Page 70

sixty-nine f

Nails and Ricki

I f I danced three nights a week, I could pay my bills and attend school during the day. It wouldn’t be easy, but the program lasted only three months and could be my ticket to survival.

All the students at Athena were recent high school graduates, except for two women in their late twenties and me. Homework was minimal, classes were fun and interactive. I took to nails like I’d taken to dancing. Customers in our student clinic asked for me, which boosted my self-esteem and enthusiasm for my new career.

I needed a clear head for class, which meant I needed to limit my drug and alcohol intake. I still had a drink before each set, and I still partied on the weekends. But now I had a goal, maybe a reason to live.

A clearer head meant I saw my friends from a different perspective. Missy, Ricki, and Diana were barely thirty years old. At the rate they were partying, they wouldn’t see forty, especially Ricki.

Speed and cocaine kept Ricki going through her shifts; alcohol and downers helped her sleep. She rarely ate. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s balanced between her legs when she drove. Her hands shook, the circles under her bloodshot eyes deepened, and her speech became less and less coherent.

Ricki had always been one step ahead of me in the drug world. When I needed to reassure myself I was okay, I’d think, At least I’m not as far gone as Ricki. But the night she tumbled off the stage at Dream Girls, I knew something had to be done to save her.

Ricki’s mother lived in Atlanta with Ricki’s daughter, Tiffany. Her mother had an inkling of her daughter’s substance abuse, but I doubted she knew the severity of her condition. Would I be betraying Ricki’s trust if I reached out to her mother? Probably, but it didn’t matter. My friend’s life was at stake.

I drove Ricki home that night and tucked her in bed with her bottle of Jack. An ashtray of pills sat on her nightstand. I thought about removing them, but they could be downers, which would help her get the sleep she needed.

I went through her things, found her address book, and her mother’s number.

It was close to two o’clock in the morning when I called from Ricki’s kitchen. A muffled voice answered.

“Mrs. McHenry, I’m sorry to call so late. It’s about Ricki.”

The woman’s voice snapped to attention. “What happened? Is she alive?”

I explained Ricki’s condition as kindly and rationally as I could. “She needs help.”

“I’m sure I can get a flight in the morning,” she said. “Can you stay with her until I get there?”

“Of course.” I’d miss class the next day, but my friend’s life was more important.

I found an extra blanket and pillow and lay on Ricki’s couch. Every hour or two, I checked to make sure she was still breathing.

In the morning I made myself a pot of coffee and scanned the Yellow Pages for rehab centers. I was surprised to find an entire column of centers throughout central New Jersey. I tore the page from the book.

Ricki lay comatose, alongside her bottle of Jack, until late afternoon when a taxi dropped Mrs. McHenry at the apartment.

“You may have saved my daughter’s life,” Mrs. McHenry said. “Thank you.”

“I’d do anything for Ricki. Will you be taking her to rehab?” I handed her the Yellow Pages list.

“First, I think we need to get her to a hospital. Ava, can you dial 9-1-1?”

I made the call, then helped Mrs. McHenry awaken and dress her daughter. When the EMTs arrived, I showed them into the bedroom.

Ricki’s mother and I waited in the living room. “You may as well go, Ava. I’ll ride with her in the ambulance and call when we have more information.”

Part of me felt I was abandoning my friend, but I was confident she’d get the help she needed.

That evening, Mrs. McHenry called to say her daughter would be hospitalized for a few days, then moved to a rehab facility.

“Where will she be? Will I be allowed to visit?” I asked.

“Ricki and I have your number. We’ll be in touch.”

I waited a week before calling Ricki. I wasn’t surprised when no one answered. A call to Mrs. McHenry went to her answering machine. I received no return call. I drove past Ricki’s apartment. Her car hadn’t moved since Diana and I had brought it back—a sure sign she’d been taken to rehab. I decided to wait out the month before reaching out again.

By mid-March 1986, no one had heard from Ricki. I called her number and learned it had been disconnected. Mrs. McHenry’s number in Atlanta had been changed to an unlisted number. Ricki’s car was gone and a FOR RENT sign hung in her apartment window.

If Ricki had died, someone would have contacted me. I suspected she’d gone to Atlanta with her mother, who was restricting contact with her druggie pals.

w

I graduated from Athena in April, passed my state licensing exam, and found a part-time job at Bella’s Salon in Princeton. I enjoyed the work and the calm vibe of the shop. Instead of the pounding rhythm of the bars, soft new age sounds wafted from overhead speakers. I found a friend in Martie, the owner, who was about my age.

“I’d love to hire you full time, Ava,” Martie said.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I could pay my bills as a full-time nail tech.” I wasn’t ready to quit dancing, the only world I’d known for more than fifteen years.

“Then go the full cosmetology route. You’ll have your choice of careers—hair, makeup, facials—I’ll even help with tuition.”

“I’ll think about it. And thank you.” I hugged her.

I did think about it—a lot. It was almost as though God was handing me a plan for redemption. All I had to do was say “yes” and my life would work out. What was holding me back?

I reflected on the past during my drive home that evening. I’d never known peace or serenity. I’d lived an anxiety-filled life since I was a teen. Fear of abandonment was my reality. The tighter I held onto false crumbs of love, the worse my life became. I’d gone from one abusive relationship to another.

My thoughts drifted to Ricki. If she’s sober, there’s a chance for me. If she’s dead, I’ll mourn her and follow in her footsteps one day soon.

When I got home, I wrote Ricki a letter. I kept it simple and caring. On the envelope I wrote, “Please forward.” At best, it would find her. At worst, it would go to her mother and add to her heartbreak.