from us for years. Inthe cellar, we named it the Disaster, so she wouldn’t have to spell out the details of the worst thing that had ever happened to her. The worst thing besides Jack Derber, that is.
And after the Disaster, her mother disappeared again, maybe for good. When she’d been gone for three weeks, Tracy just about decided she wasn’t coming back. She figured she could hide that fact from Social Security for a while and could forge her mother’s name on the checks long enough to get some savings together, but by then she didn’t even care.
She sank deeper into the club scene, sickened, miserable, and alone. Her life was going nowhere, and she was smart enough to know it. Drinking wasn’t helping. That night at the bar some stranger offered her a hit. That night she took the needle in the dark, her hands shaking with fear and anticipation. Maybe this was the answer after all: the quick way out of the pain, if only for a little while.
She had seen enough people shooting up to know the drill, and she took the leather strap and fastened it tightly around her arm. The needle found its way into her vein easily, slipping in like destiny. The first rush of the drug filled her with euphoria and wiped away her suffering, sweeping it out like a burst of clean air whipping through the city streets at dawn. At that moment, for the first time ever, she thought she understood her mother and wondered if she hadn’t been right about life after all.
Somehow Tracy stumbled out of the club, into the back alley, where she could be alone to savor the pleasure. It was a hot summer night, the air full, so thick with humidity it hit her like a wall as the door slammed closed behind her. The sweat was beading on her forehead, dripping down her chest and into the cheap leather of her hand-me-down bustier. She leaned against the Dumpster out back and slid down into the refuse of a thousand sunken lives—used condoms, cigarette packs, ripped underwear,part of a rusted-out chain. But even then something at the heart of the pleasure of the drug made the tears well up, made her think about everything that had happened, and she’d cried, an animal howl from deep inside, until she slowly lost that final grip on consciousness.
She woke up, probably days later—she couldn’t tell—in the cellar, on the cold stone floor, in a pool of her own vomit.
CHAPTER 8
I sat on the bed in my hotel room, looking at my face in the mirror over the empty bureau. I gripped my cell phone, talking myself into making the call I knew I had to make. It was a Monday morning, and I had Tracy’s office number scribbled on a piece of paper in my other hand. I took a deep breath and dialed.
After three rings I heard her voice answer hello, and I almost couldn’t summon my own to reply.
“Hello!?” she said again, impatient as always.
“Tracy?” She was the only one who hadn’t changed her name.
“Yes, who’s this? Is this a sales call?” She was already annoyed.
“No, Tracy, it’s me, Sarah.” I heard a sound of disgust, then a dial tone.
“Well, that went well,” I said to my face in the mirror. I dialed again. It rang four times, then she picked up.
“What do you want?” she said angrily. Her voice dripped with disdain.
“Tracy, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but please hear me out.”
“Is this about the parole hearing? You can save your breath. I’m going. I’ve talked to McCordy. You and I have nothing to talk about.”
“It isn’t about that. Well, it is, but it isn’t.”
“You’re not making sense, Sarah. Get it together.” She hadn’t changed much in the ten years since I’d spoken to her. I could tell I only had about twenty seconds to persuade her not to hang up. I got to the point.
“Tracy, do you get letters?”
A pause. She obviously knew what I meant. Finally, suspiciously, “Yes. Why?”
“I do too, and listen, I think he’s telling us something in them.”
“I’m
And after the Disaster, her mother disappeared again, maybe for good. When she’d been gone for three weeks, Tracy just about decided she wasn’t coming back. She figured she could hide that fact from Social Security for a while and could forge her mother’s name on the checks long enough to get some savings together, but by then she didn’t even care.
She sank deeper into the club scene, sickened, miserable, and alone. Her life was going nowhere, and she was smart enough to know it. Drinking wasn’t helping. That night at the bar some stranger offered her a hit. That night she took the needle in the dark, her hands shaking with fear and anticipation. Maybe this was the answer after all: the quick way out of the pain, if only for a little while.
She had seen enough people shooting up to know the drill, and she took the leather strap and fastened it tightly around her arm. The needle found its way into her vein easily, slipping in like destiny. The first rush of the drug filled her with euphoria and wiped away her suffering, sweeping it out like a burst of clean air whipping through the city streets at dawn. At that moment, for the first time ever, she thought she understood her mother and wondered if she hadn’t been right about life after all.
Somehow Tracy stumbled out of the club, into the back alley, where she could be alone to savor the pleasure. It was a hot summer night, the air full, so thick with humidity it hit her like a wall as the door slammed closed behind her. The sweat was beading on her forehead, dripping down her chest and into the cheap leather of her hand-me-down bustier. She leaned against the Dumpster out back and slid down into the refuse of a thousand sunken lives—used condoms, cigarette packs, ripped underwear,part of a rusted-out chain. But even then something at the heart of the pleasure of the drug made the tears well up, made her think about everything that had happened, and she’d cried, an animal howl from deep inside, until she slowly lost that final grip on consciousness.
She woke up, probably days later—she couldn’t tell—in the cellar, on the cold stone floor, in a pool of her own vomit.
CHAPTER 8
I sat on the bed in my hotel room, looking at my face in the mirror over the empty bureau. I gripped my cell phone, talking myself into making the call I knew I had to make. It was a Monday morning, and I had Tracy’s office number scribbled on a piece of paper in my other hand. I took a deep breath and dialed.
After three rings I heard her voice answer hello, and I almost couldn’t summon my own to reply.
“Hello!?” she said again, impatient as always.
“Tracy?” She was the only one who hadn’t changed her name.
“Yes, who’s this? Is this a sales call?” She was already annoyed.
“No, Tracy, it’s me, Sarah.” I heard a sound of disgust, then a dial tone.
“Well, that went well,” I said to my face in the mirror. I dialed again. It rang four times, then she picked up.
“What do you want?” she said angrily. Her voice dripped with disdain.
“Tracy, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but please hear me out.”
“Is this about the parole hearing? You can save your breath. I’m going. I’ve talked to McCordy. You and I have nothing to talk about.”
“It isn’t about that. Well, it is, but it isn’t.”
“You’re not making sense, Sarah. Get it together.” She hadn’t changed much in the ten years since I’d spoken to her. I could tell I only had about twenty seconds to persuade her not to hang up. I got to the point.
“Tracy, do you get letters?”
A pause. She obviously knew what I meant. Finally, suspiciously, “Yes. Why?”
“I do too, and listen, I think he’s telling us something in them.”
“I’m
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