Hear Me Read online

  ‘You were good,’ he says, ripping away his towel. His flaccid trophy hardens as he grabs it. ‘Fancy some more?’

  Bile spews from my mouth as I rush to the door and stagger, crying, to the lift. ‘Oh God! How could I? How could I?’

  I stumble into the shower as soon as I reach home. I need to cleanse, wash away the indignity and the stink. Never again, I promise myself, but even as I scrub my skin raw the fear that there will be another time stands strong in my mind. I shudder. I still can’t believe I actually slept with that repulsive man; how much lower can I go? The barman must think I’m a whore, and maybe he’s right. It’s not the first time I’ve woken in a strange bed and not known how I got there. I did it a few weeks ago with that bristly, moustached guy I met at the Keg and Thistle bar, whose name I don’t even remember. What the hell’s wrong with me? Dad would be so ashamed. God must hate me. Tears well in my eyes and I bend over and clutch myself as the truth of my disgrace sobs out. I can’t even be proud of my job any more. I’ve made three mistakes with test results in as many weeks and that’s three too many in the medical profession. Dr Pillay knows there’s something wrong. I could kill someone next time. I’ll probably get fired and be left with nothing but an STD. I’m nothing more than a drunken slut. I hate myself. I hate who I’ve become. I freeze. My thigh is mottled with ugly, purple bruising. When did I bump myself? I turn my hands over. My palms are also bruised. My heart jumps to my ears. Oh God. That’s not a good sign. Maybe Nat and Elsa are right. Maybe I really do need help?

  Chapter 2

  My head’s as light as air and my whole body feels numb, as if it belongs to someone else. I stare at the back of Elsa’s head as the phrase ‘I can’t believe I’ve agreed to this’ plays through my mind again and again like a stuck record. Elsa’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel as she whizzes in and out between the rush of pulsating African taxis belting out their rap music. As she squeals through the amber traffic light up Goble Road and ignores the angry hooting and shouting of the taxis, she reminds me of that cartoon coyote with road rage I used to watch as a child.

  We blur past the tall, white-walled mansions on Musgrove Road, all gated and electrified from the lurking black danger outside. I know this road so well and yet it feels so strangely unfamiliar. I shiver from the air-con inside the car. Why did I let them talk me into this? Why? My hand grips the door handle. Maybe I should just fling myself out, smear myself across the hot tarmac and end this farce called life?

  Nat turns around and gives me a half-smile. She glances at my hand and reaches over to give it a squeeze. I shrug her away and seconds later we’re winding our way up a long, leafy driveway with a large sign: Welcome to Shaloma. I’m surprised they don’t have their slogan, ‘Place of hope and new beginnings’ and their status as Durban’s premier rehab printed below. I should’ve jumped while I had the chance.

  ‘This looks nice, Liss,’ says Nat as we pass under the dappled shade of tall wattles lining the driveway. I stare up at the thin, white-streaked trunks with their high clumps of rich green leaves. They look so serene, so strong and timeless. I wish I could just hide away in that greenness so that no-one could ever find me again.

  Chino-man with his fat, naked body vomits back into my mind. I clench my jaw and give my head a shake in an effort to get rid of him, but it’s no good; he remains squatting centre stage like some perverted toad. I’ll have to stick this out. I can’t let something like that happen again. I’ve got to get myself out the gutter.

  The long tarmac drive ends in front of a sprawling, whitewashed building. A wide wooden veranda draped with honeysuckle surrounds it, while a rolling lawn, dotted with clumps of purple hydrangea, stretches out in front. The green corrugated-iron roof gives it a farmhouse look and reminds me of those hazy childhood days on Aunty Yvonne’s Karoo farm. A buxom, fifty-something woman with a bun of blonde hair and a nurse’s uniform comes bustling down the wide front steps towards us. Her fat, round face and big blue eyes remind me of a cabbage-patch doll. She smiles broadly as she reaches the car.

  ‘One of you must be Melissa. Welcome, I’m Helen.’

  The air grows hot and I stifle the urge to run, screaming madly, back down the long driveway like some fleeing character in a horror film.

  Elsa climbs out of the car. ‘I’m Elsa, this is Natalie; we’re Lissa’s sisters.’

  I clench my jaw as my cheeks grow hot. Fuck Elsa and her lawyer façade, always pretending to be in control. I glare at her and get out of the car to mumble, ‘Hello.’

  Helen shakes my hand and smiles before turning to Nat and Elsa. ‘You two are welcome to come in and see Melissa into her room, but then I’m afraid you’ll have to leave and only see her after the treatment is over.’ She pauses and lowers her voice to a maternal tone. ‘That might seem a bit harsh, but it’s important for recovery.’

  I yank my suitcase from the boot without looking at either of my sisters and follow Helen, stiff-backed, into the building. A bright, lime-green wall greets me as we enter the tiled foyer. My breath sticks in my throat as a childhood memory of sitting at the Aquarium Wimpy Bar happily slurping up a lime milkshake with Dad comes flooding back. Lime was my favourite childhood colour.

  ‘Your room is down here in our female quarter.’ Helen’s voice breaks into my thoughts. I jerk my eyes away from the wall and follow as she pads down a long corridor. ‘The men’s bedrooms are on the other side of the building and the communal lounge and dining room are at the end of this corridor.’

  Nat comes up at the side of me and squeezes my arm. Pressure constricts my chest. I increase my pace. Helen stops halfway down the corridor and opens a door to reveal a room swathed in pink with a candy pink duvet covering the bed like a giant marshmallow while rose-coloured curtains frame the large, paned window and its ingrained iron bars. A mottled, pink shaggy rug in the middle of the wooden floor completes the room’s rosy hue. I know pink is the stereotypical girlie colour, but it feels a bit over the top. I let out a wry laugh. I wonder if it’s blue for the boys in their segregated rooms. The childhood rhyme of ‘Pink and blue will never do cause all the boys will wink at you’ reverberates in my mind. This is ridiculous; it’s like being back at school.

  ‘There’s a wardrobe and dressing-table for your things and your en suite is through here.’ Helen pushes open a door to reveal a white tiled bathroom with bleached towels and a white bathmat. It’s bland and a bit clinical, but at least it’s a pink-free spot.

  ‘You’ve got your own tea and coffee facilities and we’ll bring fresh milk every day if you wish. I’ll leave you girls alone in a minute; the rules and regs are in that book on the dressing-table, but I’m afraid first I need to have a quick search.’

  I step back and stare at her. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I know it’s not nice, but it’s the rules, I’m afraid. You’ll be amazed at what some people try and smuggle in.’ She gives a maternal smile.

  My mouth drops open and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘It’s standard procedure, don’t worry,’ says Elsa. She picks up my suitcase and flings it open. The red lid clashes like a wound with the candy pink duvet. ‘Have a look through, Helen.’

  A cocktail of disbelief and anger washes through me. Since when is she an authority on rehabs? She stands smug and blonde in her pinstriped power suit and heels, and purposefully avoids my burning eyes. Nat moves towards me and pulls her you-know-what-Elsa’s-like face as Helen has a quick fumble through my things.

  ‘That’s fine, Melissa. Now just a quick pat down, dear.’

  I close my eyes as dark clouds of anger swirl and Helen’s hands pat up and down my body.

  ‘That seems fine,’ says Helen. ‘Right, I’ll leave you girls alone for a bit.’ She turns to me. ‘Don’t worry, the six weeks will fly by.’ She pads out and closes the door while an awkward hush consumes the room.

  ‘It’s certainly uber-pink,’ says Elsa. She stands tense, with her legs a little apart. Her face is se
t in a smile but a sad shadow flits across her eyes. I look away.

  ‘Can I help you unpack?’ Nat’s voice cracks and she hastily clears her throat and tries to look helpful by closing my case and smoothing the duvet around it.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I mumble.

  Nat bites her lip. ‘Sorry, Liss. I know it’s hard …’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it actually …’

  ‘It’ll be a turning point.’ Elsa comes towards me and tries to take my hand. I jerk away.

  ‘Leave it … I’m not a chronic alcoholic. I’m not.’

  Nat and Elsa say nothing, but I can read the disbelief in their eyes. ‘Oh, just go. Give my love to Mom and Yvonne. Have a fucking G & T together, why don’t you.’ But instead of leaving, my sisters remain staring at me with wide blue eyes like those girls in a Margaret Keane painting.

  ‘There’s a difference between having a drink and being dependant,’ says Elsa in a measured tone.

  ‘And how the hell do you know I’m dependant? Don’t you think I’m the one who should make that decision?’ My chest tightens as I spit out the words.

  Elsa takes a step back. ‘You agreed to come, Liss, and ultimately it’s the right decis …’

  ‘Why don’t you both go back to your cosy little lives with Dave and Greg? I’ve had enough. I just want to be alone.’ I stomp over to the window and turn my back, waiting for the clip-clop of their heels. Instead a heavy silence shrouds the room.

  ‘We’ll be back to get you at the end of the treatment. We all just want you well again.’ Nat comes over and puts her arm around my shoulder.

  I drop my head down and hold it in my hands. The reality of being left here alone for the next six weeks hits me. Oh God, it’s going to be so lonely. My heart pounds into my ears.

  ‘Remember we love you,’ whispers Elsa and uncharacteristically I hear her voice falter.

  I turn towards my sisters and give them a small nod accompanied by a tight smile. They both give me an awkward wave and make for the door. It clicks closed. God, I wish I could have a drink. If I’m going to get through this I need to shut them and everything else out of my mind. This is going to be far worse than I thought. Heaviness creeps over me like a darkening sky. I’m going to crack. I shouldn’t have come. I collapse onto the edge of the bed and bury my head in my hands.

  When I look up the sun has begun its downward journey across the sky. I go over to the dressing-table and page through the ‘Rules and regs’, as Helen called them. Bold letters along the top announce: All programme activities are designed to introduce structure, self-discipline and other qualities essential to ongoing recovery. What fun. Welcome to addict boot camp. This is going from bad to worse. Wake-up is at six-thirty, a ‘tidy room’ at six-forty five, followed by an inspection and then breakfast at seven. What the hell do I need a room inspection for? I’m not in boarding school, for shit’s sake.

  My shoulders hunch over as I skim-read the daily timetable. This isn’t some spa break where I can relax and be pampered; it’s an institution with therapies, doctor visits and medication. Four medication slots are listed. No way are they going to drug me with anti-depressant shit. I know what Valium can do.

  I flinch at a soft knock at the door. It opens and Helen stands in the doorway, a black bag in her hand. ‘Have you managed to unpack?’

  ‘No.’

  My chest tightens as she comes into the room and sets the bag down on the dressing-table. ‘It’s okay, my dear. The first day’s always the worst.’

  ‘What’s this …?’

  ‘I have to check your vital signs.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Detoxing can be dangerous,’ says Helen.

  I roll my eyes at her patronising tone and feel like I’ve regressed twenty years.

  Helen carries on as if she’s oblivious to my resentment. She takes out a blood pressure monitor and stethoscope from the bag before pulling forward the dressing-table stool. ‘Please sit over here, Melissa,’ she says. ‘This won’t take long.’

  I remain on the bed for a few seconds before clicking my tongue and plonking myself on the stool. Helen tightens a pressure bandage around my bare arm and then records my blood pressure reading on a sheet. I sit tense and hunched as she takes out a stethoscope. ‘If you’d like to just lift your shirt, I’ll listen to your heartbeat. If needs be we’ll do an ECG.’

  I snatch up my satin shirt and flinch as the cold steel touches my chest. ‘Is this really necess …?’

  ‘We’ve quite a number of clients who need admission to hospital, I’m afraid,’ interjects Helen sharply. ‘I do need to do a basic check for you to stay.’

  I pull down the sides of my mouth. A part of me hopes there will be something wrong just so I can get the hell out.

  ‘Not too bad,’ says Helen, filling in her sheet. ‘I’ll just take your pulse. When did you last have a drink?’

  ‘The day before yesterday,’ I mumble as my cheeks grow hot.

  Helen places her fingers on my wrist and records my pulse.

  ‘Please hold your arms out in front.’

  I grimace and thrust out my arms. My hands tremble. I tense, trying to still them, but the quivering increases.

  ‘The shaking will ease with time,’ says Helen, scribbling more on my sheet. ‘Any bruising?’

  I keep my palms down and shake my head. Helen snaps the bag closed. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones. Some patients are in a very bad way when they arrive. Hopefully you’ve come in …’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Really?’

  My head jerks back at her sarcastic tone.

  ‘Acceptance of your problem is the vital first step. You know that, and so do your sisters.’

  ‘What the hell have they got to do with anything?’

  Helen studies me in silence for a few seconds. ‘You’re right. At the end of the day your recovery will be your decision and no-one else’s, but what you need to remember is that alcoholism is a fatal disease.’

  ‘Of course I know it’s a fatal disease,’ I snap, ‘but I’m not that type of drunk.’

  Helen ignores my outburst and points to a red button on the wall near my bed. ‘That’s a help button. There’s someone at the desk 24/7 so please press it if you need anything. There’s another in your bathroom, and if you need a sick pan, it’s under the bed.’

  I remain stony-faced while she pulls open the drawer of the bedside cabinet. ‘There’s a Gideon’s Bible in here with some highlighted passages that might help, and also some AA magazines to look through.’

  I let out a wry laugh. ‘Wonderful.’

  Helen moves to the door, then stops and turns. ‘It’ll get better. Remember we’re here to help.’ She gives me a smile. ‘Let me know if you need a sleeping pill later and try and drink as much water as possible.’

  ‘I’m not taking any medication.’

  ‘You don’t need to. You can have a chat to Dr Brink. Don’t worry, he’s lovely. We won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to, but my hope is that you’ll stick it out. This is rough, but it’s a turning point. You’re turning away from the nowhere road to one that will lead to victory. Keep that in your mind.’

  For some ridiculous reason her words make me want to cry and I rapidly blink my eyes.

  ‘There’s a cream tea at four-thirty in the lounge.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You do need to meet the others. We have three patients who have even chosen to stay for a further six weeks to really conquer their addiction, so I promise it won’t be as bad as you think. The lounge is straight down the end of the passage. You can’t miss it.’

  My chest tightens. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t, but it’ll be better if you do. Withdrawing from everything will make it worse.’ Helen’s tone is firm and measured.

  ‘So much for free choice,’ I snap.

  ‘I promise you’ll feel better tomorrow.’

  ‘What
are you, a bloody psychic?’ I mutter.

  ‘Four-thirty in the lounge … just down the corridor.’ Helen’s voice does not rise to meet my anger. ‘You do need to go.’

  The door closes. I throw my clothes into a pile on the floor. Oh God, I hate this. I really do.

  Chapter 3

  I push open the door at the end of the corridor marked The Lounge. It’s large and L-shaped, with magnolia walls and a bare pine floor. It smells strongly of polish and stale smoke. A woman stands with her back to me, gazing out of a floral-curtained bay window. She’s small with an explosion of pink punk hair and a fluorescent pink tracksuit with Doc Marten boots. Perhaps this place and its rose-tinted perspective colours you pink after a while? She turns, and I see she’s much older than I expect, probably late-thirties, with sunken cheeks and dark rings etched around her eyes. She gives me a smoke-filled smile, showing a row of small, bad teeth. I return a tight smile, but remain standing just inside the entrance.

  ‘I’m Hattie …’ Her voice has an ugly, rasping tone.

  ‘Melissa.’ I dig my nails into my palms and flinch. The bruising’s still surprisingly tender.

  ‘Used to be called Heroin Hattie,’ she speaks through another long exhalation of smoke. ‘What you here for?’

  I swallow. ‘Uh … not heroin.’

  A scornful smile slides across her face. She raises her eyebrows. ‘What then?’

  ‘I just drink a bit, that’s all.’ I clench my jaw at the admission. Damn Nat and Elsa. I should never have listened to them.

  ‘Sit,’ says Hattie as she plonks herself in one of the armchairs and gestures to the one opposite.

  I frown at her demanding tone but move towards the window and sit down. Hattie leans back and stretches out her legs. She takes a deep drag of her cigarette, leaving a fragile tower of ash tottering in its wake. She looks down her nose at it for a second and then flicks it expertly into a glass ashtray on the floor. It’s overflowing with a mound of ugly, unfiltered stubs, most of them stained with fuchsia lipstick.