Two Questions
As soon as we boarded the Metro North train to return to Hastings-on-Hudson, Carrick slouched in the seat and shut her eyes. I told her she had to answer two questions before I'd let her sleep.
“I want honest answers because we can't help you to help yourself otherwise,” I said. “How long have you been using heroin? And are you shooting it as well as snorting?”
“I've never touched that shit,” she said. “Whoever told you otherwise doesn't know what the fuck they're talking about.”
I knew she was lying, but what could we do except wait for the results of a drug test? And then what? We'd have her tested for the HIV virus, too, for sure. And hepatitis. But what beyond that? Should we force her to go to another rehab? Using what reward as bait? What punishment as a threat?
I felt I'd accomplished nothing. On the surface, I had dragged my daughter out of the belly of the beast. But deep down I knew it was illusory. When I saw her lying between two scuzzy junkies in that crumbling band shell, I knew how low she was prepared to sink to in order to use drugs. Like a pipe to the head, it struck me that Deirdre and I had little, if any, control over our 17-year-old daughter's fate.
Next: Runaway