"In here. Hurry. Oh God, Dad!"
"Oh sweet Jesus." He was down beside her in an instant.
"I found him-he was alive. Then he stopped breathing." The muscles in
her arms screamed as she continued to pump. "The ambulance. Did she
call the ambulance?"
"She called Pete. Got us on his car phone."
"Goddamnit. I told her to call an ambulance. He needs an ambulance."
Her head flashed up, her eyes met Pete's. "Damn you, can't you see he's
going to die if he doesn't get help? Call."
He nodded. He had no intention of calling an ambulance. A public
ambulance. But instead, walked quickly to phone a discreet and very
private clinic.
"Stop, Emma. Stop, he's breathing."
"can't-11
Brian took her arms, felt the muscles tremble. "You've done it, baby.
He's breathing."
Dazed, she stared down at the shallow but steady rise and fall of
Stevie's chest.
SomETimEs HE SCREAMED. Sometimes he cried. While Stevie's body
detoxed, new pains snuck in. Little imps of torment, pulsing in the
abscesses along his arms, in the tender flesh he'd abused-between his
toes, in his groin. They capered along his skin, first hot, then cold.
He could see them, sometimes he could actually see them, with their tiny
red eyes and hungry mouths, tap-dancing over his body before they
plunged their teeth into him.
Hysteria would follow, with a manic strength that forced the staff to
restrain him to the bed. Then he would become quiet, descend into an
almost trancelike state where he would stare for hours on end at a
single spot on the wall.
When he lapsed into those long silences, he would remember drifting,
peacefully, painlessly. Then Emma's voice, angry, hurt, frightened,
demanding that he come back. And he had. Then there had been pain
again, and no peace at all.
He begged whoever was in the room with him to let him go, to score
for him. He promised outrageous amounts of money then swore viciously
when his demands went unanswered. He didn't want to come back to the
world of the living. When he refused to eat, they fed him through a
tube.
They used an antihypertensive medication to trick his brain into
believing he wasn't going cold turkey. With that they mixed naltrexone,
a nonaddicting opiate antagonist to make his body believe he wasn't
getting high. Stevie craved the seductive hazy escape of heroin and the
quick buzz of cocaine.
He was rarely alone, but detested and feared even a ten-minute span of
solitude. In those moments, it would be only him and the machines that
hummed and grumbled in response to his vital signs.
After two weeks he quieted. But he also became sly. He would wait them
out-the tight-lipped bastards that had put him here. He would eat his
fruit and vegetables, he would smile and answer all their questions. He
would lie to the pretty, cool-eyed psychiatrist. Then he would get out.