Determination (31 page)

“She took me. My father couldn’t even look at me when we left.

Back then, I thought he was ashamed of me. Now, I know that he was ashamed of himself. As much as I wanted to, I never asked her not to leave me. First, I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good, and second, I was a stupid, defiant teenager. If I knew then how my dad felt about the whole thing, I might have begged him. As it was, I just served my time and waited until an opportunity presented itself.”

“You mentioned that after you left the center, you called your parents and asked for help. Tell me what you remember about that conversation,” she said with her damn little pen raised to document one of the worst moments of my life.

“Uhm… yeah, I had been on the street for about three days, I think. I had no money, no food, and just the sweatshirt, T-shirt, and jeans I’d been wearing when I left. I remember that they were big on me because I’d lost weight since I’d gotten to the center. Too scared to sleep, I’d just been wandering around for days, trying to figure out what I was going to do. I thought about calling Brian, but there was nothing he could have done from Alabama. Plus I’d just sent him a letter cutting ties with him so that he could get on with his life. It would have been just cruel to then call and beg him for help he couldn’t give.

So I called my parents,” I rambled with a sigh.

“And your mother turned you away,” she commented with disapproval.

“She said she never wanted me to come home.” I wiped the free-flowing tears from my face and closed my eyes. My mother’s hate-filled voice still haunted me in my sleep. I could hear it clear as day.

“What did you do after you hung up?”

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“I just stood there looking at the phone for a while. For a few minutes, I considered going to my father’s office and causing a scene just so he’d have to pay attention to me. In the end, I just sat down on a nearby bench and tried to figure out what the hell I was going to do.”

“How did that make you feel about your mother?” she asked, sounding cautious.

“At first, I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that my own mother didn’t want me anymore. Then I figured there must be something wrong with me. I hated myself for a long time,” I admitted.

“What about now?”

“Now, I hate her, not me.”

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Jamie Mayfield

Sixteen

MY LIFE, though a daily struggle against drugs and my own body, is
important. Enriching it through a liberal arts education at the San
Diego School for Liberal Arts will help me continue to be a productive
member of society. With the lessons I’ve learned both as a homeless
teenager and as a recovering addict, I’d like to help others with similar
problems. The term “pay it forward” has become almost cliché in our
culture, but by putting my education into practice, I will be able to
bring my experiences and my hope to those in need.

Closing the essay with a paragraph on how I wanted to use their education to help others felt like the way to go, though I just wasn’t sure. If I didn’t get the essay right, all the cash in the world wouldn’t get me into college. My father shouldn’t have to waste any more money on me, no matter how happy it made him to do it. He’d spent enough on rehab and the lawyer. Well, at least those weren’t really wasted. I’d be “graduating” from rehab in a few hours and moving on to meetings and follow-ups with Dr. Fisher. Though I hadn’t been arrested, and the police hadn’t been back, the threat was still like a constant shadow across every part of my day.

I ran the entire essay through the spell-check again and then sent it to the printer for my dad to read. The paper had to be submitted by noon for me to have a shot at getting in for the winter term, and I wanted his opinion. It was my last session with Dr. Fisher and wouldn’t be a full day at the rehab center, just kind of like an exit interview. She wanted to go over what would happen next, introduce me to my meeting sponsor, and answer any questions my dad and I had.

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“Are you ready for your shower?” My father asked as he appeared in my doorway a few minutes after I’d picked up my paper from the printer in his office. For the first time since I’d moved in, he looked relaxed. Dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater, his loafers seemed almost out of place on the man who probably slept in a suit.

“Yeah, I just finished my essay. Here, could you read it later and…,” I started, but he was already sitting down at the desk to read.

“… tell me what you think?” I finished with a smile. He waved me off, and I felt a warm glow at his eagerness. You’d have thought I’d handed him an unpublished novel by his favorite author.

As I stepped under the spray, a sense of optimism washed over me with the deluge of hot water. I’d made it through rehab. I’d fought my way through the first step of my impossible journey without more than a minor stumble. The police investigation continued to haunt me, but I still moved forward on a path that seemed to become clearer with each passing day. With the essay finished, I took one more step toward college, which felt like the next bend in the road.

“Jamie, this is really good,” my dad’s voice called over the steam.

“You’ve expressed your plan clearly and made a great argument for rehabilitation. There are a couple of spots I’m going to mark that you may want to look at, but they’d be stupid not to admit you. Not only are you a brilliant kid, but you’re a PR goldmine.” Always the strategist, my father, and the thought made me laugh.

It felt so good.

He continued to talk about the essay all through breakfast as we sat in the restaurant shoveling in Monte Cristo sandwiches and guzzling coffee. Neither of us mentioned that Mom used to make them as treats on Sunday mornings when our family could be together before the hectic week started. Dad never worked on Sundays, and Mom loved having him home and focused on the family.

I took another huge bite of the cheesy, ham-covered slice of fried heaven as he rounded out a paragraph with his pen. The copy printed that morning started to show signs of wear as my dad reread the change he’d suggested and nodded to himself. I couldn’t remember him ever taking such an active interest in any of the homework I’d brought home from school, and while I hated what it took to get his attention, I loved 202

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that I finally had it. Back in Alabama, usually Brian’s parents had helped us with our homework when we needed it because mine had been too busy.

“Okay, here, I’m done playing with it. I don’t want you to think that I’m rewriting your essay, because it’s fantastic. I just wanted to smooth out a couple of rough edges because I didn’t want the administrators to be distracted by them and miss the point. Believe me, it happens,” he murmured before taking another sip of his coffee.

“When does it have to be in?”

“In… four hours,” I said as I confirmed the time on my phone.

His eyes widened, and he waved for the waitress to get the check.

“Okay, then let’s get to the doctor’s office and do that so we can get you home.” He handed the waitress his credit card while I packed my stuff back into my laptop bag. I’d left the actual laptop at home because I didn’t think I’d need it at the restaurant or the doctor’s office, but it occurred to me then that I could have made the changes in the car. I wasn’t used to having deadlines or assignments, but if my father was right and the essay could get me into college, I’d have to get used to being on a schedule again. It was a good feeling.

Light traffic helped us reach the rehab clinic almost forty-five minutes early, but Dr. Fisher ushered us in without a wait. For that last session, she had asked me to bring my father, or someone else close to me, to talk about all my resources for success.

“Because you’re early, I’ll introduce you to your sponsor at the end of the session instead of the beginning,” Dr. Fisher said as she closed the door while Dad and I sat in the familiar leather chairs across from her desk. “We’ve already gone over where to go from here, but I want you to tell me about your plan.” She tucked her meticulous bob behind her ears as she pulled out her worn notebook and pen. I noticed as she did so that her eyes seemed fixed on my father in the chair next to me while he read a pamphlet on transitioning. Dr. Fisher’s cheeks flushed when she noticed me watching, and she cleared her throat.

“I’m going to go to my meetings, continue with therapy, and talk to my dad and my friends when I need help. We’re still waiting to hear whether I got into college, but if I didn’t, I have a few other ideas. I’m going to start writing anyway, articles and blog posts mostly. It’s been Determination

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a long time since I’ve been excited about my future. I’m looking forward to getting started,” I explained, and my dad reached over to squeeze my shoulder.

“We’ve talked about the craving for drugs that has cropped up over the last six weeks since your physical detox. How are you going to handle those types of needs, especially with the stress of the seizures and going to college?” Her hand remained poised over the notebook, and I noticed she didn’t look up again either at me or my father. She swept another displaced lock of hair behind her ear and made a note of her question.

“It’s going to be hard because I still think about it almost every day. My friends and my dad help, but it’s really my decision to stay clean that helps fight it. I can’t do the drugs, stay on my seizure meds, and remain healthy. What could happen if I take the drugs scares me—

both because of my health and my state of mind. I don’t want to start all over again. I don’t want to put my dad or my friends through rehab again. I have to stay strong, for me and for them.”

“You will also have your sponsor, Christian, to help you. He’s been through everything we’ve talked about and more.” She pushed back another pesky lock of hair, and I wondered why she seemed so damn flustered when normally she was one of the most put-together people I knew. Regardless, the name “Christian” didn’t really bode well. I hoped he wasn’t one of those born-again types like my mother.

The last thing I needed was another babysitter or judge.

“Is there an emergency number that we can call if he needs help?”

my father asked as he finally looked up from the paper he’d been reading. He looked rather troubled, and I couldn’t figure out what he could have read that would make him appear that way. Dr. Fisher’s face heated again. I looked at her closely, the way her eyes stayed almost downcast, her flushed, excited features, and realized she had a thing for my dad. The snort came out before I could stop it, and both Dr. Fisher and my father looked at me. I tried to play it off as a sneeze.

“You can call the center’s hotline 24/7. There is always a counselor on call. He can also call Christian when he needs support.”

Dr. Fisher’s voice sounded calm against the background of my father’s 204

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panic. It seemed he had just realized he would be taking care of a junkie on his own. The fairytale of rehab was over.

“Dad, it’s going to be okay. It’s just like the seizures—I know what to do,” I assured him just as someone knocked on the door to Dr.

Fisher’s office. My father looked up as Dr. Fisher stood to answer it, and his face was pale and frightened.

“Christian, we were just talking about you. Please come in,” Dr.

Fisher said as she stepped aside to admit a tall, lean man with a severe buzz cut offset by kind brown eyes. He added a nod to his smile as he walked past the doctor to lean on the edge of her desk in front of where my father and I sat. He crossed his ankles and looked so relaxed I actually envied him.

Dr. Fisher stood next to her desk, near my father, and opened her palm toward Christian.

“Jamie, this is Christian, your drug rehab sponsor. He’s going to share his experiences with you about coping with addiction and staying sober,” she told me with a proud smile at Christian. I wondered if she’d helped him through his rehab process like she’d helped me. Christian gripped my hand tightly as he shook it with another nod. He seemed pretty quiet and reserved.

“What kind of qualifications does he have to help Jamie? Why would you have another addict responsible for his care?” My father asked, and the anger in his voice surprised me.

“Dad—” I started, but Christian stopped me.

“Mr. Mayfield, do you have any idea what it’s like to have your skin crawling with a desperate need for a fix? It’s been fifteen years since the last time I got high, but I can still feel how good the rush is.

Have you ever eaten from a dumpster, wondering how you’re going to get your next score? How about gone to prison for holding a teacher at knifepoint so you could steal her purse and get high? No? Before I got clean, I’d done it all. I know exactly what your son is going through right now because I went through every bit of it. Who would you suggest teach him what he needs to survive?” Christian asked without raising his voice. He didn’t get emotional or upset—he merely asked Determination

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with a calm bravado that I admired. In fact, he didn’t even uncross his arms as he leaned against the desk.