Welcome Home

“Don't just stand there, Nikki! Get your shit and come the hell on!” My father’s thick southern drawl snapped me out of a daze. I laughed in his face.

Nice try, fucking skinwalker. But my dad is on the other side of the country right now. Probably believing I'm dead—and rightly so.

His embrace was a defibrillator, pulling me back from the edge. He held me too tight, but only for a minute. I had no shit to gather. Hell, the tee shirt and cargo shorts I wore belonged to Jay. I kept my head down. Dad shook hands and thanked Donnie for helping him find me.

I followed him without a word, without a fight. I had been gone too long—physically, mentally, and spiritually. I couldn’t even remember making that call, let alone who was kind enough to hand me a phone.

The drive to the airport was silent, and I tried to hide how wrecked I was. It was hard enough to keep it together, being nearly two weeks into a speedball binge. I dodged anything that might make me face the reality of where I'd just been, as if he couldn’t tell.

I stared out the window at the bodies that swung from trees and streetlights, their empty eyes fixed on me. They hovered in flocks, their ghostly forms beckoning me to join them. I was so close. Death tugged at me from every direction, but I was just too stubborn–or too stupid–to give it the satisfaction.

When we boarded the shuttle bus, I lost track of what was real and what wasn’t. I screamed, thinking I saw a little boy run in front of the bus. I startled the hell out of myself and apologized to the man sitting next to me.

My dad snapped. “Whatever you're seeing that I can't, stop talking to it! Look down if you have to.” With a wink, the man vanished in a wisp of smoke.

At the terminal, I babbled mindlessly between nods. I'd wake up swinging my arms around, picking up right where I left off before passing out again. The western sunsets. The beauty of the desert. Or maybe that’s what I said.

“Will you please shut the hell up before they refuse to let us on this plane? Getting you a ticket was hard enough, considering you don’t have an ID.”

I shut up and slept the whole flight. When we landed, I stepped straight into a hospital. The lights burned. The cold seeped in before I even felt the twenty gauge sliding past scabs and bruises to pump me full of IV fluids.

“Alright, Miss Lee. Your lab results show high levels of methamphetamines and opiates. Your blood sugar is dangerously low.” The doctor paused, pulling a Snickers bar from his pocket. “Try to eat this, if you can.”

I barely managed a bite, trying to piece together the last few weeks. But it was too much and my brain was coming unglued. “I haven’t kept food down in a week… even longer since I slept.” I closed my eyes to try to ignore the midget stroking off under the desk. Just jerking away while he grinned at me.

“That’s not possible,” he asserted. “You’d be dead if that were the case.”

His words punched me in the gut, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. “If I did, I don’t remember it.” No shit I should be dead, dipshit. But I can't, no matter how hard I try. I'll stay a ghost among the living long before I shed my mortal shell.

He didn’t bother responding, just pulled up my chart. “Ah. The good news. No Hep C, no HIV.”

“Lucky me,” I muttered.

“And we’ll be treating the gonorrhea with a Rocephin shot. It’s intramuscular, goes in your hip. Its a single-dose treatment, but effective.”

I tuned him out. A few minutes later, a gray-haired CMA came in–all business, no small talk. She handed me a tissue, told me to lie on my side, and grabbed a chunk of my hip like she owned it. The needle slid in slowly, and I sucked in a breath as the medicine burned through my skin.

“All done, Nicole. You’re good to go. Don’t forget to grab your resources and check-out on the way out.”

I nodded, half-dazed, as she led me from the room. I grabbed the packet as instructed. It was full of rehab centers, food and clothing drives, homeless shelters. Dad pointed to a name on the rehab list once we got in his truck. “That’s where you’re headed if you want any of us to help you, bud.” His voice was hard, but the care underneath was still there.

A two-week stint in an income-based rehab facility was hardly the welcome I initially expected when coming home. Although, I'm not sure what I'd hoped for after flying two thousand miles with more meth and heroin in my blood than oxygen–and a stinging, oozing STI to boot. It certainly wasn’t the plan when I decided to move to Arizona in the first place.

I was a ghost among the living long before I shed my mortal shell.

After the hospital visit, my dad drove me to a nearby restaurant. We rode mostly in silence, the effects of the drugs seeming to slowly wear off as a migraine began to tug at my temples. We listened to classic rock, and every now and then he would just look at me, his expression shifting from concern, to joy, to sadness. Turning down the volume, I quietly gripped his hand in mine.

The ride seemed way too short. It was too soon before we arrived at a small diner where I was left with my mom to figure out my next steps. We went inside, and despite the diner's soft lighting and smiling staff, I didn't give a fuck about food. I just needed a bed. He hugged me goodbye as she and I took our seats. The whole exchange took me back to the familiar old custody swaps of my childhood.

We sat in complete silence for a brief eternity. Mom glared at me while I struggled to sit still and focus, my foot tapping rapidly on the tile floor. “Nicole! What is wrong with you?” My mom’s soft, but stern voice shot like daggers into my ears from across the table.

“Huh?” I responded absently before noticing the lunch menu shaking upside-down in my hands. I could hardly remember how to read, let alone find an appetite in my churning, empty belly. Even the taste of real food had become a distant memory, and the smell of burning meat and Lysol was nauseating. “Oh,” I said, nervously picking the peeled corner of the lamination with one dirty fingernail and chewing the sleeve of my jacket. “Sorry.”

She slammed her glass of water on the table. “Flip. The goddamn. Menu,” she commanded through clenched teeth.

“I'm trying!” I snapped, ignoring the glares of the other patrons, and their whispered judgments. My eyeballs floated in their sockets, watering as I tried to decipher the options of dead, rotten things. Every word only made my body want to release a load of bile right in front of everyone.

My mom sighed and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Nicole, you’re a mess,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear but quiet enough to pretend she didn't want me to.

I faced the window and caught a glimpse of myself. I hadn't looked her in the eye in a long time. Mom wasn’t wrong. I was a mess. My hair hung in matted, greasy strands around my face, my skin was sunburned and blotchy, and my arms were hidden under long sleeves to conceal the track marks. I looked like a ghost haunting the shell of someone I used to be, a specter I couldn't recognize.

“Please… Just order a salad or something,” she said finally, her voice resigned. “You need to try to eat.”

I nodded numbly, flipping the pages again just for show, but I couldn’t focus on the words. The letters swam in front of me like insects on a pond. I put the menu down and glanced around the restaurant, suddenly feeling exposed and out of place. Families sat together at tables, laughing and chatting like real people. Even compared to the dumbass kid shoving a french fry up his crusty nose, I felt like a wild animal that had somehow wandered into a civilized space.

When the waitress came, I mumbled something about a salad and stared down at the table while my mom ordered for herself. I couldn’t even look the poor girl in the eye after seeing myself. Why was I being forced to perform in public after everything that just happened? I felt like I owed the world an apology for making it witness my existence.

The silence between my mom and me stretched, heavy and suffocating. She tapped her nails on the table, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she broke the silence. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked, her voice carefully measured.

“The plan?” I repeated. Anyone could see I didn’t have a plan. I barely had a functioning brain, or did she need her eyes examined?

“Yeah,” she said, her tone sharpening. “What are you going to do now? You can’t just sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You need to get a job, go back to school, just do something.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and tight. The idea of doing anything beyond just getting through the next hour felt impossible. I was frozen in a state I was incapable of clawing my way out of. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

My mom shook her head, her disappointment palpable. “You can’t keep living like this, Nicole. Its time to get focused and get it together already.”

Her words stung, even though I knew she was right. But responsibility felt like a foreign concept to me, something other people did. All I knew how to do was survive, one miserable day at a time. You can't keep living like this, Nicole. The words repeated on a loop. I thought about what the doctor had said just an hour or two before. According to the expert, I had no excuse to be alive at all.

When the salad came, I picked at it half-heartedly, forcing myself to chew and swallow even though my stomach rebelled against the food. My mom ate in silence, her eyes occasionally darting to me like she was studying a specimen under a microscope. By the time we left the restaurant, I felt even more hollow than before.

The silence in the car wasn’t silent at all. It was the hum of the engine, the wheeze of the heater trying and failing to do its job, and my mother’s sharp, uneven breaths, each one a suppressed explosion waiting for a spark.

She was gripping the wheel like it had wronged her, knuckles white and veins raised, her lips tight in that way they always got right before she decided to let me have it. I stared out the window, watching the world blur past us, pretending I didn’t know what was coming.

“You've got to get your shit together,” she said finally, her voice quiet but heavy with venom.

I didn’t respond. My head was buzzing, a low thrum like an electric fence between my ears.

“Nicole,” she snapped, dragging my name out like it tasted bad. “I’m talking to you.”

“I heard you,” I muttered, slouching deeper into the seat. “But please Mama, can we please park this conversation. Please, my head is going to explode.”

“You have to take responsibility for your life, Nicole. Nobody's going to do it for you, and the world owes you nothing.”

The ringing in my ears got louder, a dull roar that drowned out her words as the car’s heater choked on stale air. And then I wasn’t there anymore, transported to another time.

I had started spending more time with my mom when she became a party buddy. Well, off and on. I was still so jealous of her. I couldn't help it.

So much of her life was lived in the shadows of debauchery. She had a life outside of motherhood. Its secrets whispered their stories through dried vomit on the passenger seat. A Zippo under my bed I know I didn't lose. A playlist on my laptop I never downloaded.

A text intended for her and opened by me when I snuck her phone to send late-night nudes to Chris.

Her voice dragged me back to the present, her words sharp and stabbing. “Are you even listening to me?” she snapped. “Or are you just going to sit there and sulk like an immature little brat?”

The buzzing in my head turned to static, my hands curling into fists in my lap.

“Do you even care about anyone but yourself?” she pressed. “You are completely out of control, Nicole. I mean, are you trying to ruin your life—and everyone else's?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” The words exploded out of me, raw and shaking. My chest heaved, and for a second, the car was silent again, except for my ragged breathing. I lost control of my emotions. Tears and spit spewed from my face as I got in her face and screamed, “Stupid bitch! You’re just mad because you’re looking at the result of every mistake you ever made as a mother!” My voice didn't even sound like my own, but like a raging demon I summoned from the pits of my own Hell.

The slap came fast and hard, snapping my head to the side. My cheek burned, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

“Get out,” she said, her voice low and trembling with fury.

I turned to look at her, stunned. “What?”

“Get the fuck out of my car!”

The car screeched to a stop, the seatbelt locking as I jerked forward. She leaned over, throwing the passenger door open, her face twisted with rage.

I fumbled with the seatbelt, my fingers shaking as I unlatched it. The gravel was cold and sharp under my feet as I stumbled out, the door slamming shut behind me before I could say anything.

The car roared off, kicking up dirt and gravel. I stood there, the cold air biting at my skin, my cheek throbbing where she’d hit me.

And for the millionth time, I wondered why I kept coming back.

I walked for what felt like a couple of miles before coming to a gas station. Unlike the businesses on Van Buren, these small town store owners didn't mind letting me use a phone. Their windows held “Open” signs without any bars or chains. Clerks stood unbothered behind their counters without the need for plexiglass barriers.

I hesitate, tempted to call one of my old drug dealers from memory. I begin to dial the number before being saved by a glimmer of clarity. I call my dad instead.

When he picked me up about twenty minutes later, he was pissed to say the least. Once he got my version of things, he called my mom.

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Miranda? I just brought her home today. TODAY! Got her all the way here, and you can't even get her to her fucking grandma's house? HELLO?”

I could barely hear her on the other end of the call, just fragments. “Yeah, Thad I hear you… I'm sorry, okay. I don't know what came over me…”

“I swear to GOD if we had lost her again after what I just brought her back from… Miranda, I swear to God!” His voice was loud and trembling, and a sliver of shame began to set in.

“Dad?”

“She's sick, Miranda!” He continued yelling at the phone, “can't you tell the girl ain't in her right mind? You're supposed to be the damn mama! Now act like it!”

“Daddy?” I interrupted his tirade again.

“What?” He snapped, hanging up on mom.

“Can I please stay with you and Mary tonight instead? I just really want to rest and not think about anything if that's okay.” I kept my eyes down when I spoke, staring blankly at my shirt that had “Phoenix” in bold letters as if I were sporting a souvenir from vacation. The shirt wasn't even mine, but the irony was certainly not lost on me.

“Yeah I think that'd be best anyhow,” he said, deepening the crease between his eyebrows. “Especially since motherfuckers apparently don't know how to act.” We rode in silence the rest of the way to his house.

I try so hard to get comfortable on the soft, lumpy couch. My body shakes, rattling with the residual tremors, the aftermath of too many days and nights without sleep, without peace. My teeth click together, a staccato rhythm in my skull that won’t stop, a reminder of all the things I’ve been running from. My limbs are electric, humming in jagged bursts, and I can feel the pulse of my heartbeat like it’s trying to break free. But then, slowly, it starts to fade—just enough that I can feel the weight of it all sinking into something softer, like gravity finally acknowledging me.

The vibrations in my body soften, and for the first time in what feels like forever. Sleep claims my battered body.

I let it—let myself fall into it like I’ve been starved for rest. The stillness is a balm. My body, vibrating and aching, stills as I sink into a black nothingness, and I can’t remember the last time it felt like this—safe, or maybe just... quiet.

For sixteen house I don't move. I don't wake up. A passerby might have wondered if I was even alive.

Same.

The following week is a blur of sleepless nights, fever, cold sweats, and shitting my guts out. Its midnight panic attacks, always looking over my shoulder. At my dad's house, the familiar smells of bacon grease, cheap candles and the faint scent of ashtrays are a welcomed familiarity. But I feel like a stranger, a guest in someone else's childhood home. The faded paint holds someone else's memories of running down the hallway, sneaking sips of stepmom's vodka, and fighting with younger siblings.

Dad's phone rings. “Hello? Yep this ia him. Oh, y'all are ready today?” His voice sounds anxious. It's Addiction Recovery Care Center, or ARCC as it's locally known. “Yeah I understand that, sure… Yes ma'am we are about to head that way. Thank you.” They had a bed ready for me.

The trip is actually pleasant. The April weather is finally starting to hit springtime temperatures, and the sun doesn't hurt my eyes quite so much. I'm nervous as hell. We sing along to the radio, laughing and arguing over lyrics or which band wrote a particular song.

My heart sinks.

The worn-down building sits at the end of a cracked, weed-choked driveway. Its faded beige stucco peeling in patches like an old sunburn. The only decoration is a rusted metal sign mounted crookedly by the front gate, announcing the center's name in chipped black letters. A pair of battered plastic chairs flank the entrance, their once-bright colors bleached dull by years of sunlight and neglect.

Inside, the air smells faintly of industrial cleaner masking decades of cigarette smoke, vomit and sweat. The tile floors are scuffed and warped in places, and the flickering fluorescent lights hum overhead, warning me to turn back. A single front desk, cluttered with papers, cracked pens, and a clunky computer from the early 2000s, is manned by an old, bitchy receptionist.

“Name. Date of birth.” She doesn't bother to look up. A picture of a beach hangs lopsided on the wall, the words "One Day at a Time" in faded script beneath it.

The smoking area at ARCC is about the only decent thing the place has to offer. It was an open courtyard bordered by a row of overgrown bushes that at least give it some semblance of greenery. Benches line the perimeter, weathered but surprisingly sturdy. Wooden trellises provide the benches with some shade.

The barbwire fence really adds a charming touch to the prison-esque vibe. From anywhere in the smoking area, you can see the barrier rising up like a warning. The dull metal glinting in the daylight and reminding you that freedom is something to be earned.

The intake process is brisk and impersonal. A clipboard with a stack of barely-legible forms is shoved at me as the receptionist asks for ID, insurance information–if I had any, I don't–and the names of any emergency contacts.

Questions are rattled off by a stiff nurse in one of the private offices:

“What’s your drug of choice?” he looks up from his clipboard.

“Well what have you got,” I sing in response, mimicking the lyrics from Junkhead. I don't think he appreciates the joke.

“Sorry. But seriously pretty much anything I'm handed. It used to be mainly liquor and coke, but I'm coming off of heroin and meth now, too.”

“Got ya,” he says, as if I'd just told him what I ate for breakfast. “When was your last use? Any health concerns?”

“My last use was a little over a week ago, I've had to detox at home while I waited to get in here.”

“With folks detoxing off of heroin, we can offer Suboxone to lessen the sickness and side effects, is that something you'd be interested in?”

My head starts to throb at all the questions. “I don't know, what do you recommend as the expert?”

“Well, seeing that you have gotten through the worst of it without help, I'd say you probably really don't need it. I'm going to administer you clonazepam for the morning, and vistaril at bedtime.”

The clock says it's just a little past lunch. “Anything for one p.m.?”