Page 40 of Leave a Mark
“Welcome to ARC. How can I help you?”
A little breathless from the sprint and her rescue mission, Wren panted. “My… friend needs help. I’ve been trying to get him to come… for a while, and he finally agreed.”
The woman looked over Wren’s shoulder in confusion. “Your friend?”
“Yes… he’s… well, he’s in the car. I’m not sure if he’s sober or not. He might just be sick,” she stammered. “But he needs in-patient care. Can you take him?”
The receptionist, whose nametag readLily, gave her a patient smile. “Does he have insurance?”
Wren froze.
“Um… no, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” she said, her heart sinking. “Do you have a program for someone who can’t pay?”
This time Lily’s smile was genuine. “Actually, we have five beds for indigent patients, and one of them just came available this morning. If your friend consents, he can be enrolled in our thirty-day inpatient program.”
Thirty days.
It didn’t seem like much, but it was probably the best offer Curtis could receive. And thirty days with a bed and three squares a day would at least make him stronger.
“Let’s hope he consents,” Wren said.
Lily picked up her phone and called someone named Carl to report to the admitting desk. When Carl arrived, he filled the doorway. He looked like a defensive tackle, but his eyes smiled, and Wren liked the way his curling eyelashes gave him a boyish look.
She led Carl to her Mustang, and, to her relief, Curtis still snoozed in the front seat. It was something of an effort to get him to understand what was happening, but once he gave his verbal approval that he wanted to check in, Carl had no trouble hoisting Curtis out of the car and up the steps of the recovery center.
As promised, Wren stayed with him while they admitted him, and she learned a lot about Curtis in the process. He was forty-seven, even though he looked to be about seventy. He had a sister named Doris who lived in Opelousas. He’d tried AA before, but he’d never done an in-patient program. His drugs of choice were alcohol and crack.
The part that made Wren’s heart ache was when Curtis answered the question about occupation.
“I used to work for the university in the student union,” he said sadly. “I was a fry cook in the Cypress Lake Dining Room. Fried fish. Fried chicken. Fried okra. You name it, I fried it.”
“I’ve eaten there before,” Wren blurted, unable to help herself. “Awesome fried catfish.”
Curtis gave her an amused frown. “When was you there?”
His surprise didn’t faze her. Wren never looked much like a co-ed — even when she had been one.
“About four years ago.”
Curtis’s eyebrows bobbed. He was becoming more alert as the conversation progressed, and Wren hoped that he wouldn’t have a change of heart before he was officially admitted.
“I was still there four years ago…”
“Really?”Now, she was the one surprised. She’d met Curtis on the streets three years ago. How had he gone from a steady job as a cook at the university to homeless and addicted to crack in such a short time?
Laurie had been a mess her whole life, and Wren found a strange comfort in that. If Curtis could become an addict virtually overnight, did that mean it could happen to anyone? To her? Wren shuddered and pushed the questions from her mind.
When it came time for Carl and another man to escort him toward the dormitory, Curtis turned to Wren and offered his trembling hand. She took it.
“Thank you, Song Bird…” His voice seemed to get lost on her nickname. “Nobody’s kept after Old Curtis the way you have… I don’t know if this gonna work, but I’ll try not to let you down.”
Wren squeezed his hand, but no words came. Let her down? Curtis owed her nothing, and yet he worried about letting her down. Laurie hadn’t even done that — not until it was too late. She managed a nod, but before he disappeared around the corner, she whispered, “Good luck." And then she was left standing in the lobby as Lily-with-the-pink-scrubs watched.
She looked down at her phone. It was only 10:45. What was she supposed to do for the next hour and fifteen minutes?
Lee Hawthorne, I can’t have a moment’s peace, and it’s all your fault.
Rather than think about him again — and, strangely, she yearned to tell him about her triumph with Curtis — Wren turned to the receptionist.
