“And you,” she said. “He likes you, Charlie. He says you’re trustworthy. I hope he’s not just saying that because you came along at the right time to save his life. Because there’s these.”
The biggest bottle was filled with twenty milligram OxyContin pills. Melissa looked at me solemnly. “This is a bad drug, Charlie. Very addictive. It’s also extremely effective against the kind of pain your friend is now suffering and may continue suffering for eight months to a year. Perhaps longer, depending on his other issues.”
“What other issues?”
She shook her head. “Not for me to say. You just stick to the dosing schedule and turn a deaf ear to his demands for more. He can actually get more before our therapy sessions, and knowing that will become one of his primary motivations—maybe his biggest—to continue with the therapy even when it hurts. And it will hurt. You need to keep them where he can’t get at them. Can you think of a place?”
“Yes.” It was the safe I was thinking of. “It’ll work at least until he can climb the stairs.”
“So three weeks, if he sticks with his therapy. Maybe a month. Once he can go up, you’ll need to think of another one. And it isn’t just him you have to worry about. To the addicted, these pills are worth their weight in gold.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I’ll keep them safe, and I won’t let him talk me into more.”
She was looking at me closely. “What about you, Charlie? Because I have no business giving these to a minor; so far as the doctor who prescribed them knows, they’ll be administered by an adult caregiver. I could get in trouble. Would you be tempted to try one or two, and get a little bit high?”
I thought of my father, and what the booze had done to him, and how I had once believed we might be sleeping under highway bridges, all our possessions in a stolen shopping cart.
I took the big bottle of Oxy tablets and dropped it back into the bag with the rest of the medicines. Then I took her by the hand and looked into her eyes. “Not fucking likely,” I said.
8
There was a little more instruction, which I drew out because I was nervous to be alone with him—what if something happened and that stupid 1970s phone decided not to work?
Then you’ll call 911 on your twenty-first-century phone, I thought. Like you did when you found him on the back steps. But if he had a heart attack? What I knew about CPR I’d learned on TV shows, and if his motor stopped, there wouldn’t be time to check out a YouTube video on the subject. I saw more homework in my future.
I watched them drive away and went back inside. Mr. Bowditch was lying with one arm over his eyes. Radar sat attentively by the bed. Now it was just the three of us.
“You okay?” I asked.
He dropped his arm and turned his head to look at me. His expression was desolate. “I’m in a deep hole, Charlie. I don’t know if I can climb out.”
“You will,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt on that subject. “Want something to eat?”
“I want my pain pills.”
“I can’t—”
He raised a hand. “I know you can’t, and I won’t lower myself—or insult you—by begging for them. Ever. At least, I hope not.” He stroked Radar’s head again and again. She sat perfectly still, her tail moving slowly from side to side, her eyes never leaving him. “Give me the check and a pen.”
I did that, along with a hardcover book he could use for support. He printed FOR DEPOSIT ONLY, then scrawled his signature. “Will you bank that for me tomorrow?”
“Sure. First Citizens, right?”
“Right. Once it’s in the system, I can write a check to cover my hospital stay.” He handed me the check, which I put back in my wallet. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and stared at the ceiling. His hand never left Radar’s head. “I am so tired. And the pain never takes a vacation. Doesn’t even take a fucking coffee break.”
“Food?”
“Don’t want it, but they tell me I have to eat. Maybe some s-and-?s—sardines and Saltines.”
That sounded terrible to me, but I got them, along with a glass of ice water. He drank half of that greedily. Before starting on the sardines （headless and gleaming with grease—urk）， he asked me if I still meant to stay the night.
“Tonight and all week,” I said.
“Good. I never minded being alone before, but now it’s different. Do you know what falling off that ladder taught me? Or rather re-taught me?”