When she pulled into the garage, Claudia’s stomach tightened. All of Mike’s other cars were there, meaning he must be home. If he was sober, she wouldn’t have to worry about a physical altercation. But if he was drunk, she would grab the keys to her own car and make a quick exit.
The house was deadly quiet when she walked in. She set her purse down on the kitchen counter and stood perfectly still, listening for Mike, heart pounding, palms clammy. Her gaze landed on a note next to the bowl of oranges, and she walked over and read it without picking it up, already feeling like an intruder.
Claudia—
Not sure where you are. I’m sorry.
Checking myself into rehab today.
Not sure how long I’ll be gone.
Love you, my girl,
M
It was exactly thirteen days after she read the note that Claudia heard from Mike, who had checked into the Phoenix Recovery Center (which was not, as Claudia learned, in Phoenix, Arizona, but rather in Utah, set next to the majestic Colorado River). He phoned on a Thursday night, just asE.R.was starting. She was sitting on his couch with a bowl of microwave popcorn on her lap and an open bottle of rosé on the coffee table. When she answered, he didn’t say hello.
Instead, he said, “Oh, good. I was hoping you were still there.”
She swallowed a sob. “I’m here.”
“Glad someone’s there to water the plants,” he said, his tone lightening. Then, after a pause, emotion filled his voice. “You all right?”
“I’m hanging in there. You?”
“Being sober is… umm… hard. But I’m doing it. Twelve days now.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah, I’ve been working through a lot of old shit that’s been weighing me down. Apparently, it’s necessary, but it sucks balls. I won’t be doing rehab again, I can promise you that much.”
“Hopefully you won’t have to.”
“That’s the idea,” he answered, and she could hear him take a drag on a cigarette. “Listen, I wanted to apologize for what happened at the party. And for disappearing without talking to you. And for… generally being such an asshole to you all the time, especially when I’m using, but also when I’m hungover or in a shitty mood for no good reason.”
“That’s okay.”
“You’re not supposed to tell me it’s okay. That’s called enabling. And if you enable me, I’m more likely to reuse.”
Chewing her lip, she said, “Sorry. It’s not okay.”
“You’re supposed to say thank you.”
She scrunched up her nose, frustration coming over her like a tidal wave. “Well, no one gave me the script, so I’m kind of winging it here.”
“I know. I’m not criticizing you. It’s just that people have to stop letting me off the hook. I need to be held accountable for my actions if I’m going to move forward.”
“Moving forward sounds good,” she said, her heart pounding a little quicker while her brain told her he was about to say he was moving forward without her. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. I mean, when I get back, I need all the booze and drugs gone, but Dean said he’d come over and take care of that.”
“No, I can do it.”
“I’ve already told him where I hid everything.”
Her stomach dropped, and she wasn’t sure if it was because he was hiding things or because he’d trusted Dean to take care of it instead of her. “All right.”
“He’ll call ahead to arrange a time with you.”
