Chapter 7: Chapter 6

"Can I ask you something?"

Neea and I are washing the pots and pans. She's washing and I'm drying.

"Sure," she says, handing me a freshly washed wooden spoon and pointing at a ceramic pot on the counter with a bunch of kitcheny items sticking out of it.

"How did you do it?" I ask. "How did you deal with something so awful—Sienna, the guilt you were feeling, the divorce—all of it piled up like that? How did you get through it without getting all messed up?"

"What makes you think I'm not all messed up?" Neea says with a laugh. Then she stops and thinks for a while.

"I really don't know what it would have been like, going through all that, if I didn't have to concern myself with little Teddy and his needs. A young child never stops needing you. It doesn't matter if you're sad, if you're at the end of your rope, in complete despair. You don't have a choice. You have to do what needs to be done. That's what kept me from being too absorbed in my own sadness. I had Teddy to take care of."

I look down at the tea towel I'm using to dry. It's soft and worn and the simple pattern of blue flowers and green fish is faded from years of use. Just fish and flowers on an old tea towel, but then, as if this whole evening hasn't been weird enough, I find myself fighting back tears. Neea's busy with the dishes and talking about Teddy, so I just turn away a little so she doesn't notice. Jesus, what's wrong with me? Maybe a delayed reaction to her sad story, I don't know. I never said I made sense.

Anyway, we eventually go back to the table and our glasses of wine. That's when things get really strange. Instead of just random waves of emotion, I experience something I haven't felt in a very long time: the urge to tell the truth.

See, I pretty much live by telling lies. It's what keeps me sane, it's what sometimes keeps me from getting arrested, it's what keeps my parents sending me cheques so I can eat and buy some warm clothes and not freeze to death in the winter. I don't want to get all romance-of-the-bohemian-life about it, but on the street, honesty gets you exactly nowhere. Even before I became a volunteer street kid, before I left Kamloops and Pat's Pit of Quiet Torment, I would lie all the time.

It isn't that I'm a bad person, or that I don't see the value of being trustworthy, etc., it's just that the truth is often so impractical. It can be complicated and unpleasant, whereas a well-crafted lie can be clean, simple and exactly what someone wants to hear. That's right, sometimes lies don't only benefit the liar. Sometimes people might suspect that you're lying to them but they decide to accept it just because it's the easier path.

"This guy sat right next to me on the bus, Mom, and he reeked! I'm pretty sure it was marijuana. The smell must have gotten on my clothes."

OK, that one was weak but she bought it and it spared us a discussion that neither of us wanted to have. With years of practice under my belt, I can be a goddamned convincing liar and that talent has served me well. But now all of a sudden, with a glass of wine in me, talking to a complete, but admittedly very nice, stranger, I'm suddenly willing to abandon my winning strategy. Why? I have no idea. It's like I'm possessed by a truth-demon. Maybe Neea spiked the wine with sodium pentothal.

"You know what?" I say to her, "I haven't been a hundred percent honest with you."

"Really?" says Neea.

"No... Do you want to know the truth about me?" I say.

"I do," she says simply.

I don't know this woman, and after today there's an excellent chance that I'll never see her again, so why should I care what she thinks? Why go to the trouble of cooking up lies if there's no point? This might even be fun...

I take a deep breath. "OK. The truth..."

And I start talking.

I end up talking more than I have in months, maybe more than I ever have, and it doesn't even feel weird to be suddenly opening up about myself. Without a hidden agenda, no twists or tricks, no spin, the truth comes pouring out. I tell Neea all about Kodi, and how we actually live on the street. I tell her how school didn't work out but that I couldn't tell my parents. I tell her how they still think I live with my Aunt. And then I tell her about meth.

"Crystal meth," I'm saying. "I don't know how much you know about it but it's nothing like what Sienna took, OK? And yeah, I've heard all about fentanyl which is why we only get our stuff from a producer we know and trust. Some people get messed up on meth, sure, but if you're smart about it, it isn't all that dangerous.

"I've only been using it for a few months, and I'm careful not to do it that often so I can stay in control of it," I say.

But yeah, I'll admit it. For me, meth is kind of a marvel. It's like a magic wand that instantly takes away all those deep doubts and feelings of deficiency that normally plague me. Lingering sadness from childhood? Fear of the unknown? Gone. The pain of my mother's disapproval or neglect? Forgotten! The unbearable weight of just having to live life from one damn day to the next? Meth just zaps it all away with laser precision.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last. If you're lucky you get maybe five, six hours of the good feelings before it starts to wear off. That's if you smoke it. If you eat it, drink it, slam it, maybe a little more, maybe a little less. Whatever. There's a limit. It brings you the joy, but then, sure as night follows day, it takes it away again.

After that, if you have the drugs, or the money to get more, you can ramp it up, buy yourself a little more time in the happy place, keep reality at bay just a little longer.

If not, well, sad for you. You come down. And not just down to where you started—surprise!—but further down, down into a hole the drug just dug for you.

•   •   •   •

Neea was listening closely to the words of the girl across from her, but also studying her face, her gestures and expressions, her manner of speech. The story of homelessness and meth addiction was not surprising. Neea knew that something wasn't right with Darwin, and she'd suspected drugs. There were enough similarities to Sienna when she was at her lowest, and to people Neea had known in her youth in Finland and also in her own early, wild years in Victoria.

Teddy's father had considered it his duty as an artist to experiment with marijuana, acid, cocaine and hallucinogenic mushrooms. He claimed it opened his mind to the deeper beauty of the universe. Neea didn't know if that was true or not because she chose to not go with him on most of his chemical adventures, but there was no question that the art he produced changed dramatically as a result, and not, in her opinion, for the better.

But Darwin seemed so young and so vulnerable, and her drug problem was so much more dangerous. She wasn't just dabbling in drugs in some quest for a higher state of consciousness, she was messing around with—and was probably addicted to—a powerful, terrible, life-destroying drug, despite what she said about being able to control it, and she was doing it in order to shut something out.

Neea tried to imagine what this girl would look like if drugs hadn't taken hold of her. She'd seen pictures of meth users with terrible teeth and sores all over their faces, but Darwin seemed to still have all of her teeth, and her skin was pale but clear. Perhaps, as she'd said, she hadn't been using the drug for that long. Without the drugs she would be in the prime of her life, with sparkling eyes and a face bright and pretty. Now she looked thin, tired and sickly, damaged by drug use. Through it all, Neea caught glimpses of that other girl, happy and full of life.

•   •   •   •

Neea is nodding and looking at me with such an expression of concern and empathy I almost question whether she means it or she's just really well-practiced at listening to other people go on and on about their problems. What did she say she does for a living? I don't think she said. Maybe she's a psychiatrist! That would explain a lot. Well, whatever. At this point I don't really care who I'm talking to, I'm just kind of wrapped up in telling the story.

When I finally finish, she's just looking at me. Is it socially acceptable in Finland to just stare at someone? It's like she's trying to digest what I've said, but also to maybe read my mind in the process. Read this mind? Not advisable. I just kind of raise my eyebrows and smile stupidly. Finally she speaks.

"What are you going to do?" she asks.

I shrug. We're quiet again for a while and it's getting a little awkward. Time I got out of here.

I get up to leave and Neea blurts out, "I want to help you!"

"You have! You've done tons already," I say, "and I really appreciate it. My leg's fine. I'll be fine."

She stands up and, with a sincere look of concern in her eyes, clasps my shoulders with her hands. "No. I mean I want to help you get over your addiction and get off the streets."

It's not completely unexpected that she'd say this given what's happened and what I've told her, given what I've seen of her nature and what she went through with her daughter, but it's still kind of presumptuous and I can't help being annoyed.

"I'm not looking for help! I'm not addicted. Were you listening to what I said?"

"Yes, I was listening," she says. "And maybe you do have it under control, and good for you if you do. But for how long? This is a terrible, dangerous drug and it's only a matter of time. You seem like such a good person. I'd like to help you get your life back on track."

"I'm fine!" I tell her loudly. "I'm not asking for your approval. I'm better than fine. I'm doing what I want to and I don't need advice from you!"

Neea looks at me calmly. She has eyes that seem to be smiling even when she isn't. There's kindness there, but it's also like she's studying me, trying to figure me out on some deeper level and, honestly, fuck that. I didn't ask to be psychoanalyzed.

"Why would you even want to do that anyway?" I say. "Help me, I mean."

"Because I care about you. Because I think you could be doing so much more with your life... and because, if I don't help you, maybe there isn't anyone else who will. Do you have anyone you could turn to if you needed to? Who else knows about all this, Darwin? Does your Aunt know?"

I don't answer her. People just don't do what she's talking about without some agenda. I didn't notice any bibles lying around, or pictures of Jesus on the walls. What kind of mission is she on? Plus, even if she's right and I don't have my shit under control as much as I think I do, it's my shit! I damn sure don't intend to be somebody else's road to salvation.

"I have to go," I say and step around her toward the front door.

•   •   •   •

"Darwin!" Neea called after her. "Please wait."

Darwin was at the front door with her backpack over her shoulder but turned back looking confused. "I had a coat..."

Neea got Darwin's coat from the hall closet and reluctantly gave it to her, saying, "Please don't go. Let's just talk some more."

"I have to," said Darwin, putting on her parka and the backpack.

On the porch she paused and said, "Thank you... for everything. Really."

Neea held the door open wide, hoping the frail young woman would change her mind and come back inside. She was terrified of what would happen to Darwin if she went back on the street, but she didn't know what she could do or say to make her stay. Though small and vulnerable, Darwin was obviously strong-willed—stubborn even—and Neea knew she couldn't force her to turn her life around. All she could do was make the offer to help, and she'd done that. Through her sadness she managed to smile.

"You can always come back here," she said quietly. "We'll be here."

Darwin nodded then turned to go.

"Wait!" said Neea, dashing to get her purse. She took out some twenty-dollar bills and pressed the wad of money into Darwin's hand. "For food," she said, "and... whatever you need."

Darwin seemed unsure of what to do. Finally, looking more disappointed than grateful, she took the money and left. Neea watched her walk quickly—with only a slight limp—through the yellowish glow of a streetlight, along Rendall Street towards downtown.

Later, when Teddy came in, Neea was sitting on the couch with the laptop. The first thing he said was, "She's gone, right?"

Neea didn't look at him, but nodded. Teddy began telling her about his evening at Safi's and Uncle Joe's crazy career plans. It wasn't long, though, before he realized something was wrong.

"Mom! Are you crying?"

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— D.B.