Come Clean

‘I stock painkillers,’ Dad interjects, defensively.

‘Painkillers perhaps?’ Hilary asks.

Do they think I’ve been tiptoeing into Dad’s office on the weekends? My eyes drift unconsciously to Dad’s denture fob which peeks out of the pocket of his jacket, now draped over the arm of the garden chair. All other eyes trail mine. I blush.

‘Could I have a glass of water?’

‘There’s time for that later. Please answer the question.’

‘No, I haven’t used any of Dad’s painkillers.’

‘OK then. How about caffeine?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, I drink Diet Coke but I’m not much for coffee.’

‘I mean caffeine pills. Vivarin, No-Doz, that kind of thing.’

‘You can get those over the counter.’

‘Many things sold over the counter can be abused,’ Hilary informs me. ‘So, have you used caffeine pills?’

‘I still don’t think it counts. I was cramming for exams.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes then. How about solvents?’

‘I don’t even know what a solvent is.’

‘Glue, paint thinner, lighter fluid, aerosol sprays, nail varnish—’

‘Be serious.’

‘Magic markers?’ Her eyebrows hike knowingly.

‘That definitely doesn’t count! We were just kids, we liked the smell.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ She lifts her pen to her mouth and chews on the cap. I’m hungry, tired and so so thirsty. ‘Tell me, Justine, why do you use drugs? Do you know?’

‘I don’t use drugs.’

‘Alcohol, then.’

‘It was one time.’

‘Last night you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, assuming last night was the only time you’ve used alcohol—’

‘There’s no assuming, last night was the only time.’

‘Fine, assuming it was the only time, why don’t you tell me why you drank last night?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug my shoulders, cross and recross my arms and then my legs. My chair couldn’t be less comfortable. ‘I was upset, it was there, it was no big deal.’

‘No big deal?’

‘No.’

‘Do you feel guilty when you use?’

‘I don’t use. Would you stop saying use that way? It’s not like that.’

‘Do you feel guilty about last night?’

I address our parents now, beseechingly. ‘Yes, yes I do. I feel very guilty. I wish it had never happened. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t even any fun.’

‘Interesting,’ she nods. ‘You were expecting it to be fun.’

Dad seizes on Hilary’s implication. ‘Is that what you wanted, Justine?’ he demands. ‘A little fun?’

Can’t they hear anything I’m saying? Don’t they understand? I feel like I’m speaking a different language. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything. I hadn’t thought about it enough to expect anything. I’m sorry. Mom, are you listening? I’m sorry.’

Mom slides her eyes away from me, and Hilary lets my apology hang there for a moment, unanswered. Our father shifts in his chair, the green plastic legs creaking beneath him; Hilary wrests back control. ‘How much money do you spend to support your habit?’

‘I don’t have a habit.’

‘How much money do you spend on drugs?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Alcohol included?’

‘Alcohol included.’

‘Have you ever been to a party?’

‘What’s wrong with parties?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with parties per se,’ she concedes. ‘Do you go to them?’

‘Not counting my parents’ dinner parties or country club socials?’

‘Not counting them.’