Three days, eight cups of JELL-O, and countless hours of daytime TV later, Mom and I step through the sliding glass doors of the hospital and out into the parking lot. It’s raining; the weather’s a perfect fucking cliché. Nobody steps out of the hospital into a beautiful summery day—not when they’re going to rehab. When you’re on your way to rehab, the sky is angry, and the clouds close in on you. There’s no sun for miles.
Steven’s Lexus is waiting by the curb; thin rivers streak the SUV’s wide windows.
I ease myself down onto the backseat, the leather as smooth and creamy as one of Savannah’s vanilla lattes. Steven’s hair is wet from the shower; the inside of the car smells like coffee and dial soap. Benny’s sitting in his booster, barefoot, a Blue’s Clues coloring book across his lap.
“You brought Benny?”
Mom buckles her seatbelt and adjusts the shoulder strap. “He’s missed you,” she says, shooting me a pointed look. “And it’ll be a while before he sees you again.” She reaches for her coffee, turning her attention to Steven. “You know where you’re going?”
I lean back against the seat and shut my eyes, but I can feel Benny staring at me. I crack one lid. “What?”
“You don’t look sick.” He eyes me suspiciously.
“I’m not sick. Who told you I was sick?”
Benny squirts blue razzleberry hand sanitizer into his palm and rubs furiously. “Miss Tyler is taking us to the aquarium tomorrow.”
Miss Tyler, Benny’s kindergarten teacher, has managed to instill a fear of germs in Benny that borders on obsessive compulsive. Last winter, Benny’s hands were raw from over-washing. I’m just waiting for the day that Benny starts wrapping his school supplies in aluminum foil.
“You can’t go if you’re sick,” Benny says. “Miss Tyler says no germs on the bus.”
“I’m not sick, Ben. Mom, you told him I was sick?”
Mom’s arguing with Steven about the best way to get to the turnpike from the hospital parking lot, but she pauses long enough to give me an apologetic look. “We weren’t exactly sure what to tell him.”
Benny touches my face with small hands still glistening with sanitizer.
I swat him away. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for fever. Miss Tyler always checks for fever.”
“I told you, I’m not sick!”
Mom sighs. She tucks her seatbelt behind her and twists around to face us. “Ben, your brother’s not sick like you’re thinking of. He’s just not feeling like himself.”
That’s the understatement of the century.
“He’s going to take a little break from school until he feels better again.”
Benny’s eyes narrow. “Like Disney?” he asks, referencing the trip my family took spring break of my junior year. The little nerd-bomber was so upset that preschool would be closed for a week that his teacher gave him a special notebook, so he could tell his class all about his trip when he got back.
“It’s more like summer camp,” Mom tells him. “They have a lake and all kinds of fun group activities.”
Benny’s eyes get bright with excitement. He spent a week at day camp last summer and loved it almost as much as Disney World.
“Oh, yea,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Exactly like summer camp.”
Steven’s dark eyes meet mine in the rearview. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’re making the right choice, son.”
“You know I don’t have a choice.” My words are fists, and I’m aiming for soft tissue. “And I am not your son.”
Steven’s face tightens, but he swallows his words like bitters in his whiskey sour. His fingers drum the steering wheel, tapping out all the things he’d say if Benny wasn’t here.
Mom reaches a hand across the center console and massages the back of Steven’s neck. As if he’s the one who needs her.
“When will you be back?” Benny asks me.
My throat suddenly feels tight, and my eyes sting. I’m grateful when Mom offers her phone to Benny.
“Here, Ben,” she says. “Why don’t you watch some Blue’s Clues, okay?”
He takes it eagerly, and I prop my packed duffel against the foggy window, carefully positioning it under my neck like a pillow.
“I packed your green hoodie,” Mom says. “The one with the fleece lining. That’s your favorite, right? And your slippers. I did all the laundry, so I probably packed more than you’ll need.”
I nod absently, wishing for my phone and headphones so that I could disappear into a world of sound. Although the worst of my withdrawal symptoms are over, my stomach still churns around my hospital breakfast, and my whole chest aches. Doc said that’s from the chest compressions, that I was lucky the paramedic didn’t crack a rib. People have thrown that word around a lot over the past three days. But I don’t feel lucky. I feel like my life is falling apart.
“They provide all your meals and snacks,” Mom continues, her fingers toying the lip of her Starbucks cup. “I’ll put money on your account, so you can get candy or soda or whatever.”
I close my eyes and push Mom’s voice to the background, like the steady whirring of a white noise machine. And I go to the secret place inside me that’s for Emergencies Only, the place where there’s so much nothingness that anything is possible.
It’s the place where I keep my dad.
“Eli. Eli, wake up, honey. We’re here.” Mom’s voice nudges me out of the dream. It’s the same dream I always have. The one with the park and the swings.
I wake up reluctantly, even though I know how the dream ends.
My duffel bag is damp where I’ve been drooling in my sleep; my head is pounding.
I sit up, squinting out the window at the building ahead. Blue clapboard siding surrounds white window frames and doors. White curtains billow in a few open windows. The entrance is made entirely of glass, marked by two white pillars, and crowned with a large sign. The words LakeShore Recovery Center hover over a watery horizon, punctuated by a couple of painted pine trees.
Benny’s snoring, his chin on his chest, a crayon loose in one hand. Blue, his favorite. I lift his head back against his car seat. He breathes easier for about half a second until his head flops down again.
Steven swerves into the lot. He parks, but leaves the car running. “I guess I’ll wait here?” He tips his head toward the back seat, where Benny’s already sawing lumber again.
Mom hesitates. Her hand flutters at her neck, frazzled. “Are you sure? It might be a while.”
“We’ll be fine.” Steven tells her. His voice is soothing, and he offers a reassuring smile. “If he wakes up, we’ll go for a walk or something.”
Mom nods. She checks the visor mirror, absently fluffing her hair and swiping her thumb over the tired lines beneath her eyes. “Okay,” she says, slapping the visor closed and collecting her purse. “You ready, Eli?”
Not in the least.
Mom climbs out of the car, closing the door behind her, and the sound nudges Benny from his nap.
“You going to Disney camp now?” he murmurs groggily.
“Yeah, Ben,” I tell him. “Go back to sleep, okay?”
Benny nuzzles his face against the side of the car seat and closes his eyes. “Okay,” he whispers.
I slip the crayon from his hand and put it back in the box, so he’ll know where to find it.
Steven glances at me over his shoulder. “We’ll see you soon, Eli.”
“Sure,” I mutter. “Whatever.” Then I crawl out of the car, leaving Steven and Benny behind.
My body feels like an old man’s when I unfold onto the pavement. I’m stiff and achy—my duffel’s full of bricks. I hoist it onto my hip and follow Mom up the sidewalk toward the entrance. A wall of trees edges the property, as high and impenetrable as a barbwire fence. Green lawn stretches out from all sides of the building, like a cross between Alcatraz and Oz. This place is a freaking suburban island, but it was the only one close enough for Savannah to come and visit. That is, if her dad ever lets her see me again.
Mom stops outside the entrance. “So this is it,” she says, the forced cheerfulness back in her voice. “Nice, right?”
Through the doors, I can see the curve of a reception desk and the artificial shine of potted plants. Like a fucking hotel lobby.
I just want to go home.
“It’s only 28 days, Eli,” Mom says. “You can do anything for 28 days.”
“It’s not that,” I tell her. “This whole thing is so stupid. I mean, these places are for addicts . . . junkies. I’m going to miss half the season! Plus, it’s senior year. How am I going to graduate if I spend a month here?”
Mom sighs. We’re standing too close to the automatic doors, and the glass keeps parting awkwardly, sliding half-way open and then shutting again. Mom steps away from the door, runs her hand through her shoulder-length curls. “I told you we’ll figure that out. You can do make-up work, even take a summer class if necessary. That’s not important right now. What is important, is that you get better.”
“You keep saying that,” I plead. “But there’s nothing wrong with me.”
I see the exact moment that Mom registers the tremble in my voice. Her icy armor cracks, and I seize the opening.
“Dad wouldn’t make me stay.”
Mom’s face hardens. Her words are frostbitten. “Then thank goodness he’s not here.”
She takes my duffel, tosses it up on her shoulder, and heads toward the door. The glass parts, then closes decidedly behind her.
For a nanosecond, I consider the wall of trees behind the building and wonder how far I could make it before they found me. But I’m pretty sure running would be next to impossible right now. Plus, my throat is so dry, and my head’s throbbing like my brain is trying to escape my skull.
It’s just 28 days. I can do anything for 28 days.
I follow Mom inside.