“No.” Marie’s grip tightened. “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Alice jerked her arm free and that’s when Marie saw the marks. Needle tracks up and down the inside of her daughter’s left arm. Alice must’ve realized what her mother had seen because she ran to her room and slammed the door.
Marie didn’t give up. She followed Alice and tried to open the door, but Alice must’ve been sitting against it because it barely budged. “Move, Alice! Let me in!”
“No. I said leave me alone!” Alice’s voice was muffled.
“I know about the heroin.” Marie’s voice had grown louder. “I want to help you.”
“It’s my life.” Alice started crying. “I don’t want help.”
And so it went for five minutes until Marie had no choice but to wait it out. She returned to the kitchen and an hour passed. When it was long after dark, Marie tried again. This time when she pushed her way into her daughter’s room there was no resistance. Alice was passed out on her bed, still in her dirty clothes, her stringy hair strewn across her beautiful face.
Marie wasn’t sure if she should wake her daughter up and finish the discussion. For several minutes she stood there and watched her sleep. Just staring at her precious Alice. Baby girl, how did this happen? Why would you do heroin? She barely noticed the tears falling onto her face. Didn’t I give you what you needed? Wasn’t this life enough for you? In that moment a thought had occurred to Marie. Something else her mother had always told her. Without God, life would only be a series of meaningless efforts and irredeemable failures. You need Him, Marie. Alice needs Him. This life is empty otherwise.
Marie had always figured—then and now—that if God were real, she would’ve had a father. Alice would have one, too. She and Alice wouldn’t struggle to pay the bills and keep food on the table, the way her mother had also struggled. Every day of their lives.
If He loved them, where was He when Alice took her first hit of heroin?
Marie ran her finger over the next photo. Alice grinning from the second row at her middle school graduation. She was so beautiful, so full of light and love. Friends surrounded her in the photograph, the way they always had back then. Marie held the book a little higher so she could look deep into her daughter’s eyes. The eyes of a child with all of life ahead of her. I have no answers, Alice. Marie sighed and lowered the book again. None. Why would you throw your life away?
That night in her daughter’s room, despite Marie’s best efforts to stay quiet and motionless, Alice opened her eyes. Not like when she was a little girl. Sleepy and slow with a smile that gradually lit up the room. Back then she would hold out both arms and call for her. “Maman… hold me.”
No, that child was gone forever. Instead, that terrible night Alice’s eyes had flown open. Unnaturally wide and panicked. She breathed fast and hard. “Go away!” Her words were a shrill scream. “Go! Now!”
Marie had felt her anger rise. Forget being calm. If this were a fight for Alice’s life, Marie was going to start swinging. “You will not talk to me like that, young lady. Do you hear me?”
And Alice was on her feet. Her breaths came in jagged gasps and she raked her trembling fingers through her hair. Then she faced Marie and screamed again. “Get away from me!”
“Alice, you’re not yourself.” Marie was no longer crying. She was too terrified for tears. “You don’t want this… this life.”
“You don’t know what I want.” She tried to push past, but Marie stood her ground, blocking the doorway. Alice’s face grew red. “Move! You don’t own me!”
“If I have to get locks for your bedroom door, I’ll do it,” Marie had shouted. “I will not let you leave this house for a life on the streets. That isn’t who you are, Alice. Get back in bed.”
A switch had seemed to flip in Alice’s heart at that, and suddenly the fight left her. Slowly, like the sick child she was, she returned to her mattress and slipped beneath her blanket. She buried her head in her pillow and turned her back to Marie. Just one word came from her before she fell asleep again.
“Go.”
That was the last word Marie heard from Alice for a month. In the morning when Marie went back to her daughter’s room, the girl was gone. So were her bedsheets and pillow and most of her clothes.
And life had been like that ever since. For two years. Marie had no idea who Alice had been living with or what she was doing to survive. She didn’t want to think about it.