“I promise, baby. I promise. No more of any of that. I’m so sorry. It was the fucking drugs. I hate the drugs. I just want a new life with you.”
“Yes.”
“Huh? What?”
“Yes. I’ll come back. But just until your job is over. Then we have to leave. I don’t want to be there anymore, John. I can’t.” I stifle a cry. “Is Sharon coming?”
“Yeah? Okay, when? Baby, you won’t be sorry. We’ll start over, I promise, and leave all this shit behind.”
“And Sharon?”
“Yes, baby. I’ll ask her. I’ll tell her you’re coming back and that we can get out of here. This is gonna be it, baby. Finally, finally, we can get out of all this shit!”
I have softened. I miss him—the good times and the love we once shared. I miss Sharon and Thor. Grasping onto hope, I book a flight and quit my job. No one in my family is surprised, but not everyone is happy about it. When my mother has spoken to John, he’s been polite and sweet. Doing what he does best, he’s charmed her. Terry wants to believe the drugs are gone as well. After all, he was so nice before; cocaine has to be to blame. My brother, Wayne, says nothing and slips wordlessly into the background. Looking sad and dejected, he acts like he did when we parted in Carol City, except this time he doesn’t say good-bye.
But I am still crippled; I am still not whole. In my head I hear that fearful voice that says, He’s all I know, and I say yes. Again, for the sake of love, I say yes to him.
My plane touches down at Burbank Airport in the last week of June in 1981. I replay the parting words of my mother as she sees me off at the airport. “Arr you sure you vahnt to do dis, Dawn?”
“He promised, Mom. I believe him.”
“Vell, eff you need something, call me.” She sighs heavily. “I luff you, Dawn.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She is still helpless. A blue-collar worker all her life, she has limited resources. She’s watched her young daughter leave, get caught up with a porn star and his wife, and run for her life from that same man old enough to be her father. Every step of the way, Mom has been powerless, except to pray. She has prayer, and like Grandma and Aunt Ella in the days in New Jersey so many years ago, she always prays for her children.
John is waiting at the baggage claim. I spot him right away, and my heart pounds. Shyly happy to see him, I walk a bit faster. He is standing with his hands in his pockets, looking fidgety and nervous. As I get closer, I notice how tired and gaunt he is. I keep my pace, getting closer, willing my heart to stay in my chest, and then my smile fades. John sees my reaction and turns his head away.
“Hey, baby!” He bends down to lift me up to him. “Mmmmmm. I missed you so much! Let’s get out of here.” He gives me a big squeeze and kisses me on my lips… but he is unfocused. The conveyor belt rotates, the first of the passengers’ bags roll out, and John stands watching. He circles one arm around me, holding me close.
“That’s mine,” I tell him, pointing to the green duffel bag.
John makes a quick, paranoid sweep of the area and picks up my bag and another unfamiliar suitcase next to it. “Come on.” He pulls me toward the exit.
“John, that’s…”
“Shhh. Let’s go.”
My heart sinks as I let him lead me out to the waiting Malibu. My God! He lied! He’s high!
The Malibu is waiting, more faded and dirty than I remember. He quickly flings the two bags into the trunk and revs it up. Thor is in the front seat, happily jumping like a Mexican bean in my lap.
Then when John gets in, he instantly crouches low, shying away from him. I hold his frail and shaking figure close to my heart, letting him know I will protect him, and I decide to stay quiet.
Sensing I know he’s high, John acts nervous. He reaches over to hold my hand, his palm sweaty and rough. “I love you,” he says; his speech is awkward and broken like the sound of flipping through radio stations.
“I love you too.” My words are like cardboard and taste stiff in my mouth; my stomach does flip-flops inside of me. Oh, please don’t let this all be bullshit. Please, I pray to whoever will listen and painfully think about the safe and warm home I have just given up… for this!
Checking into a run-down motel on Hollywood Boulevard, John pays for a couple of nights. Saddened and shocked, I watch him begin his old rituaclass="underline" locking the door, putting the desk chair in front of it, looking out the windows, and checking the bathroom. I know the pipe is next as he sits on the edge of the bed and pops open his briefcase.
What do I say? I ask myself, feeling guarded and at a loss for words. He lied to me! I want to cry, but my body won’t connect the thought with the action.
“Are you okay, baby?” John peeks over at me warily. He knows what I am thinking.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrug, teetering on the edge of fear.
He brings out the pipe and taps out the last of the crumbs from the bottom of the film canister. Melting the drugs down, he hesitates for a moment and then sucks in the thick smoke. Closing his eyes, he holds his breath.
At a moment when he can’t get angry, I speak up. “John, I haven’t done anything since I’ve been gone… just alcohol.”
His eyes open; he chokes a little and nods. The acrid smoke blows in my face, and John falls back on the pillows for a few moments, letting the freebase pump through his body. “I know, baby,” he finally answers. “It’s just a little. To celebrate your coming back.” He pulls himself up, lights the 151-soaked cotton ball, and cooks the pipe once again. Leaning into me, he holds the stem to my mouth and, with his paralyzing blue stare, looks deep into my eyes, freezing me to the spot. “Here, baby. Welcome home.” He flares his nostrils and smiles. “Here—suck!”
I curse myself for being here. I dread falling back into the nightmare I thought I had escaped but swallow and do as he asks, refusing to believe that coming back was a mistake. My mind’s in turmoil. The conflict sears my soul, and I can’t think too much. This doesn’t mean our plans are over. We’re still getting out of here, I tell myself, denying his lies. Then the drugs take over, and I fall into his seductive embrace again, into his mouth again, as we passionately and euphorically taste each other one more time.
The late afternoon summer sun burns streaks through the holes of the shabby drapes. John and I slowly stretch out of bed, laughing at Thor’s playful bathroom dance.
“Just a minute, just a minute.” John smiles, pulling on his pants. “Let’s go get something to eat, huh, Thor? Kentucky Fried Chicken okay with you, baby?”
“Sure. I’m starved.”
John counts out a small amount of cash, grabs Thor, and leans in for a sensual kiss. “Come lock the door, baby. I’ll be right back.”
The second-story room we rented is particularly tiny, damaged, and filthy. Watching John descend the stairs, I notice the garbage, bums, and loiterers crowding the street below… even in broad daylight. Wow. This place is in the thick of things, I think. I know what kind of street this is; a lump grows in my throat that threatens to cut off my air supply, and I get panicky. Calm down, Dawn. It’s gonna be all right. We’ll be out of here soon. Quickly I lock and chain the door, not wanting anyone to see me, and I count the minutes till John’s return.
Evening falls. The clock ticks nearer to midnight. John and I are lounging around watching television and cuddling. Something distracts him, some kind of internal clock, and he gets up to look out the window. Sensing the time is right, he slowly and ritually dresses and packs his briefcase. In the bathroom he fills the sink with cold water and dunks his head. Shaking his wet curls like a dog after a bath, he sprays wet drops across the walls and tiles. His reflection in the mirror freezes him for several long moments. “Hmm,” he grunts. He checks his pockets once, twice, three times… stops, looks at me, and draws in a deep breath. “This is it, baby. I love you!”