He pulls his mask off and lets it drop at his side.
Yeah, he says, Jared told me about you.
You’re Mr. Luger.
Yeah, I’m Jared’s dad.
Is Jared around?
He pauses, looks away. He says,
Sometimes I think so.
Then he looks back to me and his eyes are wet. He says,
Jared hung himself.
A million thoughts fight to get across my mind in that moment. I stand there gaping in shock. Mr. Luger points to a window in the back of the shop. He says,
In that trailer there.
I walk to the greasy window and look out on a dilapidated trailer sitting on wooden blocks behind the shop. Time stops. A fly bounces against the window. I sense Mr. Luger standing next to me. In a low voice, he says,
Christmas morning. Same as his mom.
I remember Jared on his bed the morning I left Brave Ascent. I remember asking him his own question—what would he do if he weren’t afraid? He said he’d go be with his mom. I never bothered to ask him where his mom had gone. I look over at Mr. Luger. I say,
I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I was sure if any of us was gonna stay clean, it was Jared.
Mr. Luger seems to stare a thousand miles past the little trailer. Sighing, he says,
He was sober when he done it. Strung a two-by-four across the skylight. Used the goddamn cord from my shop vac. What I’ll never understand is the ceiling’s low in there, real low. All he had to do was stand up. Just stand up.
After several seconds, he says,
That your little Porsche there, with the busted-up nose?
I nod yes. He says,
She’s in bad shape.
I look back at my mother’s Porsche. I say,
So was the driver.
Mr. Luger walks to the shop’s other bay door and slides it open. Pull her in here, he says.
I walk to my car, get in, and start it. I can’t believe Jared is gone. He called the number I gave him, he left me a message with Barbara. I never called him back. I was too busy fucking around with Paul.
I pull into the bay and drive onto the lift tracks. Climbing out, I place my keys in Mr. Luger’s outstretched hand. I throw my arms around him. At first, he resists. Then I feel him wilt and he wraps his arms around me and he cries.
Mr. Luger pulls himself free. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hands. I look out the window at the trailer. I say,
Can I?
He pulls a shop rag from his pocket, dries his hands, and looks at the trailer. He stuffs the rag back in his pocket and says,
I don’t lock it.
I STOOP INSIDE the trailer. A tarp drapes over the skylight and the sun filters through washing the cramped interior in a sad shade of blue. A guitar leans next to a small table. On the table is a lamp. Beneath the lamp is an ashtray heaped with cigarette butts. Next to the ashtray is the big blue sobriety book. I pick up the book and open the cover—Barbara’s number is right where I wrote it. Beneath her number, Jared wrote—I’M NOT AFRAID ANYMORE.
Clutching the book to my chest, I lie back on Jared’s bed.
I look up at the blue tarp-covered skylight.
See the two-by-four.
My throat hurts.
My belly shakes.
The blue blurs as tears fill my eyes.
I stop fighting and cry—
—I cry for Mr. Luger—I cry for Jared—I cry for my mom—I cry because I miss her—I cry for the life we might have had—I cry for her disease—and when I’ve cried five or maybe 50 minutes for my mom, I cry for the boy hiding inside me—I cry because that boy needs his mom—I cry for what his dad did to him—I cry because I couldn’t help him—I cry 20 years’ worth of tears onto that little trailer bed—I cry until my side aches, my throat swells, my eyes close.
And then I cry myself to sleep.
46 Clean Inside
Just as the sun was setting, I woke in Jared’s bed after a long-needed sleep. Outside the shop, Mr. Luger had my Porsche patched up, tuned up, and gleaming fresh from a bath. He even peeled away my worn duct tape and patched the convertible top the right way—from the inside.
Now both headlights point me south on Highway 99. My fender no longer rubs. New wipers sweep away the misting rain.
The sign for the Modesto exit approaches. I remember pulling off here and driving under the Modesto Arch the day I got out of treatment, the day Dad floored that kid with his Bible. I floor the Porsche and speed past Modesto.
When Stephanie pulled me out of that hot tub, I was given a second chance. When Barbara paid to send me to treatment, I was given a new start. I blew it. Now, even though I don’t deserve it, I’ve been given another second chance, another new start. This time I’m going to make something of it.
IT’S LATE WHEN I get to Fresno. I park across the street and look at the sign on the gate—BRAVE ASCENT RECOVERY CENTER.
Counting the bedroom windows, I find my old room. There’s a light on. Never thought I’d be coming back here.
I open the gate, climb the steps, ring the bell. A woman’s voice answers through the speaker—
Hello. May I help you?
I lean down and speak into the box. I say,
I need to talk to someone about getting treatment.
The door clicks, buzzes. I grab the handle and swing it open.
I walk down the shadowy hall to the admitting office and before I can knock, a woman opens the door and waves me into the bright room. She points me to a floral-print armchair. Then she sits across from me. I’ve never seen her before but she looks kind. She has red curly hair and freckles on the bridge of her nose. She’s wearing white sneakers, blue hospital pants, and a maroon argyle sweater. She says,
I’m Leslie.
I lean forward, shake her warm hand. I say,
I’m Trevor Roberts.
She reaches over and grabs a clipboard off her desk. Then she pulls a pen from her ear, clicks it open, and writes my name on the admitting form. She says,
Now who sent you, Trevor?
Ah, nobody. Nobody sent me.
She smiles and clicks her pen a couple times. She says,
I’m sorry. It’s just that you said you needed to talk to someone about treatment over the intercom, so I just assumed—
No, nobody sent me this time. This time I’m here for myself.
Her smile widens. She clicks her pen again, hovers it over the form. She says,
That’s the right reason. Now, you’ve been here before, Trevor?
Yes. I was here in November.
Will your insurance cover another stay?
I don’t have any insurance.
Well, how did you pay before?
A friend paid my way.
She clicks her pen closed and looks at me, her eyes filled with concern. She stands, opens a file cabinet, and retrieves a thick stack of forms. She sorts through them, engrossed, mumbling over her shoulder, she says,
There are government programs we might try. Medicaid if you qualify. An impossible long wait though. Private scholarship here. Only takes two weeks. It’s a roll of the dice. Maybe your friend can—
I touch her elbow to get her attention. She stops, turns. I say,
How much is the treatment?
She sighs. Looks at the forms. Lets her hands fall at her side. She says,
For 28 days—$9,000.
I pull out the stack of hundreds. Her eyes bulge. She says,
You’re paying cash?
Is that okay?
I don’t see why not. It’s just a little unusual, that’s all. We take off 30 percent for private pay. We overbill the insurance companies because the insurance companies underpay.
She walks to her desk, opens a drawer and pulls out a calculator. Before she can punch it in, I say,
I figure 30 percent off $9,000 makes $6,300.
I peel off sixty-three $100 bills and slide the stack of cash across the desk. Leslie writes me a receipt.
She locks the money in a safe.
We finish filling out my admittance form. She asks me when I had my last drink. I have to think. It was this morning, in the street—I sucked the booze from that paper sack. Seems like a lifetime ago.
When we complete the paperwork, Leslie says she can’t admit me until tomorrow morning. She asks me where I’m staying. I tell her I’m camping in my car. Worry flickers across her face. She says,
You want me to call around? Find you a friendly bed?
No, thanks, I say, it’s kind of you to offer, but I’ll be fine.
She nods and shakes my hand. She says,
I believe you will be. We don’t have patient parking here but Sam’s Safe Storage is down the street. He cuts a deal for our people.
SIX BLOCKS from Brave Ascent, I find Sam’s Safe Storage and park out front. An authentic taco stand glows across the dark street. Realizing I’m hungry, I walk over to buy myself a meal.
The building is a shack but the kitchen sparkles and so does the smile of the kid behind the counter. I order three fish tacos, ceviche, shrimp cocktail, and something called the Gobernador. The whole order is only $9.50 so I add a Coke, give the kid $20, and tell him to keep the change. I sip the Coke and wait on my order. The smells of frying fish and fresh salsa wafting out from the shack set my mouth watering. The kid hands me my food and the bag weighs five pounds. Carrying my dinner to a nearby picnic table, I eat beneath the stars. This is the first food I can remember tasting in a long time and it tastes good. When I finish eating, the bag is empty and I’m stuffed.
Now that I’ve made a decision—a decision for me and no one else—my mind is quiet and I feel clean inside.
I walk back to my car, fish through the cluttered boot and find an old jogging jacket. Then I settle back into my seat. Beneath the stars, beneath my patched canvas top, I huddle beneath my jacket and sleep without dreams.
47 He Ain’t Lost
It’s 28 days later and I’m standing at the same Brave Ascent window, looking out on the same Fresno street. I graduated again yesterday. Was free to leave at six this morning. This time there is no man in a trench coat and I’m not waiting on a cab. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for—
Maybe I’m waiting for Jared.
Waiting for him to roll over in his bed.
Waiting for him to ask me what I’m afraid of.
Wish I had been able to tell him.
I’m afraid to leave.
I’m scared as hell with no idea what to do.
A week into my treatment a bed freed up in my old room. I asked Mr. Shaw if I could move back. Mr. Shaw and I had already talked a lot about Jared, about my guilt around his suicide. Mr. Shaw never told me what to feel, or not feel, and I liked that about him. He did say the disease is a killer and that he’s never surprised when one of us dies. He said he’s surprised when one of us lives and decides to accept recovery.
I took Jared’s bed. Another new guy is sleeping in my old bed now. He’s older than I am, he snores, and he says he’s not afraid of anything just like I did.
The staff encourages us to laugh about the trauma we’ve been through. Don’t glamorize it they say. Don’t make light of it they say. But, they say, do take the shame out of it. I don’t talk about Paul and Tara. It’s too shameful, too personal. I have been honest about my drinking and drug use though. And in private, I’ve talked with Mr. Shaw about my family. I even told him what my dad did to me. I’ve done a lot of work in here this time. I have a lot more to do.
A week ago at the breakfast table, Dave, an alcoholic minister, unfolded the Sunday paper. On the front page, above the fold, was a color photo of the Feds leading Paul from the Valombrosa Building in handcuffs. He was staring right into the camera and right off the page smirking at me. The headline read—
CALTEARS CEO EXPOSES $16 BILLION VC PONZI SCHEME! / FBI RAIDS SAN FRANCISCO HEDGE-FUND OFFICES / PAUL VALOMBROSA AND CFO ARRESTED
Dave folded the paper in half to read the sports page. I cut a hunk of bread, buttered it, and finished my oatmeal and eggs. I never filled out any paperwork at Valombrosa Capital. Nobody knows I exist. And as far as I’m concerned, Paul no longer exists.
I TURN AROUND, but Jared’s not there—just his empty made bed with the big blue sobriety book resting on the pillow. I’m not much into the steps they preach here and I was planning to leave the book for the next guy, but on my way to the door, I change my mind and grab it.
I look at my snoring roommate. I hardly know him. I know he’s not ready. I hope he lives long enough to find what he’s looking for.
At the end of the hall, before I reach the exit, I stop and poke my head in to say goodbye to Mr. Shaw. He sits at his desk wearing his reading glasses and leaning over lamplit manila folders. I knock on the open door. He looks up. He says,
Leaving us now, Trevor?
Yeah, I just came to say goodbye.
Mr. Shaw gets up from his desk. He limps toward me on his fake leg. I stick my hand out to shake. He ignores my hand and wraps his arms around me. It feels good. He pulls away but keeps his hands on my shoulders. He says,
Remember to get connected out there this time, Trevor.
Okay, Mr. Shaw..
It’s Ed now, he says, smiling. You’re not a patient anymore. You’re a fellow.
He pats my shoulder and then drops his hands. When I turn for the door, he says,
And, Trevor, remember to pray.
I look at the book in my hand. I say,
You know, I’m not sure I believe in a higher power.
He nods his head to tell me he understands. Then he says,
You know why God’s so hard to find, Trevor?
No, Mr. Shaw, I say, why is God so hard to find?
God’s so hard to find because he ain’t lost!
Mr. Shaw chuckles at his joke and limps back to his desk.
I hesitate at the door. I look back. I say,
Hey, Mr. Shaw.
He looks up. I smile. I say,
Thanks, Ed.
THE CANVAS COVER slides easy off my car. I shake it, roll it up, and tuck it back in the boot. The Porsche, protected by the canvas, is still clean from Mr. Luger’s wash job, but it shows the scars of what I’ve been through. The front bumper bent where it rested on the tree trunk at the Valombrosa mansion. The paint chipped away where I crashed through the gates. The canvas top sun-faded except for a dark spot where I used duct tape to patch the tear.
I climb in the driver’s seat and slide my hands over the wheel. I take a deep breath, smell damp leather and the faded scent of Barbara’s vanilla tree car-freshener beneath my seat. Reaching up, I run my finger along the new permanent patch covering the tear in the top. It’s still a scar and always will be, but it’s not leaking anymore.
I think about the hole in my guts, the hole I filled with booze and drugs and sex, the black hole that swallowed everything and still wanted more. I know that I tried to patch that hole from the outside. But it’s an inside job.
I look in the mirror. My breath steams it, and then fades. My face is full and flush and smooth. My eyes are clear—the whites white, the irises blue-green, the pupils black and pure.
I turn the key halfway—the dashboard springs to life, the fuel gage climbs up to full. Just for kicks, I push the power button on the broken CD player—it turns on and “Silence” by Delerium plays mid-song, right where it stopped almost 10 years ago. I scroll forward to “Euphorian (Firefly).” Its lyrics fit the day.
I push the clutch.
I turn the key.
It starts.
48 Just Human
Barbara’s backyard blooms with early bunches of yellow daffodils, clusters of red tulips, and Virginia bluebells hanging from a garden arbor. First week of February, spring already in the valley.
I’m sitting beneath a pink cherry tree watching lilacs sway in a gentle breeze. Barbara is inside brewing us more coffee. I’ve been here three hours telling her my story.
When I knocked
on her door, Barbara was happy to see me. She told me that Stephanie had left for Istanbul, Turkey to spend her spring semester studying English language education there. I told her I wasn’t here for Stephanie. She invited me in.
I told Barbara about Paul and Tara. What I left out, she guessed. Then I told her about my dad—what he did to me, how I repressed it. She looked sad, but she didn’t say anything. She just let the birds sing in the trees and some time pass quiet between us. Then she asked me about my mother. I told her about our run for San Diego, about stopping north of Bixby Bridge. I told her about Mom’s mastectomy. I told her about leaving for college, about Mom giving me her Porsche. I told her about the call, about my last weeks with her. Then I confessed to never visiting her grave, not once since the day we buried her.
Barbara said my mother was lucky to have me to love. She said my mother must be somewhere beaming down proud because of the man I’ve become.
You really think my mother would be proud? I said.
Barbara nodded and then she stood up, excused herself, and rushed in the house to brew us more coffee.
BARBARA RETURNS carrying two mugs of coffee.
She sits next to me, closer than before. She hands me a mug. You know, she says, it just occurred to me why I tried so desperately to keep you and Stephanie together . . .
Barbara chokes up and her voice trails off. She pats my knee, looks away. She says,
. . . I always wanted a son and I wanted him to be you.
I pull out the envelope and hand it to Barbara. She sees the money inside and her hand jumps to her mouth. She shakes her head, pushes the money back.
Barbara loved me enough to scrape together $6,300 for my treatment. I repaid her by blowing more than that on drugs and booze and bullshit and making her watch as I fell apart, but here is my chance to show that I love her too, to make it right, to pay what I owe. I force the envelope into her hand again. She takes it, she nods, she understands. She lays the envelope on the bench next to her. Then she says,
South of Bixby Bridge Page 23
