Where We Used to Roam by Jenn Bishop (best novels to read in english .TXT) 📗

mouth to answer me, Dad cut in, his tone suddenly serious. “Emma, let’s go have a chat in the living room.”

Something had to be wrong, because Mom and Dad forgot about my bag in the trunk. This wasn’t about what had happened with Becca, and Dad hadn’t lost his job. The only time I’d ever heard about people having a “talk” in the living room was when their parents were getting divorced. But if that was happening, wouldn’t Austin be here for it? Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe Austin’s absence was on purpose.

Dad sat in his favorite leather chair while Mom took a seat on the sofa beside me. I picked at a thread dangling from my shorts. “Where’s Austin?” I asked again. “Is he okay?” The worst thought flitted into my mind. Did he get into a car accident while I was gone? Was he dead? No, no. He couldn’t be. They were too calm for that.

“Your brother’s at an appointment,” Dad said.

“With a counselor,” Mom added.

A counselor. What kind? Since when?

But before I had a chance to ask any of those questions out loud, Mom continued. “While you were at school on Friday, I—” She sucked in a sharp breath and pinched the skin at the top of her nose. “I went in Austin’s room. It had gotten so bad in there lately, I just wanted to clean up the place, let in some fresh air. But while I was tidying up, I found something. Emma, your brother’s been taking painkillers—abusing opioid painkillers.”

“He still had pills from his surgery? But that was all the way back in December.”

“You’re right,” Dad said. “That prescription ran out a long time ago.”

“But I don’t get it.” I shook my head. None of this made any sense. “Where was he getting pills from? And why? His shoulder’s better. He’s better. Right?” Mom’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment she couldn’t answer me. “Dad?”

“Austin’s addicted to them.” He stared down at the carpet. “These opioid painkillers, they’re very, very powerful.”

“So why did the doctor give them to him in the first place?”

“Emma, it’s complicated,” Dad said. “We didn’t think the amount he got after the surgery was enough to lead to… anything like this.” He held his face in his hands for a moment. “But the problem is, he’s well past that prescription now. He’s been finding them other ways.”

Other ways? What other ways? Like… like a drug dealer? Had my brother met up with drug dealers? This was like something out of D.A.R.E., back in first quarter, before we switched to art class. Police officers came into health class and told us all about drugs and how bad they were. But the way they talked about it, the videos they showed us? It never seemed like anything anyone I knew could ever, ever, ever do. Especially Austin.

“I don’t understand. Tell me. Is this why… why…?” But I couldn’t say it. My lips and tongue didn’t work right; they refused to form the question I wanted to ask.

Because I already knew the answer.

This was why Austin was changing. This was why everything had been different since his breakup with Savannah. His grades. His moods. All that time he spent in his room. Everything.

That sinking feeling I had, the one that came and went, it had been telling me something. Telling me that things with my brother were not okay. That feeling was right. Spot-on. But I’d ignored it.

“So what happens now?” I asked, needing something real to cling to.

“Dad and I have been very busy the past few days making calls and trying to figure this out,” Mom said. “All of this is still so new. We’ve got a lot of catch-up to do, and we can’t wait around.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most of the nearby rehab facilities are full, with long waiting lists. We’re hoping we can pull some strings and find a thirty-day facility with a room for Austin.”

A room for Austin.

“You’re sending him away?” I looked from Dad to Mom and back again. She had to be kidding. He didn’t need to go away. Go away… where? How far?

“Only for a month,” Dad said.

“But what about school?”

“One thing at a time, Em.” Mom rested a hand on my bare knee. Her palm was cool to the touch, sending a shock up my leg. “Besides, you only have a few days left.”

“This is a lot to process.” Dad reached into his pocket for a stick of gum, though he didn’t put it in his mouth, just bent the piece back and forth, back and forth, until it broke in two. “You probably have a lot of questions. Mom and I will do our best to answer them, but if you want to see a counselor, like Austin is right now, we can set up an appointment. We’re lucky: there’s a wonderful psychologist in Cambridge who specializes in substance abuse and helping family members cope.”

Helping family members. Me? Dad thought I needed help—we needed help—because of Austin? Everything was happening too fast, except also in slow motion. As if that made any sense. But then, nothing made any sense. Austin didn’t have problems with drugs. No, this was all some kind of sick joke. A really, really messed-up joke.

Mom leaned toward me. “Emma? What are you thinking, hon? This conversation has been too one-sided.”

I couldn’t think anymore. I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to go to bed. Lie down and close my eyes and fall deep asleep. I wanted to wake up and find out that none of this had happened. Not today, or the day before, or the day before that. I wanted to wake up and be a fifth grader again.

“I’m really tired,” I said finally. “Can I go to my room and lie down?”

Mom caught Dad’s eye. “You know, a nap sounds pretty good right about now. Mind if I join you?”

It’d been years since Mom had slept on my bed with me. According