by Karen Rock
Her mouth rose in one corner, then the other before she clamped her lips flat again and dropped her gaze to her plate. “The food here sucks.”
He buttered another piece of freshly baked corn bread and passed it to her. “No one can mess up bread. I’m Justin, by the way.”
“Maya.” She sniffed the slice, dropped it to her plate, then sprinkled pepper on it.
“Haven’t seen that combination before.”
“I hate pepper.”
“And you added it to your bread because...”
Maya groaned and half rose from her seat before he held up a hand. He didn’t want her to leave. Something about her agitation aroused his protective instincts. She was just a kid, and around the same age as Jesse had been when a sports injury got him hooked on painkillers. “Hey. I get it. No talking. Or eating.”
With a sigh, she plopped down again. “I just don’t know why I have to be here. I’m not hungry.”
“Is it a rule?”
“Yeah. We have to attend all meals. You didn’t get the list?”
“Nope.”
She rolled her eyes. “We can’t do anything, and they took my phone.”
Justin pushed aside his empty plate and grabbed a sundae glass containing a swirl of chocolate whip. “Thought you didn’t like talking.”
“I like YouTube.”
“That’s videos, right?”
“Yeah.” She eyed his dessert.
“What do you watch?” His first spoonful of the sweet, rich cream dissolved on his tongue. His eyes closed in satisfaction. He admired James’s wife, Sofia, but her experiments masquerading as meals left a bit to be desired. At least Fresh Start’s food was tasty. He guessed Maya’s scorn had more to do with her unwillingness to eat than a true dislike of the food.
“Animals. Horses, mostly.” Maya’s eyes clung to the extra dish of chocolate mousse he’d grabbed off the buffet line.
“You ever ridden?”
“No. I’ve wanted a horse since I was little, but my mother says if I can’t take care of myself, I can’t take care of a horse,” she bit out, half the meat on her plate pulverized into flattened, brown discs. “She’s so stupid.”
“Why’s that stupid?”
“Because I love horses!”
“And not yourself?”
Maya glowered at him. “Why did I sit here?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Justin shoved his extra dessert at her. “I can teach you to ride.”
Her eyes brightened and met his, full on. “Here?”
“Yeah. I’ll be teaching everyone about ranching, which includes horses and cattle.”
“You’re not a patient?”
“Well...I’m just helping out.” He grabbed a sliding maraschino cherry and popped it in his mouth. Brielle had challenged him to help himself while he helped others. Did she have a point?
Maya grabbed her spoon. “Will I have my own horse?”
“Yep.”
She dipped the tip of her spoon into the mousse, brought it to her nose and sniffed. “I want a white one.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Her tongue flicked out and caught the tiniest bit of chocolate. “Can I name her?”
“They have names already.” Justin pictured the horses he’d inventoried when he’d toured the stables before ringing Fresh Start’s buzzer. “There’s a pretty gray mare with a white mane and tail called Starburst. She’s also got a white star, right here.” He tapped his forehead.
“She sounds beautiful.” Maya scooped up a spoonful of dessert and swallowed it down. “Is she friendly?”
“She’s got a sweet tooth like you.”
He grinned, and to his surprise, Maya grinned back, dimples appearing in her hollow cheeks. “I want to meet her.”
“Tomorrow. I’ve got to settle the schedule with Ms. Thompson, but horse riding is at the top of my list.”
Maya’s spoon flew until it rattled the bottom of the cup. Worried eyes rose to his. “Will you tell me more about Starburst?”
“I don’t know much about her yet.”
“Make something up, then.”
“Why?”
“Because I really, really don’t want to throw this up, and if I leave this table, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
His heart swelled at the trust she’d placed in him. Opening up to a stranger took guts. More guts than he had. Brielle seemed offended by his silence, and maybe that was a cop-out like she said. But she hid her entire self in her office, more damaging in the long run than clamming up. At least he was here.
With Maya’s expectant eyes on him, he said, “Starburst’s a little shy at first. Didn’t stick her head out like the rest when I first wandered into the stable.”
“I’m shy, too.”
He tipped his head back and lifted one eyebrow. “I thought you just hated everyone.”
“That, too,” she mumbled around the empty spoon clamped in her mouth. “What else about Starburst?”
“When I held out my last sugar cube, she came right to me. Ate it from my hand, and then sniffed for more.”
“Poor Starburst.”
Justin gulped milk then set down his glass. “She found something else she liked.”
“What was that?”
“A package of Skittles my nephew Javi gave me. She ate them all except orange.”
“Ugh. Why do they even have that flavor?” Maya’s eyes sparkled, and her broad smile hinted at the trouble-free teen she might have been...could be again if Fresh Start...if he could help her.
Maya’s gaze skimmed over the group as they lugged dishes up to the kitchen window and ambled out the door. “I’m glad I sat here.”
“Same.”
They rose, gathered their plates and strolled across the emptying room. “Since you’re not a patient, guess you’re not coming to group tonight, huh?” she asked, wistful.
He cleared his throat, feeling like a fraud for holding back his own troubles in the face of Maya’s honesty. “Some other time.”
“See you tomorrow!” She waved her fingers then passed through the door, her shoulders back and her head high.
He stared after Maya, marveling. They’d connected through something simple yet powerful: horses. Besides meeting Sofia, had Jesse ever bonded with anyone at his other rehab stints? Could one person, even someone as rough around the edges as Justin, make a difference? It was a weighty responsibility, a chance to do for others what he wished he could have done for his brother.
He gazed at the stragglers filing out of the dining room. How many of them had family at home, hoping that this time, this facility would make a difference? He could be that difference. His stay at Fresh Start wasn’t just about getting through this time for himself, but also for real people with families back home.
He could help others, just like Brielle said.
Was she right about her second assertion?
Could he also help himself?
* * *
BRIELLE WIPED DAMP palms on her navy dress, greeted Carbondale residents and projected competence as the town hall filled later that week. The session began in five minutes, yet residents continued piling into the large, utilitarian room. Many leaned against the walls when the folding chairs ran out. She eyed the line running out the door. Where did it end? Speculative stares peppered her, a firing squad of accusation that drew blood. All around her rose babbling voices, and she caught disturbing snippets—“not in these parts,” “psychopaths,” “bad influences.”
How could she win them over?
She fingered the metal cross pinned to her lapel.
Please give me the words.
And don’t let me sound like an idiot.
She considered the frowns pointed in her direction, the surreptitious glances, the crossed
arms and mistrustful expressions. Not exactly a welcome wagon. In some ways, they reminded her of her restless flock in Afghanistan, the comparison increasing her dread. Most soldiers attended services seeking reassurance, absolution and hope, while others demanded answers to one simple yet impossible question. Why.
Today the stakes felt just as high.
Fresh Start was a fledgling enterprise. Like the army, it couldn’t withstand doubts and morale dips, fears that might halt their critical, life-saving business.
And she stood alone to defend it.
She could not fail.
“Order. Order,” pronounced Mayor Cantwell, taking his seat beside Brielle at the long table traversing the front of the room. City council members occupied the rest of the chairs.
Mayor Cantwell leaned into his microphone. “Order!”
The crowd quieted, save for a fussing baby. A sneeze followed a man’s dry cough.
She opened her mouth to say “God bless you” then snapped it shut. From the corner of her eye, she spied the mayor’s tight smile. It appeared painful, as though someone had tacked it to his face. He was a portly man with silver temples and a thick head of ginger-colored hair that made him resemble a jolly elf, more suited to ribbon-cutting and tree-lighting celebrations than a disgruntled constituency.
“We’ve called tonight’s meeting to introduce you to Fresh Start’s director, Captain Brielle Thompson, a former army chaplain who served two tours of duty in Afghanistan. Captain, we thank you for your service.”
Brielle inclined her head and jerked her mouth into a smile at the applause. No doubt the goodwill would evaporate when the mayor stopped waving her stars and stripes.
“Thank you,” she said into her microphone. “It’s a pleasure to be here tonight.”
Liar.
She wished herself back at Fresh Start, alone in her office, out of this scrutiny. If the locals looked hard enough, they’d know her for a fraud. A broken bird couldn’t lead a flock.
“Ms. Thompson is aware of your concerns regarding Fresh Start,” Mayor Cantwell said through his rigid smile. “And she’s kindly agreed to provide information and answer your questions.”
The baby’s fussing rose to a wail, and Brielle waited for the mother to exit before she spoke.
“I’ll be happy to take questions once I’ve shared Fresh Start’s mission and goals.”
The clinic’s psychologist, Craig, gave her a thumbs-up from his front-row seat. Beside him, Doreen swung a crossed leg, her mouth working overtime on a large wad of gum.
Brielle drew in a deep breath and met Justin’s light hazel eyes. The rangy cowboy propped his shoulder against an exposed beam, his posture nonchalant, one boot crossed over the other, his thumbs hooked in the loops of his jeans. As a staff member/inpatient, his privileges allowed him to leave the facility when accompanied by his counselor. According to Craig, though, he’d neither attended a one-on-one nor group therapy session yet. Still, she’d glimpsed Justin working with the patients in the corrals and pastures. Some interaction, at least, for the loner cowboy.
Was he here to support her? The thought slowed her rushed breathing and filled her with warmth.
“Fresh Start’s mission is to—is to—” She shuffled her papers, unable to find her talking points. “Is to—”
A couple of men exchanged eye rolls as she faltered. Justin shot them a hard look then gave Brielle a firm nod, bolstering her confidence.
Bullet points be darned...she knew what her mission was.
“Fresh Start’s mission is to provide exceptional physical, spiritual, emotional and mental health care to individuals and families needing treatment for addiction, eating disorders and trauma/mood disorders.”
She paused, and her eyes swept over the restless crowd. They fidgeted in their seats, some staring at her, openmouthed or narrow eyed, while others checked their cell phones or whispered to one another behind raised hands.
Her gaze landed on Justin, and his take-no-prisoners expression was a clap on her back, propelling her forward. “We’re a freestanding residential facility that provides twelve-step, evidence-based treatment combined with an integrated traditional and holistic component. We provide humane, compassionate and expert care, always emphasizing the dignity of the individual.”
A chilly gust accompanied the returning mother and curled through the packed room.
Brielle cleared her throat and continued. “Our integrated system of addiction medicine, nursing and counseling services is based on a balanced program of patient care, education, performance measurement and real-life experiences designed to build self-esteem and confidence while reinforcing positive behavior and the acquisition of lifelong coping skills.”
She stopped to sip the lukewarm water beside her microphone.
“We greatly value our community and will contribute positively to Carbondale by providing support to your local hospitals and community centers currently working with addiction and mental health outpatients through direct services and resource sharing, as well as knowledge.”
A grumble swelled from the unconvinced crowd, and stinging heat crept up her neck. “Our capacity is twenty-five inpatients and fifteen outpatients. We’re currently employing a psychiatrist, Dr. Bill Fulton, who couldn’t be with us tonight, and two psychologists, one of whom, Dr. Craig Sheldon, is here.”
She pointed to Craig, who stood and waved, his short gray ponytail, goatee and peace sign–patterned shirt not winning him many smiles from the conservative crowd.
“We’ve also hired four food and housekeeping workers and an insurance billing specialist, as well as our receptionist, Miss Doreen Bell.”
Doreen popped out of her seat then belatedly tugged down her short tube skirt so it hit her midthigh—barely. A couple of women raised their eyebrows as Doreen smiled wide enough to show off her tonsils.
“Thank you, Doreen,” Brielle prompted when Doreen remained standing, oblivious to the judgment raining down on her. As for Brielle, she wanted to duck and take cover.
Doreen slid back into her seat and waggled her fingers at a straw-hatted cowboy farther down the aisle.
“And finally, we’re fortunate to have Justin Cade volunteering his time to lead our real-world skills program, teaching our patients ranch work basics.”
Heads swiveled in Justin’s direction then whipped back at his scowl. His mutinous expression dared anyone to say anything negative...to even think it.
“We greatly appreciate the town’s cooperation.” She paused to smile at the councilmembers sitting on either side of her. “And Fresh Start is proud to be a part of, and to serve, Carbondale. Thank you.”
Doreen’s wild clapping echoed in the silent room. Brielle gulped more water, but it failed to soothe her dry mouth, her constricted throat. The water’s surface shook as she carefully set down the glass.
“Thank you, Ms. Thompson.” Mayor Cantwell beamed, rising to his feet. “Now, if there are any questions, please line up at one of the microphones.” He pointed to stands on either side of the seating area.
To Brielle’s horror, about a fifth of the crowd stood and jostled for position.
She pointed to the first in line, a small man with large ears that stuck out perpendicular to his bald head. “Brent Jarvis, Carbondale’s Home Owners’ Association.”
He extricated a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and began reading aloud. “We’re a cooperative community that is expressing our opposition toward a locally owned business that is trying to establish a for-profit venue in our residential neighborhood. We ask that the town revoke Fresh Start’s conditional charter because it will impact property values and the overall effect a commercial business would have on a primarily residential zone.”
He slipped his prepared statement back in his pocket and stepped back from the microphone.
Revoke the charter? Pa
nic whipped through Brielle with hurricane force. Her fate, all her patients’ fates, might be decided within the hour and by this man.
Mayor Cantwell spoke. “Worries about declining property values cannot be used by a city as a reason to reject an application for such facilities.”
A heavy breath blew past Brielle’s lips.
The crowd exploded into chatter. A steel-haired woman, local elementary school principal and city councilmember Miss Lillian Grover-Woodhouse, tapped on her microphone until the room hushed.
“May I remind you,” Miss Grover-Woodhouse intoned, “that Fresh Start is a nonprofit agency. Had you attended Ms. Thompson’s open house, you would’ve known that. Remember, knowledge is power and ignorance weak.” At her quelling remark, several waiting in line seated themselves. Mr. Jarvis knocked over the stand as he fled.
“Next question,” pronounced Mr. Cantwell.
“I’d like to address Mr. Jarvis’s question as well,” Brielle said.
At the mayor’s nod, she continued. “There’s been extensive research to show that treatment facilities in residential neighborhoods can operate without complications or difficulty. The zoning area is one of the main reasons why the location was chosen, as certain patients heal better in a residential setting rather than an institutional setting.”
“Better for them, but not for us,” someone muttered, and a smattering of cheers greeted the gibe.
Brielle’s eyes burned, but she refused to show a flick of the fear raging inside her. Once she trusted her voice, she continued. “Research shows that people struggling with addiction do better in recovery in a residential setting. The federal government recognizes this research, which is why the Americans With Disabilities Act allows for treatment facilities to be set up in residential areas that aren’t originally zoned for them.”
“I’d like to see that research!” declared a middle-aged woman at the opposite microphone. She held hands with two identical towheaded toddlers.
“Copies will be coming around to you.” Brielle nodded at Doreen and Craig, who began passing out the sheets they’d prepared for tonight’s meeting. “Next question, please.”
“Just a comment,” said a man wearing a Rockies baseball hat. He turned to the crowd. “Would you like this in your neighborhood? Perhaps you should speak with the parents who have their children playing outside near one of these centers, which is filled with people who’ve shot, smoked and snorted all kinds of drugs. I’m not saying that even half of these people are bad, but there are those select few who’d be walking out and trying to sell drugs to those neighborhood kids. I’m all for these drug centers, but in a neighborhood where children play? That shows a huge lack of common sense.”
