by Becky Wade
I reach back into nothingness. I reach farther and connect with someone’s arm. I drag the person forward into the central room where the basement’s two hallways meet. There are pillars here. Arches. Two thin windows set high at sidewalk level. Their light reveals Ben’s face.
“What do we do?” he screams, his eyes round.
“You wait here. I’ll get the others.” I plunge back into the hallway.
Chapter Two
She’d made herself—high-achieving, rule-following Genevieve Woodward—into a house crasher.
The peaceful hum of her Volvo’s engine juxtaposed with her frightened pulse and spiked adrenaline. She’d just ended a phone call with her parents, during which she’d apologized profusely and informed them that she was on her way to their house.
Unfortunately, neither the phone call nor the miles she was putting between herself and Sam allowed Genevieve to outrun the truth of what had just happened.
She’d known for a long time that she couldn’t continue as she had been. This morning’s events had simply added a flashing neon exclamation point to the knowledge that she now must quit taking painkillers.
Like a windmill converting wind into energy, she’d converted the hardships she’d endured in the past into success. There was no reason to think the same couldn’t become true of this current hardship.
At the age of twelve, she’d survived a natural disaster. She’d come through it certain that she was destined to do big things for God, and sure enough, that event had launched her onto an international platform she’d used to lift high the name of Jesus.
At the age of twenty, she’d faced a devastating breakup. The sorrow of that had motivated her to dive into Scripture, which had inspired her to write her first Bible study, which had eventually led to her writing and speaking ministry.
A year ago she’d fallen while walking down a flight of stairs in high heels and severely fractured her ankle.
So, see? She was simply still in the midst of her current challenge. God hadn’t redeemed it yet, but He would. He’d give her the strength she needed to quit Oxy, and then He’d turn this struggle into something amazing, exactly like He’d done before.
That sentiment would be easier to believe if God didn’t feel so very, very distant.
Her pep talk fizzled like a faulty Fourth of July firecracker.
Not for the first time, she attempted to pinpoint the moment when her relationship with God had begun to drift.
He’d been with her during surgery. She clearly recalled feeling His power and peace the day of her ankle operation and for weeks afterward.
Which meant the drift had started well after she’d returned to work. Between writing, traveling, speaking, and social media, her job had demanded a lot before she’d fallen on the stairs. After the fall, she’d continued to do everything she’d done before.
Her orthopedic doctor prescribed Oxy post-op, then weaned her off of it as soon as he deemed she could function without it. Full of resolve, she’d followed his directions and stopped taking it.
Ten days later, hobbling around a convention center in the UK, the pain had become too intense to bear. Overwhelmed, agitated, and unable to sleep, she’d taken the pills languishing at the bottom of her prescription bottle.
They’d helped her so much that she’d found a pain specialist back home in Nashville willing to prescribe more. Not only did the pills ease her ankle pain, they relaxed her and boosted her confidence. Oxy enabled her to give her best during her physical therapy sessions and—even better—to manage her career responsibilities.
She’d told herself that her orthopedic doctor had simply attempted to take her off Oxy too soon. Pain was such a personal thing, after all! Some people experienced more pain in the wake of surgeries than others. She’d taper off the Oxy as soon as her pain specialist told her that her ankle had grown strong enough for her to do so.
She continued to pray and study the Bible devotedly. She preached and ministered. But around that time, God had begun to feel far away.
Genevieve turned the steering wheel, pulling into a gas station on the outskirts of Misty River. A headache gripped her skull like a vise. Her hands were shaky, and anxiety was busily tying her digestive system into a knot. Before she could face her mom and dad, she needed to pull herself together.
Inside the bedlam of her suitcase, she located her cosmetic bag, a fresh shirt, and her cute new poncho. After purchasing a bottle of water, she retreated to the restroom and stared at her reflection.
Eight months ago she’d started breaking promises to herself.
When the pain specialist had instructed her to gradually whittle down her Oxy usage, she’d rationalized his advice away and found another physician. This is the last pain specialist I’ll have, she’d promised herself. But a few months after that, she’d gone doctor shopping yet again. This is the last Bible study I’ll write while taking Oxy. This is the last speaking gig I’ll do with Oxy in my system.
She brushed her teeth, then worked to tame her hair.
Six weeks ago, after an especially challenging day, she’d taken one more pill than usual before driving to a dinner meeting with her publisher’s publicist, Anabelle. At the restaurant, she’d plowed her car into one of the rectangular stone flower planters lining the parking lot’s edge. The container had cracked, and its largest segment had rocketed forward, missing an elderly couple by inches.
When the police arrived, they gave Genevieve a breathalyzer test. Once that failed to condemn her, they asked about her medications. Anabelle had listened grimly as Genevieve told them about her Oxy prescription. The police had been sympathetic and let her off with a warning, but the moment she’d climbed into the passenger seat of Anabelle’s car, Anabelle had confronted her.
Genevieve had told herself and Anabelle, “The pill I took before coming here is the last pill I’ll take.”
“It has to be,” Anabelle had answered. “If it’s not, I need to inform the rest of your publishing team. For our sake. But much more than that, for yours.”
Later, holed up in her loft apartment alone, Genevieve had tried to carry through on her promise to Anabelle.
The first time she’d given Oxy up after surgery, her body had protested with little more than a murmur. This time, her body threw a full-blown tantrum.
Anabelle communicated with her frequently, offering encouragement, resources, information, hotline numbers. But Anabelle’s support couldn’t save Genevieve from the undiluted physical misery of withdrawal. Until that moment, Genevieve had imagined that she could stop Oxy at any point. She was appalled to discover just how dependent she’d become.
She’d begged the Lord for mercy. But like a set of keys you can’t find right when its most urgent that you locate them, she’d misplaced God somehow. She’d lost the most important, crucial aspect of her life.
In the end, her detox symptoms had been so horrendous that no amount of willpower had been equal to them. Sickness had brought her to her knees, and to a new bottle of Oxy that she’d kept secret from Anabelle.
Every day since she’d driven into that parking lot planter, she’d held a pill in her hand and promised herself, This is the last pill I’ll ever take.
Now Genevieve changed into her top, donned her poncho, and retouched her makeup. The mirror told her that she looked presentable on the outside, even though she felt guilty and corroded and ugly on the inside.
God had entrusted her with the task of providing spiritual guidance and instruction to thousands of women—a giant responsibility. Over the last year, a gulf had opened between who she pretended to be publicly and who she actually was. The shame of that had been growing through her like a poisonous, spiky weed. At this point, the weed had expanded its awful tendrils all the way to her fingertips and toes.
She flicked open her metal pill case, selected a pill, then balanced it in the center of her palm, as she’d done so many times before.
If she was capable of nearly maiming elderly
people and sleeping in cottages that didn’t belong to her, it was chilling to think of all the other things she might be capable of when under the influence of Oxy.
Had she given anyone a chance last night to take photos or record videos of her doing scandalous things, she’d have fatally damaged her reputation and her ministry. Anabelle would have seen, and Anabelle would have told.
Had she stopped near a bar last night, she could have gotten drunk, then climbed behind the wheel of her car. She could have wandered into the path of a kidnapper or an abuser or a killer or an oncoming train. She could have overdosed and died.
Even so . . .
Even so, she knew she’d need a few more pills in order to make it through this final day. She had to handle her parents. Then she had to put plans in place to prepare for detox. She couldn’t accomplish those necessities feeling physically miserable and emotionally shaky.
This is the last day, though. Tomorrow I go cold turkey.
At the thought of the torment detox would bring, dread settled over her like a blanket drenched in ice water.
No point worrying. Worrying wouldn’t make it better. God would show up for her. She was still destined to do big things for Him.
She double-checked the date on her phone, just to be sure. August 19. This is the last day I take pills. The last, the very last . . .
From August 20 on, she’d be drug free.
She popped the pill into her mouth and washed it down with a long drink of water. Then, hating herself for her weakness, she climbed back into her Volvo and continued toward her parents’ house.
Soon, waves of gentle, warm light began to massage away her headache. Her nerves calmed. Her assurance steadied.
The familiar Swallowtail Lane sign, topped by its “Historical District” designation, slid past. The stately homes in this neighborhood just north of Misty River’s downtown square had been built in the late 1800s by people who enjoyed both wealth and good taste.
Genevieve parked on the curb of her parents’ tree-lined street. They’d moved into their Colonial Revival–style home when she was seven. Its flat front housed a central door, eight windows flanked with black shutters, and six columns that soared the full two stories to support the roof. Just like every other thing her mom touched, the house projected graciousness.
With her five hundred thousand Instagram followers, Genevieve was no slouch at good staging. However, her mom’s artful arrangement of red, white, and blue bunting, lanterns, and potted white hydrangeas on the porch rivaled and perhaps even surpassed Genevieve’s skills.
She’d tugged her suitcase two-thirds of the way up the brick walkway when the front door burst open, framing the form of her mom.
Genevieve noted her mom’s lavender top and eyes red from crying in the millisecond before her mother’s arms encircled her.
“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Genevieve said, hugging her back. “So sorry. I know I cost you a sleepless night of worry. What I did was completely unforgivable.” She was preempting what her mom would say in order to deflate the force of it.
They stepped apart. “Really,” Genevieve said. “I’m very sorry. I deserve an F at being a daughter these past twenty-four hours.”
Her mom’s blond side bangs melded into a crisp bob that nearly brushed her shoulders. “Genevieve—” she started but was interrupted by the arrival of Genevieve’s dad.
Judson Woodward’s hug smelled like Irish Spring soap, just like always. All his life, thanks to his thin, six-foot-five frame, people had asked him if he played basketball. All his life he’d replied that he’d have loved to, had he the slightest amount of coordination or speed.
As it was, he’d been a glasses-wearing brainiac who played the trombone in the high school band. His ears too prominent to allow him to be considered conventionally handsome, her dad was a self-described nerd—good-natured, thoughtful, intelligent—who’d ended up winning the heart of a literal homecoming queen. After thirty-four years of marriage, Dad still believed himself to be the luckiest husband in the world.
And, indeed, if a stranger were to see them together, Mom’s startling beauty might seem like a mismatch to Dad’s lanky bookishness. But Genevieve knew just how challenging Mom could be. In her opinion, Mom was the luckiest wife in the world to have landed Dad.
Dad tilted his face down to assess her shrewdly through his spotlessly clean glasses. Silver streaked his close-trimmed brown hair and beard. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Completely all right.” She repeated her apologies to him as Mom led the way into the house, Dad toting the suitcase.
They made their way to the modern kitchen at the back of the floor plan, the scent of cinnamon sticks hovering in the air.
“You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?” Caroline asked.
“No.” Every minute since she’d been yanked to consciousness had been punishing, so it seemed like it should be later than it was. Genevieve’s smartwatch read 8:30 a.m.
“I whipped this up after I received your call.” Mom indicated the food waiting on the marble countertop. Scrambled eggs. Grits. Bacon. Fruit. Toast arranged next to ramekins containing butter and jelly. A pitcher of orange juice.
“Wow, thank you.”
Mom moved toward the coffeemaker while Genevieve and her dad ferried the breakfast platters to the round kitchen table. The numerous panes of the bow window highlighted the backyard garden, which dripped late-summer color beneath a hazy morning sky. Mom had set out the periwinkle and white Limoges china, which meant that she was feeling especially emotional this morning. A daunting prospect, considering that Mom was very emotional at the best of times.
Joy, grief, wonder, hurt, love. Caroline Woodward, the belle of Athens, experienced them all with a wholeheartedness that frequently exhausted Genevieve.
If Mom were a line on a graph swooping upward and downward, her dad was the line through the middle. He liked to say that his wife’s moods passed him on their way up, then passed him again on their way down.
“What happened last night?” Mom asked once they’d taken their seats. “Where were you?” If displeasure were visible, it would’ve been shooting from her in orange spikes.
Genevieve repeated the story she’d given Sam, about how tired she’d been behind the wheel. This time, she said she’d stopped for the night at a B&B in the town of Chatsworth. She explained that she’d stretched out to rest her eyes for a second, then accidentally slept clean through till morning.
“We tried calling and texting,” Mom said. “Natasha tried calling and texting.”
“I saw that this morning when I woke up. I had my phone on Do Not Disturb. Every once in a while I put it on that setting and then forget to take it off.”
“Genevieve.” Mom’s lips thinned. “We called the police. They were out searching for your crumpled car.”
She winced. “I truly did not mean to cause you worry. I absolutely should’ve called you before I lay down.”
Mom’s elegant face softened a degree, and Genevieve wondered, When did I become such an expert liar? The vine of shame unfurled even farther.
After today, no more pills.
Genevieve doctored her coffee, then took a long sip. She filled her plate, ate, and made the appropriate murmurs of pleasure because this situation required her to go through the motions.
“You were mysterious about your reason for coming to visit,” Mom said. “I worried that your disappearance might have had something to do with that.”
“I came for a few different reasons. One, I’ve blocked off the next several months to complete my study, and I really needed a change of scenery. Two, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Natasha, and the kids.”
“Far too long,” Caroline agreed.
“Three, I wanted to discuss this with you.” She unzipped the outer pocket of her purse and produced an envelope. “I received this letter two weeks ago.” She passed it over.
Mom extracted the single sheet of white printer
paper, then pulled on fashionable reading glasses. Her bright, almond-shaped hazel eyes were rimmed in thick eyelashes.
Her spine stiffened as she read. Wordlessly, she handed the letter to Dad.
“‘I know what your parents did,’” he read aloud, frowning. “‘And after all we’ve suffered, it’s hard to watch you bask in your fame and money. Your parents aren’t going to get away with it.’”
“Who sent this?” Mom asked.
“I have no idea. It’s unsigned and the return address listed doesn’t exist.”
Mom flipped the envelope over to study the return address.
“What’s the writer talking about?” Genevieve asked. “What does he or she mean when they say they know what you did?”
Mom met her eyes. “They can’t mean anything by it, because we haven’t done anything.”
“Nothing?”
“No, of course not,” Mom said. “Nothing.”
“The letter writer made it all up?” Genevieve asked.
“Yes,” Mom answered.
“But why would someone do that?”
Mom rotated her coffee cup. “Now that you’re as well-known and prominent as you are, you get all kinds of mail, don’t you? The good, the bad, and the ugly?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d say this one belongs in either the bad or the ugly category. I suppose they sent it to worry you or throw you off your game.”
Genevieve looked to her father. “Dad?”
“Maybe this is their idea of humor,” he suggested. “They could view this as a prank.”
“It’s just that I don’t ever get letters about you two. This is a first.”
“You receive mail via your publisher, right?” Dad crumbled bacon on top of his eggs, as if he’d forgotten that’s not how he ate his eggs and bacon. He always took bites of eggs, then bites of bacon, then bites of eggs.
“Right.”
“And do they screen the letters for you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She received so much correspondence that she hadn’t been able to keep up with it personally in years. “The publicity team typically passes along the funniest, most heartwarming, and most encouraging of the letters. They file the critical and complaining letters.”
