Home Field (25 page)

“What did you say?”

“Just to call you at school. That's it.”

Stephanie's thoughts began to ramp up again. Her father always answered the phone. She felt her mind reaching for reason, clinging to the raft. “How did you even know his number?”

“I've written it down enough times. Sorry, I felt like I should call him, in case something happened.”

“It's okay,” Stephanie said. “I just don't want to involve him if I don't have to.”

There was a knock at the door and a doctor came in. Theresa excused herself for the examination. The doctor was young, with a goatee and a sort of unformed look about his mouth, as if he'd heard an off-color joke and couldn't decide whether or not it was okay to laugh. He worked quickly, chatting as he checked her vitals. He explained he was a resident and that it was a busy night. He asked her what she'd taken and how she was feeling, giving no indication of his opinion of her behavior. His breath smelled like coffee and licorice gum. When he was finished examining her, he put his clipboard down and took a step back.

“Okay, here's the deal. You have a slight temperature, but that's normal with this drug. Your blood pressure is good. Physically, you're fine. But you did a really dumb thing.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because this is not a soft drug. Don't let anyone
tell you differently. First of all, I don't know where you got it, but unless you made it yourself, you really have no idea what's actually in it. I am not exaggerating when I say you could have poisoned yourself to death. Second, even if you assume it's pure MDMA, you basically flooded your brain with serotonin and dopamine. You know what those are, right? They're the feel-good chemicals, okay? But they're supposed to be regulated. Your brain keeps them in check—behind doors, let's say. But MDMA, it comes in and it beats down those doors and rips them off the hinges. So now your brain has to repair all those doorways.”

“I already feel bad.”

“Well, you're going to feel worse.” He detached her IV. “You're going to be down, really down, depressed. There's nothing you can do; it's the hangover of this drug. So be aware.”

“Okay,” Stephanie said, holding back tears. She felt like the doctor thought she deserved to be depressed. “What do I do now?”

“There's no treatment; you have to wait for the drug to wear off. I can't keep you overnight unless I send you up to Psych, and I don't think you want that. It's not the right place for a girl like you.”

She wanted to ask him what he meant by “a girl like you.” Did he think she was spoiled? Sheltered? Suicidal? She wasn't any of those things, but why would he give her the benefit of the doubt? She had the urge to see the Shanks, wanting the comfort of being around people who thought she was smart and sensible. But if she called them to pick her up here, would they still think that?

“You should wait until morning to go home,” the resident
said. “It's almost three, so you don't have that long to wait. You can go to the cafeteria or wait in the lobby. I'm sure this won't be your first all-nighter.”

“Okay, thanks,” Stephanie said. Shame rippled through her, the resident's unspoken assumptions filling up the room. She stayed seated on the metal examining table for a few minutes after he left, trying to gauge the progress of the drug. But now it was hard to separate the intensity of the high from the intensity of the situation. All she knew was that she couldn't calm herself in any of the usual ways.

Theresa was dozing on a sofa in the waiting area. Stephanie didn't wake her. Instead she went to the pay phone and called her father. He didn't pick up. She hung up right before the machine answered and dialed two more times, repeating the pattern. Still no answer. She wanted to believe that he was sleeping so deeply he couldn't hear the phone, but she couldn't convince herself of that.

She called the Shanks next. She didn't know the number by heart and had to check her wallet, where she kept the pink sticky note with their number and address. Her mother had given it to her last fall, back when Stephanie first expressed an interest in seeing them. The sight of her mother's handwriting, so round and buoyant and girlish, filled Stephanie with remorse. She thought of what the doctor had said, about the depression coming her way. She tried to project herself to a place beyond the drug's hangover, but it was like her mind could only go downhill.

J
OELLE WANTED
D
EAN
to stay for lunch after church, but he was eager to take the boys home, to spend the afternoon doing
Sunday things, the chores and errands that would help prepare them for the week ahead. For the first time since the beginning of the year, he was looking forward to his job. He didn't even mind that Garrett was coming over to “pick his brain” in advance of “A Night with the Coach,” the Q&A that the Boosters hosted every year, midseason.

He drove fast down the bumpy farm lane and into town, where he stopped at the market for lunch meat, bread, and potato salad. The boys waited in the car, and when he came back, they were arguing over the radio. Robbie had tuned it to the Top Forty countdown, but Bryan wanted to listen to a tape of Christian music that Joelle had given him. On the radio, a girl with a warbly voice seemed to split the difference with a secular song about souls being saved.

“Who's that in our driveway?” Bryan asked as they approached their house. There was a maroon-colored sedan parked there.

“I don't know,” Dean said. His first thought was Laura, but it wasn't her car.

“Maybe it's someone from church dropping off food,” Robbie said.

“Maybe,” Dean said. But no one had left food for some time. It had stopped when the school year began.

He pulled into his driveway next to the strange car, feeling spooked and unseated, his good mood slipping away.

Dean's driveway was adjacent to the side porch, separated by a tall, gated wooden fence, upon which a sweet vining flower grew.

“Hello?” Dean called out as he approached the gate. When
he opened it, he saw the Shanks sitting on the steps of his porch. They stood up, brushing off their clothes. As always, they were dressed a notch too formally for the occasion, Mrs. Shank wearing a white oxford-cloth shirt and navy pants, and Mr. Shank in gray chinos, a collared shirt, and a pullover sweater.

“It's Stephanie's grandparents!” Bryan said. Always friendly, he ran to them and gave them each a hug. “Is Stephanie here?”

“No, my dear, she's busy at school,” Mrs. Shank said. But she gave Dean a look that let him know that something was wrong.

“Robbie, why don't you go inside and make a sandwich for yourself and your brother,” Dean said, handing him the groceries.

“Are you staying for lunch?” Bryan asked, not getting it.

“Come on, Bry,” Robbie said. “Leave them alone. They have to talk about something.”

“What?” Bryan asked as Robbie pushed him toward the door. “What is it, Daddy?”

“It's grown-up stuff, sweetheart,” Mrs. Shank said. “It would bore you; it's about tuition.”

“Oh, money,” Bryan said, with a put-on knowingness that Dean had never seen before. He felt a wheel of panic spinning in his chest; he felt as if he did not know his children at all.

“Dean, I'm sorry to descend on you like this,” Mrs. Shank said as soon as the boys were out of earshot. “We just felt it was the right thing to do.”

“What happened?” Dean asked. “Is Stephanie in trouble?”

“She's fine, but she reached out to us last night—actually, in
the morning—and we thought we should tell you in person.” Mrs. Shank glanced at her husband. “Maybe you should tell him. I'll go help the boys with lunch.”

“You don't need to do that,” Dean said. But she was already heading inside.

“Should we sit down, then?” Mr. Shank nodded to the two rocking chairs on Dean's porch. It was maybe the sixth sentence Mr. Shank had ever spoken directly to Dean.

“Let's take a walk,” Dean said, trying to get some control over the situation. He couldn't be out-and-out rude to a man his father's age.

Mr. Shank followed Dean to the backyard. They ended up standing at the edge of Dean's property, where his overgrown lawn bordered on a weedy meadow.

“Any idea who owns this field?” Mr. Shank asked.

“It's part of the Baker farm.”

“You should try to buy it. It doesn't seem like they're doing much with it. And you don't want them to sell it to a developer. You'll have people looking right into your backyard.”

Dean couldn't deal with small talk. “Mr. Shank, with all due respect—”

“Call me Walter. We've known each other long enough.”

“Walter, what's going on? I know you didn't come all this way for no reason.”

“We came because we're worried,” Mr. Shank said. “Stephanie called us early this morning after a night of partying. She was under the influence of a drug, something I've never heard of, but apparently it's a kind of pharmaceutical. Something that induces intense moods. She was extremely distraught when she
called us. She had checked herself into the ER because she was so scared.”

“Stephanie was in the hospital?” Dean felt sick.

“She claims she called you, but that you didn't answer. Do you remember getting any calls last night? Did you have messages on your answering machine?”

“I don't know, I haven't checked yet.” Dean was uncertain of how much to leave unsaid. “I wasn't home last night.”

“Oh, I see. That explains things.” Mr. Shank gave Dean a look that was surprisingly sympathetic. “I learned a long time ago not to judge people for their private lives. But I've never seen Stephanie behave this way. Granted, I don't know her all that well. And I regret that. But I know her well enough to say that she's not herself.”

“I can't believe she would use drugs,” Dean said. “It doesn't sound like her at all.”

“Grief makes people do strange things.” Mr. Shank kept his eyes on the meadow.

“That's not an excuse. I'm sorry you had to pick her up.”

“Sometimes there are things that parents can't do.”

“I could have gone to get her. I would have if I'd known—”

Mr. Shank turned to him. “What I mean is, Vivian and I would be happy to help out more with Stephanie.”

“You're already helping plenty.”

“I don't mean financially. I mean that we would like to take a more active role in her development as an adult. It's a difficult transition for anyone. And I think she might be more likely to listen to us. It may help that we have some distance from recent events.”

Dean nodded, unable to speak. Shame and anger mixed within him, directed mostly toward himself but also toward the Shanks, whose arrogance—or maybe it was cluelessness—was getting to him. He felt as if Walter was telling him to step aside. That they would take over now, with Stephanie. That they could do a better job. Because they weren't mixed up with the messiness of Nicole's death. This, he saw now, was why everyone in Nicole's family disliked the Shanks. Their strategy for getting through life was to stay as clean as possible. To always be blameless and rational.

“We thought we might visit more,” Walter said. “And if it's all right with you, maybe she could come to our house for Thanksgiving and even for—”

“It's up to her,” Dean said, cutting him off. “If that's what she wants, what can I say?”

“I know it's a hard time,” Walter said. “Sam did the same thing to us when he started college. He came back, though. Stephanie will, too.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. He still felt condescended to, but he was reminded that he was talking to a man whose son hadn't even made it out of his twenties. Maybe he wanted another chance to be a parent.

The two men walked back to the house, where they found the boys eating sandwiches on the side porch. Mrs. Shank had made herself a cup of tea. Dean invited her and Walter to stay for lunch, but she declined. He would have been shocked if they'd accepted.

As soon as the Shanks left, Dean called Stephanie, but there was no answer, not even the roommate. He checked his answering machine. The number of messages was high, but
the first three were blank. Finally, a girl's soft voice implored Dean to call Stephanie at school. The meek roommate. After her message there was another blank message. Dean thought he heard a sigh before the click, a slight exhalation from his drugged-up daughter. If she was the one who called.

The last message was from Laura.
Hey, I'm just calling to say I miss you already. And that I love you. Call me tonight, okay?

Dean's cheeks burned. He went into the kitchen and got some paper napkins.

“Boys, wrap up your sandwiches, we're going to see your sister. You can finish them in the car.”

“But we just got home!” Robbie said. “I have homework. I have a project due tomorrow.”

“I'll write a note to your teacher. Come on, it's a family emergency.”

“Is Stephanie okay?” Bryan asked.

“She's fine, she's just doing stupid things. She needs a come-to-Jesus talk. So to speak.”

“I'm going to pray for her,” Bryan said. “I'm going to pray for God's wisdom to visit her.”

“Oh my God, excuse me while I barf,” Robbie said.

“Don't be rude to your brother,” Dean said. “He's your ally.”

They were getting onto the turnpike when it occurred to Dean that he didn't know how to get to Stephanie's college, only that it was near Philadelphia. He made Robbie get the Pennsylvania map out of the glove compartment and figure out the route. Then he stopped at a gas station to double-check it and realized it was faster to go through Maryland. He filled up the tank and bought the boys snacks. He didn't want to stop
again if he didn't have to. For himself, he got a large coffee. He was tired and a little bit hungover beneath it all.