by Jen Doll
“No,” I say. There’s an ache in me as I say it. I haven’t gotten a single text from Grant since he left me standing in the playhouse. But here I am in front of Chassie, and there are some things I want to say. “I’m not with Teddy Scruggs, either. I don’t share a mat with anybody these days.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks. “What do you mean, share a mat?”
“Remember the waterslide?” I say, and she still looks confused. “With youth group. You told me Teddy Scruggs liked me. You set me up to get humiliated. Worse. You and Grant and Teddy all laughed at me, and Mrs. Stokes chastised me for not being a good Christian.”
“Oh,” says Chassie. Her mouth goes open and then goes closed and then goes open again, and I’m pretty sure she’s picturing the scene at the water park that day. “I haven’t…” She looks down at her lap and then back at me. “I was going through a lot then. My mom had died. I was jealous. I … Look, sometimes I’m just mean.”
“Does being mean make you feel any better?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious.
She hangs her head, looks at her arm, frowns. “Maybe for a second. But mostly not. I felt bad after the waterslide incident.”
“It would have meant something for you to say you were sorry,” I tell her.
“I should tell you, Grant never laughed at you. He was angry at me and Teddy for doing what we did.”
This makes my heart yearn even more for Grant, but I’m certainly not going to tell Chassie that.
“You should know another thing,” she says. “Grant wasn’t running away from the scene of the accident. He was running to get help for me. He was so drunk he doesn’t remember. I mean, he did a really awful thing, drinking and driving with me in the car. I might never be able to be on the top of a cheerleading pyramid again. But he would never willingly hurt me. He’s not like that.”
“You should have said something earlier!” I say. “He thinks he’s a monster.”
“I probably should have,” she admits. “But I didn’t. You have to understand—I was so, so mad. The coach and everybody made me promise I wouldn’t talk about it. They said it was for the good of the team, the school. Grant’s our chance to win the championship, blah, blah, blah. But I was the one who got hurt!”
“That was really unfair,” I say. “I’m sorry. I know what that feels like, boys being protected when girls aren’t.”
“That’s why I didn’t say anything. Plus I didn’t feel like helping him out with his new girlfriend, you know?” She looks at me, and her smile is as close to real as I’ve seen it.
“I promise, I’m not.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Look, we don’t have to be friends,” I say, as I get up to leave. “But we can at least acknowledge that we’re both human beings living in this town.”
“OK,” she says.
“We’ve both lost someone,” I say. “That if nothing else should make us decent to each other.”
“I’m sorry about your friend’s boyfriend,” she says. “Deagan … he shouldn’t have done that. He might have cause to beat up Grant, but what he did to the other boy, well, that’s just hateful. And I’m not OK with it. I told him so.”
“Good,” I say.
“He might spend some time in jail,” she says. “I should be at church praying for him, but you know what? I just don’t feel like it right now.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” I say. I’m right at the door when I think of something else. “I really liked your mom,” I say, and she looks teary again.
“I liked your aunt Stella, too,” says Chassie. “She was cool.” She clutches the manatee, and I catch a glimpse of the eight-year-old little girl who wanted a stuffed animal, got it, and then lost it and everything else.
51
Grant
My eyes snap open, and I look around. For a minute, yet again, I don’t know where I am. But I’m not in the playhouse this time. I’m alone in a boxy, quiet room with walls painted a mellow blue. There’s a whole host of machines around me and an IV in my arm and a medicinal smell in the air, so I make the brilliant deduction that I’m in some kind of hospital. There’s no clock around to tell me what time it is, which is disconcerting. I yell, “Hello! Hello?” a couple of times before a woman pops her head into my room.
“What’s all the noise about, honey?” she says. She’s wearing a white coat, and her name tag says DR. SIMPKINS. Then I remember.
The car ride with Mom. I was so worn out and hungover and weak, I could hardly stay awake. Her voice hummed in the background. This place was highly recommended, and she’d been researching it for a while now, she told me, ever since she found that I’d been Googling “signs of alcoholism” on our home computer. Doris and Nell finally calling to tell her everything was the last straw. A bed was open. They took our insurance. Dr. Laura agreed it was the right thing to do. I just had to sign the papers; Mom would cosign. I’d agree to stay for thirty days, and after that, we’d see where we were. This was the best thing I could do for myself, for everyone. And here I was. The IV was to rehydrate me. The machines were to check my vital signs. And the doctors were to help me get better, which started with me telling them the truth.
“My head is killing me,” I say. Dr. Simpkins looks mildly sympathetic.
“A hangover will do that to you. You’re lucky it’s not worse. I’ll ring the nurse for some Advil,” she says. “And you should drink.” She gestures to the plastic cup on my bedside table. I shudder at the word, and she clarifies: “Our finest H20, just for you.”
I take a small sip and then another, awakening my thirst, and then I pour the water into my mouth like I’m my own parched desert, downing the contents of the cup. She claps as I set the empty glass down. “I like a man who finishes what he starts.”
Dr. Simpkins is writing things down on a clipboard and poking around at the various machines I’m attached to. “I want to get you in the MRI machine this week,” she says. “We need to figure out what all these blackouts mean. I suspect you have sustained a number of concussions through football that have gone untreated, and the drinking has exacerbated the problem, causing fainting, headaches, and loss of memory, among other things.”
“Is my mom still here?” I ask. “Where am I, again, exactly?” Maybe I don’t remember everything. I don’t know where exactly in Alabama I am. Or if I’m even still in Alabama.
“She left yesterday.” She purses her lips. “You’re smack-dab in the middle of the state, about three hours from home. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. We’re one of the best facilities in Alabama, and I don’t say that just because I work here.”
I look down at my hands and see the last remains of the Fireworks polish on my thumbnails. There’s a tiny chip on each, hanging on for dear life.
* * *
A bit later, a perky woman comes in to go over my schedule. They really pack the activities in around here; I guess it’s part of the don’t-get-bored, don’t-get-tempted program. Which I suppose I’m grateful for because I don’t have much to do, otherwise. The only personal items I have with me are the T-shirts and jeans and shorts and hoodies my mom packed. They won’t even let me have a razor, and my wallet and my ID are locked away in a safety deposit box, waiting for me when I’m ready to leave.
After breakfast, the lady explains, there’s an individual session in the morning with a therapist, followed by a group session with a bunch of other people of all ages. Later there’s lunch, more sessions, depending on the various challenges we’re facing, outdoor activities and exercise, meditation and journaling, and then dinner and TV time. There are a couple free periods in that, too, time for letter writing and phone calls and reading. It all sounds exhausting, or maybe that’s the hangover talking.
Once I get unhooked from my machines and am given the OK to walk around by Dr. Simpkins, it’s time for a group therapy session with Dr. Keebler, an appropriately elfin guy with a twirly mustache. I head to a room with a bunch of folding ch
airs in a circle and listen to everyone introduce themselves and talk about why they’re here. Natalie is a mom of two who got hooked on prescription drugs after a surgery; she tells us how much she misses her kids and wants to get better for them. Tim says he was a functioning alcoholic for years, holding down a job and lying to his family, but in the last six months he lost his job and just pretended to go to work every day—he’d instead park in a nearby Walmart parking lot and drink from a stash he kept in his trunk. He got busted by a family friend who was shopping for new patio furniture. Eva is this girl in her early twenties who escaped an abusive boyfriend who introduced her to cocaine and then heroin; she tells us all to suck it up, everybody’s got problems, it’s what you do with them that matters. BJ is also in his twenties, and he’s trying to get off opioids, and I think he has a crush on Eva. And Pam is a grandma in her sixties who had a bunch-of-bottles-of-wine-a-day habit. (She won’t say how many.) Her kids did an intervention, and now she’s here.
“I’m Grant Collins. I’m the former captain of the football team. I used to be one of the most promising young players in Alabama, but I guess I’m mostly just an alcoholic,” I tell them. It doesn’t feel great. But it feels better than I thought it would.
“Hi, Grant,” they say.
In a way, it reminds me of the way I used to talk with Doris and Nell. I haven’t reached out to them yet. For one, my cell phone was never recovered after that last night I had in town. I’m guessing it’s somewhere in one of the backyards between my house and Brod’s, which means it’s a goner at this point. But there is an old-school phone vestibule we can use for fifteen minutes at a time during our free periods. So the real reason I haven’t called Doris or Nell is that I’m not sure what to say. I left everything in such a mess, kissing Doris and then bolting because I got so freaked out and scared. All I could think about was how I ran from Chassie after I hurt her. I can’t hurt someone like that again—but maybe I already did.
I have talked to some folks from home. Mom and Brian called to tell me they’ll be here on the next visiting weekend. Dr. Laura called to say she was proud of me for doing what I did, and that she wanted to schedule some talks with the counselors here so they could all be “on the same page.” Even Coach called to say I should “get better soon” so I can play in the fall.
There’s another call I need to make. He answers on the fifth ring, right when I’m about to hang up.
“Hello?” he says, sounding breathless.
“Dad,” I say.
“Grant,” he says. “I’m so glad you called.”
Old habits die hard, I guess, because the only thing I can think to say is, “Are you driving?”
“I’m in the car, but I just pulled over so we can talk properly,” he says. “I should have stopped to listen to you a long time ago.”
It’s not perfect, our phone call. Dad doesn’t get mad, but he doesn’t let me off the hook, either. He tells me I can’t shut him out. He wants to know everything the doctors have said, and he tells me that he and Mom have been talking already, and they’re going to keep talking, to figure this out. But when I tell him I feel like he left me behind a long time ago, that I didn’t think he was interested in my problems, he tells me he wants to make up for that. By the time we hang up, we have plans for another phone call. Maybe more.
“Will you think about coming out here for a visit when you can?” he says. “It would be really good to see you, son.”
I don’t tell him yes or no. Just that I’ll think about it. This time, I really will.
* * *
A few days later, I’m sitting over my lunch of stewed chicken and green peas (get me some of Nell’s mom’s potato salad, stat) when Eva comes over and whispers in my ear, “Your girlfriend’s on the line, lover boy.”
I chew and swallow. “Who is it?”
“Don’t you know your own girlfriend? Or do you have too many to count? Grant, you’re such a player!” She loves to tease me.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” I say.
“You’re not supposed to keep a lady waiting! Go get the phone!” she tells me, and punches me in the arm.
I head to the phone vestibule, and I look at the clock as I pick up the handset of the landline.
“Hello?” I say, not sure of who’s going to answer, but hoping.
“Hi,” says the voice.
“Hi,” I say, and my heart soars like I’ve retrieved a lost thing I never thought I’d see again. “I’m really glad you called.”
“A lot has happened,” Doris says. I close my eyes and see her face as she talks. “Your mom finally got in touch and told me everything.”
God bless my mom. Usually I’d be mad at her for butting in, but I guess she found a way to explain to Doris what was going on with me when I couldn’t. That I didn’t just ghost. That I’ve been wanting to talk to her every day. Not that my mom would know that. Oh well, I’ve got Doris on the phone now. I guess it’s time to spill.
“A lot has happened,” I echo. “I miss you. And the store. And everything. Doris, I have to tell you something. I’m sorry I ran away that morning. I was drunk, and I was scared. But I think I’m starting to get better. Rehab is helping. And I hope … when I’m really, truly better … maybe we can go on an actual date?”
She’s so quiet, I’m almost afraid she’s hung up on me.
Then she laughs. “Yes, obviously, you fool,” she finally says. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask that for half the summer. So has Nell. She’s going to be thrilled. But you have to get better first. I was Googling before I called you, and it’s not good to start a relationship when you’re this early in recovery.”
“My doctors would love you,” I say. “Wait, you researched starting a relationship with me?”
“Don’t get a big head; information is power!” she tells me. “By the way, there’s something important you should know. You didn’t run away from Chassie after the accident. You ran to get help.”
“Are you kidding me?” I breathe in and then out, processing this. My whole body releases a tension I didn’t even know I was holding.
“She didn’t say anything because she was angry. I almost can’t blame her, after the vow of secrecy the coach made her take. She finally told me the truth when I found the note in her manatee at the store and brought it to her.”
“That was Chassie’s manatee? There was a note? I have a lot to catch up on.”
“Let’s start here. You’re not a bad person. You’re a pretty good person, actually.”
“I think I might be on my way to understanding that,” I say. “And another thing, too. Doris, I was wrong about what I said at the balloon festival. Wanting does change things. What people want matters.”
She laughs. “Wanting matters. Even when you don’t get what you want, it still matters. I wasn’t sure about that for a little bit, but I know it now.”
“I want you to get what you want,” I say.
“Get better soon, then,” she tells me. “I want you back.”
I press the phone up against my ear and imagine I’m holding her the way I did that morning in the playhouse.
52
Doris
I’ve often thought that if finding things is my true talent, the one thing I have to do is keep looking. That’s the only way to locate what really, truly matters.
But what if something’s been in front of me the whole time, staring me in the face, and I never acknowledged it? I don’t need the Magic 8 Ball to tell me it’s time. I have to ask my parents about Aunt Stella. Nell offers to come over the way I did when she talked to her parents about Ashton. But this is something I have to do on my own.
I find my mom sitting on the couch, leafing through a magazine. I steel myself. Whatever the answer will be to the question I’m about to ask, the truth is the only place where any of us can start. It’s a beginning, not an end.
“Mom,” I say.
“Hi, honey,” she says, still entranced by how celebrities are
just like us.
“Mom. Did Aunt Stella have a secret?”
She jerks her head up then, and looks around as if someone can save her. But it’s just her and me in the room. Dad’s at the gym. The TV’s not even on. No distractions.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
I explain what happened with Mrs. Stokes at the store. “Why would she tell me to ask you about my aunt, that it was time I knew the truth? What did she mean?”
Her face blanches. My mom has a terrible poker face. Not that she’s ever played poker.
I keep flashing back to the moment at the water park, and what happened afterward. The muffled tears. How Stella said authority figures aren’t always right, and that she would tell me everything when I was old enough. I have this wild idea: “Was Stella … my mom?”
“What?” my mom says. “No. That is not true.”
I can’t quite let it go. “Isn’t that exactly what you would say if you didn’t want me to know?” I ask.
“Doris. Wait here!” instructs my mom, who jumps up and runs to the other room. She comes back with my baby book, which she opens to the first page. There’s my birth certificate. “Here’s my name, and your father’s, right here,” she says, pointing. She turns the page. “And here’s a picture of me, pregnant with you, about to pop. We didn’t know it then, but it turned out, you were the only baby I could have,” she says. She gazes at me. “We were so lucky to get you.”
She looks down again. “And here’s one with me and Stella that same day. You’ll notice she’s not nine going on eleven months pregnant.” She stares at the photo, and I follow her eyes, admiring my aunt’s slim, erect posture and my mom’s big smile. I notice again how much the two sisters looked alike, the same dark hair and eyes, the heart-shaped faces, just like mine.
“Oh,” I say, relieved. I don’t know if could forgive Stella for keeping that secret.
“You were practically twins,” I say, touching the picture.
“I always thought it was an irony, how much we resembled each other on the outside and yet how different we were,” my mom says. “She was nineteen years old there. I was the ripe old age of twenty-five. I always thought I knew better than my baby sister.” She frowns. “Even when I didn’t.”