If Only

I’m walking through the empty school hallway. Kids are in their classrooms, admin is at their desks. As I pass by the boys’ washroom, I smell a familiar aroma. It’s weed. I freeze. There is no misunderstanding when it comes to that smell. I wait outside the washroom door. After a few minutes, a little kid comes strolling out. It’s Liam. He’s only ten years old, for God’s sake! But it tracks. It isn’t hard to believe that he has gotten his hands on some weed. But did he actually think he wouldn’t be found out if he smoked it in the washroom at school?

I quietly say, “Liam, come here for a sec, please.” I taught Liam in second grade and I thought we had good rapport. I’m hoping he is still open to me chatting with him. His eyes briefly grow wide, then, like a curtain lowering, his facial expression goes blank.

I ask him, “Is there anyone else in the washroom?” He shakes his head, no. I ask him, “Where did you get the weed from?” He silently looks at me, then sullenly says, “My dad.” I nod and say, “Okay.”

Thoughts about his future float quickly through my mind. Age ten: smoking pot daily. Age twelve: using coke daily. Age 14: oxys and fentanyl. In his teens: overdose. I feel this future is a very real possibility. I desperately want to make Liam understand the path he has perhaps started on. I’m pretty sure there is nothing I can say or do that will get him to choose another path. I have to at least try, though.

“Liam,” I say, looking him in the eyes, “I want the very best for you. If you keep smoking weed, it’s quite possible you will become addicted to drugs. You will spend the next ten or twenty years trying to stop taking drugs. Give your future self a gift and find some other way to cope with your worries or boredom.”

He just nods, then looks down. I ask him if he would like to talk to a CYW (Child and Youth Worker). He shakes his head, no. I let him know that I have to let Child Protection Services know about the situation. He frowns and shrugs. “My dad gives me the stuff. It’s not like he doesn’t know what I’m doing,” he says defiantly.

“Your dad is very wrong to do that. A CPS worker will make that clear to him.”

That incident happened ten years ago. Liam has never left my mind.

I’m lost in thought as I gently knock on my son’s bedroom door, then enter so I can wake him up for school. I inhale sharply, looking at his still body. I leap toward him, feeling on his neck for a pulse. Nothing. He’s cool to the touch. I grab his phone to call 911. On the screen, I see a text. It says it’s from Liam. “meet at park for fent at 9pm”