Ghost, drugs, and memories

         
We moved the little amount of boxes and suitcases into the empty living room of

the apartment. The walls still had the lingering scent of fresh paint and the carpet

was still badly stained despite the recent shampooing. My mother looked over at

me and smiled her face a mask of hope.

“Its not so bad, and it’s ours. It’s a place to call home.”

I suppose that meant a lot to both of us in that moment. We had just been reunited

after a thirteen-month separation. One month for every year that I was alive, and

despite having missed her greatly my overwhelming feelings of abandonment and

anger had not resided.


“It’s pretty nice for a dump.”


I snapped, breaking that hopeful smile spread idiotically on her face. She turned,

addressing the brown boxes, and began unpacking our lives once again. She pulled

the bubble wrap off a circular painting and handed it to me.

“Find a place to hang this.”  She smiled again.

Yet, beneath her eyes was a clouded ocean, an emptiness that still threatened to

consume her. I took the painting from her, studying it.  One large oval canvas with a

bright waterfall painted on it. A mystical green forest surrounded the waterfall and

upon close inspection you could see bears and other assorted animals hidden in

the foliage. Fish jumped up from the sparkling pool at the bottom. I had always

enjoyed the painting; it had always given me the feeling that any moment I could

step through this world and into that imaginary landscape.

“How did you get this Mom?” I asked.

She chuckled and shrugged at me.

“ I took it off the wall at the clinic. It didn’t belong there. You know Jan would rather

that I had it anyhow.”

Her eyes took on that melancholy again, and I turned away from her. I felt a pull at

my heartstring, and held back the tirade of sadness and confusion as I hung the

painting on the living room wall.

Later that night, as my mother slept, I sat in our sparsely furnished living room

gazing at the painting. I thought of Jan, my mothers only friend as she so often had

referred to her. A tall woman with a big frame, she always wore a tie died shirt and

spandex shorts. Her stringy brown hair pulled away from her face in a ponytail and

deadpan eyes that stared out from thick old lady glasses. Jan was eccentric; she

was an artist with a sensitive soul. My mother took a liking to her immediately. The

two women shared many common ties.

However, Jan was dead now. Which made trying to remember all the details of who

she was seem so much more important. I thought back to the time when my

mother and I had first met her, two years previously. Staring hard at that cascading

waterfall now on our living room wall, I realized I had seen this painting far before I

ever laid eyes on Jan herself. This painting hung on the wall of The Allied Clinic, a

methadone clinic in downtown Portland.

My mother had been going to this clinic for about three months, though it wasn’t

her first time to seek out such a place. The on going battle between her and the

heroin demon had begun almost twenty years prior.
“Good Morning Claudia!”

The young blonde nurse from behind the window sang out. My mother took her

dose and chatted with the nurse as I stared up at the painting. In this sterile,

windowless room it hung against the beige wall with brightness like the sun parting

the blanket of storm ridden clouds.

“Do you like it?” A gritty female voice behind me inquired.

From my perch on the waiting room chair I turned my head, startled.  Their Jan

stood, a soft amused smile playing on her lips.

I nodded vaguely, at this colossus of a woman wearing bright colors that set of her

ashen complexion.

“Well, cat got your tongue or what? I don’t bite!”

I giggled nervously in response and nodded, still speechless.

“You making friends little lady?”

My mother’s voice inquired from behind me. She came to my side and lovingly

tasseled my dark hair.

“Your daughter was just admiring my painting.” Jan explained.

My mother smiled at her.

“I see, well my name is Claudia, and this is Jayne.”

I beamed my big brown-eyed smile up at her and stuck out a pudgy hand.

“Hello, I like your painting very much.” I finally managed to respond.

Jan threw her head back and laughed a soul laugh that seemed to quake the whole

room.

“Well it’s very nice to meet you both. You must be new around her Claudia, I’m

sure I would have seen you before.”

My mother shifted her weight nervously.

“Yeah, I’m pretty new I guess. Are you a counselor or something?”

Again that infectious laugh erupted from her and she shook her head.

“No man, I’m just like you. In various states of recovery.”

With that my mother broke her nervous façade and chuckled as well. Within those

moments the storm of their friendship was born, a force so strong and ultimately

destructive both women would never be the same again.

We came to find that Jan lived not far from us and within a matter of months she

became a constant fixture in our lives. She was currently raising her granddaughter,

as her own son had gone off the deep end of heroin oblivion. Jan had been in

recovery for five years. She was still in the midst of fighting a twenty-year battle with

drug addiction. She had been married, and then divorced; she had mothered two

children, and had them take from her at various points. She had lived on the

streets, after loosing her family home. She had stolen and lied to provide for her

addiction. It was the sad junkie story, a story I would hear differing versions of from

so many mouths.

Natalie was her pride and joy, a ten-month-old baby girl with huge hazel eyes and a

tuft of dark hair. When Jan spoke of her granddaughter it was always with beaming

pride and immense love. I believe in many ways that little girl was a reprieve for her,

and she truly believed that she could right so many of the wrongs she had

committed with her own children. Many years later my mother would feel the same

sense of absolution with her own grandchild.

Jan was fighting for custody of Natalie, and it was an arduous process considering

her colorful past. Still she fought with the fierceness that only love can provide. She

was riding the crest of that immense wave of faith, oblivious that it could all come

crashing down upon her. So, when a tall man in a dark suit showed up on Jan’s

doorstep she opened the door without the slightest hesitation.

This plastic looking man held out his clammy hand and then explained that he was

from children’s protective services. Jan looked at that hand and never touched it,

she stood in shock as the man collected Natalie and took her away. Jan would

never see her granddaughter again. Within a month Jan would be dead.