The Last Time I Died (12 page)

This I remember. Nothing from the night my mom died, but this stuff, this bullshit I overheard, is crystal clear.

My father was kept in a special section since he used to be a cop. That made him a target in prison. I don’t think he was corrupt or anything but when you put a former policeman behind bars there are always plenty of inmates who want to kill him for whatever reason. Revenge. Initiation. Credibility. Thrills. The special section also usually houses pedophiles since they’re not too popular either.

That’s the crew you’ve got to spend the rest of your life with.

It would make me want to kill myself too. I never asked him if there were other cops in there or if it was just him and the kiddie rapers.

The wait to see him was about four hours. That’s how they do you up there. Like you share some of the blame for the crime so you have to suffer. The inmates don’t suffer. Not from the waiting. They’re in jail. All they do is wait.

Visitors sit around and wait for hours with a bunch of other families they’d never otherwise spend time with. This on top of the fact that I didn’t want to be there anyway no matter how lovely the facility was. I would have been happy to walk out at any time but Foster Mother thought it best for us to stay. I suspect there might have been a Child Care Services bonus awarded for a certain number of miles traveled or maybe she could see that Foster Father was beginning an angry, all-day binge that she didn’t want to be around for. He got like that sometimes.

Oh, some days Foster Father was a real piece of work. Weeks would go by without a word from the guy and then something would set him off and we all had to listen to lectures on how to live our lives and what was wrong with America (me) and how things should have worked out differently for him. It was a tiresome drill but if you shut your yap and waited it usually ended soon enough. Or it would escalate into some good old-fashioned wife beating. But at least you knew that couldn’t last forever. God, he was a bore. I suppose Foster Mother had lived with him long enough to see when the wind was changing for the worse before the storm actually hit. I think she borrowed the car from a neighbor.

What do you say to your father in jail?

How are you?

I hate you?

I love you?

Now what?

My friends had stopped talking to me after my mom died so I had no one to ask for advice. I became a ghost in the classrooms and invisible in the hallways. No one was particularly mean, per se. It was a matter of being ignored. I walked home alone. I studied alone. I stopped raising my hand. I stopped playing sports. Maybe it was me. Maybe I shut down. If I still knew any of those guys I would ask them. I wonder if they would remember me.

No one I knew had a relative in jail. Not a close relative, anyway. I had never heard about anyone’s visits to their parent in prison. So I hadn’t the slightest idea what to say and the stress was getting to me as I sat there and played with the ragged edges of the cheap plastic chairs in the lobby.

At this particular facility, they only fill the vending machines on Saturday. We were there on a Sunday, which meant the machines were empty because Saturday is a big day for visiting. Again, they don’t make it easy on you. I was starving.

Would I be able to hug him? Would I if I could? Would he want me to? What if I tried and he backed off? He did put himself here away from all of us, after all. This was his decision alone. I hoped there was Plexiglas between us. I didn’t want to make the choice. My heart raced like I had never experienced. I could feel the blood pumping through my chest. Sweating bullets.

And then I got an erection. A little-boy weenus erection, yes. But enough to make standing up uncomfortable at best and embarrassing at worst. I guess the racing blood had to go somewhere. I tried to think about baseball and math and anything to distract me from the stress that was engorging the stiff Vienna sausage in my pants. Nothing helped. I sat patiently and tried to wait it out, but a marble-mouthed jackhole in a green uniform walked out and called Foster Mother’s name. She grabbed my arm and dragged me along behind, boner and all.

There was no Plexiglas.

My father hugged me and asked how I was before I had time to do anything. He was so glad to see me I got a little scared. He had always been such a powerful man and when I walked through that door, he melted. When I didn’t answer him he started crying. He kept telling me how sorry he was and that he wanted me to understand it had to be this way. It was better for me. Better for everyone. And what could I say to that? Foster Mother sat in the background like a load and let me flounder around as I did not say things like
How is it better for Mom?
and
Well, thanks for executing this well-thought-out plan for my future, Dad
and
Why can’t we go back to the way things were?

—It’s okay, Dad.

That’s all I could muster. A watery pronouncement that everyone in the room knew was a blatant lie. What a coward. My father made himself calm down and smile and tell me he was doing ‘great.’ We spent the next hour talking about things that did not involve shootings or moms or police. At one point I noticed Foster Mother had nodded off. I told my father about the baseball team I was playing left field for and the girl I had a crush on and the book I was reading about robots that take over the world. All of which I made up.

Seeing him made everything worse. I didn’t go back for years.

*It’s a year and nine months ago.

I’m not hungry.

I already ate.

I’ll eat later.

My stomach is upset.

I’m a vegan.

No, thanks. I’m allergic.

There are a million excuses for her not to eat, but these are the greatest hits. I hear them every day. Mostly she uses them to fend off the lunch and dinner offers of other people who are polite enough to pretend to believe her. She doesn’t say them to me anymore. I’ve called her on it too much.

—I already ate.

—No you didn’t.

—I’ll eat later.

—No you won’t.

—My stomach is upset.

—No it’s not.

—Fuck off. I’m not eating.

She’s killing herself.

Lisa’s asleep in bed next to me. She always goes down before I do. Denial can be exhausting. Also, I think she likes the idea that I will take care of locking up and setting the coffee maker and turning off all the lights and whatever else has to be done. So do I. This is the routine that we have discovered works for us. We kill ourselves at work all day, meet up at home, and bore a hole in our heads with the predictable tropes of
Law & Order
while tamping down the rush of thoughts in our heads with our drugs of choice.

At some point the disease takes on a life of its own. It is an extra tenant in our apartment. The uninvited guest at every dinner we share together. It doesn’t take much for the simple exercise of self-control to spiral into something so much worse. Coping mechanisms are insidious.

The sheets are crisp and the windows are cracked so wisps of the fall air can get in. I’m enjoying the last quarter of the double scotch I poured myself ten minutes ago. I can’t sleep without it. She’ll have a drink if it’s the only option but prefers to self-medicate with weed. Either way, we both get where we’re going. She just gets there sooner.

I suspect it’s too late for me to help her without professional intervention. I barely have tools to maintain a relationship with her when she’s not overwhelmed with guilt and anger. But this. It’s beyond me. She’s emaciated to the point of concern.

I watch her when she doesn’t know I’m looking and she seems so empty and lost. Lisa is thirty-five but in these unguarded moments, all I see is a little girl I want to take care of but can’t get close enough to. She’s backed herself into a corner she doesn’t have to be in. Her dad is going to die whether she starves herself or not.

Sometimes when she’s desperate enough, she tries to talk to me but I don’t have the facilities to manage that much raw emotion. Or I did but I used them all up selfishly on myself years ago. I nod and try to think of something to say that won’t sound stupid or trite but it’s usually both and she slams shut again.

I find myself confused by the storyline on the television and realize I’ve been nodding off for the last fifteen minutes. I finish the scotch on principal and move to turn the lights off when I see Lisa’s sleeping with her glasses on. She really expects me to take care of everything.

I slip them off her face, fold them, and put them on her nightstand. In the process I stir her from the deep sleep she was already in. She furrows her brow and says something about me being an asshole but she doesn’t fully wake up and I know she won’t remember it tomorrow morning.

I lie back and turn my light off. I thought I would make a better adult.

—I need you to choke me.

Flaco misunderstands what I’m asking him to do because he barely speaks English which is infuriating and impressive at the same time. Fucking guy has been in America for twenty-whatever years from wherever he snuck in from and hasn’t ever so much as stopped rolling his r’s when he buys a lap dance.

I speak slower, as if that might help, and throw in some hand gestures.

—Not choke me like rough sex. I mean choke me until I pass out. And then a little bit more.

I need something less risky. Something predictable. Quantifiable. I can’t keep hoping the ambulance gets to me in time. Plus I’ll get committed if I keep it up. That’s not my goal here. Maybe I can get the job done with the right amount of choking in the safety of my own home. Not enough to
kill me
kill me, but enough to get me back to The White long enough to nab another memory before Flaco slaps me awake or whatever. I wonder if he knows CPR. That would be such a bonus. If he doesn’t, there’s got to be a YouTube video for that. We’ll look it up before we get down to business.

I thought about hiring a dominatrix who makes house calls, only I can’t help but think whoever I find won’t be entirely trustworthy. I feel like sex workers are usually in the industry for all the wrong reasons. Besides if she’s any good at her job, the last thing she’ll want to do is actually kill someone. Bad for business.

So I called Flaco.

He’s got meaty hands like you’d want if your job was cracking walnuts for a living. Ham hands. From what I understand he grew up working with concrete. That’ll do it. He could squeeze the life out of me with little to no effort. With that volume of muscle fiber, he should have a high degree of control. In theory.

Nuance is the key here. If he crushes my windpipe, I’m done. And from what I understand that only takes about fourteen pounds of pressure. Knowing how to apply pressure by degree is the secret. A dimmer switch as opposed to a toggle. I wonder if Flaco would understand that analogy. Probably not. I don’t know that he’s a nuance kind of guy.

Flaco finishes his beer, shakes his head, and mumbles some Spanish, most of which I don’t get except the part where he calls me gay. He’s disgusted but smells money so he stays.

You’d think he’d be used to odd requests like this. Flaco was our go-to scumbag when the firm needed some quasi-legal work done. Surveillance pictures. Dirt on an ex-husband. The address of a mistress. Shrooms. He was our guy. One time a colleague paid him to plant she-male porn on an opposing counsel’s work laptop to ease the negotiation process. Even if he won’t do it himself, he must know someone who can help me. Plus he knows how to keep quiet about what he sees.

I know as long as I’m buying, Flaco will sit here. I’ll wear him down. I nod at the bartender for another round and tell him to keep them coming. I’m sure I can outdrink Flaco.

We sit and watch the game for another half an hour. Flaco manages to get three more beers and two shots into his fat belly before he finally loosens up.

—Five thousand.

Jesus, with that thick accent. I have to repeat his offer and clarify, because god forbid he elucidates on his own.

—Five thousand. You’ll do it?

—No.
La Medica
.

His interpersonal skills are fucking terrible. What is he talking about?

—La Medica. Who’s that? You got a guy who can help?

He shrugs and I think it means yes.

—La Medica es un… doc-tor.

A doctor.

Perfect. I knew Flaco would come through. Why hadn’t I thought of approaching a doctor? People doctor-shop for prescription meds all the time. And these guys have to know they’re dealing with addicts, right? What’s the difference here? I’m not hurting anyone but myself and I stopped caring about that weeks ago. There must be doctors who need a little extra gambling cash and are willing to overlook a few minor details like laws and oaths. Flexibility. That’s what I’m looking for. There’s always a gray area. I need a doctor who doesn’t mind practicing there.

—La Medica. She’s bad. She’s a bad person.

She? Really? I always pictured my bad doctors as either overconfident asshats with no conscience or quivering desperados with no choice. Always men, though. I feel like women are better than this. But apparently, they aren’t.

—You know where she is? You have her number?

—We no can call. I show you.

Flaco has a body like a sack of bowling balls. He’s not a big man, but he’s solid. Dense. No way I could outwrestle him. It dawns on me now that I’m asking him to help me do something highly illegal and he’s offering to take me somewhere I have to think is dark and on the other side of safe. I should be wary, but what’s the worst that happens? He kills me?

—So, great. Let’s go.

—Five thousand.

I patiently explain to Flaco that I don’t have five thousand dollars. He seems to think that lawyers all make salaries in the five to ten million dollar range and walk around with pimp rolls. We go back and forth a few times before he finally settles for my fifty-inch flat screen and four Oxycontin. Harry would have been so proud.

—Let’s go.

—Where are we going? Her office? It’s ten o’clock at night.

—The dog fights.

*It’s a year and nine months ago.