Return of the Trickster Eden Robinson (sight word readers TXT) 📖

Jared knew what he was in for, knew it bone deep. Couple of days of feeling as if he had the worst flu in the world, of knowing that relief was only a beer away. Then, after the withdrawal, the raw, wide-open sobriety. Feeling skinned alive, nothing but nerve ends.

He wasn’t in it to win it. He’d stay sober long enough to make sure his mom lived, Mave lived, Sarah lived. If he could. He’d had a future, but now it was gone and all he had left was protecting the people who were still alive. He couldn’t do that from the bottom of a case of beer.

Once it was all over, he’d obliterate himself. Drink till there was nothing left and his organs ran away to escape the sinking ship, those rats.

Not exactly a winning strategy, as his mom would say.

He was here to yell if anyone came near Mave. That’s it. That’s all. Over and out. Like a dog tied up in the yard. Bark, bark.

“You okay?” Mave said from the bathroom doorway.

He gave her two thumbs up. Tried not to be sarcastic about it. If sarcasm was a weapon that could kill people, he’d be Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, feared, rolling over everyone. But really, sarcasm was just another dysfunctional coping mechanism he’d picked up and he couldn’t get off the bathroom floor, much less contribute to a fight.

“Want a coffee?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, his voice raspy.

—

Mave did not understand the headache he had. She kept chatting as if he could hear her through his splitting skull. Light chatter. Chit-chat. She followed him back to his bedroom. He crawled into bed and pulled the blankets over his head. Eventually, she left and came back with two Tylenol and an Ativan, bugging him until he pulled the blanket down.

“Just sleep through it,” she insisted.

He took the two Tylenol and left the Ativan.

“Don’t be a martyr,” she said.

Not up to words anymore. The trick is not to replace one addiction with another. That is the trick. He’d been a party dude in his day, with access to everything he wanted through his mom and Richie. Even sex was a dim pleasure compared with being bombed, buzzed. But he still used it to avoid the work. Flight delay. Flying the friendly skies. Words. Sarcasm.

“It’s there if you need it,” Mave said.

—

Drifting, he remembered. The ocean had heaved around them, whitecaps, brisk salt air. He and his mom and dad were down the Douglas Channel one weekend, on a boat borrowed from his dad’s work buddy, a thirty-foot pleasure craft, an older model with cream-coloured fibreglass and seventies-orange seats that doubled as flotation cushions, reeking of mildew. Jared had no sea legs and spent the first bit lying on the bunk. He finally felt well enough to fish and his line tugged the second he cast it in the water. His dad reeled it in for him. A steelhead as tall as Jared, heavy, monstrous.

“Club it!” his mom yelled as it thrashed on deck.

This was the year before things fell apart. Before his dad wrecked his back in an accident and went on painkillers. Before he found Shirley and left Maggie. Before the mill closed.

Phil bonked the steelhead with a fish club a couple of times and then cleaned it because Jared was nauseous again. His mom had been irritated that Jared wasn’t manning up.

“You let him get away with murder,” she’d said to Phil.

After the divorce, he’d slept in his mom’s bed when she didn’t have a boyfriend. Only now, looking back, did Jared realize what that meant: she needs people as much as he does. She hides it better. But behind closed doors, she’d spooned him on her bed well past the time they should be spooning, well past the time it was normal or healthy. Fine, it wasn’t as though she’d breast-fed him, but he hadn’t thought about what that meant until now, when Mave was constantly coming in to fuss, adjusting his blankets, bringing him water, touching his forehead. Things his mother didn’t have the patience for.

She did kill for him. Otters, people, coy wolves. The particular way she showed love: ending people who wanted to end him.

Logistically, he didn’t have to juice to fart, much less bring anyone else to another universe. Emotionally? Bark, bark. He was a little dog in a world of wolves. Coy wolves, angry hybrids.

“Thanks, Mave,” he said as she brought him soup he had no intention of eating.

Wanting her out of the room but not dead. Willing to be sober long enough to see her on her merry way before he went his.

—

Kota showed up and sat on the desk chair. No smart remarks or greetings. Didn’t pull out his phone. Didn’t ask if he needed anything. Mave came in with another glass of water.

“Can you get him to take this Ativan? He’s not listening to me.”

“Aunt Mave,” Kota said. “That shit’s more addictive than booze.”

“My doctor gave it to me for panic attacks. It’s just something that calms you down. It’ll help him sleep through this.”

“How many did your doc give you?”

“Six. I can get more.”

“He only gave you the six because they are as addictive as hell. It’s like you’re trying to give Jared meth.”

Silence. Then Mave frowned. “Maybe we can get him to a dry-out.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He’s suffering.”

“Mave,” Jared said. “I’m fine.”

“See?” Kota said. “Besides, there’s waiting lists. There’s hoops to jump through. By the time he gets into rehab, he’ll be dried out and getting his next one-year chip.”

“You aren’t fine. Maybe we should bring him to emergency.”

“No,” Jared said.

“Aunt Mave, give your bottle of Ativan to Justice to keep at her place. Now.”

“But he might need it.”

“When the cravings hit, you get tired and you get weak and you’re making it easy for him to slip.”

“Oh,” she said, meeting Jared’s eyes.

“Take a break,” Jared said. “Go for a walk. It’s just something I need to get through. I like it