Silencing Joy by Amy Rachiele

the
hall?” I asked.
    “A poor loser druggie like me, come up to
you? I don’t think so. I was a real one then, not a pretend one.
That’s why they gave me this assignment. Tommy and his friends had
to believe that I was legit.”
    His view of the past made me reflect. I
thought of myself as a pretty observant person, being a
photographer. But it occurred to me at that second that I didn’t
really see anything at all. I always lived my life in a comfortable
bubble, only letting in the things or the people I wanted to.
    “Sorry,” I said in a soft voice.
    “Sorry? What’re you sorry for?” He turned to
me for a brief second.
    “Sorry that we weren’t friends in high
school.”
*****
    Will pulled over for gas and a bathroom break
and bought two more coffees and a few muffins from the coffee shop
attached to the gas station. It was now ten in the morning, and we
had been on the road for a couple of hours. Outside had warmed up;
the temperature would probably hit seventy degrees. We had been in
Maine since last night, but this place seemed to be really off the
beaten path.
    As we pulled back on the road again, I
thought about my classes. If this dragged out, I would need to
retake the entire semester. It was only a month and a half into the
school year. Then I pondered what I would do for money while I was
here. I only had what was in my pocket. I was already told I
couldn’t use my bankcard. My mind raced with all the things I
should have done to prepare for this. How could I prepare, when
I didn’t see it coming?
    We munched on our muffins and gingerly drank
our hot coffees.
    Between bites I asked, “So what made you get
into drugs and stuff?”
    “That’s not a hard question. My parents,” he
says deadpan. “My parents were coke heads. I was raised in a family
where we barely had money for milk and bread. My father went from
job to job, and my mother never got off the couch. You saw my
place. I still live in the house I grew up in. It was originally my
grandparents. They gave it to my mom and dad when they got married.
It’s bought and paid for. All my dad had to do was pay the taxes
and utilities, and he still couldn’t put food on our table. All
their money went to drugs. I am a victim of my environment,” he
said as if he was repeating something he heard from a
therapist.
    “Where are they now?” I questioned.
    “Dad died in an overdose. Mom is in a mental
hospital in RI. I go see her once in a while.” He didn’t sound
pained, just like it was a way of life.
    Sorrow riddled my gut. Granted, my parents
and I were never extremely close, but at least I had consistency,
love, and food on the table. Now, more than ever, I wished I could
talk to them.
    We finally turned off onto a dirt road, the
kind with grass growing up the middle. It was a road, but the grass
indicated it wasn’t used that much.
    After a mile or so of trees, trees, and more
trees, we came to a gate overgrown with bushes. Will slipped out to
open the gate with a key he had. As he swung the gate wide enough
for the car to pass through, I noticed that the bushes were stuck
to the gate, not growing around it to make others believe they had
reached a dead end.
    Will pulled the car up, stopping to lock the
gate again. After miles of trees in their foliage splendor, we came
to a beautiful clearing with a lake. Will drove up to a house...no,
a cabin made out of logs. The house was so picturesque it could be
in a tourist magazine. Massive tree trunks supported the front
porch. Rocking chairs settled by the door. This place looked more
like a vacation house than a safe house.
    When I was a kid, my parents used to rent a
place like this in New Hampshire. A slight twinge of nostalgia
rippled through me as I thought of the times my Dad tried to teach
me to swim. Every time we went to the lake, he would throw me in
and tell me to kick my feet and swish my arms, but I never could
learn. I just didn’t have the coordination. After every trip,