“What do you think they’re in for?” she asks, nodding at the noisy cottage.
“Hearing loss?” I suggest.
Amelia shakes her head. “You shouldn’t make fun of someone for having a disability.”
Spoken like someone who doesn’t have one,I think. Amelia drops her cigarette on the ground and stamps it out, then bends down and picks the butt off the ground, putting it in her pocket. I’m not sure if she’s opposed to littering or if she’s trying to conceal evidence that she was out here.
“Anyway,” she continues, “this music isn’t that loud.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not compared to what my mother used to play.”
“Usually parents are the ones trying to get their kids to keep it down.”
“Not in my house,” Amelia answers. “How about you?”
“How about me what?”
“What’re you in for?”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to ask.”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be out here in the middle of the night, either.” She stretches her arms out wide. “How big do you think this place is?” she asks, moving on to another subject agreeably. “Like the actualproperty, how many acres?”
“Dunno,” I answer.
“Dr. Mackenzie told me they only have three cottages. Don’t you hate how they call them cottages, like we’re at some rustic resort in the English countryside?”
“A resort in the English countryside wouldn’t have Nest thermostats.” The aristocracy loves an opportunity to prove they don’t care for moderncomforts like central air conditioning and well-insulated rooms. Our Scottish estate is drafty in winter and sweltering in summer.
“There’s got to be more than three buildings to this place.” Amelia gestures behind her cottage, where at least one shadowy structure takes up space in the milky darkness.
“Could be an administrative building of some kind,” I agree.
“Right!” Amelia agrees enthusiastically, as if I’ve said something important. I get the sense that Amelia’s the sort of person who looks at the resort map before she arrives at a hotel.
Maybe Ameliawantedto be sent here. Some peopleaskfor help rather than have it forced upon them by others who don’t have the slightest idea of what help really is.
“Alcoholism,” I say. The answer comes easily. I like that Amelia didn’t press me for not answering earlier.
“Huh?”
“What I’m in for.” It doesn’t feel like a confession. Perhaps it’s easy to say because it’s not entirely true. Anne thinks I take my medication “as directed.”
Amelia stops walking to light another cigarette. I reach out to shield the flame from the wind. My fingers brush against hers, her skin so cold it’s like being burned.
“Aren’t alcoholics supposed to spend the first few days of rehab shivering and throwing up?” She sounds genuinely curious.
“I haven’t had a drink in months.”
Amelia’s brow furrows with skepticism—what kind of alcoholic quits drinking months before entering rehab?—but I don’t offer an explanation, though I know I’m supposed to say something more: I’m meant to lapse into a daydream as I recall the mineral taste of cold white wine on a hot summer day, the clink of ice in a glass, the ritual of raising a toast at some celebration—a wedding, graduation, even a funeral. I ought to explain that I’ve tried to fill the hole it left behind with exercise or historical biographies or knitting or macramé. Isn’t that what addicts do, to keep their hands and minds occupied, literally too busy to take a drink?
“What about you?” I ask finally. “What are you in for?”
“It’s complicated.” Amelia waves her cigarette dismissively, dodging my question, though her non-answer feels less like a lie than my actual answer did. “Hey, is it true you dropped cake on the queen’s shoes when you were ten?”
“Well, I heard you blew your nose on Eddie Vedder’s sleeve when you were a baby.”
