“I don’t know.”
He takes off his helmet and lays it on the ground next to me. His hair is almost entirely gray; he looks older than he did four years ago.
“Can you sit up?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” my sister says, coming into view.
Looking at her is like looking at an upside-down image of myself. Same wavy chestnut hair, same slender build, same narrow nose. Totally different life.
I left. She stayed. I went to university in the city and racked up enormous debts. She went to the local college and put money in the bank. I dreamed about the size of my byline. She became a teacher like my mom and got a job at the elementary school.
Somewhere along the way, she also acquired an enormous chip on her shoulder, a chip I mostly blame on her high school sweetheart, Michael, who left her on their wedding day. Seriously. She was at the back of the church in her wedding dress and everything, waiting for the “Wedding March” to start playing. I had to tell her he wasn’t coming, that he’d run off with some girl he’d met at his bachelor party. Chrissie took it surprisingly well at the time, or so we all thought, but she hasn’t been the same person since.
“Hey, Chrissie.”
She looks away. “Don’t move her, Dad. She might’ve broken her neck.”
Does she have to sound happy about that possibility?
She pulls her cell phone out of the shoulder strap of her backpack. “Just stay still, Katie.”
She punches in a few numbers, then speaks to whoever answers in a crisp, authoritative tone, stating the nature of her emergency.
As I lie there, with my dad murmuring comforting words, some of the pain starts to recede. I breathe in slowly and fill my lungs. It hurts, but I’m no longer wishing to pass out. Mindful of Chrissie’s mention of a broken neck, I turn my head gently from side to side. It feels creaky but in one piece.
I put my hands on the ground and push myself up.
Chrissie snaps her phone shut. “Hey, I said stay still!”
“Don’t be so bossy, Chrissie.”
My father’s face contains that look of disappointment he always gets when we fight. “Girls, girls.”
I look down at my legs. They’re black with mud, but they both seem to be pointed in natural directions. I move them tentatively.
“Well, if you don’t care if you’re paralyzed,” Chrissie huffs.
“Thanks for your concern, Chris. Dad, can you help me up?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
He helps me get to my shaky feet. I push my hair out of my eyes, and take an inventory. Amazingly, except for a few cuts, a lot of mud, and the lump I can feel forming on the back of my head, I seem to be injury-free.
My sister looks at me like she’s inspecting one of her students for evidence of contraband. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Mountain biking.”
“You know what I mean.”
My mind starts to race. What can I possibly say except for the semi-truth?
I hate my fucking life.
“She’s with me,” Amber answers for me, pushing her bike up to us. Her body is covered in mud, but she still looks like she’s about to shoot a cover for Outdoor magazine.
She looks me up and down. “Shit, Katie. You’re a total wreck.”
“Thanks.”
“You OK?”
“Just peachy.”
“That’s Amber Sheppard,” my sister says to no one in particular.
“God, Chrissie! Have a little tact.”
“Who’s Amber Sheppard?” my dad asks.
Amber smiles charmingly at Chrissie. “You must be Katie’s sister.”
“So they tell me. How do you know Katie?”
Amber turns toward my father. “And you must be Katie’s dad. I’m sorry. It’s my fault Katie fell. I was riding too fast.”
He smiles at me fondly. “Katie always did like going fast.”
Two fit, tanned guys in their mid-twenties in tight shorts and red-and-white shirts bike around the corner, skidding to a stop. One of them has a spinal board strapped to his back.
“Did somebody call for help?”
“She did,” Amber and I say together, pointing at my sister.
An hour later, I’ve been checked head to foot, taken down in the gondola (not something I recommend if you’re scared of heights), and had most of the mud cleaned off my face. Along the way, my dad finally clues into who Amber is, and my sister asks her enough personal details to give Saundra a run for her money. The only question Amber hasn’t answered is how she knows me, but I know it’s just a matter of time before that comes out. Sure enough, a few moments later, Carol walks through the door of the paramedics’ examining room.
I watch my dad’s eyes wander to the Oasis logo above Carol’s pocket and back to me. I take a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable.
“Katie . . . are you . . . working at the Cloudspin Oasis?”
Oh, Dad. Thank you for asking that first.
“No, Dad.”
“You’re a . . . patient?”
“What?” Chrissie sputters. “You’re what?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You’re in rehab?”
I ignore my sister and focus on my dad. He looks incredibly sad, but not, you know, surprised.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“No way.”
I shoot her a dirty look. “Will you knock it off, Chris.”
“Sorry,” she says, sounding contrite but looking like Christmas has come early.
“For alcohol?” my dad asks.
“For alcohol,” I agree.
Chapter 18
In a Family Way
“Why didn’t you tell your family you were checking into a rehabilitation facility?” Saundra asks me the next day.
“I didn’t want to upset them.”
“Why do you think it would upset them?”
Because I didn’t want them to think . . . ah, hell.
“Wouldn’t it be upsetting to you if your daughter went to rehab?”
Saundra gives me one of her reassuring smiles that never quite manages to reassure me. “I’d be proud of her for recognizing she had a problem, and relieved.”
“Relieved?”
“Having an addict in the family can be very stressful.”
“I guess.”
Saundra considers me. “Katie, you’re a self-sufficient woman, and I know you like to think you can solve everything yourself, but you can’t.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you trying to?”
“I don’t think I am. I came here, right?”
“Yes, you did. And that’s a great first step.”
“I thought I was up to Step Five.”
The corners of her lips turn into a smile. Maybe I am making progress.
“Yes, Katie. But you also need to work through your issues with your family.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Things with my family are fine.”
“I don’t agree, Katie. And thankfully, neither do your parents.”
I have a bad feeling about this.
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve enrolled in the family program. They’re arriving tomorrow.”
Yup, that was the bad feeling.
I feel like stomping my feet. “But I don’t want to do the family program.”
“I think you’d get a lot out of it.”
“No. I don’t want my parents to know about any of this.” I gesture to the walls of her office as if the dog pictures and calendar can repeat my secrets, like the talking photos in Harry Potter.
“I know you might find it difficult . . .”
A flash of rage flows through me. “It’s not going to be difficult. It’s going to be excruciating, humiliating.”
“Katie, being vulnerable in front of people who love you is how you grow and change.”
Then I’ll stay as I am, thanks.
“Wh
at a load of horseshit.”
Saundra looks concerned. “Why are you so angry?”
“I told you. I don’t want my parents to come here.”
“I think that’s a mistake.”
“Isn’t it my mistake to make?”
“Yes, it is. But you’ll have to make it fully.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you don’t want them to come, you’re going to have to call and tell them not to.” She gestures toward the black, old-fashioned phone sitting on the corner of her desk.
Goddamnit.
“Why?”
“Because part of the program is taking responsibility for your actions.”
“But that’s not fair. I never asked them to come.”
Ah, Christ. I sound like Candice.
Saundra taps her pencil against her pad of paper. “What will it be, Katie? You decide.”
I slump in my chair and stare at the phone. All I can see is the expression on my dad’s face yesterday when he put all the pieces together.
“Fine,” I mutter into the front of my sweatshirt.
“What was that?”
“I said, fine.”
“You’ll let them come?”
I nod.
She smiles. “I’m glad, Katie. I think you made the right decision.”
That makes one of us.
It’s approaching midnight and I’m lying in my bed staring at the ceiling. After two hours of counting moonbeams, cracks, sheep, sheep backward, and a million self-hating thoughts, I know sleep is a hopeless cause.
I think briefly about sneaking to the library and reading one of the sure-to-make-me-sleepy self-help books, but the last thing I want to do is spend more time thinking about drugs/alcohol/self-awareness, self-anything.
I listen to the silence around me. It’s empty and deafening at the same time. Even Muriel is sleeping quietly.
I wonder if anyone else is awake. Or are visions of sugarplums, or sugarplum-flavored brandy, dancing through their heads?
Where the hell are Amber, Connor, and Henry when I need them? I could totally go for a Girl, Interrupted moment right now.
Henry, Henry, Henry. What the hell am I going to do about him? Do I need to do anything? Does he like me? Like me like a boy likes a girl? Like a boy likes a girl he has chemistry with even though he met her in rehab? I think he does. I think he does, but I’m not sure. Not sure sure. Not sure enough to know if I should be pushing him away.
But if he does like you, why push him away?
I would’ve thought that was obvious, given what I’m here to do.
Well, maybe you can have a little fun while you work?
Maybe you can let me go to sleep?
I’m just saying . . .
No. I want to go to sleep.
So you can dream about Henry?
Fuck off.
Maybe he’s awake too?
Now there’s a thought . . .
Working quietly so I don’t wake Muriel, I place my pillows under the covers, stop at my dresser to run a brush through my hair, and leave my room. I’m at the end of the hall before I realize something kind of important. A fatal flaw in my plan, really.
I don’t know where Henry’s room is.
Shit.
Bravo, Katie.
Will you shut the fuck up?
I’m just saying . . .
You’re always just saying. I’ve had just about enough of you this evening.
OK, think. I know the men’s rooms are on the floor above mine, and there must be two separate hallways full of bedrooms, just like there are on my floor. I concentrate, thinking back over our conversations, looking for some clue . . . Got it! Wasn’t Connor saying something about sending messages through the floor to Amber the other day when we briefly considered having another Risk night? So, that must mean . . .
I ease open the door to the stairway. The red exit sign casts a devilish glow over the stairwell. When I get up the stairs, I put my face to the glass panel. The hall seems deserted. I open the door and count doorways until I’m standing in front of the door to Amber’s room, one floor up.
So this must be Connor and Henry’s room. Which means, of course, that Henry and Connor are in there. Which is totally something I should’ve thought about before. Do I want Connor to know I visited Henry in the middle of the night? And what do I mean by “visiting,” anyway? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
I reach out and turn the door handle gently. “Henry?”
I hear what seems like an answering sound and push the door open a little wider, letting the light from the hall fall across one of the single beds.
Oh crap. When am I going to learn my lesson about opening doors in the middle of the night?
There are two men in the middle of . . . fraternizing on the bed in front of me. In the light from the hallway, all I can see is that one of them has dark hair and one . . .
“Get the hell out of here!” yells the definitely gay Director.
“Sorry, sorry.” I pull the door shut and shove my fist into my mouth to keep my laughter from escaping. The Director and The Banker. Who knew?
So, what now?
Good question.
I have two options. Walk back to my room and resume the endless staring at the ceiling, or hope to find Henry’s room by some miracle without being discovered.
And if I’m discovered, I’ll probably get tossed out. And tossed out means I’ve been doing all of this for nothing. That my parents are upset, my sister’s feeling superior, my friends are falsely proud of me, for no good reason. And most importantly, that any future at The Line is history.
So, I already know what the decision has to be. But still, I hesitate.
Decisions have never been my strong suit. Go home at a reasonable hour or have the next drink? Give a guy my number, or invite him to my apartment? Lie to my friends and family, or be frank and honest? I’ve always chosen drink, invitation, lying.
And tonight? What the hell am I going to do tonight?
Just go to bed.
That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said . . . well, maybe ever.
I creep stealthily back to my room and crawl into bed. Muriel’s lying flat on her back, snoring like a drunken sailor. I hug my pillow to my chest and wait for sleep to come.
“Are you staying in the same room as Connor?” I ask Henry in what I hope is a casual tone the next morning after our run (eighteen minutes!). It’s a cloudy, cool day, a good match for my sleep-deprived, can’t-believe-my-parents-will-be-here-in-an-hour state of mind.
Henry wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. “Nope.”
Crap. I should’ve asked him while we were running. He’d probably have drawn me a map by now. Can I risk one more question?
“So, where do you sleep then?”
“Why are you so curious?”
I guess not.
“Just making conversation.”
His eyes twinkle down at me. “I see.”
Changing topics!
“My parents are coming today.”
Now why the hell did I tell him that?
“For that family therapy thing?”
“Yeah.”
He stares at me intently. “You don’t sound psyched.”
“Would you be?”
“I don’t know if I’m qualified to say,” he says gently. So gently that I feel like I might start crying.
Again with the crying! Well, no way, I’m not crying in front of Henry.
I speak quickly through the lump in my throat. “I’d better go take a shower.”
“You OK?”
“Sure. I’ll see you later.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
We lock eyes for a moment. He places both his hands on my shoulders and pulls me toward him. His arms feel warm and strong around me. He smells like salt and soap.
“You’ll do fine, Kate, Katie, whichever,” he says close to my ear.
Crap. I’m so going to cry now.
“I’ve got to go.” I place my hands on his chest and push him away, keeping my head down.
And before he can say anything else nice or sweet, or wipe a tear off my face, I turn and run.
My parents arrive around ten, pulling up in their battered old navy VW station wagon. I’m waiting for them on the rock retaining wall that encloses the parking lot wearing the nicest clothes I brought to rehab—a jean skirt and a light green shirt that needs pressing.
My parents climb out of the car in unison. My mom is wearing a loose khaki skirt and a white blouse, and her long gray hair is swept back in a neat bun. My dad (who wears shorts from April 1 to November 1 no matter what the weather or occasion) is wearing a pair of plaid golf shorts and a dark red polo shirt.
We hug hello, and then the day goes from bad to worse.
“What, no hug for me?” Chrissie smirks as she leans against the car. She looks smart and angry in a light gray shirtdress and more makeup than she usually wears.
What does it say about my family that we all thought Family Therapy Day had a dress code? Rehab casual by the Sandfords. Available at a Target near you.
“What’s she doing here?” I ask my dad.
“This is family therapy, Katie,” he answers reproachfully.
“Hah!” Chrissie sputters. “Since when has she given a shit about our family?”
I watch her angry face with regret. When I left town and didn’t look back, my parents started off being proud of me, and the brand-name university I got into. But Chrissie just started off being mad. That I left her behind? That she didn’t have the grades to follow me two years later? I was never sure, and, to be honest, I never bothered to ask. Then the Michael thing happened, and it was all downhill from there.
“What’s your fucking problem, Chrissie?” I say loudly enough to catch the attention of Mr. Fortune 500 and several other patients who are close by.
My mother cringes. “Katie, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mom, but this is hard enough without Miss Chip-on-Her-Shoulder blaming me for everything that’s gone wrong in her life.”
“I don’t do that!”
“Yeah, you do. You know, I’m not the reason Michael cheated on you.”
She flinches at the sound of his name. “He was staying at your apartment when it happened.”
I turn toward my father. “You see what I mean, Dad?”
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