Swithin called Amy six times over the next four days.  Each time the phone rang until he was shunted to voicemail, and each time he left a message.  On the fifth day, Wednesday afternoon, she picked up.

“Hi…”

”Finally,” Swithin said in a huff.  “I was starting to get worried.” There was silence on Amy’s end of the phone. “Amy?”

“I’m still here.”

“Is everything okay?”

Amy sighed.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Swithin paused.  “Seriously Amy…  What’s going on?”

Amy took a breath. “I’m moving back home.”

“When?”

“Today…”

“You’re kidding me?”

“We’re leaving in an hour.”

“We?” Swithin questioned suspiciously.

“Sam and I,” Amy clarified.

“She’s moving too?”

“No…  She’s just driving me and my shit back home.”

“In her car?”

Amy chuckled.  “In a rental truck.”

“Why can’t you drive?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Amy replied sarcastically.  “I could have a seizure, crash and die.”

“Of course,” Swithin replied sheepishly.

There was a rustling on Amy’s side of the phone.  “Hold on a minute,” she said.

Swithin heard Amy talking to someone at a distance.  He could barely make out the voice of the other, but could still hear Amy’s voice clearly. 

“It’s Saint Swithin,” Swithin heard Amy say.

There was a pause.

“I want to see him,” Amy continued.

There was another pause, followed by Amy’s return to the phone.  “Could you meet me outside my apartment in a half hour?”

“Sure,” Swithin replied without hesitation.

“Good, I’ll see you then.” Amy hung up.

Thirty minutes later, Swithin walked up to Amy’s apartment and saw a large U-Haul truck parked outside.  The back end door was rolled up and furniture and boxes were stacked neatly inside.  Amy was sitting on the edge of the truck’s lift gate.  Without saying a word, she dropped off the gate and onto the street below. She walked up to Swithin and reached out for a hug.  Swithin took hold of her and the two embraced.  Amy started to cry.

“It’s okay, baby,” Swithin said as he softly shushed Amy.  “It’s okay…”

Nearly two minutes later, Amy stopped crying and the two let go of one another. 

“Sorry about that,” Amy said as she wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands.

“Babe,” Swithin replied tenderly.  “You’ve been through a lot.  You don’t have to be sorry.”

“I just feel so stupid,” Amy said fighting back more tears.

Swithin looked Amy in the eyes.  “Why do you feel stupid?”

Amy sniffled. “Because I’m an addict.”

Swithin glanced away uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry… But I am,” Amy persisted.

Swithin took a breath.  “Lets walk…  Can you go for a walk?”

“A short one,” Amy replied.  “Sam and I are leaving in a half hour.”

“We’ll make it short,” Swithin said in a soft voice as he started walking and gestured for Amy to follow.  “Come on.”

As Swithin and Amy walked side-by-side down the street, Amy started to calm. 

After five minutes passed in silence, Swithin turned to Amy with a smile. “Walks are nice,” he said.

Amy smiled back.  “Yeah, they are.”

Swithin took a breath.  “I want you to know I support your decision to leave.  I’m not 100% happy about it, on account I’m gonna miss you.  But I understand what your doing and why.”

“Thanks.”

Swithin looked away for a moment as if in thought.  “I have to ask though…  Is there any reason why you can’t stay in San Francisco and just stop?”

“What do you mean, just stop?” Amy questioned

“Stop doing drugs…”

Amy huffed.  “Spoken like a man who doesn’t do drugs.”

Swithin sighed.

“When you’re in as deep as I am,” Amy continued, “it’s not so easy to just stop.  I’ve tried before.  I’m getting help this time.  Help I can’t get here.”

“I could help you,” Swithin commented earnestly.

Amy smiled and shook her head.

“What?” Swithin asked as he smiled uneasily.

“Nothing,” Amy replied, and then hesitated for a moment.  “How do you handle knives?”

Swithin was noticeably startled by her question.  “I don’t know,” he replied in a slightly bewildered tone.  “Carefully I suppose—so I won’t cut myself.  Why?”

“A friend of mine once told me, the way a person handles knives is a good indication of how they’ll handle drugs.”   

Swithin said nothing.

"When I was a kid I was fascinated with knives.  So I'd play with 'em.  And when I played with 'em long enough, I'd get cut.  My mom use to say, 'If you don't want to get cut, don't fuck with knives!'”

“Makes sense,” Swithin commented.

“But I couldn't help myself,” Amy continued.  “They were everywhere, and so I thought about them everywhere I went.” Amy paused.  “Drugs are the knives I like to play with.”

“So you’re leaving to get away from the knives?”

“And the people who like to throw them.  Yes.”   

“Do you think the distance‘ll help?”

“It can’t hurt…  Besides, failure isn’t an option for me anymore.  I’ve fucked myself up enough as it is.  I need to make a change.  And distance is the first step.”

“What’s the second step?”

“A substance abuse program.”

“When does that start?”

“At the end of the month.”

“Outpatient or residential?”

“Residential.”

“Which one?”

Amy looked away.  “I can’t say…”

“Why not?”

Amy looked back at Swithin.  “Because I don’t want to.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Swithin insisted.

Amy pursed her lips.

Swithin stopped walking and drew back.  “So this is it?  This is goodbye?”

Amy stopped, turned around and faced Swithin.  “For now, yes.”

Swithin took a breath.  “Is there a chance, after you’re done with treatment, we can pick up where we left off?”

Amy dropped her head back and rolled her eyes.  “The last thing I want to do is pick up where we left off.”

“I didn’t mean like that,” Swithin said in a fluster.  “I meant start over.” 

Amy’s face turned sad.  “You don’t get it, do you?”

Swithin cleared his throat.  “I guess not.”

“I’m sick of pretending everything’s okay, when it isn’t!  I’m sick of spending every hour of my life jonesing for my next high, and I’m sick of being used!”  Amy took a breath and then continued in a quivering voice.  “I’m scared Saint Swithin...”

“Scared of what?”

“Dying!”

Swithin wiped a hand over his face.

Amy reached into her left front pant pocket, pulled out a small laminated card and handed it to Swithin.

“What’s this?”

Amy took a breath and gathered herself. “It’s your ticket to Appreciation.”

Swithin looked down at the card.  On it was a picture of a colorful mandala.  Across the mandala were the bold stylized words:

Appreciation

A Burning Man Fundraiser

(Admit One)

Swithin looked up at Amy.  “What do you want me to do with this?”

“It’s your ticket.  I was gonna gift it to you after dinner, but…” Amy trailed off.  “Use it, don’t use it, I don’t care.”  Amy pushed past Swithin and started walking back down the street toward her apartment.

Swithin called out.  “I’m sorry!”

Amy stopped walking, turned around and faced Swithin.  “What are you sorry about?”

“For not caring more.”

Amy reached up and wiped a tear off her cheek.

“If I’d of cared more,” Swithin continued. “I would have done more.  I would have stepped in, or tried to slow you down.  But I didn’t…  So I’m sorry.”

Amy smiled uncomfortably, looked down and shook her head.  “You’re funny.”

Swithin squinted his eyes.  “Why am I funny?”

Amy looked up, her nostrils flared and anger flooded into her eyes.  “You deal drugs Saint Swithin!  And people—people like me—use them!”

Swithin scanned the area around him, reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.

“So if you want to care more or do more!”  Amy continued.  “Grow up, stop dealing and leave the scene!” She turned back around and resumed her walk down the street.   

Swithin stood his ground and watched on as Amy walked away.  Then, he slid his ticket into his back pant pocket, turned around and walked off in the opposite direction.

Chapter 31 - The Collective Fundraiser >>