by Amy Waeschle
Zach caught another wave and met up with Brody again. The tide would peak pretty soon, meaning the ocean would grant them only a few more waves before the added water dampened the peaks too much for surfing.
“What if you hired a P.I?” Brody said, squinting at him.
Zach looked at his friend, surprised. “I already looked into it, actually.” He circled his feet to keep the blood moving to his toes. “But those guys cost a hundred bucks an hour, plus expenses, plus a five grand retainer. Neither of us have that kind of cash. She’s still in debt from nursing school that she didn’t even finish, and I’m up to my ears with the house.”
“I get it,” Brody said. “And I get where you’re both coming from.”
Zach squinted at him—doubting this very much.
“I do!” Brody argued.
“I’ve actually thought about seeing if there’s something I can do, on my own,” Zach admitted. The idea had come to him yesterday, halfway down Marmot Pass, when his muscles had found their groove and his head had stopped replaying the sound of the rattling pills.
Brody had his studious face on again.
“I mean, Timberline is practically on my way home. What if I just straight up ask them where they think Evan ran off to?”
“Think they’ll tell you? Those places probably have a tight lock on intel.”
Zach shrugged. “I helped pay for Evan’s treatment. Doesn’t that give me some kind of right to know what they know?”
Brody’s eyes narrowed, like he was thinking. “Worth a shot.”
A set approached, and Zach scrambled to get into position for the first one. He and Brody both caught one, then rode the whitewash towards shore. Zach’s arms felt gloriously fatigued, his lungs pleasantly stretched.
“You sticking around?” Brody asked once they wrapped their leashes around their boards and waded from the shallows. “The evening high tide might produce.”
“No,” Zach replied. “I’m going to Timberline.”
Zach drove up the woodsy driveway leading to Timberline Wilderness School. Outside of his truck, the air felt cool and hushed, like he had entered some kind of enchanted forest. Ferns and salal arched into the shaded space surrounding the impressive log structure that served as the bunkhouse, kitchen, and main office. He’d called ahead and the director, a tall man with a goatee and an athlete’s gait, was waiting for him.
Zach knew the boys who came here had a decent shot at staying sober and that Timberline was a good place—a place that had seemed to help Evan through his hardships, pain, and struggles, but the walls spoke of money—everything was shiny and crisp and new. He remembered the tuition he and Dana had struggled to pay.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Zach said, sure his discomfort blared like a neon sign. Relax, Zach told himself, remembering the way Evan’s eyes were clear after graduating from here and the way his muscles didn’t tense every time Zach spoke.
They settled into their chairs inside the director’s office. Zach swallowed the dry lump in his throat. He craved a glass of water, or coffee. No, not coffee, he thought. He was jittery enough.
The director leaned his elbows on his shiny desk, and leaned forward. “I’m eager to help in any way I can,” he said, his mouth a thin line of sincerity. His eyes gave Zach complete focus, and although Zach appreciated this, it made him even more nervous.
“I’m just trying to figure out where Evan could be,” Zach said.
The director’s eyes creased with concern. “I have arranged for you to speak with our head counselor, Trey Martin.” The man peered at Zach. “Although because of patient privacy laws, I want to make it clear that there will be limits to what he can tell you.”
“The patient’s name is Evan,” Zach said, the flash of temper coming out of nowhere. It was the painting of the Olympic mountains and the smell of sandalwood and those voices of mothers pleading for this man to make their sons right again—it was getting to him.
“Yes, I remember him.” The director shifted in his chair, unruffled by Zach’s outburst. “He was well-liked.”
Zach looked out the window at the fern forest soaking up the dewy fog. Everyone liking Evan was his downfall. He was the entertainer, the kid who could make things happen, get whatever you wanted. It was a trap that had cost him his freedom.
“Trey is ready for you,” the director said, standing.
Zach’s questions zipped around in his head as he followed the director down the fern-lined path.
Trey’s office was a small cottage set on the far side of the property. If Evan had relapsed, why had he shown no sign of straying before he stopped returning Dana’s calls? He had been sober for nine months, had a job he liked, an apartment in Port Townsend. It appeared that he had his life on track.
Then there had been that final conversation. Dana had met him at the Mexican place, and halfway through the meal, they’d fought and Evan had dropped that bomb: I can’t have you in my life like this anymore. Dana returned home a complete mess; he’d had trouble making sense of what had happened.
Zach and the director passed an empty basketball court slick with dew then rounded the cottage. The door was ajar and Zach entered. Nature-themed artwork adorned the walls, and big windows overlooked thick salal bushes and madrone trees.
Trey Martin met him at the door wearing a button-down dress shirt, khaki pants, and mahogany-brown clogs on his feet. His young face broke into a smile that revealed a dimple on one cheek. He reminded Zach of the high school English teacher all the girls would have a crush on. Zach shook his hand, and then they both found their seats. Zach heard the door close behind him.
“Where are the boys?” Zach asked. A chocolate-colored Labrador introduced himself by placing his head on Zach’s knee. After Zach gave him a pat he returned to an overstuffed dog bed in the corner, collapsing with a grunt.
Trey consulted a small clock on his desk. “Group.”
Zach nodded. Group therapy. He wondered for the first time if Evan had talked about him in such meetings. Zach’s dating my mom again. He had the nerve to jump my shit the other day. Thinks he’s so cool because he surfs.
“Still no word from Evan, I take it,” Trey said.
Zach had heard this a hundred times but there was something different about Trey’s voice. Something genuine. “Are you surprised?”
Trey leaned back in his chair and gave him a long, pensive look. “Every recovering addict has his or her own journey.”
Zach sensed Trey’s scrutiny but tried not to let it make him squirm. “Did he keep in touch with you after he graduated?” His words sounded rushed so he forced a slow breath but the nervous feeling didn’t go away.
“I saw him at the nooner. Sometimes we’d shoot hoops after.” Zach tried to picture this pretty boy “shooting hoops” with recovering addicts.
The nooner. Zach remembered the term. It was the mid-day AA meeting held at a church in town. A lot of Timberline boys were encouraged to go. Trey and some of the other staff who were recovering addicts would also go. As well, meetings were held night, on weekends, in lots of different places. It was a smart tactic, surrounding these boys into the town’s AA community, who were very supportive.
“Did Evan have individual counseling sessions with you?”
Trey shifted. “Yes, he did.”
The dog stood up and turned around a few times before tucking into a tight ball and collapsing again onto his bed.
“Did he ever talk about his mom?”
Trey blinked. “We spend a lot of time focusing on family history.”
Zach suppressed a groan. The brick wall that was Trey’s privacy policy was going up fast. “When they last spoke, Evan asked for Dana to keep out of his life. Does that sound familiar?”
Trey’s face softened another notch. “I’m sorry, but those conversations are confidential. What I can tell you, though, is that for kids like Evan, once they get fixated on something, it can be very difficult for them to let go.”
Zach tri
ed to hide his frustration. “Would you have encouraged something like separating from her?” Zach asked, feeling a slow burn of anger grow inside his chest.
“It’s not our job to tell our boys what to do,” Trey replied, swiveling his chair. “We would have encouraged him to examine his reasons, and to think through the consequences of such an action.”
Zach’s temper spiked. “I don’t understand it,” he replied, his voice sharper than he intended. “If there’s anyone to blame here, it’s Evan’s father for walking out on them. Why would Evan want Dana out of his life?” He stopped, grimacing as flashes of memory played across his mind. God, the things Evan had done, Zach thought, shaking his head. “She did so much to help him, even as he broke her heart.”
“Naturally, you want to protect her,” Trey said.
Zach nodded. “Exactly.”
“How did that play out with your relationship with Evan?” Trey asked, his head tilting as he listened for Zach’s response.
The question caught him off guard. He looked away and breathed a slow breath to keep himself from shutting down. Not so fast, Doc, he thought. He switched gears. “Did Evan have a friend in Port Townsend? Someone he might have talked to?”
Trey didn’t seem ruffled that Zach hadn’t taken his bait. “He and Garrett got pretty close. But he’s been gone for awhile now.”
“Garrett,” Zach mumbled, remembering a skinny boy with white-blonde hair. They had gone through the program together and both had jobs at the boatyard.
“Do you know where I could reach him?”
Trey’s eyes shifted. “Try the boatyard.” He scrunched his face, thinking. “Or the skatepark.”
Zach pondered the phrase “gone for a while now” and wondered if that was Timberline code for relapse, feeling sick at the thought.
“Did Evan keep a journal?” Zach asked.
Trey placed his hand on a file sitting closed on his desk. “They’re standard issue around here but I’m afraid Evan wasn’t much for writing in his.”
Zach grimaced. Of course. Evan was dyslexic. Why hadn’t he remembered that?
“Could I take a look anyway?” Zach asked.
Trey glanced quickly out the window, where the main house’s big windows were easily seen. “I looked at Evan’s records. He only co-signed with Dana, not you.”
“Even though I helped pay your salary?” Zach replied, gritting his teeth.
“Yes,” Trey replied, completely unfazed.
Zach tried a different track. “I’m worried about Dana,” he said, knowing he was on fragile ground. “She’s obsessing over this. It’s starting to affect . . . ” He ran a hand through his hair. “If she just knew he was okay, she might be able to move on.”
“I understand,” Trey replied calmly.
They were talking in circles, Zach thought, his fury rising. He eyed the journal and an idea surfaced. “Did he have a girlfriend?” Evan always seemed to have someone. Zach remembered a girl Evan had dated his senior year of high school; she had long dark hair and shy eyes. He didn’t think he ever heard her speak. She seemed to grip Evan’s hand like it was sewn to hers.
Trey’s lips twitched in a kind of smirk. “He had a crush on Skye,” he said. “Most of them do,” he added with a deep sigh. “She’s one of our trek leaders.” Trey’s eyes brightened. “Doesn’t take any shit from them. They love it.”
One of Timberline’s winning aspects was its wilderness experiences or “treks” that they arranged for the boys each month. Evan had loved sailing and had attended Camp Orkila on Orcas Island every summer since he was ten years old, had even trained to be a counselor there, something he’d forgotten all about by the time he was sixteen. Dana thought he might reconnect with the outdoors at Timberline. It had seemed to work.
“So this girl, Skye, did they interact or see each other?”
Trey shrugged. “We have a rule here. Coffee dates with graduates of our program are fine, dating at six months, and sleeping together after one year.”
Zach wished he could erase the image of Evan sleeping with his trek leader. And Trey hadn’t answered his question. “Does she live in town?”
“She’s probably still at the fairgrounds. Lives in a blue bus.”
Zach tried to picture Evan pouring out his heart to a girl he wasn’t allowed to kiss. He needed that journal.
As if reading his mind, Trey slid the journal back into the large file, then stood.
A quick flash of his imagination played in his mind of pushing so-calm Trey to the floor and ripping the file from his shaking hands.
“I’ll walk you out,” Trey said, shuffling around the dog, who scrambled to follow him to the door.
Stunned by this idea of sudden violence, Zach turned and followed.
Chapter 10
Zach
It was after noon by the time Zach coasted to a stop next to the blue VW bus at the Port Townsend fairgrounds. The persistent fog clung to the short grass and the air held the autumn chill that would stick around until winter, when things got downright frigid. A fancy motorhome with an accompanying mini-car was parked near the entrance, a few rows past it he spotted the older-model blue Westfalia camper van. Otherwise the broad fairgrounds were empty.
Trey had told him that Skye was leading another trek in a week and then would relocate to Baja for the winter where she taught sailing and kayaking for an outdoor school. Maybe she knew something, or at least had an idea. Jessie had shared Evan’s letters with him, so wondered if the river crossing he’d written about had been as transformative as he claimed.
Zach pulled on his wool hat and crossed the dew-drenched grass to the door of the bus. Green curtains stretched the length of the windows; he did not see a light on inside. In the middle of the picnic table, the metal legs of her camp stove peeked out from beneath her cook pot. Nearby on the bench sat a small, clear Tupperware box containing silverware, cups, the like.
His cold fingers rapped on the metal door. Zach stamped his feet while he waited. Unless Skye offered any more leads for him to follow in Port Townsend, he would head home after meeting her in order to be ready for his shift the following day. The craving to be home with Dana pulled at him, but he pushed it back.
A face tucked into a colorful wool earflap hat peered through a crack in the curtain, then the door slid open and Skye’s blue eyes gave him a scorn.
Zach introduced himself. “Trey at Timberline told me how to find you,” he said. “Do you remember Evan Brinnon?”
Skye’s blue eyes lost their sharpness. “Let’s make a hot drink.”
Despite the weak sun leaking through the overcast haze, the picnic bench was still damp. Skye’s “hot drink”—tea with lemon and honey—warmed Zach’s fingers. She was clearly at home outside in her fleece pants and down coat; the fine hairs were burned off her index finger from lighting the stove day in and day out. He’d seen a mountain bike inside the van. Running shoes and sandy tracks. No wonder the boys loved her.
Her brow wrinkled. “So you’re the stepdad.” One of her long blonde braids slipped over her shoulder, brushing the tabletop. He put her at twenty-one, twenty-two max.
Zach shook his head. “His mom and I are . . . ” Dating wasn’t quite the word. Engaged definitely wasn’t right either, at least . . . He cleared his throat. “Have . . . been together for awhile.” That was closer, and easier than explaining their on-again-off-again pattern.
Skye’s dark lashes fluttered. There was something about her that made him feel . . . old. He sighed.
Skye blew on her tea. “Evan’s mom already talked to me. I don’t know where he is.”
There was tightness in her voice. Why? Zach decided that she was afraid. Anxious, maybe. “Did Evan ever confide in you? Talk about his plans after Timberline?”
Skye inhaled a deep breath and her shoulders looked pinched. She looked past him. “You know, at first, he was kind of a dick,” she said.
Zach blinked—that word coming out of such a pretty mouth hit him
like a splash of icy water.
“Evan had a problem with me being in charge.” She shrugged her pink lips. “It’s happened before.”
Zach tried to picture Evan taking orders from someone like Skye—not unless he thought it would get him into her pants.
“But something changed?” Zach asked.
Skye shrugged her lips again, seemed to decide something. “Stuff happened on that trek . . . ” her blue eyes watched him. “ . . . stuff that never happened before.”
Zach remembered how Evan seemed changed after a few months at Timberline. Humbled. His energy quieter, warmer.
Skye stood up. “I feel like going to the beach. You game?”
Zach rose. “Sure,” he said, even though his cold feet cramped with the sudden movement.
Skye climbed into the passenger seat of his truck and directed him the short distance to the beach. Having her in the truck felt disorienting. What would Dana say if she knew he was driving an attractive young woman to a remote beach? In better times she would have kidded with him, said something like: “Was she cute?,” expecting him to blush or fumble with his words. To which she would raise her eyebrows and say, “Why don’t you take me to bed and I’ll help you forget all about her?”
How he yearned for times like those again.
He parked in the empty dirt strip in front of a clump of beach grass. Beyond, the indigo-blue Strait of Juan de Fuca was stippled with an onshore breeze. Tiny waves curled against a sand-and-cobble beach. The lingering fog obscured what he figured would be a view of Whidbey and Vancouver Islands.
They left the truck and he followed Skye westward. The lowering tide had left a narrow swath of shiny wet sand the color of cement.
Skye had left her hat in the truck and her fresh, moon-like face framed by her day-old braids made her look younger than his original guess. Twenty-one seemed more like it. Evan was twenty.
“I’m going to tell you the truth,” Skye said.
Zach felt his quad muscles tense, as if to prevent him from stumbling.