Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

“Why wouldn’t they trust me?”

“How long have you known about this?” he asked. “Without telling them?” It had been a few months. Maybe four. The answer hung between us for a moment, unsaid. “Exactly,” he said. “So don’t be a narc, okay? Just try to be cool, for once in your life.” He tossed the rope ladder over the railing and threw one leg over, then the other. Then I watched as his head disappeared, and a second later I heard a soft thump as he hit the ground and hustled over to the rumbling car. He got in, and the car peeled away, not putting its headlights on until it was all the way around the cul-de-sac.

While I Breathe, I Hope.

—South Carolina state motto

“Ready?” Roger asked me. I nodded, then looked up at the window five feet above me. I wasn’t sure this was going to work. In fact, it seemed much more likely that it would fail. But as Roger might have said, we’d come this far.

“Ready,” I said. He made a cradle with his hands, and I stepped one foot into it. Roger bent his knees, and I put my hands on his shoulders. His T-shirt was warm from driving in the sun. For just a moment, I let my hands rest on his shoulders, feeling the muscle underneath the warm cotton, realizing how close together we were.

“Okay,” I said, trying to focus on the task ahead. I nodded and pushed off Roger’s hand as he hoisted me up, giving me the leverage I needed to grasp onto the sill of the window above me. I dangled there for a moment, then felt him grab my feet and give them another push. This extra momentum gave me enough forward motion to pull myself up and over, and I tumbled into the room.

The original plan had been to walk in and ask to see him. The original plan hadn’t involved any sort of forced entry. But the original plan had been foiled. We’d gotten breakfast at a Cracker Barrel near the Wal-Mart, where Roger declared the pancakes the best he’d ever eaten, then headed into Asheville and arrived at Promises Kept around ten. The building looked more like a mansion than a rehab center. The only indication that it wasn’t were the parking spaces, clearly labeled VISITORS, MEDICAL PRACTITIONERS, and DROP-OFF. Roger had gone in with me, but we hadn’t gotten very far before we were stopped by a woman wearing white scrubs who introduced herself as Courtney. Even though the website of this place had seemed very welcoming, we were led back outside. She told us how the guests at Promises Kept were currently in the middle of their treatment plan, and that no contact with family members—except by e-mail—was permitted until the treatment plan was completed. Then she told us to have a blessed day and shut the door firmly behind her.

We had been heading back to the car when I happened to look around the side of the building. That’s when I spotted the low(ish) window and the white curtains blowing out of it, letting me know that it was open, and screenless.

We moved quickly, and I hadn’t really had time to come up with a plan, which hit me just as I hit the floor. I pushed myself to my feet and looked around. The room was large, with two beds, and seemed to be decorated all in white. There was a girl lying on each bed, both of whom looked very surprised to see me.

“Hi,” I said, trying not to speak too loudly. “Um. Hi.”

“Can I help you?” the girl on the bed nearest to me asked. She had brown curly hair and looked all of twelve, and for a second I wondered what she could possibly be doing in here.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Charlie Curry’s sister? I was looking for him?”

“You’re Amy?” the other girl asked. She had hair that was probably platinum blond most of the time, but now had a good three inches of black roots growing in. Even from a distance, I could see what looked like burns on her lips.

I looked at her in surprise. “I am,” I said. “But how did you—”

“We have Group,” she said. “We all share things.”

“Oh.” I realized that Charlie had been talking about me. About our family. I immediately wanted to know what he’d been saying. And then I felt a flash of anger, so intense it scared me. Charlie could talk to strangers, but he couldn’t talk to me? “Well, do you know where I could find him?” I asked. They both just looked at me in silence. “Please?” I added.

“I don’t know,” the curly-haired girl said. “Are you here to make him feel bad? He feels guilty enough already, you know.”

“What?” I asked, confused. Charlie had never felt guilty about anything in his life. “No. I just want to talk to him.”

The two girls looked at each other and seemed to be having some kind of silent conversation. Finally the blond girl nodded. “He’s three doors down,” she said, indicating that I should head to the left. “Him and Muz.”

“Muz?” I asked, just as a chime played loudly. I looked around and saw that both girls had looked over to the wall, where an intercom was mounted.

“Good afternoon,” a soothing voice said in soft tones. “I hope that your morning reflection been pleasant and fulfilling. Reflection time will be ending in twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, please make your way to your designated prelunch activity. Thank you.” Then the chime sounded again, and the intercom clicked off.

I stared up at it for a moment. This was how Charlie had been spending the last month—in luxury accommodations, talking though his feelings and reflecting? Meanwhile, I’d been getting pizza delivered and rattling around in the house alone, trying to fall asleep to the Weather Channel. “Thanks,” I said to the girls as I headed for the door.

“Sure,” the curly-haired girl said.

The blonde just looked at me for a moment. “You should call your mother,” she said. “Really.”

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but I didn’t have time to. But what just happened? I stepped out into the hallway, which was decorated in an Asian theme. Julia would have approved. There was a potted bamboo in front of every room and a quietly trickling fountain at the end of the hallway, which was softly lit. I looked around to make sure that the coast was clear, and then hurried past three rooms, catching glances from people as I passed open doors—and all the doors seemed to be open.

I stopped in front of a door that was ajar, but not as much as the others. CHARLIE AND ZACH was written on a laminated sign attached to the door in a little slot that was clearly designed so the sign could be changed frequently. I took a breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.