At ten o’clock, while some poor woman who’d driven in from the Pine Barrens attempted to share her experience, strength, and hope, we passed and re-passed scripts from hand to hand, making corrections, adding new jokes. By the time the announcement blared, “Ladies, please proceed to the cafeteria for afternoon Meditation,” I was trembling with nerves. Sure enough, instead of the typical single, bored RC, there was Michelle . . . and Kirsten . . . and Jean and Phil, two counselors I didn’t know. A half-dozen RCs were lined up by the door . . . and at the head of the line stood none other than my pal Ed McGreavey, noted heli-skier and locator of lost bottoms.
“Good morning!” he said pleasantly as we filed into the room. “Ladies,” he said, as the women stared at him, then at me. “I understand you’ve got a performance in the works. I want to tell you, personally, how happy it makes me to see this kind of motivation!” So that was his strategy, I thought. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em . . . and act like it was your good idea all along. “We’re looking forward to hearing what you’ve got.”
I smiled as, behind me, Amanda and Samantha got into position. “Ladies and gentlemen!” I said, nodding at Ed and at the pimply RC who’d hollered at me about walking on the wrong path. “Welcome to the inaugural, one-time-only, debut performance of The Sound of Rehab.”
Behind Amanda and Samantha, the rest of the women lined up in a half circle. Aubrey stepped to the front of the circle, twirling and twirling, before she opened her mouth and, in a very credible Julie Andrews–ish manner, began to sing, “The hills are alive . . . with the sounds of rehab . . . with songs drunks have sung . . . for a hundred years!”
I slipped to the door. “Be right back,” I whispered to Mary. I was sorry to miss it, I thought as I hurried to my room, grabbed my purse, strolled past the empty desk, pushed through the double doors, and found Dave in the parking lot, behind the wheel of the Prius, right where he said he would be.
He looked at me with suspicion as I practically skipped into the passenger’s seat. “Go, go, go!” I hollered, pounding the dashboard.
“You okay?”
“I’m great! It just feels so good to be getting out of here!” I could barely breathe, or hear anything, because of the thunder of my heartbeat in my ears as we pulled past the security guard’s hut, but no one said a word. The gate lifted, and we were on the road, driving toward Philadelphia. Free.
“Tell me everything,” I said, adjusting the seat, and then the music, looking around for coffee or candy or anything at all from the outside world.
Dave’s voice was terse, his words careful. “Ellie’s been doing fine. She seems to like camp, and her swimming’s gotten much better. And your mother’s really stepped up to the plate. She’s been driving Ellie to camp in the mornings—”
“Wait. Driving? My mom?” I felt my throat start to close again, remembering her promise, that she’d never be impaired around my daughter.
“She went out and renewed her license. Passed the test on her first try.”
“Wow,” I said, wondering why she hadn’t told me. Dave drove us along an unfamiliar two-lane road, past a farm stand selling sweet corn and tomatoes, and a small white church. “How long’s the ride home?”
“Maybe half an hour.”
“That’s all?”
“You don’t remember?” His tone betrayed little curiosity. Dave looked good, lean and broad-shouldered as ever in his worn jeans and dark-blue collared shirt. He smelled good, too, freshly showered, the bracing scent of Dial soap filling the car.
“I wasn’t in great shape at the time.” I stared at him, willing him to take his eyes off the road, even for just a second, and spare me a look. When he didn’t, I began talking. “Dave. I know we haven’t really discussed things, and we probably won’t have much of a chance today, but I want you to know how sorry I am about everything.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. “Let’s just focus on Ellie,” he finally said, in that maddening, almost robotic tone.
“Can’t you tell me anything? Give me a hint? Because, you know, if I’m going to be single, there’s a trainer who comes to Meadowcrest once a week. I gotta start working on my fitness if I’m going to be back on the market.”
I saw the corners of his eyes crinkle in what wasn’t quite a smile, but was at least a sign that I could still amuse him. “I made mistakes, too,” he said. “I knew there was something going on for a while, and I didn’t try to find out what. It was just easier to let things go.”