Recovery Road (9 page)

M
eanwhile, I’m constantly trying to figure out ways to see Stewart. Which isn’t easy, since he lives in Centralia, which is impossible to get to.

We finally work something out for the next weekend. His mom is heading off to Las Vegas, so I will go to him.

I feel like it’s pretty clear what’s going to happen when we’re alone in his house together. I hope that’s what will happen, anyway. On the other hand, I’ve never been with a boy sober. So, who knows?

On Saturday morning, I take the MAX downtown, and then get on the Greyhound to Centralia. Stewart is waiting for me there, in an old truck that barely runs and doesn’t have license plates or insurance.

The truck almost dies, but we make it back to his mom’s house.

Stewart is in a good mood, but he still doesn’t say much. It feels weird to have to plan something like this. As we drive, it seems odd that we talk so little. I feel like I have slipped somehow in his mind. That I’ve faded slightly. We’re not the
same couple that walked home in the rain from the Exxon station that night.

On the other hand, if today doesn’t get me back in his mind, I don’t know what will.

We get to his mom’s, which is a small box of a house, with an unkempt lawn, at the end of a gravel road. The other houses are kind of run-down as well. It’s not the best neighborhood.

Stewart goes quiet when he shuts off the truck. We walk up the gravel driveway. But then, the minute we get inside, Stewart starts kissing me. I’m surprised he’s this direct. I wasn’t expecting it. He peels off his shirt and takes off mine. He undoes his belt. I can’t really read his face. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

I don’t let him take off the rest of my clothes. I get in the bed and for a minute my mouth goes dry and I don’t know if I even want to do this.

He feels weird too. I can tell. He leaves the room, comes back with a can of Coke, which he opens and drinks, sitting on the side of the bed.

I lie there with the covers up to my neck, staring at his long, smooth back.

“You okay?” I ask him.

“Are you?”

“I’m sort of nervous,” I say.

“Me too.” He drinks from his Coke. “Sorry to jump you like that.”

“It’s okay.”

He stares down at the Coke can. I see it then:
He’s worried he’s not good enough for me.

“Stewart,” I say quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I love you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He turns and smiles. “Okay, then.”

The sex is weird. How could it not be? And the fact that it’s in broad daylight doesn’t help. We fumble with our clothes. I can’t get my bra off. Stewart gets tangled in his pants and nearly falls off the bed.

When everything is ready we’re both so nervous, we just sort of stop. His skin — which always feels so warm and soft — suddenly feels cold to the touch, and I can tell when he kisses me that he is unsure, and so am I, and nothing we do seems to work. Only when we give up and start laughing about what a disaster this is, do we actually relax and gradually find each other in a real way.

But from that moment on, it’s perfect. Coming together, unrushed, unquestioning, with no hesitation and no regret. And it does feel amazing and we watch each other and stare into each other’s eyes.

When it’s over I curl up inside his thick arms, and drift off into a dreamless sleep.

W
hen I wake up, it’s dark. Stewart is in the kitchen. I can see him through the door, in his boxers, lighting the stove and looking around for a pan. He asks me if I want scrambled eggs. He’s got the radio on and turns up “Sweet Emotion” when it plays.

I gather the comforter around my naked shoulders and go into the kitchen. I sit at the table. I remain silent, smiling, watching Stewart do a master chef impersonation. He’s dashing around. Putting cheese on the eggs. Making toast. Pretending to speak French. He’s having a great time.

Then, while the eggs spatter, he comes to me — the spatula still in one hand — bends over, holds my face, and kisses my forehead.

“If you could see how adorable you look right now,” he says to me.

I smile happily and he kisses me again on the top of the head.

“You know what I’ve been thinkin’?” he says to me.

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna dye my hair black.”

“Yeah?”

“This girl…from down the street. She’s a hairdresser. She said she’d do me for free if I wanted.”

I nod. “But blondes have more fun,” I say.

“They do, don’t they?” he says, grinning back toward me.

I smile at him. Then I pull the old comforter closer around my shoulders.

The girl down the street
, I think.
She’ll do me for free.

But no, I can’t get like that. I can’t be jealous. I won’t be.

Stewart risks getting pulled over and drives me all the way back to the MAX train afterward in his broken-down pickup. We talk off and on. He manages to never mention that we just slept together. Or what that might mean. Instead he tells me about fixing motorcycles with a guy who has a little garage outside Centralia. It might turn into an actual job.

Then he sees me playing with his grandmother’s ring.

“The ring!” he says. “You still have it!”

“Of course I still have it,” I say. “What did you think?”

“And you’re wearing it. That’s so awesome.”

“Just until you got back. Do you want it?”

“No way. You keep it. That way I know it’s safe.”

“You gotta take it back at some point. It’s yours.”

“It’s both of ours now. Don’t you think?”

“No. It’s your grandmother’s,” I say, turning it around on my finger. “I’m just holding it for you.”

He grins at me then. “I can’t think of a better place for it.”

“Really?” I say.

“Totally,” he says.

And for a moment, everything seems perfect again.

M
y dad continues his adventures in the solar energy business. This actually affects my life. Many times I come home and there are important people at the house, foreign investors, local politicians, rich people who are trying to get richer. Always I am introduced and always I shake hands and conduct myself with the utmost dignity.

Caterers appear regularly in our driveway. They smoke sometimes, in secret, behind the bushes by our mailbox. A real espresso machine (from Italy) is installed in our kitchen. That’s probably my favorite thing. The cocktail parties are my least favorite. I don’t like the smell of alcohol wafting up from the living room. Or the strange, half-drunk grown-ups wandering the halls outside my bedroom.

My father’s schedule is unpredictable. One week he’s home in his study working twelve hours a day. The next week he’s off to the East Coast or Japan doing God knows what. My mom and I, when left alone, tend to retreat to different ends of the house. I am grateful for these stretches of solitude. I can catch up on my TiVo watching.

Then, on Tuesday of spring break, we suddenly pack up and fly to Aspen, Colorado, for an emergency work meeting for my dad. My mother is very excited about this. I am too, though I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself in such a place.

It’s a three-hour flight. I sit with my book bag under the seat and a copy of
Lord of the Flies
in my lap. I think I’m going to read but what I mostly do is think about Stewart. I imagine he’s sitting with me, we’re talking, joking around, holding hands on the armrest. I talk to him in my head, explaining things, my family, how my dad is a workaholic and my mother can’t deal with it, withdraws, and then gets mad at me for no reason.

Or — and this is best of all — I think about the day at his mom’s house: the way his back looked in the afternoon light, the touch of his fingertips, the tiny whisker stubs around his lips and cheeks and sideburns. How strange it was to be so close to someone. And how amazing.

It’s a nice place to be, warm and fuzzy inside my thoughts, replaying certain moments…until my parents interrupt me…or the flight attendant…or we have to put on our seat belts for the landing.…

O
ne thing about staying in a nice hotel is that you can forget you’re a dorky high school kid.

The first night in Aspen I spend sitting in the lobby watching people and pretending to read
Lord of the Flies.
I order a cup of Earl Grey tea from the bar. It all feels very grown up…until a suave young man in a tuxedo comes over and asks me where the ballroom is and I blurt out: “I don’t know, I’m in high school!”

The next morning, I try to make up for this by putting on my biggest sunglasses and my vintage raincoat (cinched) and going for a very sophisticated walk around my hotel. This is really fun because boys check me out and older dudes too, and nobody really knows what my deal is. And later, sitting in a famous Aspen café, drinking an espresso with a lemon twist and reading
Vogue,
I call Trish and play the “Guess where I am right now” game, which is great fun because she really plays it:

“Are you glamorous or ridiculous?”

“Glamorous.”

“Vintage or twenty-first century?”

“Mostly vintage.”

“East Coast or West Coast?”

“In the middle, sort of.”

“Are there celebrities present?”

“There are pictures of celebrities on the walls. Signed.”

This conversation makes me miss her and reminds me she is the only girlfriend I have who really gets me at this point in my life.

The following night, my dad gets invited to a fancy dinner party and I have to come too since the people have kids in high school.

We drive our rental SUV to a cabin that’s far out in the woods. I get introduced to the various sons and daughters of people who are there.

So then I have to hang out. That’s not as easy as it sounds. Amy Smithline, who I end up sitting next to at dinner, goes on and on about being accepted to Columbia University in New York City. “It’s Ivy League, you know,” she tells me about three times. “People forget that it’s Ivy League because it’s in Manhattan. But I think it’s the best of both worlds. I wouldn’t even want to go to Yale. Have you ever seen New Haven? It’s a dump!”

After dinner I escape and go sit next to two boys by the fireplace named Peter and Chad. They’re smartly avoiding the Amy Smithline situation by roasting marshmallows. We talk a little. I mostly watch them eat.

Then they ask me if I want to come walk the dog with them. At first I hesitate, but then my mom helpfully orders me to go, claiming that it’ll be fun, that I need to get out and enjoy the mountain air.

So I go. We put on our coats in the hallway. Peter and Chad are both good-looking in a classical preppy kind of way. They
have expensive parkas, L. L. Bean snow boots, Norwegian ski hats.

They get the dog and we take it outside. We walk a few yards down the driveway and Chad immediately pulls a joint out of his coat pocket and lights it.

I don’t say anything. They kinda had a stoner vibe about them, so I’m not really surprised.

Chad takes a big hit and gives it to Peter. Peter takes a hit and offers it to me.

“No, thanks,” I say, bending down to pet the dog.

“You don’t smoke weed?” he asks, surprised.

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“It sorta…gives me a head ache,” I lie.

“It relieves my head ache!” jokes Chad.

Peter takes another hit.

The weed smoke smells
good
. My head spins for a minute and I know I have to move away. I let the dog lead me down the driveway a little ways. I find a stick and throw it into the woods. I follow the dog until I’m out of sight of the boys.

Because it’s so quiet, I can still hear Chad and Peter whispering on the driveway:

“I hate chicks who won’t party,” says Chad, taking a hit off the joint.

“Too bad. She was cute too,” says Peter.

“Gives me a head ache?”
says Chad. “You’re just an uptight bitch, why don’t you just admit it.”

I find the stick and throw it for the dog. He runs deeper into the woods. I run deeper too.

A few minutes later, Chad calls out: “Hey, whatever your name was! Bring the dog in when you’re done! We’re going back inside!”

“Okay!” I yell back.

When they’re gone, I lie down on my back in the snow and sigh with deep relief.

Then the dog comes bounding through the snow. He jumps on my chest and licks my face.

B
ack at our hotel, I sit on a couch in the lobby and call Stewart’s mom’s house. He actually answers for a change, but he can’t talk. He and his friend are out in the garage taking apart someone’s Harley-Davidson. “You can’t really stop in the middle,” he tells me.

I don’t let him off that easy, though. I want to know when we can hang out again.

That’s when he tells me about his plan to go find his dad. “My sister just talked to him. He’s down in Redland,” he tells me. Redland is a famous pot-farm hippie town in southern Oregon.

“What’s he doing down there?” I ask.

“Nobody knows. Nobody’s talked to him in four years. The thing is, I can’t deal with my mom anymore. She’s been hitting me up for money and stuff.”

“That’s not good.”

“I gotta find my dad. I gotta find one person in my family who’s halfway sane.”

“But what about your sister?”

“She’s okay. But her boyfriend’s into some bad business too.”

I have no answer to that. “How long will you be gone for?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him yet.”

I don’t know how to respond. The phone on his side goes silent too.

“Did you dye your hair black?” I ask.

“Not yet.”

“You know I like the blond. I mean, I like it either way.”

“Yeah, I like the blond too. I dunno.”

“I miss you so much,” I tell him.

“I miss you too.”

“I wish I could be with you tonight.”

“Me too.”

“I think about you all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” I say.

There’s a pause. And then he says it. “I love you too, Maddie.”

But then I can’t think of where to go from there. Maybe that’s enough. It should be enough.

But somehow it isn’t.