back. “I can’t take your money. I moved some stuff around . . .”
“Please. Let me do this for my goddaughter.”
Reluctantly, Meg pocketed the check. “OK, but I’m paying you back. With interest.”
They had hugged good-bye in the diner parking lot, after Melissa agreed to come early the morning of the pickup to be with Jack.
Going back upstairs with the things to pack in Alex’s bag, Meg realized gratefully that her son’s singing had finally ceased. She grabbed Alex’s duffel and carefully arranged the items inside, pausing every now and then to peer out the bedroom window, hoping to see her daughter returning home. There’d been a tense moment that afternoon, when Alex breezed in moments after Carl left. Meg had feared the plan was blown. But Alex seemed preoccupied, refusing dinner and pouring cereal instead. Later, Meg could tell by the way Alex bounded down the stairs she was headed out.
“No homework?” Meg had called.
The door had slammed without an answer. Meg hadn’t fought her. Let her have one last hurrah, she thought now, zipping Alex’s duffel shut and hiding it in the garage under some old shower curtains. She found herself thinking about Officer Murphy, the mother coming into her house tomorrow to take her child. Would she judge Meg for this? The mommy court could be brutal; Meg certainly had issued her fair share of judgments.
Walk a mile in my shoes, Officer Murphy.
CARL
Meetings were like karaoke: some nights you played to a bigger crowd than others.
Tonight, the two wings of Riverport’s one-story Presbyterian Church beckoned to Carl like open arms. Downstairs, in a dusty classroom festooned with felt Bible banners, the group was small. Step meetings didn’t draw a big crowd. He preferred them, mulling over what each step taught him about his own addiction and recovery.
Tonight’s was Step Eight: amends. Amends were hard—brutal reparations of relationships shattered by poor choices. For Carl, these included his parents, an aunt whose pearls he pawned, a cousin whose graduation party was the launchpad for his first acid trip. Some forgave easily, some not at all.
Like Diana, after that night at Grayson Lake. The two had been separated when the Kentucky crowd swallowed him; he came to in the litter-strewn parking lot the next morning to find her kneeling over him, crying in relief, only to rage at the discovery that he had lost the van keys and all their money.
He lost her, too, that night—Diana, who set the bar for every woman afterward. So far, none had measured up. It took a special kind of partner to sustain things long-distance, to play second fiddle to his life’s work.
Carl had grown to believe things were better this way, his work a protective shell. He loved women, but nothing could compromise his ability to respond to Begin Again’s next call. He lived alone and had liked it that way—until recently. Maybe it was all the strollers in his neighborhood or the brides in the bar, but he’d begun to crave companionship. It felt like something, someone, was missing.
He had heard that Diana married a hometown guy, had a couple of kids, ran a graphic design firm. He kept track.
In making amends, Carl wrote a lot of letters. Diana’s came back unopened.
Begin Again Transport was one big amends to everyone he’d harmed. Especially Diana. Carl stood, the metal folding chair scraping the church floor:
“My name is Carl, and I’m an alcoholic.”
The meeting ended with the usual recitation. Beyond straightening the chairs, he never hung around after. Outside, he read an apologetic text from Murphy. Her daughter’s soccer game had gone into overtime. She was here now. Should they meet by the Sound?
He saw her on Playland’s promenade, a slight figure waving, standing between two turquoise towers. To his right, mechanics clung to the ribs of the Dragon Coaster, tuning up the old-fashioned roller coaster before the pier reopened for the season. The fierce
“Please. Let me do this for my goddaughter.”
Reluctantly, Meg pocketed the check. “OK, but I’m paying you back. With interest.”
They had hugged good-bye in the diner parking lot, after Melissa agreed to come early the morning of the pickup to be with Jack.
Going back upstairs with the things to pack in Alex’s bag, Meg realized gratefully that her son’s singing had finally ceased. She grabbed Alex’s duffel and carefully arranged the items inside, pausing every now and then to peer out the bedroom window, hoping to see her daughter returning home. There’d been a tense moment that afternoon, when Alex breezed in moments after Carl left. Meg had feared the plan was blown. But Alex seemed preoccupied, refusing dinner and pouring cereal instead. Later, Meg could tell by the way Alex bounded down the stairs she was headed out.
“No homework?” Meg had called.
The door had slammed without an answer. Meg hadn’t fought her. Let her have one last hurrah, she thought now, zipping Alex’s duffel shut and hiding it in the garage under some old shower curtains. She found herself thinking about Officer Murphy, the mother coming into her house tomorrow to take her child. Would she judge Meg for this? The mommy court could be brutal; Meg certainly had issued her fair share of judgments.
Walk a mile in my shoes, Officer Murphy.
CARL
Meetings were like karaoke: some nights you played to a bigger crowd than others.
Tonight, the two wings of Riverport’s one-story Presbyterian Church beckoned to Carl like open arms. Downstairs, in a dusty classroom festooned with felt Bible banners, the group was small. Step meetings didn’t draw a big crowd. He preferred them, mulling over what each step taught him about his own addiction and recovery.
Tonight’s was Step Eight: amends. Amends were hard—brutal reparations of relationships shattered by poor choices. For Carl, these included his parents, an aunt whose pearls he pawned, a cousin whose graduation party was the launchpad for his first acid trip. Some forgave easily, some not at all.
Like Diana, after that night at Grayson Lake. The two had been separated when the Kentucky crowd swallowed him; he came to in the litter-strewn parking lot the next morning to find her kneeling over him, crying in relief, only to rage at the discovery that he had lost the van keys and all their money.
He lost her, too, that night—Diana, who set the bar for every woman afterward. So far, none had measured up. It took a special kind of partner to sustain things long-distance, to play second fiddle to his life’s work.
Carl had grown to believe things were better this way, his work a protective shell. He loved women, but nothing could compromise his ability to respond to Begin Again’s next call. He lived alone and had liked it that way—until recently. Maybe it was all the strollers in his neighborhood or the brides in the bar, but he’d begun to crave companionship. It felt like something, someone, was missing.
He had heard that Diana married a hometown guy, had a couple of kids, ran a graphic design firm. He kept track.
In making amends, Carl wrote a lot of letters. Diana’s came back unopened.
Begin Again Transport was one big amends to everyone he’d harmed. Especially Diana. Carl stood, the metal folding chair scraping the church floor:
“My name is Carl, and I’m an alcoholic.”
The meeting ended with the usual recitation. Beyond straightening the chairs, he never hung around after. Outside, he read an apologetic text from Murphy. Her daughter’s soccer game had gone into overtime. She was here now. Should they meet by the Sound?
He saw her on Playland’s promenade, a slight figure waving, standing between two turquoise towers. To his right, mechanics clung to the ribs of the Dragon Coaster, tuning up the old-fashioned roller coaster before the pier reopened for the season. The fierce
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