Chapter 16
Aiden
I wake up in the crack.
Overnight I’ve pressed close to Zoe, my chest against her back, my arm around her waist, but that means I’m sleeping right where the beds are pushed together, where either my weight or our activities last night have disrupted things, and my hip and shoulder are sinking by degrees, my head cocked awkwardly to get real estate on Zoe’s pillow.
Slowly, so I don’t disturb her, I roll onto my back and move over, missing the warmth of her body and the rich, slightly musky smell of her skin. I turn my head toward her, watch the rise and fall of her body as she breathes in the deep, even pattern of a heavy sleep. At the back of her head, her hair is tousled, some of the fine strands sticking straight up, quivering slightly from the air blowing out of the vent above us.
Zoe, married? I think, as I watch her lying there. My reaction to it—to the initial revelation, and everything she had said after—had been quick, almost violent in its strength, a feeling in my body that sounded like no. I’m not a barbarian; I don’t have any claim on Zoe’s past or future, but something about the bleak way she’d said it, and the strange, directionless way she’d talked about her past, had made me feel agitated and angry. Who was this fucking guy, fully an adult, marrying a twenty-year-old woman, still in college, dealing with the sudden death of a parent? What kind of dirtbag would take a woman’s inheritance like that? And what was Zoe like back then? Was she like she is now, controlled and sophisticated but with flashes of this irreverent, bold humor? Was she as good at reading people then? Did she chat this guy right out of his bad moods, make him forget everything that made his life feel unmanageable? Did he feel like his soul was being wrenched from his body when he was inside of her?
Fuck, it’s an awful thought, one I hate myself for even considering. Disrespectful to her, and torturous to me.
I sit up then, swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and outside the sky is gray, the first day we’ve been here that fall hasn’t shown up in all its glory. I’d like to fix the beds, push them back tight together and crawl back in there with her, wake her up and get inside of her again, sleep all day next to her. But that’s ridiculous, because this is it—presentation day. This is the day where I show up for what I’ve been working toward all these months. Whether it’s gray out there or not, whether I have a warm woman beside me or not, I’m in this.
Behind me, Zoe shifts, makes a soft, sleepy noise as she turns over. I look back at her, feel a thrill of satisfaction as her palm coasts over the sheet beside her—feeling for me. I press my hand over hers, letting her know I’m here, and her eyes flutter open. Even in the dim early-morning light, I can see the gold of them, how bright they are. Sunlight against the changing trees.
I am so fucking gone over this woman, it is ridiculous. Terrifying.
“Hi,” she says, and then she smiles up at me, and—is it terrifying? Isn’t it okay that I get to feel something for a smart, funny, gorgeous woman, a woman who makes me feel less like I’m on an island all by myself, just gathering supplies to stay alive until…until what, I don’t know.
“Hey,” I say, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. This affection—it’s new for us, and I’m surprised at how good it feels. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something else to her, something that’ll make clear that maybe I’ve got more in me than soft gestures for her, that maybe there’s some way she and I can work this out beyond the campground.
But when I open my mouth to speak, it’s all business. “I’ve got to get showered. I want to get out there early, go through it one more time.”
She nods, props herself up on one elbow. “Want me there?” she asks, and I think, I always want you there. I want you everywhere.
After today, the hardest part of this will be over—I’ll have done all I can. It’ll be up to Paul and Lorraine. After that, I can think of what it’ll be like for Zoe and me. Whether there’s some way we can make this work in another context, whether what passed between us last night might mean there’s something for us beyond all this.
I’m smiling down at her, probably goofy looking as all hell, but then the sharp ring of my phone pierces the air. “Hang on,” I say, squeezing her hand once before standing and crossing to the desk. It’s my parents’ number and right away I know it’s not good. Even if they had in mind to talk to me outside of our usual scheduled twice-a-week calls, it’s 6:30 in the morning on a Sunday, no sane time to call anyone for casual conversation. “Mom?” I say when I pick up, noticing out of the corner of my eye the way Zoe sinks back down onto her side, her expression hidden from me now.
There’s a pause, silence on the other line, and so I say it again, more forcefully, more anxiously this time.
“It’s me,” says a gruff, raspy voice, a voice I haven’t heard in what feels like months.
Oh, Jesus, I think, sick with dread. “Has something happened to Mom?”
“No. I was calling to—ah, well. To ask if you remembered something.”
I sit heavily on the too-small chair, hearing it creak beneath me. Hell, my knees felt weak there for a minute, thinking of what news I was about to get. I’m relieved, but not overly so—it’s still too strange that it’s my dad calling, not my mom, who initiates all our family conversation these days.
“Sure, Pop,” I say.
“You remember when your mother and I took you kids to Disney World?”
I smile with the memory: the worst family vacation ever. Aaron and I had been nine, had been begging to go for at least the previous two years. We’d driven down in Pop’s old station wagon, loud with various rattles and whirs, the air conditioner broken and the gas tank guzzling up so much fuel that we had to stop all the time. My dad had been grouchy, my mom had been falsely cheerful, and pretty much the second we’d crossed into the state of Florida we seemed to encounter all manner of new allergic triggers for Aaron. He had terrible hives, his breathing was raspy and uneven, and his eyes were so watery and swollen that he could barely see, which mattered less once Mom had upped his dose of Benadryl and he’d fall asleep for hours. He’d been too sick to go to the park for the first two days, and so we’d holed up in our dingy hotel room, playing cards and watching cable. And when we finally got to the park? I don’t think any one of us had ever felt that kind of heat in our lives, rising up from the pavement like something directly from hell, the lines long and the people loud and rude, all the souvenirs costing more than we could afford. We made it through three hours, all of us trying so hard to enjoy ourselves, until Aaron had stood, a melted Dole Whip in his small hand, and said, “This is awful. I hate everything about this place,” and all four of us had laughed and laughed.
“I remember.” I’ve set one elbow on my thigh, have lowered my head to cradle it in my hand. It hurts to think about this—it physically hurts, those aches in my joints returning with a vengeance.
“There’s this one picture I found,” he says, and I can hear from his voice he’s been crying, again. Before Aaron died, I’d never seen my dad cry, not ever. He’d been almost comically stoic, even when Aaron was having his lowest times, when he was in and out of rehab, jail. But now he cries a lot, as though he was saving his whole lifetime supply of tears for this. “It’s you and your brother coming off Space Mountain. I think your mother took it.”
“Don’t know if I’ve ever seen it.” I’m so conscious of Zoe in the room. She has not moved.
“You’re holding his hand,” Pop says, and holy fuck. I have to clench my hand into a fist now, keeping it pressed against my forehead. I can feel Aaron’s small hand in mine, hot and clammy. I couldn’t speak if I tried.
“That’s all, really,” he says. “Just found this picture.”
“Okay, Pop.” I listen close to hear if my mother’s there, rustling around in the background, but it’s quiet. “Where’d you come by the pictures?” I ask, frustrated, angry. If he’s this low, this raw all the time, my mother should be keeping this shit away from him. Packing it away so he can never see it, not until he’s ready.
It’s not fair that I’m thinking that, that I’m putting it on her. She’s the one reading all the books, going to all the support groups, after all. She’d know better than me what’s right for my dad. But I can’t see sense about this, and I know it. I only want him to stop hurting.
Across the room, Zoe sits up, picks up her discarded pajamas and pulls them on, her head bowed as she stands and wanders into the bathroom.
“Just thought I’d have a look today,” he says. “Wishing you good luck, and all that.”
“Thanks, Pop. Maybe you ought to put Mom on.” Probably it was her idea for him to call me, anyways. No way has he been keeping track of when I’d be giving this presentation.
“She’s out.”
If it’s possible, my stress level rises another notch. I hate to think of him there, alone, probably surrounded by a photo album that’s page after page of gut punches. What makes it worse, I guess, is that I can’t even really picture it. I’ve never been to the condo, don’t have a sense of its layout from the pictures my mom sometimes sends. I’ve never sat on the new furniture they have down there, have never taken in their new view. I can’t picture what my dad’s looking at, other than at this three-by-five memory of his two sons, back when we were all right. When we were whole. “She coming home soon?”
He clears his throat. “I’m sure she’ll call you. Give you her own pep talk.”
The chair beneath me squeaks out its indignation at my size, at my shifting in discomfort. I don’t have a good feeling about this, him there alone. “Sure,” I say.
“You always helped your brother. Like in this picture. You were so important to him.”
I stand then, face the window, my back toward the room. So if Zoe comes in, she can’t see the way my chin tightens up in suppressed anguish. He means something good with this—he means to remind me I’d been good to Aaron and that what happened to him later wasn’t because of me. But I can’t hear that. Can’t hear anything but the ways I didn’t help him, the ways I wasn’t important enough. I wasn’t important enough for him to save himself.
“All right, Pop. I’d better get out there.”
We hang up and I take a deep breath, steady myself against the tremor of grief he’s just set off with nothing more than a few quiet words of well-wishing. In my mind, I start rattling off the opening lines of my presentation, something concrete to grab onto. The day stretches out in front of me like a huge, yawning void. If I get this right today, my whole future changes. Everything about my life will be different.
Again.
“Are your parents okay?”
When I turn to face her, she’s leaning in the wide doorway into the bathroom, her hairline wet from washing her face, her skin scrubbed pink and clean. Her voice is quieter than usual, and I know it’s because of what she’s asking. She’s tiptoed around the subject of my parents since that first day we met, and I guess that’s smart of her. The question is innocent, but it’s the same thing she asked that day, pressing her way into my life on her quest for forgiveness, and I’m so keyed up from that exchange with my dad, from my nerves about the presentation, that I can only hear her guilt. Ten minutes ago I could barely think of anything but how I might manage to keep her, but right now, in this moment, she feels like part of the problem, not the solution.
“They’re fine. I ought to get ready.” I move toward the dresser, start pulling out clothes for the day.
“Aiden,” she says, a statement all on its own, and I still, briefly. “You don’t have to do it.”
I don’t do anything but stare at her, stripped of every single thing she came to me with when I first met her. Her dress, her heels, her perfect makeup and hair. She’s beautiful. Beautiful, and as terrifying as ever.
“I will go with you right now and we can tell Paul and Lorraine the truth about us, about this. You can tell them it’s not the right time for you to do this.”
It’s my last out, and she is serving it up to me like a gift. I don’t have any doubt about what she’d do if we went down to that lodge and stood in front of Paul and Lorraine. She’d try to tell them both it was her fault, this whole fake engagement. I wouldn’t let her, but she’d try. It’d be awful, telling Paul and Lorraine. It’d be awful, calling my parents and telling them I’d given up on the camp. It’d be awful, starting over with that pile of blood money, or watching it get bigger in some cold, stale bank account, statements delivered to me every month while I try to wait this out, wait until it’s not so painful.
It’d be awful, thinking I’d let my brother down.
Still, for one brief, hopeful second, I think about what it’d be like to leave here with her beside me, both of us untangled from this lie, this life.
Too brief, though, and too hopeful.
I know where my loyalty lies. I know the promises I’ve made.
“No,” I tell her. “I can’t.”
* * * *
If she’s angry at me, she hides it well.
I’d skipped the group lunch, done another run-through, which means I’ve done it so many times I’ll be dreaming of it for days. I’d done the same when I’d been doing my training for the paramedic exam—I’d fall asleep at night and see myself wandering around a grocery store or shopping mall, unable to leave until I’d identified for every cashier the arrhythmias in an EKG, always my toughest challenge. Back then, there hadn’t been half as much riding on getting it right, so I figure the dreams this time around will be worse.
When I’d finally shown up at the lodge, Zoe had been there, in her regular seat at the table where we always eat for group meals, looking as calm and casual as she had on that first day we were here. “Hi,” she’d said, waving me over, smiling brightly. “Val was just sharing some ideas for honeymoon locations.” She’d been as calm as she wasn’t on that first day, when talk of weddings had made us both skittish and awkward.
By the time Val and Sheree had given their instructions to the camp staffer who’d be staying behind with the kids—this particular presentation an obvious nonstarter for the youth set—I’d been sweaty with nerves, and Zoe had stood by my side, patted my lower back twice, softly. “Ninety minutes,” she’d said. “Less than ninety minutes, and this whole thing will be over.”
That had been—haunting, I guess. More haunting than comforting.
But now we’re in it, fully in it—Zoe beside me the whole time, all my practice paying off, I think. I’ve not stumbled over the details once. I’ve answered every question.
“If you take a look at page twelve of your packets,” I say now, my voice feeling a bit strained from all the talking, “you’ll see that most patients come to the Wilderness/Wellness program on physician referral.” I pause, waiting a well-rehearsed few beats for my audience to read over page twelve, half the page showing stats for the types of referrals, the other half with brief but convincing quotations from doctors in the state of Virginia who have sent patients to the other centers.
I watch as Lorraine lifts her reading glasses from where they hang around her neck, nodding as she reads. It’s hard to tell, really, what Lorraine and Paul have been thinking through this. Not much of what I’ve said here invites a lot of laughter, and for the most part, everyone’s been quiet and serious throughout. That worries me, but Zoe told me yesterday that this is what I should expect, that whether I talk about Aaron or not, no one who’s listening is going to be lighthearted when they know they’re hearing this pitch from someone who’s been personally affected. “People aren’t going to say much,” she’d said. “But that’s not really a bad thing.”
When Lorraine looks up, I begin again. We’d timed the stuff about physician referrals to this stop in particular, the infirmary, so that I can talk about the two full-time nurses that would be on staff, the medical director that would work on-site a minimum of three days a week. This is different, I tell them, from the clinical psych staff that’s kept on staff—Wilderness/Wellness tries to keep those functions separate, so that patients don’t necessarily see their treatment here as highly medicalized. I talk, too, about the major insurance companies that cover sixty-day stays, the treatment financing that’s offered through a third-party vendor for people who don’t have insurance. I dislike this part, the money stuff. It feels ugly, particularly after Aaron’s failed rehab efforts, and the money those efforts cost our family. One night, not long after my parents had received the settlement check, I’d worked out how many days I could’ve paid for Aaron at Wilderness/Wellness, if I’d only had that kind of cash.
It’d been a lot of days.
I ask for questions, same as I have at every stop, and this time Paul raises his hand. “What kind of changes would you need to make to a building like this?” he asks, gesturing to the infirmary.
“Pretty big ones here.” The infirmary’s basically a modular house, factory built, three small windows, unreliable plumbing. “We’d look to expand the space, open it up. As you can imagine, many of the patients are cautious about hospital-like spaces, so natural light is key.”
Paul nods. “Probably need better security too, huh?”
“Yeah, I—” I break off when I notice his teasing smile, his small gesture toward that lock I picked. “Oh. Right, yes.”
Beside me, where she’s been for all of this tour, Zoe breathes out a quiet laugh, and before I’ve even thought of it, I’ve reached out, set my hand on the nape of her neck, my thumb moving lightly over the soft skin there while I try not to think too hard about the memory of our first night together. Still, for a second, it feels like everything from this morning, from this whole presentation, has faded away. What would we have told Paul and Lorraine, after all, if we’d gone to them this morning, told them the truth about us? Because right now, it feels like nothing about me and her is a lie.
“Shall we go on back toward the lodge?” she says, gesturing an arm out for everyone to pass. If I’m the info guy during this thing, she’s the friendly, supportive guide. She passed out the packets, reminded people where to go next, checked her watch to keep us on schedule. We drop back while everyone moves on to the next stop, our last. “How do you think it’s going?” she asks, quietly.
“Was going to ask you the same thing.”
She smiles at me briefly, steps over a root that’s sticking up in the trail, which she knows by heart is there now. “You’re doing well. Getting lots of questions.”
“Zo,” I say, slowing my steps a bit, letting the group get that much farther ahead. “This morning—”
“Let’s just finish this,” she says, cutting me off. It’s not harsh, the way she says it. But she’s right, there’s no use getting into it now, not when we’re so close. There’ll be plenty of time after to talk about everything that’s happened between us over the last few days.
The plan is for everyone to take a seat in the outdoor classroom for this last stop, and Zoe leads the way, taking her own seat before patting the one beside her for Lorraine. Lorraine, in turn, pats Zoe’s knee when she sits, smiling at her in the kind of affection she gives out easily to her campers and friends, and Zoe’s face flushes in a kind of shy, surprised pleasure, an expression I haven’t seen on her much. Not for the first time do I let my mind try picturing her here in a more long-term way. Ever since I’d decided that I’d do the camp manager role here, I keep thinking of it. No matter how many summers I’d spent here as a kid, it’s like the adult version of me now can’t see myself at this place without her. At first I’d thought it was because I’d lost that kid version of me when Aaron died—that I couldn’t see myself here without him.
But no. That’s not it at all.
I swallow nervously, shift on my feet one last time as Hammond finally takes a place next to Val. This is the part where I give a wrap-up, where I talk about each one of the patients I mentioned along the trail and where they are now. Phillip, nineteen, in technical school for heating and cooling systems, twenty-three months clean. Brandi, twenty-two, a hairstylist, thirty-eight months clean. Kellan, twenty-seven, one of the first patients to move through the Colorado program, married and a father of one daughter, a college graduate, six years clean. I’ve got seven total I’m supposed to mention here, plus the stats on stability rates five years after completing the program. I’m supposed to talk about why programs like this are the future of drug treatment. I’m supposed to talk about the combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and wilderness therapy.
A strong close. That’s what Zoe had called it, back when I went through it with her the first time, though maybe her voice had been a bit stiff.
But for some reason, so close to the end, I stumble. I confuse Phillip with Kellan, and I get flustered enough about it that I go back over it and do it again, conscious of the slight, wincing secondhand embarrassment from my audience. I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to wipe a sweaty palm across my jeans. “Been a long couple of days.” Before I begin again, I catch Zoe’s eye, and she raises an eyebrow, gestures up to the podium. Want me to do it? she mouths, and I give a subtle shake of my head. “So probably it’s clear,” I say to the group, “that a lot of people have had success with this.” That’s not really a part of my script, that awkward transition, but at least I get going again.
It’s not a strong close, that’s for fucking sure. It’s like all the practice has caught up with me, and the words I’m saying seem disconnected from their meaning, so that when they come out, I’m sort of observing, with one part of my brain, how strange they sound. I’m not so much looking at my audience as I am looking around them, no real eye contact, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought nags at me: You don’t want this to be over.
But then, finally, it is.
Zoe had told me not to expect applause, that there wasn’t some kids-in-costume flourish here, that it might feel more like a whimper than a bang. But it’s still jarring, the quiet—the way everyone’s staring down at their materials, I guess a little unsure about what questions to ask. As we’d planned, Zoe gets up and walks to the front, stands beside me. We didn’t talk about what she does next, which is to slide her fingers between mine, squeezing our palms together. Still, she sticks to her script. “Aiden and I thought it’d be a good idea to head back into the lodge now, take any questions you have in there. This is a tough subject, we know, so take a few minutes.”
We wait together for everyone to go ahead of us, following slowly behind. “I fucked up the end,” I murmur to her, only slightly embarrassed. Mostly I’m relieved to have a second alone with her.
“It was fine. It felt real.” I look over at her, her chin tilted down as she walks up the lodge steps, and I squeeze her hand to get her to look at me.
“Almost there,” I tell her, and she nods, solemn. Too quiet.
Inside, we stay like that, side by side. I’m eager to get off my feet, but it feels good to be in here, away from the bite of the cold air, and within a few minutes, everyone seems to warm up a bit. Hammond goes up to check on the kids, but everyone else sticks around, and there’s praise and questions and Paul and Lorraine seem interested, maybe even a little proud. I relax by degrees with Zoe next to me, her hand in mine, and off script, I do better with the questions—I’m not so focused on how long my answers take or how they’ll affect the timing of a tour stop.
Almost there, I repeat to myself silently, even as I’m listening to Val—always obsessed with demographics—ask me about whether there’s an age limit on patients. But when I open my mouth to answer her, something catches my eye across the room, the front door of the lodge opening slowly—a weak arm, probably, up against a very heavy door.
With the light behind her, it takes me a minute to register.
But that’s her.
My mother’s here.