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What the hell was I supposed to do now?
Abortion was off the table. But what now? Did I tell Drake? He had the right to know, but how would he feel about it? How would he react? He was battling his own demons right now. And what if he didn’t care? How would I feel then? I didn’t know what to do. Every step I made from here on out affected a growing child in my womb. Every emotion I felt, my child would feel too. Every piece of food I ate and every drink I consumed, would fuel my child, or not. I curled up on the cold bathroom floor, my tears silently dripping along my skin and pooling at my cheek.
This was a true crossroads in my life that would not only determine the trajectory of my life, but the trajectory of Drake’s and my child’s. What the hell was I supposed to do with that? How was I supposed to carry that weight on my shoulders? I had to figure out how I was going to support this child if Drake wanted nothing to do with it or me. I had to figure out my next step. As I heaved into the toilet, emptying the remaining contents of my stomach, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t think about Drake right now. The only thing that mattered was where I went from here. The first thing I needed to establish was a source of income.
CHAPTER 21
Drake
One Week Later
After three weeks of being in rehab, I was finally at a point where I could have visitors. I got one phone call a day and could call anyone that I wanted to contact. The group therapist urged us to use this time to make amends, apologize, and see who would still be there for us. My first phone call was to Tammy. I wanted to talk with my sister and hear how she was doing. Elsie talked with me about the latest book she was reading and how it was helping her to understand me a little more. It was a book on addictions and how they began, why they spiral out of control, and what someone could do to help.
It made my heart ache that Elsie felt the need to do that. It was like a punch in the gut, knowing I’d exposed her to a life like this one. I listened to her rattle off a series of facts, like what percentage of people never really pull through and how I had the odds on my side because the damn book told her the best thing I could have was a support system.
The second day I called Hank. I wanted to know how things were going and if I had any sort of career to come back
to. I figured we would take the time to talk through things on the phone, but he was adamant about coming to see me.
So, later that day, I had my first visitor.
“Drake! Ya look good.”
“I feel like shit,” I said.
“Thought you were supposed to feel better after having all that shit out of your system,” he said.
“Not physical shit. Emotional shit. Mental shit. Too many different kinds of shit in here to name, Hank. I hate it.”
“Well, from here it looks to be helping. They feeding you good here? Got a nice tone to your skin and all.”
“What, are you hittin’ on me?” I asked, a wry grin on my face.
“Shut up. Damn. Just trying to tell you this place is doing you some good.”
“What do you got for me that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” I asked.
“The media’s caught wind of you being in rehab, and for a while there it was touch and go. Some magazines and news outlets saw it as a good thing, but others were bashing you for it.”
“Figures. Now, give it to me straight. Do I have a career to come back to or not?” I asked.
“Your former record label dropped you. Didn’t wanna be associated with an addict. But another, better one picked you up.”
“What?” I asked. “Who?”
“Warner Bros. Records.”
I almost swallowed my tongue when he said the name.
“Are you fucking joking?” I asked.
“Not one damn bit. They heard you were dropped and called me immediately. Said they wanted to do a deal with the man clawing his way back to the light. They love your story. They wanna do a whole record that tells it from front to back,” Hank said.
“My story.”
“Yep. Which is why I’ll need your signature when you get out of here on the final paperwork. It means telling some hard stories. Like about the death of your wife and daughter and your struggles with your sister,” he said.
“What does Delia think?” I asked.
