thirty-five

The hatchback of the Gremlin was packed with enough shopping bags that I actually worried they would be the straw that broke the car’s back. My mother and I were returning to rehab where, for the remainder of her stay, she’d be the best dressed patient in group therapy.

“You wouldn’t believe the whining,” my mother lamented about the group. “You just can’t believe what passes for a crisis these days. There are two or three girls about your age who think their parents’ divorce is worthy of their self-absorbed drama.”

“I can’t see you sharing during these sessions.”

“What would I say? My husband was instrumental in my son’s death? My son was adopted and separated from his twin brother, but he didn’t know until months before he was murdered? These people have no idea what drama is.”

“How about My daughter eats from garbage pails?” I suggested.

“Now that I mentioned.”

“Mom,” I yelled.

“You have to say something. You can’t just sit there in silence or you’ll lose privileges.”

“But my Dumpster diving had nothing to do with your drinking,” I retorted.

“Of course it didn’t, but you should have seen their faces.”

“Let me guess. You’re saving up the story of my egg theft to wow them on your last day?”

My mother smiled slyly. “Maybe.”

I pulled into the front drive of the rehab and turned off the key. The sun hung low in the sky, and I could almost feel the grapevines in the distance soaking in the last of their solar vitamins. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I would work on the farm. If I wedged Katrina in a comfortable chair, she could strip the sweet potatoes of their new tubers while I did the planting. There was too much going on to think ahead to the harvest. By the time the sweet potatoes were grown, my mother would be out of rehab, Katrina would have a baby, and I might have a child—or rather, a teenager. My mother would be a grandmother, which seemed inconceivable at the moment. How many kids visit their grandmothers in rehab?

My mother looked sadly at her new home. “It’s as if none of these people ever enjoyed their poison.”

“Come on, it’s only a few more weeks.” I emptied the trunk and carried my mother’s packages into the lobby. On Sunday night, a so-called free time, patients gathered socially in the small meeting pods on the main level. A few waved to my mother, and she smiled back blankly, that same fake smile she had offered me as a kid when she was more interested in her refill than my homework. The only available table had an opened bottle of water and a half-eaten bag of chips on it. I moved the discarded food aside and set down my mother’s new spring wardrobe. I looked around the room to make sure I caught the eyes of my mother’s fellow patients. Then, I picked up the chips and started to munch.

“You are doing this on purpose,” my mother hissed.

I reached for the bottle of water to wash down the chips.

“You wouldn’t,” she said.

“I won’t if you promise to stop using me as your emotional crutch in therapy. You’ve got to get to the real stuff if you want to get better.” The real stuff, I thought. If I truly considered the real stuff in my life, I’d be a permanent resident at this facility. I inched my hand closer to the water bottle until my mother caved.

“You win,” she said, and I put the bottle down.

I gave her a hug, which she graciously returned. “Seriously, Mom. I want you back.”

I returned to Harbor House around ten that night. Frank, Katrina, and Charlie were in the barn enjoying the last of the Christmas lights. Frank had reverted to his traditional six-pack of beer while Charlie looked like the before picture for the brochure of my mother’s rehab facility. Katrina had her legs propped up on a cardboard box. Her shoeless swollen feet looked like she’d been smashing grapes in an Italian winery for the last nine months.

“Trina, I think Frank was kidding when he asked you to give
him a week.” I rubbed her toes. “Feel free to have this baby whenever you want.”

“I’m never doing this again,” she moaned.

“One and done,” Charlie chimed in and Frank laughed. Clearly, I had arrived late to the party.

“Okay,” Frank said as he passed out scraps of paper and pencils. “I’ve come up with an investigative game. I’d like you to write down possible links between the people in Bob’s diorama and Bob. To assist you, I’ll display the photos we took of the artwork.” Frank fired up his iPad and placed it on the table.

“What do we get if we win?” I asked.

“The respect of the tax-paying public.” Frank shrugged. “It’s what keeps me coming to work every day.”

I was intrigued by Frank’s motivation to serve. On some level, I felt that people like Bob and I were also serving, but our public extended beyond the borders of Cold Spring Harbor. Global sustainability, an unwieldy goal, had to start at a local level. Try telling that to my neighbors whose garbage I regularly pillaged.

Katrina made a useless attempt to bend over and reach for the iPad. “It’s such a diverse group.” She squinted at the picture. “There’s children, young adults, and seniors in this picture. I can’t see them participating in the same thing given the differences in their ages and physical capabilities.”

“Unless it’s something like singing,” Frank said. “The funny thing about vocal ability is that it’s not dependent on the singer’s appearance, like an athlete. People of all shapes and sizes can have amazing voices.”

“So they’re in a band.” Charlie chuckled.

“How about Mensa?” Katrina said. “IQ is detectable at a young age. That would give the little girl a reason to be at the table.”

“It’s possible. Bob always struck me as a smart guy,” I said, and then added. “In keeping with the concept of how they think, maybe their commonality is an idea, a shared philosophy?”

“Like a religion?” Charlie said.

“Please don’t say cult,” Frank added. “I don’t have the energy to infiltrate a cult.”

“Then how about a church choir?” Charlie countered.

The singing angle seemed plausible. Music had a way of bringing people of various ages together, although Bob never hummed more than his favorite Sesame Street tune. Besides, there was nothing else in the diorama to indicate music. I’d need a treble clef fashioned out of a discarded paper clip to go with the music theory.

“We need more options,” I said encouragingly. “What else can a diverse group of people share?”

“Art?” Frank asked. “Or maybe collecting?”

“That’s true,” Katrina said. “I collected recipes as a kid.”

“If this was some type of group, I’ll bet they communicated or maybe even met online,” Charlie said. “Most clubs have email chains, or they congregate in chat rooms or on groups sponsored by search engines.”

“Damn.” Frank lowered his beer. “We only checked Bob’s work computer, because we thought this was strictly work related. We never checked to see if Bob had a personal computer at his house.”

I looked at my watch and then remembered I had given it to Lizzy James. “Isn’t it late, Frank?” I said. “I need to sleep, and Bob’s house isn’t going anywhere.”

“Tomorrow?” Frank asked Charlie.

“I’m there,” Charlie slurred.