Come Clean
Mesmerising, moving novel from an exceptional author about one girl’s struggle to cope after being wrongly admitted to a boot-camp-style rehabilitation centre. A powerful and page-turning read.Justine is trying to cope with the desperate loneliness she feels now her twin brother, Joshua, no longer lives at home. After trying to drown her feelings with her first ever experiment with alcohol, she is woken early by her mother one Sunday morning. Bundled into the car by her livid parents, Justine is driven to Come Clean, a rehabilitation centre for drug addicts and alcoholics. Confused, vulnerable and covered with vomit from her first hangover, Justine is forcibly admitted to cure her “addiction”.There she begins a strict boot-camp routine of humiliation and discipline, where they attempt to strip her of her identity in order to rebuild her a better person. Justine escapes the daily torture at the centre by talking to Joshua in her head, reflecting back on their childhood and trying to puzzle out why her brother was a tortured soul… and why he chose to leave her.Because of the intensely personal nature of the narrative, this book engages the reader instantly and, however tough the subject matter, it is a real page-turner. At its heart, Come Clean is about a girl's inability to deal her grief and her family’s ignorance of her pain. Justine shows strength, resilience, courage and hope while living a nightmare reality.This is a book which should and will attract controversy, as teenagers and society struggle to identify the problems and the treatment for drug and other teenage addictions.
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Come Clean
Terri Paddock
To my sister and all other Straight survivors
Table of Contents
You, Joshua, had a problem.
Joshua had a problem, many problems; Joshua was problematic – this was what everyone said, as they looked to me, their eyes formed like question marks, curving into pointless concern.
Joshua is a problem, and, God forgive me, I listened, nodded, agreed. Which, by association, must mean I’m a problem too.
I’m busy in the swimming pool, dreaming of you and me under water, gripping on to each other’s chubby wrists, our cheeks big and round with stored breath, our eyes big and round and locked on each other, the chlorine on our skin, bubbles ringing our faces and our feet kicking out behind us. And when I rise reluctantly to the surface, away from the water-mottled laughter, the heartbeat in my head and the hum of trying not to breathe, I’m dry and nowhere near the pool.
I don’t hear the alarm or any other sound. On a Sunday there should be bustling about – Dad shouting for Mom to find his tie with the blue stripes, Mom shouting for Dad and everyone to hurry up, the smell of brewing coffee that Dad drinks by the mugful to stay alert during the minister’s sermon. There’s nothing.
I attempt to pry my eyes open but my lashes have bound themselves together. I rub at my lids. I’m in the rollaway bed again, in your room, looking up at walls and ceiling, blinded windows, bed frame. The clock face looms somewhere on the night stand above my head. 10:47 a.m. We’re cutting it fine. I should bolt out of bed immediately, but…
I let my head fall back into its hollow in the pillow and try with all my might to lie very, very still. But the stillness only draws attention to the trouble spots. My head’s exploding. My mouth is completely coated in a foul-tasting furry substance, my tongue swollen, glued to my teeth and the roof of my retainer. My muscles ache, my skin feels tight and goosepimply at the same time, the hairs on my arm stand up like the bristles of a brush. Down below, my stomach burbles, daring me to make any sudden moves.
I turn my nose into the pillowcase for comfort. It hasn’t been washed since and I can still smell you there. I sink into that smell.
Footsteps pound heavily along the hallway overhead. They’re on the stairs, avalanching down. I hold my head as the door swings open, banging hard against its stop at the back. Mom flicks the light switch and the brightness makes me wince.
‘Get up.’ She’s wearing her navy woollen dress and already has her hair combed and sprayed into place, her nose powdered, navy pumps buffed.
I whimper.
‘Get up. Now, Justine.’
‘Mom, I don’t feel so good. I think I might be sick.’
She makes a noise. ‘You’re not sick. That’s not sickness you’re feeling and you know it.’
‘But Mom, we’re not going to church, are we?’
‘Suddenly you’re too good for praying?’
‘We’ll be late, you hate ducking in late.’
‘We won’t be late. Not if you get a move on.’
‘But Mom…’
‘But Mom nothing. Get up, I said. Do you hear me? Now! Get!’
Her voice has the edge. I prop myself up unsteadily on one elbow.
‘We’re going to church and then we’re going to the mall. We’ve got errands to run, lots of errands. We’re leaving in ten minutes and I expect you to be dressed and ready.’
She yanks the door to on her way out, my head cracking between the hinges. Ten minutes. I throw back the sheets and swing my feet to the floor, but as soon as I pull myself erect, my stomach lurches. Vomit rises in my throat as I dash to the bathroom.
I crouch over the bowl there. The porcelain’s cool, smooth like vanilla ice cream against my cheek, and the nausea subsides.
Delicately, I get to my feet, brush my teeth and retainer, scrub my tongue and splash water on my face, then stagger back into your room to dress. There’s no time for a shower or even to venture upstairs to my closet for a decent outfit. The blouse I was wearing last night is soiled with God-knows-what and my pantyhose ruined from a shoeless midnight sprint across the muddied football field. I dump them in the trash can. My tartan skirt’s wrinkled but passable and, thankfully, long, and I find an old turtleneck at the back of one of your half-empty drawers.
