The Seventh Wish (13 page)

Chapter 12

Another Abby

All the way to Vermont, I talk to Abby in my head, practicing what I'm going to say when we pick her up at school.

You wrote your name on the D.A.R.E. car. You promised.

You lied to me at the hospital.

How could you do this to our family?

But when Dad parks the car and we walk into the university health center, the girl who stands up to greet us isn't Abby. Not our Abby anyway.

Her face is grayish. Her hair is matted like she just woke up, and her eyes look so, so tired. Mom sucks in her breath, then rushes up and pulls Abby into a hug. Abby's arms look weak. She's barely hugging back, but she closes her eyes tight and starts shaking with sobs.

It's like I'm watching a TV show with one of those hospital scenes. Like I'm watching strangers. This girl with the scared, washed-out eyes is nothing like my sister.

Dad talks with the health center nurse for a few minutes, and then we all walk to the car. Abby barely looks at me. That's okay. All of the things I wanted to tell her are gone. This other Abby looks so fragile. It feels like saying those things might be enough to make her crumble right down to the sidewalk.

We stop at Abby's dorm to get her stuff. Then it's an hour to the treatment center. Abby spends the whole ride with her legs tucked to her chest, arms hugging them, eyes staring out the window at the dirty snow piled on the side of the road.

I look at her until I can't look at her anymore. Then I take out my phone and scroll through our texts.

I want my sister back. I want the sister who answered me when I needed advice and played the word game with us from across the lake. I want the sister who cared about how my classes were going and cheered for me, even when she couldn't come to my feis . . .

I want the sister who was healthy and smart and funny and happy.

She sent a picture of four girls wearing black leggings and sweatshirts with letters on them. One shirt's lettering
said C
₈
, one said H
₁₀
, one said N
₄
, and Abby's said O
₂
. I guess that's the chemical symbol for a caffeine molecule. They were all smiling and laughing, Abby most of all.

But that Abby isn't here. The sister beside me in the back seat is broken. Quiet tears run down her face as the car bumps along over potholes on the road to the treatment center. I reach out for Abby's hand, but she pulls it back and keeps staring out the window.

Dad almost drives right past the place, probably because it's nothing like a hospital or clinic. Forest Hills looks like any Vermont farm tucked into the foothills of the Green Mountains. There are two white farmhouse-type buildings, plus an enormous barn. Half of it is weathered and old, with peeling paint and chickens strutting around the door, but the other half looks brand new.

Dad parks in front of the new part of the building near a door that says Reception. He lifts Abby's duffel bag and suitcase from the trunk.

A goat comes over and tries to take a bite of the duffel bag strap. Dad shoos it away. “Boy, the counselors here sure are pushy.”

Abby smiles, but it's not her real smile. She's looking at a sign over the reception door.

YOU ARE NO LONGER ALONE.

Abby blinks fast. Two tears slip down her cheek, and I wonder why that sign made her cry. The heroin people in
the D.A.R.E. video were never alone—they were always in crowded rooms. But their eyes looked lonely. I guess Abby's do too.

Dad closes the trunk. Mom steps up behind Abby and puts a hand on her back. “Ready?”

Abby swipes at her eyes with her jacket sleeve. She nods, and we go inside.

The reception room is just a big living room—couches, chairs, and bookshelves—along with a simple wooden desk. The woman sitting at it stands up when we come in. “You must be Abby Brennan.” She smiles, reaches out, and shakes Abby's hand as if Abby were a candidate for a job or a customer opening a bank account instead of someone in trouble for using drugs. “It's great to meet you. We have some paperwork to take care of first. Then you can say good-bye to your family, and we'll have you meet with the nurses for your initial screening. While you're with them, we'll search your bags.” She looks down at Abby's duffel bag and suitcase. “You know there are no weapons, no drugs or alcohol—that includes personal items like mouthwash with alcohol—no clothing that advertises drugs or alcohol, and no electronics.”

Abby nods along with every “no” except the last one. She puts her hand on her back pocket. “That doesn't include phones, does it?”

The woman nods and gives Abby a kind smile. “But we
have phones here, and you're welcome to use them during any of your breaks.”

“We'll take it home for you, Ab,” Dad says.

Abby sighs, but she gives Dad her cell phone and answers all the woman's questions. Mom and Dad fill out paperwork about insurance and emergency contacts. I sit and listen while they talk about the kinds of treatment Abby will get: group and individual counseling, skills for staying away from drugs, mindfulness training, and acutherapy, which is like acupuncture, I guess. I'm only half listening until the lady talks about giving Abby some drug called suboxone.

“Aren't you supposed to get her
off
drugs?” I say.

“Charlie,” Mom whispers. “Be polite.”

But the admissions counselor turns to me and smiles. “You're a good sister, asking these questions. But when a person is addicted to heroin and stops using it, she goes through something called withdrawal. Do you know what that is?”

I nod. But really all I know is what we learned at D.A.R.E.—it's some bad thing that happens after you use drugs. “Actually, not really.”

“Drugs like heroin actually change the way the brain is wired. Heroin
makes
a person need more heroin. So when someone decides to break free of that, like Abby's doing, the body takes time to adjust. The drug we're giving her will
help that to happen more gradually,” she says. She looks at Mom, Dad, and Abby then too. “I'm not going to lie to you. Even with the suboxone taper, it's going to be a pretty awful week.”

Mom puts a hand on Abby's knee. “You can get through this. We believe in you.”

The counselor turns back to me. “Any other questions?”

I have lots. How come Abby can't keep her phone? Why are there so many different parts of the treatment? What if none of it works?

But most of my questions are about how somebody as smart as Abby could be stupid enough to do this, to be here. And then I'm angry all over again.

I walk away, sit down on a couch across the room, open a magazine, and pretend that “Five Ways to Sneak Vegetables into Your Family's Dessert” is the greatest thing I've ever read. But seriously? A person would
have
to be on drugs not to notice that their brownies were full of kale.

I feel a rush of cold wind when the treatment center door opens. I look up as a man and woman walk in holding hands and sink down on a couch. They're younger than Mom and Dad, and they both look sad and tired. I sneak glances at them over my magazine, wondering which one has the problem and what drug it is until the lady's eyes
meet mine. Then I realize she's probably wondering all the same things about me.

I look away fast, and a framed photo on the wall catches my eye. It's an ocean scene with writing across the waves. And because anything is better than sitting here looking back at the people looking at me and wondering if I'm on drugs, I get up and walk over to read it.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

At first, I can't figure out why it sounds familiar, but then I realize it's that prayer Drew's nana talked about, the one that helped her when her husband was an alcoholic and she wanted to fix everything but she couldn't. I've seen the photograph before too—on that card that fell out of Leah's dance bag that day.

I glance over my shoulder, but those people are still there, so I turn back and read the prayer-thing again. The trouble with it is that when you're a kid, almost everything falls into that second category of stuff you can't change. Not only Abby but the feis and Drew's basketball mess and Dasha's school problems and everything. You'd think finding a magic fish that grants wishes would help, but it doesn't, because it turns out you're really crummy at wishing.

My phone dings with a text from Bobby O'Sullivan, as if to confirm this.

Hi, Charlie! It's Bobby again! What's up?? <3 <3

Nothing good, Bobby.

I shove my phone in my pocket and rewrite the poster in my head.
God grant me the wisdom to enunciate my wishes, explain them clearly, and stop messing everything up.

I'm still staring at the dumb poster when Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “Charlie? We've finished the paperwork. Abby has to meet with her nurses, so it's time to say good-bye.”

I walk up to Abby. She looks down at her shoes. She has on her purple ballet flats—the ones she'd never let me borrow because she loved them so much and was worried I'd get them muddy or something. They're all scuffed up and stained now.

“Well,” I say. And then I don't know what to say because I'm still angry at her for making us come here, but I can't say that in front of Mom and Dad and the cheery admissions counselor. What
are
you supposed to say when you drop your sister off at a drug treatment center?
Good luck?
That makes it sound like she's here to try out for a play.
Feel better? Just say no?

There's nothing right, so I just say, “Bye, Abby.” I lean in and give her a super-fast hug. “I'm going to wait outside, okay?” I'm halfway out before I hear Mom answer, “Sure, we'll be right there.”

She and Dad come out a minute later, both with red, teary eyes.

Dad takes a deep breath as we walk to the car. “I'm thinking of a word,” he says.

Mom just looks at him. “Seriously?” She shakes her head, pulls open the car door so hard the chickens scatter, and gets in.

Dad and I put on our seat belts. He backs us out of the parking space. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I thought it might help.”

“You thought wrong.” Mom twists in her seat and looks back at Forest Hills as we drive down the long driveway. I turn to look too. The goat is chewing on something as it watches us leave. The chickens are heading back to the barn. Somewhere inside, Abby is getting her pulse and blood pressure taken, and a stranger is going through her stuff.

Dad turns on the radio. “The word was sunbeam,” he says. “Just in case anybody was wondering.”

Chapter 13

Photos and Fortunes

When we get home, Mom orders Chinese food and collapses into a chair at the kitchen table. Denver licks her hand until she gives him a halfhearted pat on the head.