NORTH

  North

  ©2020 Danielle James.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  CHAPTER 1

  My stomach tightened as I stared at the glossy red clock anchored high on the exposed brick wall. The minute hand inched around the circle painstakingly slow no matter how much I willed it to speed up. I blinked the sense of urgency from my brain.

  “I’m sorry, sir, what would you like to drink?” A rehearsed smile pulled the corners of my mouth up. It was enough to mask the nagging heaviness in my gut. Customers didn’t care about the subtle nuances on my face anyway. Being a server was like wearing a mask. I could’ve been having a full-blown meltdown and customers would still place orders and hand me their closed menus.

  “I’ll have a Coke,” he said, offering his own polite smile. I nodded then scribbled his order down on a small spiral-bound pad of paper. Wobbly knees and legs carried me to an old touch screen kiosk from the early two-thousands where I punched in the customer’s order.

  Once the order was pushed to the cooks, I walked into the kitchen and plucked a breadstick from a basket under the warming lamp. My stomach thanked me by quieting the rowdy noises it had been making for the past hour.

  “You haven’t been eating, have you, North? You’re so damn skinny.” Sierra’s brown eyes slid up and down my gaunt frame while her arched browns pulled together, furrowing. I couldn’t hide anything from her. She’d been able to sniff out my lies since fourth grade.

  “I’m eating now,” I tipped my half-eaten breadstick at her and wink.

  “You’re shoving food in your face because you’re hungry.” She took a hot breadstick from a pan of freshly baked ones and placed it in the basket I stole one from.

  “The point is, I’m eating.” I shoved the rest of the soft, buttery bread in my mouth and relished the garlicky goodness as it hit my grateful stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I had something to eat.

  The fridge at home was empty and we were down to our last pack of chicken Ramen noodles. I had to scrape together at least five dollars to grab bread and lunch meat from the store on the way home and my tips were looking as malnourished as I felt. The steakhouse I worked at was an old hole in the wall with not many customers. The ones that did come through weren’t generous with tips. With a soft exhale, I tugged the ballpoint pin from behind my ear and clicked it a few dozen times.

  Sierra put her hand on mine and I stopped to admire the contrast of her golden skin against my pale complexion. It was fitting since she always added warmth to my ice. “You’re worrying,” she pointed out. “You know I was just fucking with you about eating. You need me to put together a bag of food for you?”

  A lopsided smile tipped my lips. I knew she’d do it too. She would talk to one of the main cooks and have them put something extra aside for me. She’s done it before but today I didn’t want handouts. I wouldn’t be able to handle one more act of charity. So I shook my head at Sierra’s well-intended question and waited for my order to finish.

  When the roasted chicken and glazed carrots came out for my last customer of the night I tried not to ogle the plump thigh and drumstick like a girl with no manners. I smiled, set the food down, and handed the table off to Sierra. I was done for the night and if I had to smell one more piece of food I couldn’t eat, I’d scream. The cheap owners of the steakhouse wouldn’t even let the employees have a free meal even though it should’ve been the least they did for us.

  I waved goodbye to my best friend and she smiled, giving me a look that told me she’d call me later. The second I was in the break room, I pulled off my apron and fell against the worn and lumpy couch. The springs squeaked when I bounced on them. I pulled out my cash tips and counted out six dollars. It would be enough to get a little food.

  I walked into the frigid night air and a chill rippled through my body forcing my coat tighter around me. I shoved my white-knuckled fists into my pocket and gritted my teeth against the January weather as I moved down the street toward the grocery store.

  I was grateful for the reprieve from Colorado’s frosty temperatures when I finally stepped inside the brightly lit store. I picked up bologna, mustard, bread, and cheese for sandwiches then made my way to the bakery. The smell of fresh bread made my stomach rumble under my coat.

  My eyes darted from price tag to price tag scowling every time. Everything was too expensive. It was ridiculous.

  The sinking feeling from earlier was back. I thought I’d successfully stuffed it down and out of the way. I hated the sticky way it intruded on my thoughts refusing to be wiped off on the bottom of my shoe.

  I stepped away from the cakes and cupcakes at the bakery and turned my head. The bright yellow from a clearance sign caught my eye. I wandered over to it and plucked a pack of four vanilla cupcakes from the shelf. They were only two dollars. Excitement splashed water on the uneasy quiver in my gut.

  Those cupcakes were mine.

  I took my things to self-checkout and scanned every item before nibbling on my already chewed nails. My stomach flopped while I waited for the total.

  Five dollars and ninety-three cents.

  A microscopic bead of sweat rolled down my back as I counted out six crumpled bills to feed the money slot. Once the money was gone, I rubbed my palms on my thighs and grabbed my bags before snagging the loose change under the blinking arrow.

  Outside, a blustery wind knocked me to the left but not enough to make me lose my footing. I made my way to Delta Peak Apartments keeping my head below the air’s whipping tentacles.

  My lips were dry and my fingertips were numb as I fumbled trying to get my key in the lock. Inside, the temperature wasn’t much warmer. The heat wasn’t working in our building and it wouldn’t be fixed until tomorrow. I closed the heavy door with my slender hips and called out to my mother.

  I scanned the living room and frowned at the soot streaked glass pipe on the glass coffee table. Beside it were small crumpled balls of aluminum foil and a slender hypodermic needle. I shut my eyes and pushed out a slow breath. I stepped over the trail of Mom’s discarded clothes and moved over to the kitchen to sit the grocery bags down.

  My shoulders shook as they rose and fell. I knew she was on the couch. I didn’t have to search for her. This was my routine. This was my welcome home from work. I did this every day.

  So why were my hands shaking?

  I wet my dry lips with my tongue then took slow steady steps toward the living room. Even in the dark, I could make out Mom’s rail-thin frame on the couch. She was slumped over the arm wearing her bra and panties. Her ribs and hipbones protruded from beneath blue-ish pale skin speckled with scabs and scars. Some were fresh and crimson, still weeping with fluid while others were yellow and crusty.

  Her bony arm hung over the side of the couch, limp and riddled with track marks. Her twisted veins bulged against the bend of her arm. My top lip curled as I stood over her peering down.

  My stomach bubbled over with something sour and thick. Pity mixed with resentment. I flared my nostrils against the chemical smell wafting from the concoction on the coffee table. “Mom, wake up.” I reached out and shook her shoulder. Her flesh was cold to the touch. A gasp stumbled out of my mouth as shock made itself at
home in deep in my chest.

  “Mom,” my voice raised an octave. I shook her again and her other arm flopped out. I knelt in front of her and stroked her greasy pixie-cut hair. I pried open her half-closed eyes and saw nothing. No life. No spark of consciousness.

  I slapped the side of her face a few times, trying to jolt her awake but something dense and hot in the core of me knew better. I pressed my fingers to her neck just below her ear and waited to feel the faint thump of her pulse as I’d done countless times in the past.

  It wasn’t like my mother hadn’t OD’ed before. I could usually feel her pulse even when it was faint. I couldn’t feel anything beating under her skin right then.

  I yanked my hand away from her and curled my fingers against my palms to stop the trembling. I tripped over a stray sock on my way to the kitchen to get my phone. There was only one person in my mind that I could call. He knew how to deal with Mom’s overdoses as well as I did.

  I called my father.

  “D-Dad,” my voice quivered no matter how much I tried to steady it.

  “North, what’s wrong?” I leaned over Mom again, willing her heart to beat. Tendrils of scarlet strands fell from my messy bun and in my face.

  “It’s Mom. She OD’ed again.” The anger in my bones vibrated and my teeth clenched against the waves of emotion. I went to the kitchen and leaned against the fridge.

  “Fuck. Is she breathing?”

  “No,” I nearly whispered as I glanced at her frail and lifeless body. “No pulse. She’s limp.” A knot thickened in my throat. It was hot and coated in loathing.

  “Call an ambulance, North. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The call ended and I clutched the phone in my hand as I let my head thud against the fridge. I cast a narrowed gaze to Mom’s body on the couch and barked out a humorless laugh.

  Tears pricked my eyes but I refused to let them fall. I walked to the counter and took out the pack of cupcakes. I opened them and set one on the counter. The chemical smell hanging in the air mixed with the sugary sweet buttercream frosting, made my stomach twist.

  I peeled away the paper wrapper and sank my teeth into the cupcake.

  “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

  …

  CHAPTER 2

  “Are you sure she’s dead?” Elijah said quietly into the phone. I was already on the road and he was back at Fitzgerald’s Fine Art taking over the newest display since I had to leave suddenly.

  “I heard the fear in North’s voice.” I left out that I could hear the loathing too. The not-again-Mom that swirled itself in and out of her words like a stroke of muddled brown paint. I knew what that sounded like and there was no way to describe its melancholy cadence. “She’s dealt with Izzy’s overdoses most of her life. She knows what a bad OD is. This time it sounded different.” I didn’t have time to tell Elijah what happened back at the gallery before I darted out of there and hopped in my truck.

  North didn’t call me unless she had to. I tried everything in my power to change that but nothing worked. She called when the OD’s got too bad or when there was no more money to make rent. She called when things were outside her control.

  Like tonight.

  “Alright, Man, if you need me, call me. Keep me updated.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  My chest tightened at the thought of Izzy finally succumbing to the addiction that plagued her for decades. I couldn’t identify the feeling constricting my ribs and stunting my lungs. It prickled the back of my neck and painted a sheen of sweat across my forehead.

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and drove through the snowy Telluride streets. My mind wanted to veer down the memory littered path of finding my twin sister, Kristina, sprawled out with a needle in her arm. I couldn’t fight off the images of her body cold and dead. Her hair was matted and sticky with only God knows what and the light that once occupied her green and gold eyes was snuffed out.

  A gut-punch forced my eyes closed at a stop sign. Had Izzy really chosen one last high over North?

  When had it gotten so bad? As if meth addiction is ever good. I guess some days are better than others though. Some people’s horrible is a walk in the park for a meth addict’s family.

  For two hours, I wrestled with my mind and tried not to turn Izzy into Kristina. Maybe my ex-wife wasn’t dead. Maybe this was her rock bottom. Maybe she could crawl up from the depth of hell and be normal again. We’d been over for a little more than a year and I refused to let her back into my life but she could get her shit together for North. Our daughter deserved that at least.

  North.

  I pictured her eyes in my mind. Denim blue with slashes of gray. A pent up breath rushed from my mouth. I’d have to see North again. I hadn’t seen her since I left Izzy. I’d talked to her on the phone and she’d text me if she had to but after her sixteenth birthday, contact between us had been dry and absent.

  I pulled into Delta Memorial Hospital and found a parking spot near the emergency room. I started to call North while I walked across the parking lot but she was already there. Standing in the bitter cold, staring off toward the mountains.

  A flash of red hair fluttered behind her like a flag alerting me to her location. My steps slowed as I got closer. Words and thoughts crumbled and fell to dust in my mind once I was in front of her. She jerked her denim blue-gray eyes to mine and her lips parted enough for her to suck in a shaky breath.

  “Hey, Shortcake.” I hoped the childhood nickname would lift her full pink lips in a little smile.

  Nothing.

  I used to call her that when we lived under the same roof. She reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake with her red curls and round freckled face. There was nothing left of the Shortcake I knew as a snaggle-toothed girl though.

  Now North was grown up. There was no fullness to her face. Her cheekbones were prominent slashes leading me to her slender straight nose then her pink lips.

  “She’s dead,” North said, looking up at me with dry eyes and a voice that matched. I rooted around in her words for some kind of emotion but there was nothing that even resembled emotion lurking in her voice. “I can’t go home because I’m a minor.” She rolled her eyes and stared at the starry black sky.

  “Why are you outside then?” My brows crashed together.

  “I told the security guard I had to use the bathroom and she let me go alone. I was getting ready to walk off but…” She tossed her hand out in a vague gesture toward me.

  “Good thing I’m here then. Come on, let’s go.” Emotion stirred in my chest the moment North turned to walk into the hospital.

  Izzy was gone.

  “Are you okay, North?” I asked on the way to the information desk. She folded her arms across her mid-section and refused to meet my eye. The silence between us amplified the sound of my boots on the shiny floor.

  Since my daughter wasn’t going to communicate with me, I turned to the nurse behind the desk. “I’m here about Isabelle Fitzgerald.” Her name clogged my throat and felt heavy on my tongue. Was the woman I’d spent more than ten years with gone just like that? It reminded me of how fragile life was.

  The nurse’s dark brown eyes softened at the mention of Izzy’s name. She nodded then stood to her feet so she could whisper to another nurse who finally directed North and me to a security guard. She was a tall broad woman with an expressionless face.

  “You were supposed to be in the bathroom,” she grumbled down at North.

  “My dad told me he was outside so I went to meet him.”

  When did lies start rolling so easily off her damn tongue? I didn’t poke holes in her story because there were more pressing things to deal with. The security guard stared at North for a few beats before moving along.

  The smell of cleaning products was sharp in the air once we turned the corner into triage. The guard took us to an office tucked away down a quiet hall and escorted us in. “I’ll be right back with the caseworker and the doctor.” Once she closed the door, leaving m
e alone with North, I let my shoulders drop.

  “I don’t know why I can’t go back home. I’m seventeen. I can take care of myself.” Heat rose to the surface of her cheeks.

  “You’re legally a minor and you know it, North. Happy birthday by the way.” I scratched the back of my head then pushed my fingers through my hair.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she scoffed. A flash of vulnerability streaked through her eyes for just a moment. I wanted to grab it like a thread and unravel all the things she wasn’t telling me.

  “I know this is hard. It’s okay for you to cry over losing your mother, North.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Besides, it’s just like her to die on my birthday. Everything always had to be about her. Her sickness, her drugs, her addiction.” North cleared her throat and sat down in the seat across from the bare desk. “I don’t see you crying. She used to be your wife.”

  “I made my peace with Izzy when we got divorced.” I sat in the chair beside North’s and stole glimpses of her face, mapping out all the ways she’d changed in the past year.

  Her crimson hair was longer, brushing the small of her back and it was no longer curly. I saw at the ends where strands of rebellion started to bend into loose curls. It was a look most girls would pay someone in the salon for. North wore it effortlessly.

  The innocence that used to live behind her eyes was gone. That was definitely different. It hurt knowing she wasn’t the same girl she used to be but it was inevitable when living with an addict.

  Briefly, images of North’s sixteenth birthday rushed through my mind leaving pangs of regret and shame. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. I wasn’t prepared to be face to face with North. Not yet. I no longer had a choice though.

  “So what happens now?” North asked me quietly. “I have to live with you in Telluride until I turn eighteen?”

  “Yeah, that’s what happens. You already knew that though. I’m guessing that’s why you were trying to make a run for it?” She didn’t respond with words, she offered me a shoulder shrug instead.