Recovery Road (10 page)

O
n my last day in Aspen, I take a snowboarding lesson and then sit around in the lodge, looking glamorous. At one point I see Chad and Peter. They come running over like I’m their best friend, but I tell them some excuse and escape.

When we get home from Aspen on Sunday, we’re all pretty fried. I unpack my stuff, dump my laundry down the laundry chute, dump my schoolwork on the floor. Naturally, I still haven’t finished
Lord of the Flies.

My parents are downstairs, but then my mother comes up and knocks on my bedroom door.

“Maddie?” she says in an odd tone. “There’s a voice-mail message for you.”

I try to think who it could be. Not Stewart, he would call my phone.

“I think it’s important,” says my mother.

I put my bathrobe on and open the door. My mother has a very strange expression on her face. I go downstairs, where my father is standing in the dining room doorway. His face is ashen gray.

“Jeez, you guys,” I say to both of them, picking up the phone. “Did somebody die?”

My mother turns away. I put the phone to my ear. To my surprise it is an adult voice.

It’s Trish’s mother. Somebody did die. Trish died.

I
t was a guy. Of course it was.

It was a twenty-eight-year-old convicted felon named Mark Hastings. He and two friends were on the MAX train on Friday night, on their way to score drugs. That’s when they met Trish, who was coming home from her job at Don’s Carpet Warehouse.

I can picture the scene: Trish on the train, coming home from her boring job, heading back to her boring house. A cute guy appears as if by magic. He’s confident, cool, totally unlike the parade of losers she’s met online. He smooth-talks her a little, charms her. She gets all gushy like she does. And of course she’ll do anything he wants. She’ll go anywhere. Even help him buy drugs if that’s what it takes.

According to the police report, Trish went with Hastings and his friends to North Portland, where they bought about five hundred dollars worth of cocaine and heroin. Trish willingly contributed eighty dollars of her own money to this purchase. Obviously she really liked Mark Hastings.

An hour later, they checked into the nearby Saturn Hotel. The heat in the room was turned up full blast. Beers were
passed around. Hastings and the others stripped to their underwear and danced to loud music (there were complaints). They began to take the drugs they had bought.

At around 1:00 a.m., Trish, who was sitting on a bed with Hastings, became so intoxicated she became sick. She attempted to crawl over Hastings, to get to the bathroom (“probably to throw up,” one of the medical examiners wrote). In the process, she fell off the bed, landed on her face, and broke her nose. It was then that she lost consciousness and perhaps suffered cardiac arrest.

She was not discovered by Hastings until several hours later, when he tripped over her leg. He tried to talk to her and realized she had stopped breathing.

Hastings and the others dragged her into the shower and turned cold water on her. This did not revive her. They then attempted CPR, which none of them knew how to perform properly.

When she didn’t respond, Hastings and the others fled the scene. They later claimed they called 911, but no such call was recorded. They most likely feared a murder charge. So they did nothing. They went home, where they were later found and arrested.

The following afternoon, a hotel maid discovered Trish. According to the maid’s statement, Trish was a greenish white color, she was nearly naked, there was dried blood and vomit around her mouth and nose. The maid called an ambulance, and Patricia Carrie Morgan was pronounced dead on the scene at 2:12 p.m.

I
’m standing in my backyard with my phone.

“But you have to come, Stewart! I need you.”

“But I already made the arrangements,” he tells me. “My dad is expecting me.”

“Tell him something came up!”

“I can’t wait a week. My mom thinks I’m leaving. Her boyfriend is living here already.”

“But what about
me
?”

“I’m sorry. I would totally stay. But there’s nothing I can do.”

I can’t believe this. I have just spent an afternoon at Trish’s house, talking to the police, dealing with her devastated parents, calming down her little sister.

“Can you at least come over? Can I see you?” I ask Stewart.

“When?”

“Anytime. Now. Tonight.”

“I’m taking a bunch of stuff over to my sister’s. And she needs her car.”

“Can you come afterward?”

“How am I going to get there?”

“Take the bus! Stewart,
my best friend just died
.”

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I’ll come.”

The only place I can meet Stewart is the downtown bus station. My parents don’t like the sound of that. My mom says she’ll drive me there, and come pick me up. But I tell her no, I’ll take the MAX.

“Take the car, then,” she says.

“How can I?” I say. “I have no insurance.”

She tells me I do have insurance. They renewed it for me, as of spring break, since I was doing so well and even though my insurance rate is astronomical.

This is a surprise. “Are you serious?” I say to her.

She is. My dad nods too. They both are.

So now I have a car, the Volvo station wagon no less. This, at least, is good news.

But I don’t have much time. I drive downtown and wait for Stewart at the bus station.

When he comes out, I hug him for a long time. Then I bring him back to my car.

“What’s this?” he asks when he sees the Volvo.

“It’s my parents’.”

“Nice,” he says, getting in. He starts fiddling with the dials. “Are these seat warmers?”

“My parents have money,” I tell him in a low voice. I’m starting to get pissed. No, I was already pissed. Now I’m more pissed.

I drive us to Denny’s. We sit in a booth. I have some things I want to say to Stewart. But once we’re there, none of them seem important. Once we’re sitting there, all I can think about is Trish, and I start crying. I can’t help it. Stewart reaches over
and takes my hand. But this is too much for him. I can see it in his face. He can’t process it. He doesn’t know how to be there for someone.

“I’m really sorry,” he says later as we sit in the Volvo in the parking lot. “I know I’m not handling this right.” Then he takes me in his arms and holds me for a long time while I cry. He kisses my forehead. He strokes my hair.

This is better. This is what I wanted all along. We kiss a little and then go back to holding each other.

“I just want you to be okay,” he whispers.

After that, I wish I could stay with him all night. I wish that I lived with him, that we were married, that we could be together forever.

That’s how it is with Stewart. It always ends up that I love him no matter what.

T
he funeral isn’t until Saturday, and I still have the rest of the week to deal with. On Wednesday, after lunch, I’m standing at my locker and I sense someone behind me. I turn around and there are two freshman girls standing there. One of them is really cute. Shockingly cute. And dressed like she knows it.

As I turn, they kind of shuffle away. I don’t know who they are, or what they want. They get a little way down the hall and the really cute one turns back toward me. Our eyes meet. She has this strange expression on her face. A sort of arrogance, or superiority, like she owns these hallways. So why is she bothering me?

But then I realize who it is. It’s Ashley Brantley. Emily Brantley’s party-girl sister.

What does
she
want?

Thursday after school, I drive to Centralia, to say good-bye to Stewart before he leaves for Redland.

He answers the door, shirtless, drinking a Red Bull. His hair is freshly dyed black. It shines. He’s very proud of it.

He wants me to touch it. I do. I stroke it. Then he grabs me and he picks me up and carries me inside, though I’m not really in that sort of mood.

It’s nice to be here, though. It’s nice to forget about my own life for a second and be part of Stewart’s carefree world.

Later, I drive him down to Rite Aid, so he can get some stuff for his trip. We goof around in the Rite Aid. I remember waiting for him at the Rite Aid in Carlton. I ask him if he remembers.

“That was quite a night,” he says in not quite the right tone.

Later, though, when I’m leaving, he becomes more serious. We stand together in the driveway, leaning against my car. He tells me more stuff he’s learned about his father in Redland. He’s got a little business building decks and installing hot tubs. He lives in a little cabin in the mountains he built himself.

“He sounded great,” Stewart tells me. “I can’t wait to see him.”

I nod my encouragement. I’m genuinely happy for him.

“So when will you get back?” I ask.

“Not sure.”

“But I mean, like, three days, or a week, or what?”

“I don’t know,” he says again. “I don’t think I can stay with my mom anymore.”

“You can’t live in Redland.”

“Maybe I can,” he says quietly. “For a little while anyway.”

I’m surprised by this. I didn’t know this was an option. “But what then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll just have to see.”

“You mean you’d move down there? Permanently?”

“I gotta live somewhere.”

I stare at him. “What’s wrong with here? You don’t have to live with your mother. Get your own place.”

“With what money?”

“I don’t know. Get a job.”

He shuffles his feet. “Listen to you. You sound like someone’s wife.”

I stare at him. “So how long were you thinking, then?”

“He said I could maybe work for him. In that case it would be for the summer.”

“The
summer
?” I say. “You’d stay down there all
summer
?!”

“Well, yeah…”

“Do you even
want
to be with me?”

“Don’t say that,” he says, frustrated. “Of course I do. Maybe not exactly the way you want.”

“What does that mean?”

He turns sideways to me. “I just think you want a lot. You want me to call you all the time. You want me to get a job. You want me to be like somebody’s high school boyfriend or something.”

“When did I ever say that?”

“But of course you do. That’s what every girl wants.”

“I
never
said that. I never said anything like that. All I ever wanted was for us to be together. And then let things work out…however they were meant to.”

“I know,” says Stewart. “That’s what I want too.”

I turn toward my mom’s car. Tears are coming to my eyes. It’s starting to sink in, what this conversation means.

“You said you loved me,” I say quietly.

“I do love you,” mumbles Stewart. “That’s not the issue.”

More tears are coming.
I’m losing Stewart
, I think. Right here and now. I can’t believe it’s happening. I’ve lost Trish. And now I’m losing Stewart.

I dab my eyes. When I turn back, Stewart is still standing
there. He looks miserable. But he also looks determined. Like he’s doing what he’s doing and that’s it.

It’s gotten late. I have to get home. I take off his grandmother’s ring. I step forward and hold it out.

“What are you doing?” he asks me.

“I’m giving you your ring back.”

“What? No. That’s yours!”

“No, it’s not,” I say. “It’s yours. It’s your grandmother’s. And if you’re gonna be in Redland all summer, you’re gonna need it more than I will.”

“Seriously,” he says. “I gave you that. I want you to have it. I want to know it’s with you.”

“I’m not keeping it,” I say. I walk up to his front step and leave it on the railing.

I go to my car. I open the door.

“Wait!” he says. He grabs me. He tries to say something, but he can’t find the words.

I see the frustration in his face and it occurs to me that I’ve been unfair. I’ve asked him to be something he’s not. I want him to do things he isn’t capable of yet.

He’s just Stewart. Goofy, adorable, messed-up Stewart. Why am I being so hard on him?

I grab him. I hug him. I kiss him.

But I leave the ring. Because he’s the one who’ll need it now.

M
artin comes with me to Trish’s funeral. I pick him up at his house. I somehow get talked into coming inside and meeting his parents. I don’t know how this happens. They’re perfectly nice and all. But this isn’t a date.

We drive to the cemetery. Martin wears a suit and a tie. I’m wearing a navy blue dress and my mother’s black cardigan.

When we get to the cemetery, I’m not sure where the funeral is. I assume we’ll find it by the crowd of people.

I’m also assuming Cynthia, our counselor, will be there. I expect a bunch of staff people from Spring Meadow to show up. Angela, maybe, and some of the other women we lived with.

I imagine Haley might be there — despite everything — in her wheelchair, with her nurse and her family. And some of Trish’s other friends from high school. And of course all the cousins or relatives or whatever.

But I’m wrong about the crowd. I realize this slowly, as I drive in circles around the cemetery. Finally I spot the Cadillac Escalade, parked with two other cars under a tree.

I pull over. Martin and I stare across the lawn at the seven people standing at the grave.

“Is that it?” says Martin.

Oh no
, I think to myself.

But there’s nothing to be done. We have to go. We lock the car and walk through the wet grass.

The people present are her dad, her mom, her sister, an older woman, and two men from the funeral home. Martin and I are the only people close to Trish’s age.

The truth comes to me then.
I was her only friend
.

We stand at the grave site. I look across at her mother, who sees nothing, hears nothing, is utterly lost in grief.

The group of us stand and wait. A priest is coming. I can see him walking slowly through the grass.

Martin coughs into his fist. He’s acting very formal. He keeps his chin up, his hands joined in front of him. It’s an odd posture.

“You don’t have to do that,” I whisper to him.

“Do what?”

“Stand funny,” I say.

“I’m not standing funny.”

The priest finally arrives. He gets out his Bible. He reads something no one listens to.

Martin is still standing weird.

“Stop doing that,” I whisper to him.

“Doing what?” he whispers back, annoyed.

The priest says a few words about Trish. It’s obvious he knows nothing about her. When he’s finished there’s a quiet moment of prayer.

They begin to lower the casket into the ground.

Her mom lets out an unearthly wail. She makes an awkward lunge toward the casket, falling to her knees in the muddy
grass and crawling toward the hole. The men jump forward and grab her up by the armpits. They drag her back. The sister stares blankly forward.

“Good-bye, Trish,” I blurt without meaning to.

Trish’s little sister looks up when I say this. But when she sees me, her face registers nothing.

Martin coughs into his fist. I watch the casket disappear into the black earth.

They always say you go to a better place when you die. That you are finally at peace. I never believed that before. But in Trish’s case, it might be true.

She had no place on this earth. There was no place where she was comfortable, no place she could relax, no place where she felt safe.

I never saw her happy. I never saw her at ease. Not for one moment.

Good-bye, Trish.