Recovery Road (5 page)

S
o I hear you had a little midnight frolic last night,” says Cynthia the next day, glaring at me across her desk.

“What?” I say. “Who told you that?”

“There’s a reason we have these rules, Madeline,” she says forcefully. “And it’s not just to protect you. It’s to protect the other people as well.”

“How did you —?” I stammer. “Who —?”

“You’ve been in the transition residency a month and a half!” she says, cutting me off. “This poor boy just got here. He’s barely finished his twenty-eight days. Do you realize how vulnerable he is?”

I rise to the fight. “You’re not allowed to spy on us. It’s illegal!”

“Never mind that you’re endangering your own sobriety. You are also endangering the sobriety of someone with less time and less experience than you have!”

“I can’t believe you’re lecturing me about this!” I shoot back. “First you tell me I have to have friends. Then you tell me who
they’re supposed to be. Now you tell me I can’t go for a walk with a boy who I actually like? Who I actually care about?”

“So you care about him? Are you sure? Do you even know what that means?”

“Do you?” I snap. “Sitting there judging me? You’re supposed to trust us. I thought that was the point of the halfway house, to let us make our own decisions. I got sent here to stop drinking. Not to get lectured on which people I can talk to…”

Cynthia sits back and watches me sputter and protest. When I’m done, she closes her notebook.

“The rules are the rules,” she says. “If this happens again, you’ll both be kicked out.”

“It’s ridiculous,” I say. “And it’s not fair!”

“No, Maddie. It’s more than fair. If you’re not going to take this seriously then you should get out and make room for someone who will. People die because they can’t get in here.”

“People don’t
die
.”

“Oh, they don’t? Says you? Who knows so much? You don’t know how lucky you are, Madeline. And all I can hope is that you survive long enough to figure that out!”

I
go to movie night on Tuesday. Stewart is there. He sits next to me in the backseat. He doesn’t talk. Neither do I.

“Did you get yelled at?” I finally ask.

“A little bit,” he says.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault.”

We kind of smile at each other then. I creep my hand across the seat and hold his hand while the van drives.

At The Carlton, I buy us two popcorns and we sit with the other rehab people. We don’t do anything. We watch the movie. It’s enough to be close. We touch forearms and hold hands a little.

On the van ride back, though, I want to hold him so badly. It gets sort of impossible. It’s worse than craving alcohol. I want him like I’ve never wanted a boy before.

I close my eyes and wait for it to pass. Which sorta works. But sorta doesn’t.

Two days later, Stewart comes to the laundry room. He comes during lunch and knocks quietly on the back door. When I see
who it is, I can barely contain myself. I yank the door open and pull him inside.

He’s wearing his maintenance crew coveralls and a baseball hat. He’s acting shy and looking at the ground.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to come in here,” he says.

“You can come in here,” I say defiantly. “You can come in here any time you want.”

I grab him and hug him, despite the fact that it’s broad daylight and Rami, the laundry room boss, is right in the next room.

His face turns red when I do this. He steps back from me and looks around the laundry room. “So this is where you work?”

I nod.

“Those are big washing machines.”

“There’s a lot of stuff to wash.”

He takes off his baseball cap and looks down at the floor. “I just wanted to apologize again for getting you into trouble.”

“You didn’t get me in trouble,” I say, watching his face. “I got you in trouble. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I take his hand and kiss it.

“It was my fault,” he says, taking his hand back. “I’m older. I’m the guy. I should know better.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I whisper. “The rule is ridiculous. What do they want from us anyway?”

“I know,” he says. “But they must have their reasons.”

“I don’t care about their reasons. If we want to be together, they can’t stop us!”

He says nothing. He doesn’t look up.

“Don’t you want to be together?” I say.

“Well, yeah, but not if it gets us kicked out.”

I’m about to explode. I want to rant against stupid
Spring Meadow and all their idiotic rules. But that might freak Stewart out. So I don’t. I do the opposite. I try to calm myself down.

“Okay,” I say, taking a breath. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m…being selfish. Of course we want to hang out. We just can’t right now.”

“It’s not forever,” he says. “I mean, how long until you’re out of here?”

“Two more weeks.”

“And I got another month after that. So we just gotta wait a little. We just gotta be patient.”

I nod my agreement, even though I am so pissed.

“And there’s still movie night,” he says.

There’s a noise from the other room. Rami is about to come in. Stewart jerks his hat back on and I walk him quickly to the back door. I want to kiss him but there’s no time. He slips away at the last possible second.

A
t movie night the next week, Stewart and I are both thinking the same thing. We buy our tickets, stand around in the lobby, get our popcorn, then linger near the theater doors while the other people sit.

Then we bail.

Outside, I want to grab him, kiss him. Somehow I restrain myself.

We walk all the way to the other end of Carlton, to the Denny’s. We go inside and sit at the counter and get hot chocolates. This will be “our” drink, we decide. I actually decide this, but he goes along.

Afterward, in the parking lot, we find a dark place to make out. We really get into it. When we head back to the theater I am light-headed and dizzy. I cling to Stewart in case my weak knees give out.

In the van, we sit in the backseat. We sit close. The lust is gone and now I just hold his arm and — when nobody’s looking — lean against him and rest my head against his shoulder.

That night in my bunk, I can still smell him on my sweater. I take it off and carefully spread it over my pillow and breathe each section of it, trying to find him, trying to keep him near, holding him in my mind until the last possible moment.

O
n my last Tuesday at Spring Meadow, Stewart and I go to movie night and do our bailing trick, skipping out the back of the theater. We return to the same Denny’s, but this time we’re not all giddy and excited. This is it. This is our last night together, at least here in Carlton. We order hot chocolates.

We talk on and off. Nothing profound. He tells me about his adventures trying to take a class in motorcycle mechanics at community college. His grandmother kept giving him money and somehow, with the best of intentions, he always ended up buying drugs.

We laugh at the predictability of it. I tell him about a group of us crashing a junior prom so high on OxyContin we could barely stand up and how the chaperones stopped us and thought we were drunk. So we told them that our friend had one leg that was shorter than the other, and that’s why she couldn’t walk straight. And they believed us!

Stewart chuckles at this. We drink our hot chocolate.

“You’ll probably go to a real college,” he says.

“Me?” I say. “No way. I probably won’t even graduate from high school.”

“Yeah, you will,” he says.

“What about you?” I say. “You could go to college. Now that you’re sober.”

“I kinda doubt it.”

“Why not?” I say. “You’re smart. You can go to community college for a year and then transfer.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

This is a difficult conversation and I’m glad when we change the subject. Later, when he goes to the restroom, I look out the window.
Stewart could totally go to college
, I tell myself.
He’ll just need help
.

In the van, I ask Stewart if he wants to try to meet later that night. Since we only have two days left. Like maybe one of us could sneak over to the other’s house.

He shakes his head no.

He’s right of course. I feel bad I even suggested it.

“Okay, then,” I whisper, close to his ear. “I’ll be like one of those prison girlfriends. Waiting for you on the outside. Dreaming about you every night.”

He shakes his head, grins, then kisses me on the temple.

T
he day before I leave, Stewart comes to the laundry room. He knocks on the back door. I let him in and I kind of lose it for a second, like I can’t quite breathe. I have been thinking about him every second of these last days.

But then he acts weird and standoffish. He stays by the door. He’s being shy. I want him to look at me, to hold me. This is the last time I’m going to see him for five weeks!

“You excited about leaving?” he finally says.

“Not really,” I say, a panic building in my chest.

“Why not?” he says.

“Why do you think!?” I say to him. “God!”

“Are you talking about me?”

“Of course I’m talking about you!” I cry. “I’m not going to see you for a month!” Tears spring to my eyes. “What am I supposed to do on Tuesday night? Who am I supposed to drink hot chocolate with?”

He looks embarrassed.

“What about you?” I ask him. “Are
you
glad I’m leaving?”

“No. Of course I’m not. But I’m glad for you.”

We both stand there, looking at the floor. One of the washing machines switches to spin cycle. It starts to shake.

“Are you going to stay sober?” he asks in a careful voice.

“
Yes
. I was planning on it. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna call me?” I ask him.

“Sure.”

“You better! God!”

“I will,” he says. “Of course I will.”

I can’t stand it anymore. I grab him. A sob bursts out of my chest. Stewart takes me in his arms.

“It’s okay,” he tells me, rocking me.

“I’m afraid,” I whisper. “I’m afraid it won’t be the same after we leave here. Something will happen. Something will change.”

He strokes my hair. “Of course things will change. But it’ll work out.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” I say, clutching him. “I don’t know how to lose someone.”

“You’re not losing anyone,” he says, releasing me. “In fact, I want to give you something.”

He takes his grandmother’s ring off his little finger.

I wipe the tears from my eyes. “You can’t give me that,” I say.

“I’m just lending it to you. I want you to hold it for me.”

“I…I can’t —”

“See if it fits.”

I take the ring. I look at it. I try putting it on my ring finger. It fits perfectly.

“But what if I lose it?”

“Don’t lose it.”

“But I always lose stuff.”

He closes my hand around the ring. “When I get out of here, you can give it back,” he says. “And in the meantime it’ll protect you, like it’s protected me.”

“But I —”

There’s a noise in the next room. Rami’s back from lunch. “I better go,” Stewart says.

I throw my arms around him and squeeze him with all my strength. He hugs me back, for one second, then two. Then stupid Rami starts whistling in the other room. That means he’s about to come in. Stewart pulls away and slips out without a sound. I stand there, staring at the closed door.

Rami comes in. He continues to whistle as he checks the dryers.

I look down at the ring. I turn it on my finger.

M
y mom waits her turn in the morning traffic jam in front of my high school. I sit in the passenger seat with my book bag in my lap, staring at the green grass, the stone steps, the front doors. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I am back at Evergreen High School.

“Do you have everything?” Mom asks.

“I think so,” I say.

I get out of the car. I sling my book bag over my shoulder. I’m dressed as boringly as humanly possible. Since it’s January, that means down coat, Levi’s, black Converse. My hair’s pulled back. No makeup. No lip gloss. Nothing.

I keep my eyes down as I trudge across the grass. I heave my backpack farther up my shoulder. I’m loaded up with textbooks. There will be a lot of catching up to do. My teachers better cut me some slack in that department. But of course they will. Everyone knows what the deal is. Everyone understands that Madeline Graham is officially getting her second chance.

I make it to the main building. I’m totally aware of the people on the stairs around me. Are they watching me? Talking about me? Do people stop what they’re doing when I pass?

No. Not really.

Homeroom is different, though. Every eye is on me, from the minute I walk in the door. I move through my staring classmates and take my usual place in the back of the room. Then I remember that I have been instructed to never sit in the back of classrooms, to never sit in the back of any room. (Too antisocial; I am supposed to participate.) So I go to the middle of the room, but that feels too claustrophobic. So I go to the side of the room, by the window, and take a seat there, next to a boy I don’t know. He’s one of those keep-your-head-down types, which is probably what I’ll turn into.

I sit. I dig out my new monthly organizer that my mother bought me. On the top there’s a note:

I draw a box around the note, I draw several boxes. More people come in. I don’t look up.

Then a loud voice bellows at me from behind. “Maddie Graham!? Is that you!?”

It’s Tara Peterson, the biggest dork in our school. She’s standing right over me.

“Yes, it’s me,” I say.

“Have you been sick?” asks Tara loudly. “Where have you been?”

I look up at her, I give her my best “please don’t do this” smile.

But people like Tara don’t understand things like hints.

“Did you have mono?” she asks me.

“No.”

“Where were you, then?”

“I was…” I see that other people are watching us. They’re listening to what I’m going to say. Even the head-down boy next to me has turned to hear my answer.

“I had a family situation,” I say.

“Oh my gawd!” she says at maximum volume. “Did somebody die?”

“No, nobody died.”

“It must have been bad, though. You’ve been gone for months!”

“All right, class! Everyone in your seats,” says Mrs. Wagner, our teacher. Thank God.