“I guess that’s all right then.”
I look up at him, smiling brightly. “Thank you, Zack, you’re a lifesaver.”
He doesn’t look so sure, but he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone.
“I’ll be back in a sec.”
I walk the phone far enough away so he can’t overhear my conversation and lean against a tree, hiding myself from the lodge. I dial Greer’s number, praying she’ll pick up. Instead, I get her voice mail.
“This is Greer. Make it short.”
Fuck. Well, here goes nothing.
“Hey, Greer, it’s Katie. Thanks again for visiting me the other day, that was awesome. Anyway, I, um, need a favor. I know this is going to sound weird, but it would really help me out if you could call this guy. His name is Bob. He needs to send me something here, but for reasons I can’t get into, he can’t send it to me directly.”
I pause. That totally sounded like I’m asking her to make a drug-connect. Shit.
“OK, that came out kind of wrong. It’s something for work, not drug or alcohol related, I swear. And I’ll explain it all to you when I get home. For now, I’d just really, really appreciate it if you could call Bob and do what he asks without asking any questions. I totally get it if you don’t want to, but if you don’t, please just call Bob anyway and let him know, either way. Anyway, sorry for the long message. Bye.”
I hang up the phone, shaking my head in disbelief. This was such a stupid fucking plan. No way Greer’s going to call Bob, particularly not after that message. Shit, she’s probably never going to call me again.
Plus, you didn’t even give her Bob’s number.
Motherfucker.
I check the time on the phone. It’s 2:50. I need to be in group in ten minutes. I look over my shoulder to where Zack is halfheartedly moving the earth around the flower bed while watching me. I signal to him that I’ll be a minute.
I hit redial.
“Hey, Greer, me again. Crazy Katie. I forgot to give you Bob’s phone number.” I recite it. “Anyway, you would really be doing me a huge favor if you called him, so . . . OK, I’m hanging up now.”
Oh, well done. Now you’ve just guaranteed that she’s not going to call him.
Will you fuck off, I’m under enough stress here.
I click the phone shut and cup it in my palm as I walk back to Zack. He takes it from me and slips it back into his pocket quickly like I’ve just passed him some little packages filled with dope.
“Thanks, Zack. I really appreciate it.”
He nods. “You doing all right?”
I try to smile. “Some days are better than others.”
“No, I meant . . . you look pale and you’re sweating. Are you sick?”
I wipe my arm across my forehead. I feel like I’m burning up. “I don’t know. Maybe. Anyway, I have to get to group.”
“Sure. See you around.”
I start to walk away, but something stops me. I turn back.
“Zack?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. And . . . I’m sorry.”
He frowns. “What for?”
“For leaving. For all of it.”
“That was a long time ago, Katie.”
“I know. I’m sorry for that too.”
He gives me a half smile, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Eighteen-year-old Zack isn’t far from the surface.
“Goodbye, Zack.”
“Bye, Katie. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.”
Two days later, there’s a package waiting for me in my room when I return from breakfast. The packing-tape seal has been broken, and there’s a “cleared” stamp on it in red ink. Inside, there’s an envelope above several items wrapped loosely in newspaper. I pull out the card first. It has a stick figure drawn on the cover with a balloon coming out of its mouth. So, you’re in rehab. What’s a girl to do? I open the card. The stick figure is sitting in a lounge chair, reading a book and smoking a cigarette. Its hand is reaching into a box of candy. The caption above it says: Smoke, eat, and read trashy novels. Love, Greer.
I unwrap the newspaper packages, unveiling a carton of cigarettes, a large package of red licorice, and three romance novels with bodice-ripped covers, but no password.
Shit. She must’ve called Bob, right? Why else would she have sent me this package? So, where the hell is the password? OK, OK, calm down. It can’t be in an obvious place; that would defeat the purpose. There must be a code in here somewhere. But where?
Got it! Greer’s card must be a clue. I look at it again. She’s underlined the word “read.”
I pick up the first book and flip through the pages one by one. Nothing. The second book has a woman on the cover who looks vaguely like Greer. Same long auburn hair, same glint of mischief in her eyes. Way less clothing. On page thirty-eight, the word “healing” is circled. I take out the iTouch and get to the password screen. I type in the word “healing” and . . . yes! We have liftoff.
I check my inbox. There’s an email from Greer waiting for me.
If you’re reading this message, you’re smarter than I thought! No need for explanations, lass. The intrigue was worth it.
I laugh out loud. People surprise you every goddamn day, even in rehab.
Chapter 17
It’s Going to Be a Bumpy Ride
On Day Twenty-four: Preparing for Your New Life, Carol raps on my door and introduces me to my new roommate, Muriel, the desperate housewife of some Internet CEO. Her three Louis Vuitton suitcases take up twice as much space as she does, her blond hair must come from a bottle, and every inch of her face has been Botoxed so that no wrinkle would even dare attempt to take up residence. She has a jittery, post-detox nervousness about her. My newly trained eye diagnoses her as a prescription-painkiller addict.
She takes one look at me in my patented rehab look (yoga pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, hair in a messy ponytail) and tells Carol she couldn’t possibly room with anyone, she needs total silence, she’s sure it’s crucial to her recovery.
“Muriel, I’ve already explained that you can’t have your own room,” Carol replies patiently.
“Not even if I pay double?”
“It’s not a question of payment—it’s part of the program.”
If her forehead was capable of a response, Muriel would be frowning. “We’ll see about that.”
Carol ignores her. “Katie, would you mind showing Muriel to group?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“I’ll check on you tomorrow, Muriel.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Carol leaves, and I watch my new roommate as she drags her suitcases toward the closet. She opens the door and recoils in horror.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Not what you’re used to, huh?”
She gives me a look that makes me feel unwelcome even though I’m the one who’s been living here for weeks. “Excuse me?”
“The closet. I know it’s pretty small.”
Her eyes become two narrow slits.
Wow. Her skin doesn’t move at all. How’d they do that?
“Let’s get one thing straight right now, Kristie.”
“It’s Katie.”
“Like I give a fuck.”
“What the hell’s your problem?”
“My problem is I don’t want to have a little chitchat about your problems, or anything else. I just want to be left alone.”
I start to laugh.
Muriel looks pissed off. Or at least she would if her face could make an expression.
“What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know where you think you are, Garbo, but if you just want to be left alone, you came to the wrong place.”
“Do I have to room with her?” I ask Saundra the next day.
Muriel didn’t say another word to me the entire day. She spent a loud hour getting ready for bed (I counted three separate face creams, two toners, and several tweezing de
vices, and I wasn’t even paying close attention to what she was doing), then snapped off the light while I was in the middle of a graphic sex scene in one of the romance novels Greer sent me. And then, as I was actually about to drift off to sleep at a decent hour for once, she started to snore. And not some cute, feminine snore. No, sir. It was jackhammer, woodpecker quality.
“Is there a problem?” The corners of Saundra’s mouth might be twitching.
“Let me count the ways.”
Or maybe not.
“Katie . . .”
“Well, I’m never going to be able to sleep again, for one. She snores like a middle-aged man.”
“That’s not her fault.”
“Well, it’s not mine, either.”
“We could get you some earplugs.”
“She won’t even talk to me.”
“I’m sure she’s feeling very raw right now, Katie. Remember how you felt when you got out of detox?”
Damn straight, I remember. I felt elated.
“I guess.”
“And wasn’t it helpful having Amy to be able to talk to?”
“But Amy was nice.”
“And so are you. Remember, Katie, you’re Amy in this scenario.”
Right. How the hell did that happen?
“Does that mean I’m working the program well?”
She smiles. “I do think you’re making good progress, Katie, don’t you?”
“Yeah, things seem to be getting . . . easier, if that makes any sense.”
“It does. And that’s why I think you’re ready to go on today’s field trip if you’d like.”
“You mean, leave the grounds?”
“That’s right.”
Oh yes, I’d like.
I leave Saundra’s office so excited I skip down the hall to lunch. Henry, Amber, and Connor are already sitting at “our” table next to the picture window. It’s a perfect, sunny day, but I wouldn’t care if it were snowing.
“My therapist said something about that to me too,” Amber says after I tell them I can go on the field trip. “Apparently I’m showing ‘newfound respect for the program’ and am ready to move on to ‘advanced coping mechanisms.’ ”
I bounce up and down in my seat. “That’s great. So, are you going?”
“Calm down there, sister,” Henry says teasingly.
“Just wait until you’ve been here for as long as we have.”
“I’m pretty sure I won’t be squealing with delight, no matter how long I’m here.”
I punch him lightly in the arm. “Don’t be so sure.” I turn to Amber. “Will you come?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She watches Connor plow through a huge plate of pasta. “Can you go, Connor?”
“Doubt it.”
“Con-nor, don’t you want to go?”
“Am-ber, you know he’s not going to be allowed to,” Henry mocks.
She flicks him a look of disgust. “Oh, fuck off, Henry.”
I tug on her arm. “Come on, Amber, it’ll be fun. Besides, we get to go outside the compound. Haven’t you been dreaming about it for weeks?”
“Well . . . when you put it that way.”
A smile breaks across my face until I catch Henry laughing at me.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he replies, but when he gets up to return his tray, he leans in and whispers, “You’re cute when you’re excited.”
Uh-oh.
Despite my excitement, I almost turn back when I learn where the field trip is going—to the mountain where my father’s the assistant manager.
I stand staring at the sign-out sheet, chewing the end of my ponytail in indecision. Amber comes up behind me.
“What’s the holdup?” she asks. She’s wearing a pair of biking shorts and a zip-up technical shirt covered with logos for French water.
How many suitcases did she bring with her, anyway?
“Oh, nothing, I’m . . . uh . . . just having second thoughts.”
She gives a snort of disgust. “You must be kidding. I’m only going because you talked me into it.”
“I know . . . it’s just . . . remember when we ran into my ex-boyfriend, Zack?”
“You mean when we hid in the bushes?”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I’m trying to avoid a repeat, but I’m probably just being silly.”
What are the chances I’m going to run into my dad on that big mountain, right? It’s not like I’m going to stroll into his office or anything.
“Well, then, let’s get this show on the road.”
I scribble my name on the sheet with a sense of foreboding, then follow the group outside and clamber into the van. We sit in the backseat, while Candice sits in the front. Carol climbs into the driver’s seat and revs the engine.
“Why’d it have to be mountain biking?” Candice whines to us in her little-girl voice. “I’d kill for some good shopping.”
I snap. “Deal with it, Candice. You didn’t have to come.”
“You don’t have to be such a bitch . . .”
Amber hangs over the edge of the seat. “What are you even still doing here, Candice? Aren’t you ever going home?”
Candice turns her shoulders toward the window. “I’m not talking to you guys anymore!”
Amber and I roll our eyes at one another, and watch the trees and mountains passing by. The sun reflects off the rippling, dark water. I point out the trailhead where I started countless hiking trips with my family.
“Are your parents coming to that family therapy thing?” Amber asks. Day Twenty-seven: Advanced Coping Mechanisms also coincides with Optional Work: Family Therapy.
“No way. Are your parents coming?”
“Sure.”
“But I thought you hated them.”
“So?”
“So, what am I not getting?”
She glances at Candice, who’s still pouting out the window.
She lowers her voice. “I figure if I cooperate, they’ll let me out of here earlier.”
I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up, but . . . please, please, please let that be true.
“Got it.”
The van turns off the highway onto the road to the mountain, and a flood of memories hit me. Walking from the parking lot to the lodge, my skis a weight across my shoulder, trying to keep up with my dad. Turning through the same gates over and over again, trying to improve my time. Chrissie and I drying our socks by the roaring fire.
Oh my God. I think I miss my parents. I hate rehab.
Carol parks the van, takes us to the bike shop, and gives us strict instructions to meet her in three hours. With a final admonishment to “be good,” we’re free to go biking, hiking, or to walk into the bar on the top floor of the lodge. We could even thumb a ride out of here and never look back.
It’s good to have options.
It’s been years since I’ve been here. Thankfully, I don’t recognize anyone in the bike shop. Amber and I rent a pair of mountain bikes, grab a map, and decide to take the gondola up to one of the trails that will give us a great downhill ride rather than a huge uphill climb.
Our bikes are attached to a rack on the outside of the gondola, and we take a seat with a group of teenaged boys covered in mud. They start nudging one another and looking at Amber with wide eyes. As we fly up the mountain, I watch them, wondering if they’re going to work up the courage to ask if it’s really her. Amber seems oblivious, resting her chin on her arms and gazing out the window at the spectacular view of the mountains.
The gondola reaches the top, and the nudging and whispering among the boys increases.
“Do it, dude!” one of them hisses loudly.
As we stand to leave, the boy sitting across from Amber starts to talk to her in a stammering voice. “Um, excuse me, bbbutt, are yyouu . . .”
Amber smiles her dazzling smile. “That actress? God, no.”
We’re all surprised by her answer, and she takes the moment it gives her to grab my hand and pull me out of the
gondola. An attendant hands us our bikes, and we follow the signs to the less scary of the downhill slopes.
“How come you didn’t tell them who you were?”
“Who do you take me for, Candice ?”
I chuckle. “I guess it must be annoying being recognized all the time.”
“Sometimes I like it. But today I don’t feel like dealing with a bunch of stupid boys following us around all afternoon.”
“I hear you.”
“Thanks for playing along.” She puts her helmet on and snaps the strap closed under her chin. “Ready to die?”
“Oh yeah.”
We mount our bikes and pedal toward the trail. It starts off gently enough, but after a few minutes the pitch increases, and I squeeze the brakes to slow myself down.
Not Amber. She lets out a wild “Aiiieeee!” and leans over her handlebars. The mud from her wheels sprays up and hits me in the face, muddying my goggles. I squeeze my brakes harder as I hit the mud patch, and my bike starts to skid.
Ah, shit!
I hit something, a root I think, and my bike leaps in the air. I let go instinctively, hoping to land on soft ground.
I slam into the trail and my bike shudders to the ground a few feet away. I lie spread-eagled on my back, barely breathing. I ache everywhere. I might be dying, and yet, I can hear the birds chirping, and a yelp of joy from somewhere in the distance.
Jesus. I wish I believed in God so I could pray to him, it, she, whatever, to take me away, and make the pain stop. But, I don’t. So, all I can wish for is that my brain does me a favor and checks out for a few minutes, at least until the medics arrive with their pain-relieving drugs.
Drugs. Fuck. I’m so screwed.
“Are you OK, ma’am?” a voice that sounds way too familiar asks.
I must be hallucinating. Maybe it’s a prelude to passing out?
I raise my hand to wipe the dirt from my eyes. I recognize the fuzzy shape standing above me, and now I’m sure, potential head injury and all, that I’m not hallucinating.
“Dad?”
“Katie?”
He kneels next to me and pulls my goggles gently off my face. And there my dad is, looking at me with concerned and bewildered eyes that are the same shade of blue as mine.
“Hi, Dad.”
Shit. Even talking hurts.
“Are you OK?”
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