Finding a Bed
J. was sick, really sick, but her family, too, was sick -- of her, mostly. So while she begged them for a ride to the local detox center, they told her that she had exhausted their time, money and concern. She could either figure it out on her own or die. That's when she called me. When I arrived hours later, still wearing the fancy black dress made from African lappa and the strappy heels and the faintest trace of Russian Red matte lipstick that I had dressed up in for the wedding of another of us that I had suddenly left, I found J.'s sister waiting outside. She had started to pack a duffel bag for her sister - a handful of glasses thrown in without their cases, making me wince, phone and insurance card, freezer bags full of meds. She led us to J.'s room to look for clean clothes in a mess that reminded me of 8th grade -- clothes strewn everywhere, empty bottles peaking out from under the piles -- the scent of vomit and worse, the attempt to cover it up with perfume. ...
