and so he tried the doorknob, but it was locked. “Well,” he said, as he scratched his scraggly chin hair, “looks like we oughta head around back.”

Just as they were about to leave, the door flung open, and a tall, lanky black man stood grinning in the doorway, his bald head reflecting the glow of the overhead porch lamp. He was somewhat academic looking with oval shaped glasses, neatly pressed khaki’s, and a gray, wool sweater vest. “Well, hello there,” he said, as he pushed the screen door open. “You must be the young man I’ve been hearing so much about—the chemical engineer from Denver. My name’s Dexter, but you can call me Dex. Welcome to Sanctuary.”

Monty looked down and inched forward. He noticed that the guy’s hand was balled into a fist. Oh great. He probably wanted one of those ridiculous fist bump things. Whatever happened to just a normal handshake? He forced a smile then gave the man a slight knock of the fist. “Hi,” he said, retreating backwards, trying to keep his back against the column’s support. “Nice to meet you. I’m Monty…but you can call me Monty.”

Dexter threw his head back and started laughing. His cackle was a booming, baritone crack. “I see you still got your sense of humor. That’s good, that’s good. You’re gonna need it.”

Monty tried to be a good sport and smile with him, but all he could muster was a faint snort.

“So listen,” Dexter said, grinning like a court jester, looking Monty up and down. “I understand you’re one of Robby’s sponsees.”

“Yeah. Why? Do you know him?”

“I sure do. He was
my
sponsor. In fact, everything I know about addiction, I learned from him.”

Oh great, Monty thought, just what he needed—another disciple of Robby to make him feel right at home.

“He used to have this job, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yep. He was running this place back when I came through.”

Of course, now it was all starting to come together. No wonder they made him come here. It was Robby’s fucking alma mater.

“Let’s see,” Dexter said, musing up at the porch lights, “that was back in ’95. Nearly, ten years ago. Wow.” He shook his head and let out a long whistle. “I can’t believe it. Time sure flies by fast, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“Well,”—Dexter clapped his hands together—“what do you say we get you in here and out of the cold?”

Finally. He was about to have a convulsion. Any more chitchat and he was going to keel over right in the snow. “Sure,” Monty said, then peeled himself from the column and carefully shuffled towards the front door.

“Alright. Come on in here and we’ll get you processed.”

With his hand on his shoulder, Dexter ushered Monty forward then turned toward the old man as he pulled open the screen door. “Thanks Cap. I got it from here. You got anymore tonight?”

“Yeah,” the old man said. “I got one more after supper. Gotta pick him up from the courthouse.”

“Back in Denver?”

“Yep.”

“Dang Cap. You’re in for a long haul tonight, aren’t ya?”

“I sure am.”

“Well, you be safe out there my friend and don’t stop for any hitchhikers.”

“No sir.” Cap chuckled and turned to Monty, extending his wrinkled, raisin-like hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Monty. You take care of yourself now, you hear?”

Monty took the old man’s hand and shook it, struggling to give it a firm enough squeeze.

“And do everything these guys tell you to. They know what they’re talking about.”

Yeah right. Monty had heard that one before.

“Thanks. I will,” Monty said as he released the raisin then bent down and scooped up his gym bag from the porch.

“Alright,” Dexter shouted. “Let’s do this thing. You ready?”

Monty nodded and took a deep breath inward then followed Dexter inside the grand, old house. He tried to move in small, calculated movements, afraid that if he moved to abruptly his knees might bow inward like a flamingo.

“Right this way,” Dexter said, as he pushed a set of French doors open and flipped on a light switch that was mounted on the inner wall.

Monty readjusted the strap of his bag higher against his shoulder then followed Dexter into a modestly sized, windowless room. The room was carpeted and must’ve just been vacuumed, because he could still see the long striations in the fibers underneath his feet. There was a large, rectangular desk sitting in between two bookcases and a couple of armchairs and couches strewn along the sidewalls.

Dexter moved around behind the desk and collapsed backward into a swivel style, leather office chair. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a large green armchair that was sitting a few inches from his desk.

Monty let his bag fall off his shoulder then carefully eased himself into the chair. He took another deep breath and leaned forward, squeezing his elbows with both hands.

“You okay?” Dexter said, as he began rifling through the bottom drawers of his desk.

Monty shook his head and shut his eyelids, swallowing as often as he could to try and suppress the bile.

“Don’t worry. This won’t take long. We’ll get you all set up in detox and have you feeling better in no time at all. But first, we’re gonna need a picture.”

Monty lifted his head. “A picture? What for?”

“Don’t worry. We take everybody’s picture. We like to do a before and after kind of a thing. Ah-ha! Found it.” Dexter pulled out a bright, red digital camera and proudly held it up as if he’d just caught a fish. “Now we’re in business,” he said, as he hit the power button and brought the camera up to his face. “Okay Monty, would you mind looking here for a minute?”

Monty leveled his eyes and stared blankly into the camera, but he was shaking so bad that he could barely hold himself still.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to try and stop moving. Can you do that for me?”

Monty wrapped his hands around his elbows and squeezed like he was giving himself a tight hug. He tried as hard as he could to stop the trembling, but the more he tried, the more he shook.

“Come on, Monty, I need you to try and hold still.”

God damnit—what the hell was this guy’s problem? Didn’t he know anything about alcohol withdrawal? He couldn’t hold still. He could barely even swallow. Everything inside of him was about to explode.

“Okay Monty, just give me a big smile and say…
Recovery
!”

The flash went off and Monty winced forward, clenching his teeth as tight as he could.