Beneath the Surface by Emily McIntire
Lily
Ibrush off the chill that’s been sticking to my back ever since I saw the same stranger staring at us from across the playground.
Alex.
He doesn’t look like an Alex.
I should have asked him what he’s doing here in Raindale, Arizona. It’s not exactly a place people come to stay. Other than a few gas stations and fast-food restaurants off the highway, plus a small church in the middle of town, there isn’t much else. Which is exactly why it’s the perfect place for me.
Gripping Chase’s fingers tighter in mine, we walk the few blocks back to our apartment. After giving him pancakes this morning, I knew the playground would be the only way to get out his energy. We go every Wednesday since it’s my only morning off work, and even though there aren’t many kids around his age in this town, I find myself continually hoping that one day, we’ll show up and he’ll be able to make a friend. It hasn’t happened yet.
But at least we have each other.
A pang hits the center of my chest as I look down at his smiling face, blooming with the innocence that only exists when experience hasn’t railroaded its way into your life, and smacked you upside the head. I bask in his naivete, gripping on tightly and praying he never lets go, because once it’s gone, there’s no getting it back.
I lost mine far too early. And so did my brother.
Shaking off the thought, I grip Chase’s fingers tighter as we cross the street.
“Mommy, who was dat man?” he asks.
My stomach flips. I should have known he would ask. For a three-year-old, he’s very aware of his surroundings. Inquisitive. Not afraid to walk up to someone and ask them a million questions before they can even get a word out. I don’t have enough experience with kids to know whether that’s a normal toddler thing, or if it’s something that was passed down from me.
Growing up, I always had a problem with being too nice to strangers. It’s terrifying having him so easily trusting people the way I did. My chest pulls tight as I think about the example I set today. Having someone walk up on the playground, and me, engaging in conversation like it was no big deal.
It’s always a big deal.
“That was Mommy’s friend,” I rush out quickly. “Someone I know from work.”
“Oh.” He nods his head. “He didn’t wanna say hi?”
I glance down at him. “To you?”
He nods again.
“Well…” I pause, trying to think of something to say. “He didn’t want to scare you. Some people are afraid of him because of his size and the drawings on his skin.”
Chase’s chest puffs out as we stop at the crosswalk. “Not me.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. His skin looks like yours. And he looked nice. I can tell.”
“Oh?” I grin, my chest warming as I glance at the tattoos scattering my forearms. I’m not covered like Alex, but I have enough to hide what I don’t want to show. “Well, you’re pretty brave.”
He’s right. Alex does seem nice. Almost too nice. But any man will act friendly to get what they want.
Glancing at the clock when we get back to our apartment, I put on a cartoon and go to make an afternoon snack. We don’t have too much, just some apple slices and peanut butter, but it’s enough to get Chase through until I make his lunch.
I never knew that having a kid meant they ate you through house and home. My stomach squeezes as I think back to my earliest memories. The ones that are foggy and scattered because of how young I was, not because of the drugs I used to shade them.
There were so many nights my brother gave me the only thing we had in the cupboards and went hungry himself, just so I could eat. Countless times, he would hold me in his arms—while our mom was in the living room with a man, or with a needle stuck up her arm—and promise that everything would be okay.
“It’s us against the world, Lil. Forever.”
My throat swells, and I push the thought away, but it doesn’t go far. It never does. Chase is always there in the back of my mind, drowning in the well of guilt that I also keep hidden in the shadows.
It’s been almost a decade since I’ve seen him. Spoken to him. Ran away from him and the life that we always promised each other.
But I was young, and stupid, and desperate to forget. Blinded by the demons that crawled into my throat and blackened my lungs, swirling poison through my veins. Even the thought of it now makes my stomach cramp, an uncomfortable itch skittering along my skin, my chest tightening as my body tries to trick my mind, whispering to just give in to the craving.
I don’t think there will ever be a day I don’t have a physical reaction to the thought of drugs. But all it takes is one look at my baby boy, and the feeling is capsized and washed away by my love for him. I would do anything to give him the life he deserves. The life I never had.
He’s why I got clean in the first place.
And he’s why I can never go back home.
A few hours later, I’m fresh out of the shower and about to wake Chase up from his nap. I need to get him ready to go next door to Susan’s, so I can head to work for the night shift. My stomach tugs, wishing like hell that I could call off and curl up on the couch with him instead. Watch silly movies and roll around in his giggles, let them serenade me into being happy with my life.
I grab the Play-Doh off his toy shelf, glancing down at the lid, popping the top and reaching in until I’m squeezing it through my fingers. Over and over again, I mold the dough, allowing the feel of it pushing between my palms to calm me.
The shock of seeing Alex at the playground has my nerves frayed and on edge. The fact that my child saw him, and the way my memories are playing like a TV show when all I want is to see static, has my mind desperate to find a way to numb the pain.
And when it gets like this—when the cinnamon gum, and the thought of being the best mother I can be isn’t enough to curb the craving—I grab onto my son’s Play-Doh and squeeze it between my hands. Something about focusing on the silky texture as it molds under my fingers reminds me that everything is reshapable. Nothing is permanent. Things are always under my control, and I can choose to do things however I want.
That’s all anything is, really. A choice.
Breathing deep, I shake off the ache that’s filtering through my bones, whispering a want so visceral, that even after almost four years, my muscles stiffen and my lungs lock up tight.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up the only number I have in time of emergencies, when the feeling becomes too much and I feel like I might drown from its weight.
Derek.
“Hello?”
I breathe out a sigh. “Hi, Derek. I’m sorry to call but—”
“Lily,” he breathes. “Don’t you ever apologize for callin’. Talk to me.”
Derek Andrews is my sponsor, of sorts. I’ve never been to rehab. But I have been to a meeting. Just one. And that’s where I met him.
He’s saved me countless times from falling off a deep, dark ledge. Picked me up off dirty bedroom floors in rotting, drug-infested houses when I couldn’t stand to stay sober, and he’s talked me down every single time I’ve wanted to relapse—my body speaking lies to my mind, making me feel like I’m not strong enough to survive the words they spit.
He lives in Sweetwater, Tennessee. And he’s one of the only people who knows where I am.
“I just…” I blow out a breath, watching as the red clay oozes between my fingers. “It’s a rough day,” I whisper.
“So make it unrough.”
Laughing, I lean back against the shelf of hand-me-down toys and stare up at the popcorn ceiling. “Your amazing ability to see through bullshit astounds me, Derek. Calling you is me making it unrough.”
He chuckles. “Listen, you’re a strong woman. And you’re a hell of a mother. The urges that are spinnin’ through you right now? They’re liars, and they’re testin’ your strength. But just like you do every other time, you’re gonna prove them wrong.”
Closing my eyes, I swallow around the knot lodged in my throat. “Okay.” I nod.
“You’re gonna choose to be strong today just like you did yesterday, and the day before, and every day before that since the moment you walked into that clinic and realized you had someone else to live for.”
I close my eyes, memories of when Derek took me to the walk-in clinic four years ago flashing through my mind. I had tried at that point—unsuccessfully—to get clean. But my boyfriend at the time, Darryl, always managed to drag me back. And like flycatcher’s mud, my vices wrapped around my legs and sucked me down until I was covered in their thick, wet dirt, unable to pull myself out.
I was scared, desperate, and high. Living on the streets of Tennessee, hiding in plain sight, making sure that my family and friends could never find me.
But I remember waking up that morning, throwing up the bile and acid that lined my stomach. I assumed it was withdrawal. It’s how I usually woke up—with the shakes setting in, desperate for the chemicals I had trained my body to need. So while it seemed a little aggressive, I did what I always did to take away the pain.
But two hours later, with half an eight ball of coke swimming through my veins, and a rock inhaled into my lungs, I still felt like death. So my friend Amy grabbed up all the spare change we had, and went with me to the store to get some medicine. And when we were there, I walked past the feminine aisle, and something made me stop, a sledgehammer knocking against my insides, threatening to smash everything to bits.
I knew it before I even took the test. Even with snow flowing through my veins, my intuition was rarely wrong.
Pregnant.
And a junkie. Just like my mom.