Hannah Gersen - Home Field

She was hooked to an IV, an apparatus she had at first rejected, but the first nurse told her to relax, that it was water, and that it would make her feel better while she waited for the doctor. She didn’t feel better. She didn’t feel worse, though. The drug’s power was possibly waning. She had figured out that she wasn’t drowning. It was more like she was on a raft in dangerous currents and if she didn’t hold on, she would go under. But she thought she could hold on. And it was easier in the hospital, surrounded by officious uniformed people who had seen every variety of agony.

Theresa returned with a bag of M&Ms, a bag of potato chips, and a Diet Coke.

“Sweet or salty?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry yet.”

Theresa sat down on a plastic chair next to the examining table. She opened her Diet Coke and the pop-and-fizz sound it made was briefly pleasing to Stephanie. For a split second she got a glimpse of what ecstasy would be like if she were a happier person, deep down.

“You feeling any different?” Theresa asked.

“A little,” Stephanie said.

“Well, it has to wear off soon, right?” Theresa’s long hair had dried completely but was uncombed, with flyaways and random curly pieces. She looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry I ruined your night,” Stephanie said.

“You didn’t ruin anything. I was just writing some boring paper. This is way more interesting.” Theresa smiled tentatively. “You know I’m kidding, right?”

“I know you are,” Stephanie said. “You’re so nice. I’ve been. . not nice.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t realize what was going on with you.”

“I didn’t, either.”

“I wish I’d known,” Theresa said. “I feel bad.”

“Why do you feel bad?”

“Because I thought you were mean. I was really judgmental. I thought your dad seemed nice. It never occurred to me that there was another side to things. I feel like I should have guessed.”

“I’m the one who should feel bad,” Stephanie said.

“Look at us: two girls competing over who should feel worse about herself.”

“We’re a triumph of feminism.”

Theresa held up her Diet Coke ironically.

Stephanie smiled. She felt like she might start crying again. “Thank you,” she said. “I really mean that.”

“It’s no big deal,” Theresa said. She took a sip of her soda. “I hope you don’t mind, but I called your dad. I wasn’t going to tell you except that I ended up leaving a message. I called a bunch of times. I thought maybe he was screening.”

“What did you say?”

“Just to call you at school. That’s it.”

Stephanie’s thoughts began to ramp up again. Her father always answered the phone. She felt her mind reaching for reason, clinging to the raft. “How did you even know his number?”

“I’ve written it down enough times. Sorry, I felt like I should call him, in case something happened.”

“It’s okay,” Stephanie said. “I just don’t want to involve him if I don’t have to.”

There was a knock at the door and a doctor came in. Theresa excused herself for the examination. The doctor was young, with a goatee and a sort of unformed look about his mouth, as if he’d heard an off-color joke and couldn’t decide whether or not it was okay to laugh. He worked quickly, chatting as he checked her vitals. He explained he was a resident and that it was a busy night. He asked her what she’d taken and how she was feeling, giving no indication of his opinion of her behavior. His breath smelled like coffee and licorice gum. When he was finished examining her, he put his clipboard down and took a step back.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You have a slight temperature, but that’s normal with this drug. Your blood pressure is good. Physically, you’re fine. But you did a really dumb thing.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because this is not a soft drug. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. First of all, I don’t know where you got it, but unless you made it yourself, you really have no idea what’s actually in it. I am not exaggerating when I say you could have poisoned yourself to death. Second, even if you assume it’s pure MDMA, you basically flooded your brain with serotonin and dopamine. You know what those are, right? They’re the feel-good chemicals, okay? But they’re supposed to be regulated. Your brain keeps them in check — behind doors, let’s say. But MDMA, it comes in and it beats down those doors and rips them off the hinges. So now your brain has to repair all those doorways.”

“I already feel bad.”

“Well, you’re going to feel worse.” He detached her IV. “You’re going to be down, really down, depressed. There’s nothing you can do; it’s the hangover of this drug. So be aware.”

“Okay,” Stephanie said, holding back tears. She felt like the doctor thought she deserved to be depressed. “What do I do now?”

“There’s no treatment; you have to wait for the drug to wear off. I can’t keep you overnight unless I send you up to Psych, and I don’t think you want that. It’s not the right place for a girl like you.”

She wanted to ask him what he meant by “a girl like you.” Did he think she was spoiled? Sheltered? Suicidal? She wasn’t any of those things, but why would he give her the benefit of the doubt? She had the urge to see the Shanks, wanting the comfort of being around people who thought she was smart and sensible. But if she called them to pick her up here, would they still think that?

“You should wait until morning to go home,” the resident said. “It’s almost three, so you don’t have that long to wait. You can go to the cafeteria or wait in the lobby. I’m sure this won’t be your first all-nighter.”

“Okay, thanks,” Stephanie said. Shame rippled through her, the resident’s unspoken assumptions filling up the room. She stayed seated on the metal examining table for a few minutes after he left, trying to gauge the progress of the drug. But now it was hard to separate the intensity of the high from the intensity of the situation. All she knew was that she couldn’t calm herself in any of the usual ways.

Theresa was dozing on a sofa in the waiting area. Stephanie didn’t wake her. Instead she went to the pay phone and called her father. He didn’t pick up. She hung up right before the machine answered and dialed two more times, repeating the pattern. Still no answer. She wanted to believe that he was sleeping so deeply he couldn’t hear the phone, but she couldn’t convince herself of that.

She called the Shanks next. She didn’t know the number by heart and had to check her wallet, where she kept the pink sticky note with their number and address. Her mother had given it to her last fall, back when Stephanie first expressed an interest in seeing them. The sight of her mother’s handwriting, so round and buoyant and girlish, filled Stephanie with remorse. She thought of what the doctor had said, about the depression coming her way. She tried to project herself to a place beyond the drug’s hangover, but it was like her mind could only go downhill.

JOELLE WANTED DEAN to stay for lunch after church, but he was eager to take the boys home, to spend the afternoon doing Sunday things, the chores and errands that would help prepare them for the week ahead. For the first time since the beginning of the year, he was looking forward to his job. He didn’t even mind that Garrett was coming over to “pick his brain” in advance of “A Night with the Coach,” the Q&A that the Boosters hosted every year, midseason.

He drove fast down the bumpy farm lane and into town, where he stopped at the market for lunch meat, bread, and potato salad. The boys waited in the car, and when he came back, they were arguing over the radio. Robbie had tuned it to the Top Forty countdown, but Bryan wanted to listen to a tape of Christian music that Joelle had given him. On the radio, a girl with a warbly voice seemed to split the difference with a secular song about souls being saved.