Counting Backwards (24 page)

“Stop,” he says. “Stay here and let’s talk about this.”

But I don’t want to talk. I’m sick and tired of talking—about feelings and what I want, what I’m afraid of. It doesn’t make a bit of difference, because here I am again, lost and alone. About to be kicked out and abandoned, again.

“No touching,” a safety barks, and we both look up. But it’s not the safety who surprises me.

It’s my mother.

A.J. immediately lets go and takes a step back. My mother takes stock of the situation, removes her sunglasses, and stares him down. But more than the warning look in her eyes, they are rid of the poison. Her eyes are lucid and clear as the bright, blue sky.

“Mom,” I say slowly. She holds out her arms, and without thinking, I go to her. She hugs me tightly, strongly. All I smell on her neck is perfume.

“Baby, I’ve missed you so much.”

I remember we’re not alone and glance back to see A.J. standing there, looking a little lost and forlorn.

“Mom, this is A.J., my . . .” I falter a little and see the safety still standing nearby. “My friend.”

A flicker of pain crosses A.J.’s eyes, but he quickly recovers.

“We’ve met before,” she says with a tight smile. I remember when she came with my dad and I had the panic attack on the lawn. They must have met then.

A.J. nods, glancing between us.

“Come see the garden,” I say to escape the weird tension
between them. I walk her up and down the rows, pointing out all that’s above- and belowground, our compost piles, the worm bin, our herb and butterfly gardens, which also attract the occasional hummingbird. I pick a sprig of rosemary and hand it to her. She puts it to her nose and inhales deeply. “This is wonderful,” she says. I glance over to see A.J. half-hidden behind the tomatoes—weeding—but I know he’s listening.

“I’d really like for us to catch up,” she says. “Is there someplace private we can talk?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I lead her over to the picnic bench and sit down across from her. I remember role-playing with Dr. Deb. Could I say those things to my mother here and now, while she’s sober? Do I want to?

“This seems like a nice enough place,” she says.

“It’s grown on me,” I say, recalling the expression A.J. used a long time ago. There’s really no other way to describe it. It happened without me knowing it.

“Your father says you’ll be getting out soon.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I’m coming home too,” she says.

“What happened to Mickey?”

“Oh, you know . . .” She waves her hand dismissively. “He liked to party too much, and I’m . . . past that now.”

I narrow my eyes at her. Since when is my mother past “partying,” which is a loose translation for drinking? I think of how absent she’s been from my life since I came to Sunny Meadows. All the times I called her cell phone and got no response, the weeks that went by without word from her.

“So, why the visit?” I ask. “Now, after all this time?”

“Because I wanted to see you. I love you, Taylor, and . . . I want you to come home. I’ve put down a deposit on a nice apartment for us, and I’ve got some job interviews lined up. I’d like us to give it another try.”

“What about your drinking?”

“I’m done with it,” she says. “I’m done forever.”

I cross my arms and study her. She looks sober, acts sober, but I’ve been through this before. She’s sober for as long as it’s easy.

“Baby, I know what my illness has done to you. I know that it’s my fault you’re here. And I want to make it right.”

I study the tabletop, which I’ve memorized by now, every groove and knot of wood, every splinter. I want to believe her, I want it so badly, but she’s lied to me so many times before.

“I don’t expect an answer right now,” she says. “I’m just asking you to think about it.”

I want to give her another chance. Maybe we really could make it work. Then I see her open purse on the table, a small bottle of Perrier peeking out. The seal is broken, but the
bottle is completely full. I have a flashback to when I was twelve years old at my dance recital, coming out of the dressing room to find my mom so drunk she could barely stand. My dad had already left, so one of the other parents had to drive us home. I quit dance after that, I was so embarrassed. At the time I had no idea how she’d gone from completely sober to completely wasted in the course of two hours. Until days later when I found the Perrier bottle in the recycling bin, stinking like vodka.

I study the bottle in her purse, so tempted to pull it out and see for myself. But I don’t, because I don’t want to have to go around checking bottles to see if she’s been drinking, or wait up for her at night worrying when she’ll come home. I don’t want to watch her mess around with men she doesn’t love or see her wear a mask for the world. I don’t want to have to always try and make things pleasant so she doesn’t have a reason to go drinking. I don’t want to do any of it anymore.

But she needs me.

I see my initials carved into the table—
TT
. I’ve done so much work here at this table, and in the garden, in the classroom. My mom loves me, but she can’t take care of me. I have to take care of myself.

“Look, Mom,” I say to her. “When I get out, I’m going to live with Dad. I think that’s the best thing for me for now.”

She stares at me blankly, trying to use the mask on me, but I know her too well. I’m hurting her feelings, but these are the words that need to be said.

“I want you to be sober,” I continue. “I want you to
stay
sober, but you have to do it for yourself, not for me.”

She nods slowly and glances over at the dorms. “Seems like this place has done its job.”

I don’t know what she means by it, and I don’t feel like asking. Maybe therapy never worked for her because she never really wanted to change. And I have changed. I’m not just
her daughter
anymore, a reflection of her happy and sad times, trying to keep it together for the both of us. I’m my own person. And from here on out, I’m making decisions for myself.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

She nods but won’t look at me. She’s ashamed, looking downward and never up. “I just want you to know,” she begins, “that I love you, and you always have a home with me. No matter what.” She glances around, looking lost. “It’s getting late. I should be going.”

She stands, and I hope she’s not leaving to go get a drink. The thought of it makes me sick, but I can’t control her. I can’t make her want to change.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, and hug her tightly.

“Good-bye, baby.”

“Good-bye.”

She makes her way back toward the dorms, and I watch her retreating form until she disappears over the crest of the hill. I turn to see A.J. a few yards away, watching me.

I am not my mother.

I head back to the garden, where his arms are already open to me. “I should have told you,” I say, burying my face in his chest. “About being released. I shouldn’t have lied.”

“I know why you did it.” He runs his fingers delicately over my face, and I peer into his gray eyes, full of forgiveness and understanding.

“I’m leaving,” I say to him.

He nods. He’s already accepted it.

“I love you,” I say, because I know it’s true and there’s no good reason not to tell him.

He smiles and squeezes me tighter. “I love you, too.”

He kisses me, and I want to hold on to this moment forever because soon I’ll be leaving Sunny Meadows and I must face the fact that I might never see him again. Our future is scary and uncertain, but right now, we’re here together and we love each other.

This is real. This is the truth.

Dr. Deb sets up a video call with my dad the next week. It’s the last thing that needs to be done in order to complete all my rehabilitative goals. I’ve begun imagining what it will be like to be out in the world again. Equal parts scary and exciting.

“As you know, Mr. Truwell,” Dr. Deb says to her computer monitor, where my dad’s face lights up the screen, “I’ve asked you to join us today so that you and Taylor can discuss your future living situation, specifically with regards to boundaries.”

She turns the screen toward me, and my dad and I stare at each other, waiting for the other one to speak.

“I dusted your room,” he says, “and washed the sheets. I figured you might want to pick out a new comforter.”

“Great. Thanks for . . . sprucing it up.”

“You’ll have to help me with the grocery list. I don’t know what you like to eat anymore.”

“I’m not too picky.” After eight months here, the one thing I’ve never gotten used to is the food.

“I guess we’ll need some rules then,” he says. “First off, no going out on school nights. And on the weekends, a curfew. How about ten p.m.? We can work up from there.”

I smile, because I remember how we used to fight about this before. Back when I was accustomed to staying out all night if I felt like it. But right now, a ten o’clock curfew seems like ultimate freedom.

“Ten is good.”

He smiles a little and seems surprised at my willingness to compromise.

“And you’re going to have to keep your grades up. You’re an A student, Taylor. You need to think about your future. Colleges care about GPA.”

“You’re right,” I say, and I mean it. I’ve begun to want things again, like an education. Maybe if I do well enough my senior year, I can still get into a university. But if not, there’s junior college.

“How about you?” he says. “Do you have any requests?”

I stop and think for a moment. What do I want now? “I want to keep in touch with my friends here at Sunny Meadows and with Margo. They’re long-distance.”

“You should probably have your own phone anyhow. I can put you on my plan, and it will be less expensive that way.”

“And I want to plant a garden. Like Grandma did. Somewhere in the backyard maybe.”

My father nods. “There’s good light in the back. I can help you with that.”

“And . . .” I stop because I don’t know how to say it. “I want us to . . . talk to each other. About stuff. I want to know what’s going on in your life and tell you about mine.”

He smiles. “Yes, I want that too.”

“Good.”

“There’s something else,” he says. “I’m going to make you mad at some point. That’s just the way it is. When that happens, just stomp around or yell at me or go for a walk, but don’t . . . run away.”

“I won’t,” I say. I’m done running.

“I know you’re going to want to see your mother, and that’s fine. But no overnights. You’re going to be my responsibility now. For the next couple years at least.”

I smile. “That sounds good, Dad. I’m ready.”

“Good.” He nods. “Great.”

Dr. Deb takes over then, and they talk about the details of my release. I excuse myself to go down to the garden, where A.J. is waiting for me. But instead of gardening, we lie in the warm grass and stare up at the clouds, dreaming out loud. There’s still so much I haven’t told him and so much I still have to learn. Too soon the safety tells us it’s time to go inside for dinner. I grab hold of his hand and try to keep him there with me, because it’s all happening way too fast.

“This isn’t the end,” A.J. says, touching his thumb to my cheek and kissing me softly.

But that’s exactly how it feels.

On the morning
of my last day at Sunny Meadows, we have an open house in the garden. It’s a way for me to say goodbye to everyone while also generating interest in garden therapy, which A.J. and Dr. Deb are planning to expand in the coming months.

People drift in and out, snacking on a cherry tomato or two, smelling the herbs, and admiring the flowers. Sulli and Brandi stop by for a visit, along with Tracy from the third floor, Rhonda, and Tabitha. Charlotte acts as the tour guide, while McKenzie displays some of her drawings on an easel and reminds people not to pick the flowers.

And of course, A.J. is there too.

Finally it’s just him and me with the dirt below and the sky above and all the possibilities between us.

“I have a present for you,” he says.

“Is it a key?” I tease.

“No, something much better. Hold on.”

He jogs over to the maintenance shed and comes back a minute later, holding a pot in his hands. He hands it to me, and I peer at the rich black soil inside it.

“It’s your favorite flower,” he says.

“My favorite flower? I didn’t know I had one.”

“You do now.”

“What is it?”

He shrugs. “You’ll have to water it and see.”

I stare hard at the dirt and feel my tears coming. I don’t bother trying to stop them. He takes the pot and sets it on the ground, pulls me close.

“I want to see you again,” I say to him.

“You will.”

“How do I know for sure?”

He points to the garden, which is now teeming with life. It’s hard to remember it ever being just dead grass. It seems as though it’s always been there.

“Remember when we planted our first seeds?” he says, and I know what he’s driving at. That week that I’d watered them and nothing sprouted. I began to think they never would, and he said to me . . .

“I have faith,” I say.

“Me too.”

We kiss and hold each other until a safety comes and tells me that it’s time to go.

“Wait,” I say to A.J., suddenly realizing there’s a question I never got to ask him. “That scar on your lip—how’d you get it?”

“Fishing,” he says, pulling back on an imaginary reel and letting it go. “Hooked my lip good. Didn’t catch any fish that day.”

“Oh,” I say, panicking because there’s still so much I don’t know and we’re suddenly out of time.

“This isn’t the end,” he reminds me.

I take a deep breath, and then another. This isn’t the end, but I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him like it’s our last. For once, the safety doesn’t interrupt us.

I leave him there in the garden. At the crest of the hill, I turn back, and he lifts one hand. But he doesn’t wave, because it’s
not
a good-bye. I take a mental picture to hold on to in the coming weeks and months when I’m missing him the most. If I never see him again, I know that he’ll be with me still, like my grandmother. In my heart and in my head, in my bones. And I’m a better person now, a
stronger
person, having known him.