Recovery Road (13 page)

I
ace my first round of tests at summer school. Straight As. All the way across.

I find this out in the computer room in cement building 3F. I walk into the hot sun and take a long deep breath of relief.

Then I call Martin and insist that he come celebrate with me, or at least take me out for ice cream. He can’t. He and Grace are going to the movies. He says I can come with them if I want.

This probably isn’t the smartest idea, but I say yes. I have to do something social for once.

Martin picks me up at my house. Grace is sitting in the front seat of his car. I recognize her from school. She’s one of those prissy, smart girls I would never talk to in a million years. She is sort of cute, though. I have to give Martin credit for that. It’s surprising how cute she is
.

We drive along. Grace doesn’t say anything. Neither does Martin. So I have to talk. I tell them about my lunch with Allison and Veronica at community college.

“It sounds like their parents haven’t exposed them to the right things,” says Grace, which is the polite thing to say.

I want to say something really harsh and brutal and hilarious, but for Martin’s sake I keep my mouth shut.

Grace. Wow.

We get to the movie. It’s called
Free Fall
and it’s about magazine writers in New York having relationships, falling in love, dining in fancy restaurants.

The characters all talk endlessly about themselves.

For a minute I think:
Maybe college isn’t so great, if it turns you into these people.

But no, it’s just a movie.

Afterward, we get ice cream. Grace wants to talk about the magazine business, since a friend of her mom’s works for a magazine in New York.

“It isn’t really like that,” Grace says. “They always try to make it seem more glamorous. My father is an eye doctor and, trust me, it is not at all like
Grey’s Anatomy
.”

Martin finds everything Grace says fascinating. I don’t. But I’m happy for him. They drop me off first so they can go make out somewhere.

Martin has told me they make out constantly. And that Grace wants to “experiment with petting.”

That’s probably what they do after they drop me off.

Experiment with petting.

S
ummer continues. One day, I wander into the community college counseling office and look at their college brochures. They have a little box for the Eastern colleges, at the bottom of a bookshelf.

I look at them. They are beautiful brochures. And the schools all sound so distinguished: Smith. Swarthmore. Wellesley. Haverford. I remember Smith because that’s where Sylvia Plath went in
The Bell Jar,
the novel everyone read in rehab.

I bring several of the brochures home and look at them with my mom. She doesn’t think I could go somewhere “prestigious,” but then, she doesn’t know much about it. She went to Southern Oregon State, where they teach you what fertilizer to use on your alfalfa crop. But my dad, who went to MIT, is surprised when he sees them on the table. He gets all excited. He dated a “Smithie” once, he tells me. From the light in his eyes, I assume it was a satisfactory experience.

Nothing else very interesting happens. Stewart finally calls a couple times. He wants me to come down, for the week after summer school ends.

But no sooner do we start to make a plan, then he vanishes again. After a week of no contact, I try calling him at the various numbers I have. None of them work. I even call his sister’s number, which I have for some reason. She’s glad I called; she’s heard great things about me. As for Stewart, she only knows what I know — that he’s living in a shed behind his dad’s house — his dad, who apparently doesn’t even have a landline.

I’m not mad. I’m not disappointed. I just want to talk to him. I miss him.

I call Emily Brantley and she’s excited to hear from me but she is at that moment sunbathing on a sailboat in the San Juan Islands. Her whole family is there for two weeks. Her sister, Ashley, has already been caught fooling around with the thirty-year-old deckhand. It’s a big scandal. She promises to call me as soon as she gets back and tell me the gory details.

So I go back to what I was doing. Studying. I also start reading this book about Sylvia Plath and her marriage to Ted Hughes, who was British and insane and horrible to her. Every afternoon after school I drive to this vegan tea shop and sit in the courtyard reading. At night, I drive around in my mom’s Volvo and listen to
Loveline
on the radio.

One night, I drive downtown and have an iced coffee at Metro Café. I see the street kids hanging out. Jeff Weed is there. And Bad Samantha. And a bunch of new people I’ve never seen before.

I couldn’t hang with those people now. For starters, I dress too normal. And what would I even say to them?

I hope I don’t become some boring slag.
You sound like somebody’s wife
. Stewart actually said that to me. And he meant it.

T
he Sunday before finals I do a complete review of all of my summer school classes. And then my phone rings.

Pretty much my whole social life this summer has been over the phone, so that’s not unusual. But it’s weird that anyone would call now. Everyone knows I have finals tomorrow.

I pick it up. It’s Stewart.
Now
he calls. But whatever, I’m not going to be angry.

“Hey,” I say calmly.

“Hey.”

“Long time, no see. Or no talk.”

“Sorry. I been kinda…busy.”

I say nothing. I scribble in the margins of my biology book.

“Are you done with summer school?” he asks. His voice sounds strange, like he just woke up.

“Almost,” I say.

“You gonna come down here when you’re done?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Since you keep disappearing.”

“I need you, though.”

“What do you need me for?”

“I need you because…I just do.”

This is weird. Stewart doesn’t sound like himself.

“How’s your dad?” I ask.

“He’s okay.”

“Are you still building decks?”

“Not right at the moment.”

“How come?”

“We kinda…had a disagreement.”

“What about?”

“Different things.”

I scribble more.

“Maddie,” he says. “There’s something I gotta tell you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not really doin’ too good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m kinda drunk.”

“You are? Right now?”

“Uh-huh.”

I’m caught off guard by this information. I struggle to think of the logical next question. “You’re drunk? Like drunk on alcohol?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

I stop scribbling. “Where are you?”

“Uh…outside a bar? I met some people. That’s kinda how it started.”

“Oh, Stewart,” I say.

“I…I’m so tired. That’s the thing. We’ve been partyin’ for, like, four days straight.”

“How did it happen?”

“I dunno. It just did.”

I can’t think of what to say back.

And then I hear him crying. I can hear him sobbing away from the phone.

“Maddie?” he finally says.

“Yeah?”

“What do I do? I don’t know what to do.”

I don’t know what to do either. My brain begins to churn. I start to think through the options. “Okay…” I say into the phone. “Stewart…listen to me. Tell me where you are. Tell me exactly where you are.…”

D
ad? Can I talk to you?”

My dad is in his office. He’s doing something on his computer.

“Sure, honey. You ready for your tests?”

I nod. I try to smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He hears something in my voice and glances up at me. He sees the urgency in my face. “Come in, Maddie. What is it?”

I take a seat in the chair across from him. I think for a second before I speak. “You know that guy Stewart, who came here?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I take a deep breath.

“What’s up?” asks my dad. “Where is he?”

“He’s in Redland.”

“What’s he doing down there?”

“He went to live with his dad. It seemed to be working out for him. But now it looks like it’s not.”

My dad watches me from his big, leather chair.

“He’s in trouble,” I say. “And he needs my help. I have to go get him.”

“When?”

“Right now. Tonight.”

“But you have your summer school finals tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to reschedule?”

“I don’t think you can do that. But if I leave now, I can get there and be back by morning. I can make it by a couple hours.”

“But, honey, you can’t drive down to Redland in the middle of the night. You need to sleep. You can’t take final exams on no sleep.”

“I think I can do it.”

“But, honey, seriously, why would you? What about your deal with Mr. Brown?”

“I know, I know.”

He watches my face. “Is there more to this than you’re telling me?” he asks. “This Stewart — are you in love with him?”

I avoid his gaze. “Yes. I mean, I was. I mean, I don’t know exactly. The thing is, I haven’t always been a great friend to people.”

“You can’t blame yourself for Trish, Madeline.”

“Dad. If something happens to Stewart, and I didn’t do
everything
I could to help him, I would never forgive myself. Ever.”

He stares at me. “Maddie, I know what you’re saying. But at some point you have to ask yourself: Is it worth it? Are these the kind of people you want in your life going forward?”

“I know, Dad. But he needs help now. And I can help him. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

My dad sighs. “Honey, I don’t think I can let you.”

“Dad, I don’t think you can stop me.”

He stares at me for a minute, then shakes his head. “No, I sup pose not.”

I
shift into fourth gear and hit the interstate doing eighty in my dad’s new BMW. I drive like that the whole way. I shave a half hour off the drive time and pull off at the Redland exit at 12:15 a.m. I follow the GPS down the main street of the town and onto a dark stretch of road beyond. Finally, in the middle of nowhere, I come to the Hungry Bear Saloon. A dozen cars and pickups are parked in front. A neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign glows in the window. I slow down and ease into the parking lot. The dusty gravel is bathed in the light of a full summer moon.

I park and get out of my dad’s BMW. The other cars are not BMWs. They are old trucks, newer trucks, clunker cars, clunker vans. An old Volkswagen bus is disintegrating in a dirt field across the street.

I walk behind the parked cars, looking for Stewart. I told him to stay outside. I pass the front of the building and the door suddenly bursts open. Drunk people come spilling out, laughing and nearly tumbling down the wooden steps. I stay out of their way. I continue to move through the parking lot. I
see no sign of Stewart. I told him to stay outside. And not to leave with the other people. Did he do it?

I only know Stewart sober. I don’t know him drunk. What will he do? I have no idea.

I walk farther, circling around to the side of the building. Here I encounter a dumpster, an old sink, a bunch of empty kegs stacked against the wall. I keep going around the building and find that there’s another parking lot in back. It’s empty, but there’s an old station wagon at the far end. It has two flat tires and is parked under some trees. One of the back doors is open slightly.

I walk quickly, quietly across the gravel. I approach the car, open the back door, and there’s Stewart. He’s lying on the backseat, passed out. His hair is longer than when I last saw him. He has the straggly beginnings of a beard.

I grip the toe of his booted foot. I’m going to wake him up, but then I don’t.

I stare at him instead. I listen to the sounds of the forest all around me. This is the boy I love. And I do love him. More than anything. But what’s going to happen to him? I hear distant voices from the front of the saloon. A car starts somewhere. I hear it reverse, pull away.

And what about me? Am I the kind of person who comes running to save people like Stewart for the rest of my life?

I kinda don’t think so.

Maybe this is it for Stewart and me. Maybe tonight is the end.

Then I hear a truck behind me. It’s coming around the building and is turning into the back parking lot. This might complicate things.

I watch the truck’s headlights sweep across the gravel, passing over me and the abandoned car.

They see me. They drive forward, apparently curious to see who the girl is in the back of the parking lot in the middle of the night. I yank on Stewart’s foot. “Stewart, wake up,” I whisper.
“Stewart!”

It’s a work truck, it’s beat-up. It has big side compartments for tools. It rolls to a stop beside me. “Hello,” says the driver from the cab. A little cloud of dust drifts by.

“Hello,” I say back.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asks. I can see there are two men in the cab of the truck.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just my friend here. He had a little too much tonight.”

“There’s somebody in that car, look,” the passenger whispers to the driver.

“He’s okay,” I say. “I’m going to take him home.”

I shake Stewart’s foot again.
“Stewart!”
I say under my breath.

They whisper to each other for a moment. Then they shut off the truck. A weird chill of fear slides down my spine. The truck is between me and the back of the saloon. I am hidden from view.

The doors open. The two men get out.

It’s very quiet now. Very dark. Their boots are loud in the gravel. The passenger comes around the truck to get a better look at me. They both glance around the deserted parking lot.

“Does your friend there still got his pants on?” says the driver.

“Yes. Of course. He just had to lie down for a second,” I say. “He’s just waking up.”

“He don’ look like he’s wakin’ up to me.”

The two men are not here to help. They both wear greasy baseball caps. One has long, graying hair. They are ugly men and I can read the ugly thoughts on their faces.

“Really, it’s fine,” I stammer. “I can handle it.”

“You ‘spect us to believe you ain’t makin’ a little money back here?” says the passenger.

“No. I’m…I’m a friend.”

“I’m sure you are, girly.”

They move forward. I step back. They both stare at Stewart’s inert body.

The passenger leans forward and looks in the car window. “Yeah, I’d say he’s done for the night.”

“You got his wallet?” the driver asks.

“No, I told you. I’m a friend. I’m taking him home.”

They turn and look at me. “How much you charge anyway?”

“It’s not like that. I’m in high school.”

“You don’t look like you’re in high school.”

I back away more. I try to think. What do I have? Keys. My phone. What else? Nothing.

“I’ll give you twenty bucks, girly.”

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Why not make a little money?” says the driver. “We could probably just take it for free anyway.”

I’ve now backed up enough that I can see the saloon. But it’s far away. I’ll scream. I try to get a breath, but I’m so scared. I can’t get any air, I can’t fill my lungs —

They look at each other. They attack.

They’re fast. Faster than I’m ready for. They have me in one quick dash. The passenger tackles me and slams me to the ground. He smells like sweat and oil and whiskey.

The driver grabs my belt buckle. I kick him.

“Stewart!” I cry. I manage to roll over. I get to my knees. But the passenger has his arm around my neck. Then the other one lands on me from behind, driving me back into the ground. The passenger slaps his thick hand over my mouth. I bite it.

“Ahhhh!” he yells.

“Shhhhh!” hisses his friend.

“Stew —!!!” I scream, but hardly anything comes out.

They hold me down. They snarl at me, breathe on me. I twist and fight and then one of them jams his knee into my neck. My face is ground into the dust. My mouth fills with gravel.

They’ve got me. Facedown. They’ve got my belt undone. I can feel my jeans giving way. I try to twist around, but I’m completely pinned.

They yank my jeans down to my knees. My skin is exposed. The sensation is terrifying. I fight more, try to scream, twist, kick —

I feel my underwear rip. I manage to get my neck free. I twist onto my side.

Then there’s a new sound: A door slams somewhere.

“Hey!
Hey!
” a woman’s voice calls out. “What the hell is goin’ on back there!?”

The men freeze. Then they release me. They jump up and run to their truck. I can see a woman in an apron, standing at the back door of the saloon.

“Who is that?” she says, staring at the truck as it peels out and tears around the building.

In a cloud of dust, I spit dirt and gravel out of my mouth. I roll over and try to pull my pants up. The top button is ripped out.

The woman takes a few steps into the parking lot. “You’re not allowed back here,” she says. “This is private property.”

I get my pants up. I spit blood out of my mouth.

She comes closer and studies the scene in the dark. She sees Stewart’s foot.

“That’s my car!” says the woman. “What’s he doin’ in my car?”

I get to my feet. I open the door completely and grip Stewart’s foot. I pull him out of the car, all the way out, until he lands on his head on the gravel. This wakes him up. He begins to move. His eyes open.

“You stay right there, young lady,” says the woman. “I’m calling the sheriff.”

Stewart rolls onto his side. He looks around the parking lot, a dull, blank expression on his face. When the woman goes inside, I grab him by the elbow and start pulling him up.

“What’s happening?” he says.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

I help him to his feet. He takes a few unsteady steps. I hold my pants up with my hand and pull him forward.

“Come on!” I hiss at him. “Hurry!”

He begins to move faster. We circle around to the front parking lot and I push Stewart into the BMW. I slam the door. I can hear a commotion now, in the back parking lot. I get in the driver’s seat, start the car. The bouncer of the bar appears at the front door. I calmly back out of the parking lot. He sees me and yells something as I shift into first. He runs at the car. I hit the gas hard. The BMW rips forward, fishtailing and spraying him with parking lot gravel.

I drive sixty to the freeway. Beside me, Stewart slowly comes to his senses. On the freeway, he starts to ask me questions. I find I can’t really answer him.

I find I can’t really look him in the face.