But no. That’snot it at all.
I swallow nervously, shift on my feet one last time as Hammond finally takes a place next to Val. This is the part where I give a wrap-up, where I talk about each one of the patients I mentioned along the trail and where they are now.Phillip, nineteen, in technical school for heating and cooling systems, twenty-three months clean. Brandi, twenty-two, a hairstylist, thirty-eight months clean. Kellan, twenty-seven, one of the first patients to move through the Colorado program, married and a father of one daughter, a college graduate, six years clean.I’ve got seven total I’m supposed to mention here, plus the stats on stability rates five years after completing the program. I’m supposed to talk about why programs like this are the future of drug treatment. I’m supposed to talk about the combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and wilderness therapy.
A strong close.That’s what Zoe had called it, back when I went through it with her the first time, though maybe her voice had been a bit stiff.
But for some reason, so close to the end, I stumble. I confuse Phillip with Kellan, and I get flustered enough about it that I go back over it and do it again, conscious of the slight, wincing secondhand embarrassment from my audience. I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to wipe a sweaty palm across my jeans. “Been a long couple of days.” Before I begin again, I catch Zoe’s eye, and she raises an eyebrow, gestures up to the podium.Want me to do it?she mouths, and I give a subtle shake of my head. “So probably it’s clear,” I say to the group, “that a lot of people have had success with this.” That’s not really a part of my script, that awkward transition, but at least I get going again.
It’s not a strong close, that’s for fucking sure. It’s like all the practice has caught up with me, and the words I’m saying seem disconnected from their meaning, so that when they come out, I’m sort of observing, with one part of my brain, how strange they sound. I’m not so much looking at my audience as I am lookingaroundthem, no real eye contact, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought nags at me:You don’twantthis to be over.
But then,finally, it is.
Zoe had told me not to expect applause, that there wasn’t some kids-in-costume flourish here, that it might feel more like a whimper than a bang. But it’s still jarring, the quiet—the way everyone’s staring down at their materials, I guess a little unsure about what questions to ask. As we’d planned, Zoe gets up and walks to the front, stands beside me. We didn’t talk about what she does next, which is to slide her fingers between mine, squeezing our palms together. Still, she sticks to her script. “Aiden and I thought it’d be a good idea to head back into the lodge now, take any questions you have in there. This is a tough subject, we know, so takea few minutes.”
We wait together for everyone to go ahead of us, following slowly behind. “I fucked up the end,” I murmur to her, only slightly embarrassed. Mostly I’m relieved to have a secondalone with her.
“It was fine. It felt real.” I look over at her, her chin tilted down as she walks up the lodge steps, and I squeeze her hand to get herto look at me.
“Almost there,” I tell her, and she nods, solemn. Too quiet.
Inside, we stay like that, side by side. I’m eager to get off my feet, but it feels good to be in here, away from the bite of the cold air, and within a few minutes, everyone seems to warm up a bit. Hammond goes up to check on the kids, but everyone else sticks around, and there’s praise and questions and Paul and Lorraine seem interested, maybe even a little proud. I relax by degrees with Zoe next to me, her hand in mine, and off script, I do better with the questions—I’m not so focused on how long my answers take or how they’ll affect the timingof a tour stop.
Almost there,I repeat to myself silently, even as I’m listening to Val—always obsessed with demographics—ask me about whether there’s an age limit on patients. But when I open my mouth to answer her, something catches my eye across the room, the front door of the lodge opening slowly—a weak arm, probably, up against a very heavy door.
With the light behind her, it takes me a minute to register.
But that’s her.
Mymother’s here.
Chapter 17
Zoe
She’s taller than I remember.
It doesn’t make sense, of course, that it’s the first thing I think when I see Kathleen O’Leary standing there. The first thing I think should probably be something likeabandon ship, but instead I stand stock still beside Aiden, my hand still in his, my skin flushing in a hot shock of surprise and shame. It’s possible—probable, even, that I murmur aquiet “Oh,no.”
Beside me, Aiden jerks in surprise, and I feel his hand heat, briefly, before he pulls it away from mine, my first indication of how wrong everything is about to go. “Fuck,” he murmurs, for my ears only, or maybe not for my ears at all, butI’ve heard it.
“Kathleen?” says Lorraine, her voice a happy question before she moves toward the door, calling,“Oh, Kathleen!”
She’s not seen me yet, or if she has, she hasn’t yet registered who I am. That much is clear, because right now she’s smiling, her arms out to Lorraine, and then to Paul, who’s also crossed the room to her, adding to Lorraine’s exclamations of surprise. It’s a meeting of old friends, I guess—maybe the O’Learys and Dillards weren’t close, but if Aaron and Aiden spent over a decade of summers here, clearly there’s a history, and I can see it in the way they embrace and then stand back from each other, cataloging what must be years of changes.
It’s not that she’s taller, I realize, still staring. It’s that she’s healthier looking. Her hair is a shiny white, her face lightly tanned, her back straighter than it was when I watched her walk from conference room four. For a ridiculous, stupid, suspended-reality moment, I look toward Aiden, open my mouth to say something like,Hey, your mom looks great, but already he, too, is moving away from me, his stride slow and his shoulders set firm. I slide my eyes to the door, wondering:Would he wantme to slip out?
“That’s your future mother-in-law?” says Val, interrupting my half-baked thoughts of escape, and I suppress a wince, unsure of how to answer now. Will Mrs. O’Leary play along? Does Aiden have some way to tell her, I think, as I watch him lean down to kiss her cheek, that I’m here, that there’s something he hasn’t told her yet, but he’ll explain it all later?
But that’s not what he’s telling her. From here I can hear Mrs. O’Leary say, “Oh, he’s fine, honey,” because what Aiden must’ve have been asking her about, in this brief, critical moment, is his father, about that call from this morning, the one that had me making one last, desperate attempt to stop this. At this precise moment, it is painful, physically painful, to know that it didn’t work. If I had pushed harder—if I’d told Paul and Lorraine myself, maybe—I could’ve stopped this, what’s about to happen. Aiden would’ve been angry, of course, but it wouldn’t have turned outthisway. “I wanted to be here for you today,” I hear her say. “But I guess I missed the whole thing!”
“Yeah,” I answer Val, finally, quietly, and shetsks in some commiserating annoyance. “God, it’s just the same with Hammond. He’s completely a sucker for his mother, I swear. You know she called me Valerie for an entire year? My real name isValentine. I told her that the first time I met her.” I think I manage a smile; I think I manage to shift my eyes to her and nod, acknowledging her story. But my insides feel like the center of a tornado. Every single thing around me is spinning entirely out of control, breaking apart, and I’m a great column ofwhirring noise.
I feel it the second she notices me. She’s seen me, past Aiden’s shoulder, and I’ve never seen a face do what hers does then, such an abrupt transformation from happiness to—I don’t know what. It’s not anger, not sadness, not cruelty or vengeance. It’s…blank. Like I am not even worth the very worst of her emotions.
I think I might, in spite of myself, take a slight step back. “In-laws,” Val says, staying by my side in a gesture of loyalty that I find strangely comforting, no matter how fleeting it’s likely to be. “I swear, they’rejustjealous.”
“Zoe, my goodness!” calls Lorraine. “Come on over here.” But it’s not even really necessary—she and Paul are already ushering Mrs. O’Leary farther in, Aiden beside her, his face full of dread and panic. We lock eyes for a brief, painful second, and I can feel it, what’s in that look.This is the end.
“Mrs. O’Leary,” I say, when she’s standing in front of me, my voice steady and clear. It’s the voice she would’ve heard come out of my mouth before, and I add a professional nod. Oddly, this feels like the thing Ishoulddo for her—it’s kinder, in some way, not to upset her expectations. Still, I can’t do old Zoe as completely as I might like, what with my thermal shirt and my messy ponytail, my dirty hiking boots, now well worn-in from weeks of walking this land alongside Aiden.
