Saving Quinton
Page 24
“I…” I have no idea how to respond to that. Even though I offered to help him with his debt, I don’t have a lot of money. And when it comes to getting him out of that hellhole, I can’t even handle Quinton, let alone someone else.
“I didn’t think so,” Tristan says coldly, facing the window and dismissing me as he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to his bleeding nose and tries to wipe away the blood still dripping out.
Shaking my head, I reach into the glove box and take out a napkin. “Here,” I say, giving him the napkin.
“Thanks,” he mutters and then presses the napkin to his nose.
I back out of the parking spot and head toward his house. I try to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem too interested, staring out the window the entire time as he drums his fingers on his knee to the beats of the songs. By the time I park the car, I expect him to get out without saying anything like Quinton did the last time I dropped him off.
But as he grabs the handle to get out, he pauses and then pulls away. “You got your phone on you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He turns his head toward me with a reluctant look on his face, sets the napkin down on his lap, and extends his arm toward me. “Let me see it.”
I retrieve it from my pocket and give it to him, watching as he punches a few buttons on the touch screen before giving it back to me. “His name’s Scott Carter and he lives in Seattle.” He reaches for the door handle again. “I’m not sure if that’s still his number, since the last time I talked to anyone from the house was over a year ago when Quinton used to live there, but that’s your best shot.”
“Thank you, Tristan,” I say as he cracks the door, stunned he actually gave me the information. “And if you ever need anything—help getting yourself out of trouble—please, please ask me.” I want to say more, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do.
“Whatever. I’m only giving the number to you because you asked. Not because I want your help with anything,” he replies, pushing the door open all the way and ducking his head to climb out. “And I don’t think it’s going to help Quinton at all. Trust me when I say that he’s only going to quit doing what he does when he wants to quit. I know because that’s how I roll and it’s hard to quit something that makes you feel so f**king good.” He says it so causally and before I can respond he’s shutting the door and walking away toward his crappy apartment, moving slowly because he’s in pain.
I stare at the phone in my hand, Tristan’s words replaying in my head, wondering if he’s right. If maybe it won’t do any good. If I’m trying to search for a solution to a problem that can’t be fixed, one that’s so much bigger than me, something that I saw today in the parking garage.
Still I at least have to try. Because the last time I didn’t try, someone wound up dead.
* * *
When I arrive back at Lea’s uncle’s house, it’s midafternoon and I’m exhausted, more than I have been in a long time. But I try to stay positive and hopeful as I tell Lea my plan and ask her for her help in calling Quinton’s dad.
“I don’t know what to say to him,” she states as I sink down on the sofa beside her, exhausted. She collects the remote from the armrest and aims it at the television, muting it. She turns to me on the sofa, bringing her leg up on the cushion. “Parents are, well, parents, you know. And I don’t think he’s going to respond well to a friend of Quinton’s calling him and telling him his son’s a junkie.”
I wince at the word junkie. “Well, do you have a better idea?” I ask.
She considers it for a minute or two. “Call your mom.”
“What?”
“Call your mom and ask her to call his dad.”
I slump back in the sofa, wondering if that’s a good idea or not. “You really think that’s the best way?”
She kicks her bare feet up on the table. “You remember how before we could help with that suicide hotline we had to go through that screening process and training?” she asks and I nod. “Well, you haven’t gone through the training process of being a parent yet,” she jokes.
I snort a laugh. “That’s kind of a good thing.” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger, thinking. “But I get your point.”
She offers me a small smile and pats my leg. “Call your mom and ask her.”
I sigh and retrieve my phone from my pocket, dialing my mom’s number. I start out with a light conversation, telling her in vague detail how my last couple of days have been. Then I dodge around to telling her my idea about getting ahold of Quinton’s dad and asking him for help.
“And you think I should be the one to call him?” she asks in a hesitant tone.
“Yeah…I mean, you are a mom and get things that I don’t,” I tell her, thinking about the parents I saw at the clinic. “I’m sure you understand this on a level I can’t even begin to understand, especially considering the hell I put you through.”
I swear it sounds like she’s crying. What I don’t get is why. I didn’t say anything overpowering or anything. Just the truth.
“You’re acting so grown-up right now,” she says, and I can definitely hear her sucking back the tears. “Give me the number and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say and then tell her the name and number, making sure she understands that I’m not 100 percent sure it’s still Mr. Carter’s number. She says she’ll try it and call me back in just a bit. Then I hang up and Lea and I head into the kitchen to get a snack.
“So how do you think it’s going to go?” I ask Lea as I open the fridge door. “Do you think his dad is going to freak out?”
She shrugs as she searches the cupboards. “I’m not sure.”
“Yeah, me either,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water before closing the fridge and turning around. “Although I’m sort of worried he’ll go through denial—my mom did for a while.”
She takes out a box of crackers, shuts the cupboard, and hops up on the counter, letting her legs hang over the edge. “What I’m wondering is how Quinton will react if his dad suddenly gets ahold of him. I mean, I honestly don’t think he’s just going to give up everything because of that.”
“Yeah, me neither…but I have to try.” I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing Quinton: the weight he’s lost, the emptiness in his honey-brown eyes after he did drugs, the anger in his voice. “I have to try everything I can think of before I can even start to give up—I have to know I tried everything this time.” I open my eyes as Lea starts to say something, but my phone rings from inside my pocket and cuts her off. I take it out and glance at the screen. “It’s my mom,” I tell Lea and then answer it. “Hey, that was quick.”
“That’s because I couldn’t get ahold of him,” she says, and my hope plummets.
“It wasn’t the right number?” I ask, opening up the bottle of water.
“No, it was, but he didn’t answer…I left a message, though. We’ll see where it goes—if he calls me back or not.”
She sounds so doubtful and my shoulders slump forward, my mood sinking lower as I lean back against the fridge. “Do you think he’ll call you back?”
“Maybe,” she says uncertainly. “If he doesn’t in a day or two, I’ll try calling him again…but Nova, I don’t want you to get your hopes up that this is going to fix everything. Trust me, as I mother I know that even if a parent wants to help it doesn’t mean the child will accept it.”
“I know that.” I sound so depressed and I know it’s probably worrying her.
“I love you, Nova, and I’m glad you care so much about this, and I’m not trying to get your hopes down,” she says. “But I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’m just tired.” I take a swallow of water, my throat feeling very dry against the lie. I know I’m more than tired. I’m stressed and lost and overwhelmed.
“Yeah, but…” She struggles and then finally just says, “You sound sad and I think it might be time to call it quits, come home, and let me get ahold of the boy’s dad so he can take care of him.”
“I promise I’m fine,” I insist and I can feel Lea’s gaze boring into me. “I’m not ready to give up and come home yet.”
“You don’t sound fine,” she points out. “You sound like you’re in that place again…that one where I…and I just…” She’s on the verge of crying. “And I don’t want you to go there—I want you to be happy. Do things that make you happy.”
“I am happy.” I force a light tone, even though the sound of her voice is breaking my heart. “In fact, Lea and I were just about to go out and have some fun exploring the city.”
She pauses, sniffling. “That does sound fun, but I’m not really sure there’s a whole lot for twenty-year-olds to do in Vegas.”
“We’re going to karaoke,” I tell her, ignoring Lea’s withering stare as she sets the box of crackers aside and hops off the counter. “And to see the sights…it should be fun.”
My mom’s still undecided, but gives in. “Please just be careful. And call me if you need anything. And I’ll call you if I hear from his dad.” She pauses and I think she’s done until she adds, “And please, please take care of yourself.”
“I will do all those things,” I tell her; then we say our good-byes and hang up.
As I’m putting my phone into my pocket, Lea walks over to the foyer and starts putting her sandals on. “Where are you going?” I ask.
She pulls her hair up in a ponytail and secures it with an elastic on her wrist. “You told your mom we’re going into the city, so we’re going into the city,” she says, and I gape at her. “I’m not going to let you lie to her,” she adds. “And besides, we need to go out and do something. I’m going stir-crazy.”
Despite the fact that I’m not in the mood for crazy city stuff, I get her point and agree to go, hoping that maybe I can have fun, despite the fact that my thoughts are lost in Quinton and my mother now. I hate worrying her like that. She’s all I’ve got and the last thing I ever want to do is make her sad.
But I also can’t forget the sadness and pain in Quinton’s eyes that I’ve seen in someone else’s eyes before. Someone I cared about. Someone I didn’t try to save and in the end I lost him. And I refuse to lose anyone ever again, no matter what it takes.
Chapter 9
May 21, day six of summer break
Nova
After Lea and I had a somewhat fun night walking up and down the Strip, watching all the lights, listening to the music, and absorbing the atmosphere, I felt a lot better. We didn’t make it to karaoke, but made a deal to go out again in a few days and give it a try.
I’m feeling pretty good the next morning, knowing my mom’s trying to get ahold of Quinton’s dad, telling myself to be positive, but then I get to Quinton’s house to see him and no one answers the door. But I can hear people inside, ignoring my knocking. It reminds me of all the times I asked Landon if he was okay, he said yes, and that was that. I couldn’t change anything.
My hope starts to extinguish as I trudge back to my car, feeling so helpless because no matter what I do—whom I talk to—Quinton’s actually the one who has the power in this situation. He can shut me—anyone—out and there’s not a goddamned thing anyone can do about it. Plus, I’m worried. After seeing what that Trace guy did to Tristan, I fear that they might be in a lot of trouble. And I don’t know how to fix it or if I can fix it. How many things can one person fix?
God, I wish I could fix it all.
I turn to my videos for comfort, getting my camera phone out of my pocket, needing to vent.
“I keep having this dream where Quinton and I are back in the pond, kissing and touching, and I’m seriously thinking about letting him slip inside me, take me over, own me,” I say, staring at myself on the screen, the backseat my background; the black leather makes me look pasty. “And this time my head’s in the right place and when he’s about to, I embrace it, ready to give that part of me to him. But then suddenly he stops it, like he did the first time. But instead of pulling away and swimming to the shore, he starts to sink under the water. I want to help him, but I can’t seem to pry myself away from the rock and I just stay there in the water, watching him helplessly go under, his honey-brown eyes locked on me the entire time, until they disappear and I can no longer see him. Then the dream shifts to the roof and he’s standing there soaking wet with a noose in his hand and white powder on his nose. He keeps shouting at me to help him, but I just stand there and watch him as he walks over to the edge and gets ready to jump. When he starts to fall is when I start to scream and then I’m always jerked awake, gasping for air, and panting…”
I glance up when I notice movement by the stairway, hoping someone maybe came out of the house, but it’s just a woman walking around in her robe smoking and talking on her phone.
So I continue with my video diary entry, looking for something to keep me distracted while I wait. Always waiting, but nothing ever comes. “The dream’s been happening every night since I saw him sniff that powder up his nose and I just stood there and let him. It’s become one of those rewind moments where I want to go back, rip the powder out of his hand and tell him to stop it, even if it pisses him off. But I know way too well that life doesn’t come with a rewind button and sometimes you just have to admit your mistakes, learn, and do better the next time…if there is a next time…” I pause, choking back the images of Landon filling up my head. I can’t go there right now. “I’m trying to do better…my mom still hasn’t gotten ahold of Quinton’s dad, but she’s still trying. And trying is something, right?” I don’t sound too convincing as I say it. In fact I sound confused and lost.
“I didn’t think so,” Tristan says coldly, facing the window and dismissing me as he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to his bleeding nose and tries to wipe away the blood still dripping out.
Shaking my head, I reach into the glove box and take out a napkin. “Here,” I say, giving him the napkin.
“Thanks,” he mutters and then presses the napkin to his nose.
I back out of the parking spot and head toward his house. I try to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem too interested, staring out the window the entire time as he drums his fingers on his knee to the beats of the songs. By the time I park the car, I expect him to get out without saying anything like Quinton did the last time I dropped him off.
But as he grabs the handle to get out, he pauses and then pulls away. “You got your phone on you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
He turns his head toward me with a reluctant look on his face, sets the napkin down on his lap, and extends his arm toward me. “Let me see it.”
I retrieve it from my pocket and give it to him, watching as he punches a few buttons on the touch screen before giving it back to me. “His name’s Scott Carter and he lives in Seattle.” He reaches for the door handle again. “I’m not sure if that’s still his number, since the last time I talked to anyone from the house was over a year ago when Quinton used to live there, but that’s your best shot.”
“Thank you, Tristan,” I say as he cracks the door, stunned he actually gave me the information. “And if you ever need anything—help getting yourself out of trouble—please, please ask me.” I want to say more, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do.
“Whatever. I’m only giving the number to you because you asked. Not because I want your help with anything,” he replies, pushing the door open all the way and ducking his head to climb out. “And I don’t think it’s going to help Quinton at all. Trust me when I say that he’s only going to quit doing what he does when he wants to quit. I know because that’s how I roll and it’s hard to quit something that makes you feel so f**king good.” He says it so causally and before I can respond he’s shutting the door and walking away toward his crappy apartment, moving slowly because he’s in pain.
I stare at the phone in my hand, Tristan’s words replaying in my head, wondering if he’s right. If maybe it won’t do any good. If I’m trying to search for a solution to a problem that can’t be fixed, one that’s so much bigger than me, something that I saw today in the parking garage.
Still I at least have to try. Because the last time I didn’t try, someone wound up dead.
* * *
When I arrive back at Lea’s uncle’s house, it’s midafternoon and I’m exhausted, more than I have been in a long time. But I try to stay positive and hopeful as I tell Lea my plan and ask her for her help in calling Quinton’s dad.
“I don’t know what to say to him,” she states as I sink down on the sofa beside her, exhausted. She collects the remote from the armrest and aims it at the television, muting it. She turns to me on the sofa, bringing her leg up on the cushion. “Parents are, well, parents, you know. And I don’t think he’s going to respond well to a friend of Quinton’s calling him and telling him his son’s a junkie.”
I wince at the word junkie. “Well, do you have a better idea?” I ask.
She considers it for a minute or two. “Call your mom.”
“What?”
“Call your mom and ask her to call his dad.”
I slump back in the sofa, wondering if that’s a good idea or not. “You really think that’s the best way?”
She kicks her bare feet up on the table. “You remember how before we could help with that suicide hotline we had to go through that screening process and training?” she asks and I nod. “Well, you haven’t gone through the training process of being a parent yet,” she jokes.
I snort a laugh. “That’s kind of a good thing.” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger, thinking. “But I get your point.”
She offers me a small smile and pats my leg. “Call your mom and ask her.”
I sigh and retrieve my phone from my pocket, dialing my mom’s number. I start out with a light conversation, telling her in vague detail how my last couple of days have been. Then I dodge around to telling her my idea about getting ahold of Quinton’s dad and asking him for help.
“And you think I should be the one to call him?” she asks in a hesitant tone.
“Yeah…I mean, you are a mom and get things that I don’t,” I tell her, thinking about the parents I saw at the clinic. “I’m sure you understand this on a level I can’t even begin to understand, especially considering the hell I put you through.”
I swear it sounds like she’s crying. What I don’t get is why. I didn’t say anything overpowering or anything. Just the truth.
“You’re acting so grown-up right now,” she says, and I can definitely hear her sucking back the tears. “Give me the number and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say and then tell her the name and number, making sure she understands that I’m not 100 percent sure it’s still Mr. Carter’s number. She says she’ll try it and call me back in just a bit. Then I hang up and Lea and I head into the kitchen to get a snack.
“So how do you think it’s going to go?” I ask Lea as I open the fridge door. “Do you think his dad is going to freak out?”
She shrugs as she searches the cupboards. “I’m not sure.”
“Yeah, me either,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water before closing the fridge and turning around. “Although I’m sort of worried he’ll go through denial—my mom did for a while.”
She takes out a box of crackers, shuts the cupboard, and hops up on the counter, letting her legs hang over the edge. “What I’m wondering is how Quinton will react if his dad suddenly gets ahold of him. I mean, I honestly don’t think he’s just going to give up everything because of that.”
“Yeah, me neither…but I have to try.” I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing Quinton: the weight he’s lost, the emptiness in his honey-brown eyes after he did drugs, the anger in his voice. “I have to try everything I can think of before I can even start to give up—I have to know I tried everything this time.” I open my eyes as Lea starts to say something, but my phone rings from inside my pocket and cuts her off. I take it out and glance at the screen. “It’s my mom,” I tell Lea and then answer it. “Hey, that was quick.”
“That’s because I couldn’t get ahold of him,” she says, and my hope plummets.
“It wasn’t the right number?” I ask, opening up the bottle of water.
“No, it was, but he didn’t answer…I left a message, though. We’ll see where it goes—if he calls me back or not.”
She sounds so doubtful and my shoulders slump forward, my mood sinking lower as I lean back against the fridge. “Do you think he’ll call you back?”
“Maybe,” she says uncertainly. “If he doesn’t in a day or two, I’ll try calling him again…but Nova, I don’t want you to get your hopes up that this is going to fix everything. Trust me, as I mother I know that even if a parent wants to help it doesn’t mean the child will accept it.”
“I know that.” I sound so depressed and I know it’s probably worrying her.
“I love you, Nova, and I’m glad you care so much about this, and I’m not trying to get your hopes down,” she says. “But I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “I’m just tired.” I take a swallow of water, my throat feeling very dry against the lie. I know I’m more than tired. I’m stressed and lost and overwhelmed.
“Yeah, but…” She struggles and then finally just says, “You sound sad and I think it might be time to call it quits, come home, and let me get ahold of the boy’s dad so he can take care of him.”
“I promise I’m fine,” I insist and I can feel Lea’s gaze boring into me. “I’m not ready to give up and come home yet.”
“You don’t sound fine,” she points out. “You sound like you’re in that place again…that one where I…and I just…” She’s on the verge of crying. “And I don’t want you to go there—I want you to be happy. Do things that make you happy.”
“I am happy.” I force a light tone, even though the sound of her voice is breaking my heart. “In fact, Lea and I were just about to go out and have some fun exploring the city.”
She pauses, sniffling. “That does sound fun, but I’m not really sure there’s a whole lot for twenty-year-olds to do in Vegas.”
“We’re going to karaoke,” I tell her, ignoring Lea’s withering stare as she sets the box of crackers aside and hops off the counter. “And to see the sights…it should be fun.”
My mom’s still undecided, but gives in. “Please just be careful. And call me if you need anything. And I’ll call you if I hear from his dad.” She pauses and I think she’s done until she adds, “And please, please take care of yourself.”
“I will do all those things,” I tell her; then we say our good-byes and hang up.
As I’m putting my phone into my pocket, Lea walks over to the foyer and starts putting her sandals on. “Where are you going?” I ask.
She pulls her hair up in a ponytail and secures it with an elastic on her wrist. “You told your mom we’re going into the city, so we’re going into the city,” she says, and I gape at her. “I’m not going to let you lie to her,” she adds. “And besides, we need to go out and do something. I’m going stir-crazy.”
Despite the fact that I’m not in the mood for crazy city stuff, I get her point and agree to go, hoping that maybe I can have fun, despite the fact that my thoughts are lost in Quinton and my mother now. I hate worrying her like that. She’s all I’ve got and the last thing I ever want to do is make her sad.
But I also can’t forget the sadness and pain in Quinton’s eyes that I’ve seen in someone else’s eyes before. Someone I cared about. Someone I didn’t try to save and in the end I lost him. And I refuse to lose anyone ever again, no matter what it takes.
Chapter 9
May 21, day six of summer break
Nova
After Lea and I had a somewhat fun night walking up and down the Strip, watching all the lights, listening to the music, and absorbing the atmosphere, I felt a lot better. We didn’t make it to karaoke, but made a deal to go out again in a few days and give it a try.
I’m feeling pretty good the next morning, knowing my mom’s trying to get ahold of Quinton’s dad, telling myself to be positive, but then I get to Quinton’s house to see him and no one answers the door. But I can hear people inside, ignoring my knocking. It reminds me of all the times I asked Landon if he was okay, he said yes, and that was that. I couldn’t change anything.
My hope starts to extinguish as I trudge back to my car, feeling so helpless because no matter what I do—whom I talk to—Quinton’s actually the one who has the power in this situation. He can shut me—anyone—out and there’s not a goddamned thing anyone can do about it. Plus, I’m worried. After seeing what that Trace guy did to Tristan, I fear that they might be in a lot of trouble. And I don’t know how to fix it or if I can fix it. How many things can one person fix?
God, I wish I could fix it all.
I turn to my videos for comfort, getting my camera phone out of my pocket, needing to vent.
“I keep having this dream where Quinton and I are back in the pond, kissing and touching, and I’m seriously thinking about letting him slip inside me, take me over, own me,” I say, staring at myself on the screen, the backseat my background; the black leather makes me look pasty. “And this time my head’s in the right place and when he’s about to, I embrace it, ready to give that part of me to him. But then suddenly he stops it, like he did the first time. But instead of pulling away and swimming to the shore, he starts to sink under the water. I want to help him, but I can’t seem to pry myself away from the rock and I just stay there in the water, watching him helplessly go under, his honey-brown eyes locked on me the entire time, until they disappear and I can no longer see him. Then the dream shifts to the roof and he’s standing there soaking wet with a noose in his hand and white powder on his nose. He keeps shouting at me to help him, but I just stand there and watch him as he walks over to the edge and gets ready to jump. When he starts to fall is when I start to scream and then I’m always jerked awake, gasping for air, and panting…”
I glance up when I notice movement by the stairway, hoping someone maybe came out of the house, but it’s just a woman walking around in her robe smoking and talking on her phone.
So I continue with my video diary entry, looking for something to keep me distracted while I wait. Always waiting, but nothing ever comes. “The dream’s been happening every night since I saw him sniff that powder up his nose and I just stood there and let him. It’s become one of those rewind moments where I want to go back, rip the powder out of his hand and tell him to stop it, even if it pisses him off. But I know way too well that life doesn’t come with a rewind button and sometimes you just have to admit your mistakes, learn, and do better the next time…if there is a next time…” I pause, choking back the images of Landon filling up my head. I can’t go there right now. “I’m trying to do better…my mom still hasn’t gotten ahold of Quinton’s dad, but she’s still trying. And trying is something, right?” I don’t sound too convincing as I say it. In fact I sound confused and lost.
