A Light at Winter’s End

by Julia London

  Silence again. Hannah waited for Holly to speak. She knew her sister must be overwhelmed by what she was saying, and that made her feel even worse. No one wants to tell their little sister they are a pain pill junkie. Hannah could feel the tears again, always the goddamn tears. When would they stop falling? When could she walk through an entire day without crying about every little thing?

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe this, Hannah?” Holly asked, her voice shaking. “Don’t you think I would have noticed if you were drunk or wasted on Xanax? How would I, or anyone else for that matter, have missed it? How could you even hold down a job? I don’t believe it.”

  Dr. Bonifield had warned her about this, too. People close to addicts felt guilty for not saving the addict from themselves. “No, Holly, you wouldn’t have noticed, because I was really good at hiding it. And I … I’ve been past the point of being high for a couple of years. I needed them just to be normal.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Holly said, sounding very confused. “That makes no sense—you took them to be normal? I don’t believe you! How can I believe you? And if it were true, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you get help? Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.

  “Because I was ashamed,” Hannah said. “But I am telling you now,” she added, meaning it sincerely. “I should have told you, I know I should have, but I wasn’t thinking straight. At the time, the only thing I could think of was where was I going to get my pills. That’s it. Addiction is … it’s really a hideous thing—”

  “You want to know what’s hideous?” Holly angrily interjected. “When your sister dumps her baby on you without regard for your life and takes off. When your sister’s husband is more interested in fucking his new girlfriend and making partner than taking care of his son. That’s hideous!”

  “Holly, please,” Hannah pleaded. “You have every right to be angry with me, and I have a lot to explain to you, I know. A lot. But right now …” Hannah pressed her palm flat against her howling heart. “Right now, I can’t breathe until I know how Mason is. Could I talk to him? Could I please just talk to him?”

  “He’s fine. No thanks to you or Loren, he is fine”

  Part of Hannah wanted to hear that Mason had been despondent without her. Another part of her was so relieved that he was okay. “Is he walking?”

  “Yes, of course,” Holly said. “He’s walking and he says no and bye-bye, and he waves.” In the background, Hannah heard Mason, and Holly said, “Bye-bye, boo-boo. Bye-bye.”

  Hannah sucked in a painful breath. She could picture Mason’s happy smile, that dark bit of hair on his head, like his father. “Please, Holly,” she begged. “Please let me talk to him.”

  Holly responded with a sound of impatience, but in the next moment Hannah heard Holly’s voice at a distance. “Say hi to Mommy, Mase. It’s Mommy!”

  “Bye-bye,” Mason said into the phone, and Hannah’s heart clenched.

  “Mason! Mason, it’s Mommy! Mommy loves you, baby, I love you so much!” She was blubbering now. “I am so so sorry I’m not there, buddy, but I am going to be home soon. Mommy is going to be home soon and I promise I will make this up to you—”

  “He’s gone now,” Holly said coolly. “He saw his truck and went after it.”

  Hannah rubbed her hand under her nose. “Thanks, Holly. Thanks for letting me talk to him. And thank you for taking care of him.”

  “What am I supposed to do with that, Hannah? One thank-you and then I should say it’s all okay? Because it’s not. It’s not okay on so many levels, I can’t even begin to name them. What you did was cruel to both me and Mason. And now you tell me you’re an addict? I can’t even wrap my head around it, and honestly? I am so angry right now I don’t think I can talk about it rationally. How long are you going to be there, anyway?”

  It felt as if she’d been here for a lifetime already. “Ah … another sixty days,” she admitted nervously. “And then ninety days in the transitional housing—”

  “The what?”

  “Transitional housing. You, ah … you live in a place with counselors and support groups to help you with the stress as you resume your life. It’s to support your transition back to life and help you manage the temptation to use.”

  Holly gasped. “Jesus. Does Loren know?”

  Hannah couldn’t help a snort. “He knows I’m in treatment, but I haven’t told him everything yet.”

  “But you are going to tell him, aren’t you?”

  Hannah chafed at the notion that she had to tell that lying, cheating scum anything, but she was not in a position to argue with Holly, and part of her treatment and recovery was to come clean with everyone who had ever mattered to her. Loren had mattered to her at some point. Loren had mattered more than anything in the world at one point. “Yes,” she said tightly. “I am going to tell him. Have you heard from him? Has he seen Mason?”

  “Are you kidding? No, I haven’t heard from him! He’s in Costa Rica, setting up an office.”

  Hannah didn’t say anything, but she was relieved by the news. She would much prefer her son to be with her sister than with Loren.

  “Do you know I’m at the homestead, Hannah? Do you know that I had to quit my job because I didn’t have day care for Mason? And that I have a contract with ASC and I am currently behind schedule because I have to work around Mason’s schedule?”

  Hannah didn’t know any of that, of course, but she wasn’t surprised. In the long nights she’d been here, she’d realized there was nothing else Holly could do but go home. “I know this is a horrible thing I’ve done, Holly, but I couldn’t leave him with anyone else—”

  “I will never understand how you could have left him. But I do understand this—you cannot just call up several weeks later and expect everything is going to be A-okay, that you can just come tripping back into his life.”

  “I didn’t expect that,” Hannah said.

  “Then what did you expect?”

  Hannah couldn’t answer that. She had no expectations. Every day was such a blank slate for her. “Listen, I’ll be out in two months—”

  “I honestly don’t care,” Holly said. She sounded on the verge of tears. “I really don’t. All I care about is making sure Mason is okay. After what you and Loren did to him, that’s the best thing I can do. I can’t just blithely hand him over to either of you.”

  Hannah’s heart stopped beating altogether. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What are you saying?”

  “What am I saying? I don’t know,” Holly said, her voice breaking. “I only know that I am only now learning that my sister is a … a serious addict, and she is in some pretty intense treatment, and she’s going to live in some … some transitional house so there will be people around to make sure she doesn’t use again, and I’m wondering what happens when those people aren’t around anymore, and Loren is more interested in his job than his son, and I don’t know what to do with either one of you! But right now I am expecting company, so I really have to go. Good-bye, Hannah.”

  “Holly, please don’t hang up—I have to earn my calls.”

  “I have to go, Hannah.”

  She hung up.

  Hannah stared at the phone. This was such a mess, such an unholy mess. In a moment of frustration, she threw the phone, hitting the edge of Dr. Bonifield’s desk.

  A moment later Dr. Bonifield opened the door and walked into the office. She looked at Hannah’s tearstained cheeks, then at her desk. “Well,” she said, and quietly shut the door. She stooped down to pick up the phone. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

  Hannah buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She suddenly felt so fragile. “I can’t do this!” Holly was right—if Hannah weren’t locked up in this awful place, she would be popping pills right now. Handfuls of them.

  “But, Hannah, you can do it,” Dr. Bonifield said soothingly. “You’ve been doing it.” She touched Hannah’s back, and Hannah felt her spirit collapse like a cone o
f ash.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wyatt woke up with Grace’s feet in his face. His own feet were hanging off the side of the bed, because Milo had taken up the real estate at the foot. It was too damn crowded in this bed … but he liked it.

  He got Grace up, bathed her, and put her in a pair of denim pants and a red sweater, a pair of Keds, then tied her hair up in little pigtails. But he was all thumbs when it came to that, and they stuck straight up from the top of her head. His daughter spent the morning darting about his living room, squealing with delight at the strangest things: a couch pillow, the lamp cord. A cow-breeding magazine, which she slapped with her hand and said, “No no no,” over and over again.

  Wyatt picked up around the house and fed his dog. He checked the word of the day but promptly forgot it: advise, advice, something like that. He pulled the portable playpen into the bathroom, wedged it in between the sink and the linen closet, and set her in it with some toys, then stepped into the shower. Grace was content for all of two minutes, then spent the better part of his shower holding on to the railing, crying loudly.

  When he’d cleaned himself up and set his little prisoner free, he dressed in a white-collared shirt and a clean pair of denims and pulled on his boots. He thought of the days when he used to wear expensive Italian leather loafers without socks. He’d been married to Macy then, and dressed like the other hip movers and shakers in central Texas. Now he was more comfortable with his foot in a boot, the better to kick ass when the need arose.

  When he was ready to go, he tossed a dog biscuit into the yard and watched Milo chase after it before locking the back door. He picked up Grace like a bag of flour and draped her on his shoulder, which delighted Grace to no end, and walked out to the shed, which looked like it was leaning a little to the right. He adjusted Grace on his arm and, with one hand, he thrust the rotting door up. Inside was a brand-new Ford F-150 Platinum SuperCrew truck.

  “Truck!” Grace said, pointing.

  “That’s not just any truck, sweetheart,” he said proudly. “That bad boy has the advanced trailer sway control, the polished cast-aluminum wheels, and the 5.4-liter V-8 engine.”

  “Truck!” Grace said again.

  This was the truck Wyatt used to carry himself the fifteen miles into Cedar Springs on those occasions he needed to sign checks or pick up some groceries. It was the only thing he’d bought in over a year. In the backseat of the SuperCrew was a car seat, and he deposited his daughter into it and buckled her up. He climbed into the cab and backed the truck slowly out of the garage, then pointed it toward Cedar Springs.

  He’d decided, somewhere in the middle of the night, in one of his many instances of waking, to go into town and pick up a few things to bring to Holly’s house for the afternoon. A good bottle of wine, he thought, perfect for a cool day. Maybe some gourmet cheeses and crackers. Maybe even some flowers. He didn’t like to think that he’d turned into some flower-toting guy after one kiss, but the fact of the matter was, he hadn’t been able to get Holly Fisher off his mind all night. He kept seeing those laughing green eyes, that inviting smile. And his body, which had lain dormant for a couple of years, aroused only by the scent of food, had spent a restless night as well. He was craving more than a kiss, craving like a dying man craved water.

  In Cedar Springs, the choices for wine shopping were limited to the local H-E-B grocery and the CVS pharmacy on 281. He pulled into the H-E-B parking lot, stuffed Grace into a basket, then gave it a good push and jumped on, rolling along with her while she laughed.

  In the grocery, he was surprised to find an almost decent selection of cheeses and crackers. He tossed hummus into the cart, too, and a pair of cucumbers.

  The wine selection was surprisingly good for this little town in the middle of Texas. He found a serviceable Malbec with a chair on the label and put it in the basket. He rolled past the flower section and debated whether or not flowers were too much, and while he thought they were, he picked some up all the same. Then he wheeled over to the toy aisle and picked up two little pull toys that made music. Grace was beside herself with joy.

  He wheeled the basket up to the only checkout lane open, and while Grace chewed the handle of the little pull toy, Wyatt examined the contents of his basket.

  What in the hell was he doing?

  He hadn’t shopped for this kind of stuff in so long that he felt a little foolish. He wasn’t the Camembert-loving wine-drinking snob he’d been with Macy. He didn’t cater to women anymore: that regrettable tendency had died with his marriage. He tried to tell himself that he was being a good neighbor, but seeing the contents of his basket announced to him, in froufrou glory, that he’d been smitten.

  “Gracie! What a surprise!”

  Wyatt’s head jerked up at the sound of his ex-sister-in-law’s voice. Emma Harper, Macy’s younger sister, was standing behind the register wearing the H-E-B red polo, her face lit up like Rockefeller Center. “Wyatt, good night, I haven’t seen you in ages!”

  He felt his face warming. He frantically thought of how he could back out of this aisle, just get his baby and walk out of the store, but Grace had begun to babble and was trying to climb out of her seat to see her aunt.

  “Stay there, sweetie, I’ll come to you,” Emma said, and marched around the checkout to his basket.

  “What are you doing here, Emma?” Wyatt demanded. “I thought you were working at the paper.”

  “God, Wyatt, I did that while Macy was out on maternity leave. I haven’t worked there in months. Hi, Baby Grace!” she trilled as she took Grace out of the basket. “What are you two doing here this morning?” she said, wiggling Grace’s hand.

  Wyatt glanced down at his basket. What he was doing now seemed so patently obvious, he might as well be standing there naked. And when Emma realized what he was doing, the whole town would know. With a huff of disgruntlement, he began to toss his items onto the conveyer belt.

  “Pretty flowers,” Emma said as she carried Grace around to her station to scan Wyatt’s items. “Finally sprucing the place up, are you?”

  “What makes you think my place needs sprucing?” he asked, eyeing her.

  Emma, with her fair blond hair and deep-blue eyes, was the sort of woman who was not easily embarrassed. She certainly wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that she’d held nothing but odd part-time jobs since losing her position in a big New York finance firm a couple of years ago when the economy went south. “Macy told me,” she said unabashedly. “She said it was like you were living in a Quonset hut.”

  “A Quonset hut, huh?”

  “That’s what she said. So I figured you were sprucing up—Oh, hey … nice wine,” she said, examining the bottle. “Have you had this before?”

  Wyatt glanced back over his shoulder. An elderly gentleman had rolled in behind him. “Do you think you could just ring stuff up without commenting on each item?” he asked gruffly.

  “No, I don’t think I can. Yum, olives. And gourmet cheese and crackers? Wow, Wyatt, if I didn’t know you were a hermit, I’d think you were having a party for two.” She laughed, as if that were patently ridiculous.

  It was ridiculous—Wyatt had indeed made himself into a hermit, but he didn’t like the fact that Emma was so certain that he was. “Just ring it up, Emma,” he said impatiently, and jiggled his wallet out of his back pocket. He opened it up, taking out one of several one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “Where’s the dessert?” she asked. “Don’t you need a little whipped cream?” She laughed again and kissed Grace’s face.

  Wyatt shoved the hundred-dollar bill at her. “I like olives. I like cheese. I like wine. And I especially like it when you mind your own business.”

  “Touchy, touchy,” Emma said cheerfully. “That’s thirty-eight sixty.” She handed Grace to him over the conveyor belt, took his one hundred dollars, and made change. While he stuffed the bills into his wallet and returned it to his back pocket, the coins going into a front pocket, she put his items into a paper bag and h
anded it to him as he was preparing to leave. “Good to see you, Wyatt.”

  He smiled a little. He’d always liked Emma. “Are you doing all right, squirt?”

  “Well … I am still living with Mom, so that should answer your question.”

  He grinned. “It sure does. You should try the Malbec: it might make it go a little easier with Jillian. I’ll see you later,” he said, and started for the exit.

  But Emma wasn’t ready to say good-bye quite yet. She put a hand on his basket. “So? Who is she?” she asked, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” he said.

  “Come on, Wy. It’s been so long since you were … you know, sociable. It’s good that you’re getting out and around again.” She smiled pertly.

  “Can’t a man like his cheese and wine without you jumping to conclusions?”

  Emma winked at him. “Okay. Whatever you say, big guy.” She stepped back into her little checkout stand and waved her fingers at him before turning back to her job.

  Wyatt could already hear the tongues wagging at the Saddlebrew. Wyatt Clark finally found himself a girl, bless his poor old heart.

  They could kiss his ass.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holly could not picture it. Try as she might, she could not picture her sister as some pill-popping, strung-out housewife. She stood in the kitchen staring blindly out the window at the windmill, trying to understand it, racking her memory for something she had noticed that might have tipped her off. There was nothing. Sure, she’d seen Hannah get tipsy on a couple of glasses of wine. But they all had done that, Holly included, as well as friends. She’d never seen Hannah drunk or high.

  How did someone end up in rehab for ninety days? That wasn’t the result of a binge; that had to be the result of a very serious addiction. How? Where had Hannah gotten enough pills to be addicted? She’d heard about a bartender she knew only vaguely who was addicted. He’d had surgery on his leg, and they said within two weeks he had become hooked. Was that Hannah? Had it happened that fast?