Far From You

4

NINE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO (SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

“You’re a fucking sadist,” I snarl at Macy.

It’s been three days since my parents shipped me off to Oregon so Macy can “straighten me out,” as my dad put it. Three days since I’ve had any pills. The withdrawal is bad enough—like my body is one giant, throbbing bruise and spiders crawl underneath my sweaty skin—but the pain, undulled and persistent, is too much to take. With the pills, I can move without it hurting too much. Without them, my back is killing me and my leg’s always giving out. Every movement, even turning over in bed, sends sharp flares down my spine that leave me breathless, pain-tears tracking down my face. The pain, full-force for the first time since the accident, combined with the withdrawal is excruciating. I stop getting out of bed. It hurts too much.

It’s all Macy’s fault. If she’d just give me my damn pills, I’d be fine. I’d be able to move. I wouldn’t hurt. I’d be okay again.

I just want to be okay again. And Macy won’t let me.

I spend a lot of time staring at the cheerful yellow walls of her guest room, with its lace curtains and vintage travel posters. They make me want to puke. I hate everything about Macy’s house. I want to go home.

I want my pills. The thought of them consumes me, drives everything out of my head, makes me focus with a singularity I’ve had for only one other thing in my life. Mina would hate me for comparing her to this, but I don’t care, because I kind of hate her right now, too.

“I’m helping you.” Macy barely looks up from her magazine. She’s sitting in a turquoise armchair across the room, her legs kicked up on the matching stool.

“I’m…in…pain!”

“I know you are.” She flips a page. “Which is why you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Best pain management doctor in Portland. We’ll find non-narcotic options for you. And Pete’s got an acupuncturist friend who’s going to come to the house to treat you.”

The idea twists in my gut. “You want to stick needles in me? Are you crazy?”

“Acupuncture can be therapeutic.”

“There is no way I’m doing that,” I say firmly. “Can’t I go home, please? This is so stupid. The doctors were the ones who gave me the pills in the first place. I have prescriptions. Do you really think you know better than them?”

“Probably not,” Macy admits. “I didn’t even graduate college. But I’m in charge of you now, which means I get to do what I think is best. You’re a drug addict. You screwed up. Now you get clean.”

“I told you, I don’t have a drug problem. I’m in pain. That’s what happens when you get crushed by an SUV and your bones are held together by metal and screws.”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Macy waves it off and sets her magazine down. “I’ve heard it all before. Some people can handle pain meds, some can’t. Considering the pharmacy your dad found in your bedroom, I’m going to say you’re just a few bad days away from an OD. You think I’d let you do that? Put your mother and me through that? I don’t think so. Not again.

“When you run out of bullshit excuses and admit you’ve got a problem, then we can talk. The sooner you admit it, babe, the sooner we’ll get to the root of this. You might as well start talking—you’re not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re not a danger to yourself.”

“I’m fine.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead, swallowing against the constant nausea that’s taken over since yesterday. God, withdrawal sucks.

Macy gets up and shoves a trash can in my hand. “If you’re going to throw up, use this.”

Her face softens, a ripple in that bad-cop facade she wears so well. She reaches over, grasping my free hand in hers, and holds on tight enough that I can’t tug away. “I won’t give up on you, Sophie. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, I’m here. I won’t lose you. Not to this. I will get you clean. Even if you end up hating me for it.”

“Great,” I say bitterly. “Lucky me.”