Page 8 of Wayward

“You look like shit,” I said, clipping my words. “You’ve got sores on your face again and—she could have been raped!” I yelled at him, getting up and pacing, unable to not come back to Nara over and over again. “You could have been raped too, you stupid fucking idiot!”

Vanya started to cry then, and when I saw the tears, it hit me suddenly that we were exactly the same age. It didn’t feel like it because I’d always felt more like his parent than peer, especially in that moment, but nevertheless, we were both thirty years old. It was wild because I always thought of him as sixteen.

I walked back up to the window and tapped gently. The woman there, in pale-blue scrubs and oversize tortoiseshell glasses, slid the glass open and took the clipboard and pen from me.

“Do you have a box of tissues?”

“Of course,” she said kindly, and passed me the one on her desk.

I brought Vanya the box and then returned to the counter, waiting to hear if she had any questions, since she wasn’t the same woman who’d checked us in the last time. This one was younger, with freckles and long, curly blond hair piled up in a loose bun with a decorative hair fork on top of her head.

“And are you the responsible party, Mr. Lenkov?”

“I am.”

She glanced over the information before her head snapped up and she met my gaze. “There’s no insurance on this?”

“No, ma’am,” I said, pulling out my wallet and passing her my black American Express card. “No insurance.”

She looked at the card in her hand and then back up at me.

“You don’t take that?”

“No, we take this. I just…” She seemed to think it over, biting her bottom lip.

“You’re hesitant to let me know that you’re going to charge the cost of a luxury automobile on my card, between my cousin’s treatment and his guest.”

“Yes,” she said, clearly relieved, as evidenced by her sharp exhale and the drop of her shoulders. “That’s it precisely.”

I nodded tiredly. “I know.”

Her gaze softened. “You’ve done this before.” My silent lift of brows prompted her to reach through the window and cover my hand with hers. “I’m so sorry.”

“Third time’s the charm, right? Isn’t that what they say?”

Her mouth fell open in surprise.

“But yes, I know how much it is, and I’m good for it.”

“Of course,” she agreed quickly.

I signed the receipt, and then, just like the two times before, Vanya and I went through a heavy steel door that had to be unlocked before we could proceed. Once on the other side, we were greeted by another woman, older, her dark-tanned skin luminous in the warm, muted glow of the overhead lights. It was like being welcomed into someone’s home, as there were no stark fluorescent fixtures at New Life, nor basic linoleum or vinyl flooring. Their stylish imported fixtures and stunning decor had been featured in interior design magazines, and the sheet tile flooring was made to look like hardwood. In the waiting room that resembled the reception area of a spa or country club, we were directed to take a seat on either the overstuffed couch strewn with throw pillows or on one of the many tufted leather chairs.

“I’ll go and get his intake counselor, and the two of us will be back in just a bit to get him settled in.”

“Take your time. We know it’s late.”

Instantly, there came a sweet smile from the maternal-looking woman before she thanked me in a calm, reassuring tone.

“Everyone’s so chill here,” Vanya told me. “It always freaks me out.”

I had nothing to say to him. The fact that Vanya could comment on this as if another cycle of rehab was normal made me bristle with irritation. But since that wouldn’t help at all, I stayed quiet. I felt bad about yelling at him earlier. It was useless to get mad at him; anger didn’t move him at all. Neither did encouragement or tenderness. The only thing Vanya truly cared about was his next fix. Addiction was a disease. You didn’t rage at sick people; you got them help. So again, that was what I was doing.

After several minutes, Vanya cleared his throat. “You must’ve been horrified when you saw me on my knees in that room,” he whispered, having trouble getting out the words.

I exhaled sharply. “I was horrified that the drugs would make you degrade yourself like that,” I said hoarsely, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. I hated how weak he was. How his will was nonexistent, how very frail and lacking in self-worth he had become with every passing year. In the beginning, when Vanya’s addictions were new, I had been full of sympathy, ready, willing, and able to help. Now, as I prepared to say the same words to a new counselor and hear, again, about the importance of sticking with a program and about sponsors and meetings…try as I might, I couldn’t dredge up even the smallest amount of compassion.

The idea that anything or anyone would ever, could ever, have the kind of control over me that drugs had over Vanya was simply too alien to contemplate. It was, in fact, the worst thing I could imagine until tonight. Now, thinking of all the horrors that could have befallen Vanya’s sweet little sister was the new nightmare.