Imperfect Birds (39 page)

“I got sent there by my parents when I was seventeen. It’s probably why I’m still alive.”

Elizabeth stood behind James at his desk and watched him try to log on to his computer, but the phone line was acting up in the storm, and he gave up. He got the phone number from Salt Lake City information, then called and left a message.

“How can we have gotten to this place?” he asked Elizabeth. “She could probably get into almost any college she applies to. But we may need to send her away instead.” She nodded. “We’d have to use her college fund. And cash in the IRA that Andrew left for her.”

Outside, the rain crashed against the house and the wind howled. Elizabeth read until three, listening to the downpour; it sounded like the surf. Rosie in wilderness? Elizabeth went and stretched out on the couch, then pulled into the fetal position and tried not to throw up. Help us, she cried, feeling insane and numb, a silent roar inside. Help us help us fucking HELP US.

The wind shrieked like oil pouring up out of the ground.

When she was little and it rained, she and her father would walk the dogs down to Harrington Park. He would take a matchbook from his pocket, tear two matches out of it, bend the end of one, and leave the other straight, to distinguish whose was whose. Then they would lay them in the gutter on Appleby Street, which would be rushing with water, and race their matches.

S
he woke to discover that they had not in fact blown away in the storm, but the cost was spiky fatigue. She had been holding the house down all night with bungee cords. Green redwood branches whipped in the mist like sails, where the day before the juncos had played. Rascal snored beside her. “The storm has been waiting, patiently, grimly,” James said, handing her his mug of coffee.

“The storm? Waiting for what?”

“Release. Muttering, creaking around behind something in the closet, till now.”

The phone was working again, and he logged on to his computer. She stood behind him and read over his shoulder about Second Chance, and The Camp in Santa Cruz.

“These are places kids run away from. And I bet they hate their parents forever,” Elizabeth said.

“I know,” said James. “Now leave. Go visit your spawn. I’ll find out everything I can.”

R
osie slept until seven, and woke up feeling better than she had in weeks—sort of stoned in a mild way. It was storming outside, crazy, maritime, and she loved it. She daydreamed about Fenn, and how she would be out that night, after a shower. Her mother would be here by nine, and if Rosie was clean, smelling like shampoo, totally contrite and like her old self, her mother would help get her out of here. It was ridiculous she was here in the hospital at all, but she could see that it was time to pull her act together. She was freaking her mother out.

She got up, put on her robe. There were ten people sitting around, mostly looking completely ordinary, except that they were in pajamas. She was the youngest person. She had breakfast with a group of four, and they talked about the storm. They all had interesting, poetic ways of talking. One guy about thirty said he’d stayed up all night listening to the fitful wind nag and fret. One aging lady said she thought she’d heard the howl of wolves. The most intense man said Rosie had the best vibe, like she must be great with children. Rosie said yes, she was, that was such an intuitive thing to say, and she told them all about her bucket kids.

Then an older psych nurse came along and broke the peaceful spell by horning her way into the conversation, like she was one of them. Her name tag said “Angie,” and had a happy-face sticker next to her name, but she was not happy. She looked like a mixture of Gertrude Stein and Mrs. Danvers from
Rebecca
or like the bad fairy who, at the end of the lovely christening, after all the good fairies had said lovely things and given various talents and blessings, came along and cursed Beauty.

“I seriously need my mother,” Rosie told Angie, confidentially, worried.

“You’re okay. Visiting hours start at ten. Let’s getcha going.”

She felt sort of normal again on her feet. All she had to do was kill a couple of hours reading until her mother could come and get her out. Whatever bad spell it was had passed. She glanced at Angie, at those eyes staring right at her, and did not look away, just tried to look composed and bemused as Angie lumbered off. But she had to look down at her bare feet in slippers just to check that there was still a Rosie body there and not a pile of smoldering ashes.

R
osie was in the lounge, lost in her book, when Elizabeth arrived at ten. She got up and raced toward her with outstretched arms. They both held on for dear life.

“God, Mommy. I’m so sorry.” She shook her head. “Did you bring clean clothes?” Elizabeth nodded. “Did you smuggle Rascal in?” Elizabeth smiled. “I’m so much better. I feel like I’ve come back from a thousand miles away. And I feel okay today—rested, like me again. Did you bring me a brush? Will you brush my hair?” She turned her head so that her black hair cascaded down her back. Elizabeth fished out Rosie’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and lotion, and put them on the table. Then she took the hairbrush, and gently drew it through Rosie’s hair, pausing for extra attention to the ends. Rosie reached back for her mother’s hand, to stop her for a moment. “I can’t believe what I’ve put you through. I am so starting over—I just got off the phone with Fenn. He understands completely, that we have to start over. Hey,” she called to a middle-aged woman, “this is my mom!” The woman, a pretty housewife of forty or so, started pointing with burlesque enthusiasm at Elizabeth like she was the
bomb
, and Elizabeth smiled and waved, the shy celebrity. “So Mama, will you ask Reynolds if I can go home now?” Elizabeth continued brushing. “Say something. I’ll go to a meeting with you tonight.”

“Rosie,” Elizabeth managed to say, her throat closing up, “I offered to look away from it all, if you would stay on campus at lunch. But you wouldn’t even give me that much. Another night here won’t kill you.”

“I changed my mind, I will totally obey you. I swear to God.” She whirled around to face her mother.

“You need to stop smoking weed, and taking anything else, till you’re eighteen. Period.”

“God, this is such an overreaction. It’s crazy. I don’t want to be like the one Mormon in my senior class.”

Elizabeth turned her palms upward. “It’s very simple, Rosie. You’ve been doing weed, Ecstasy, cocaine, getting drunk, taking cough syrup, acid, mushrooms, sniffing glue.”

“Glue
once
. Jeez, I can’t believe this. You’ve gone crazy.” Rosie stopped reacting then and nodded, as if the second person inside were whispering in her ear, telling her to fake understanding and agreement. She heard her mother say her name.

R
osie did not speak during the short morning group meeting, although she found that her face was wet. She would say later, when Elizabeth came back with James, that she was okay with not drinking, that she would quit everything. Study, be with Fenn and her friends, get through senior year. She would say what her parents wanted to hear. There were good prescription drugs at school now, plus Alice still had Adderall. She could make it work. She would stage a moment of clarity later today. Some people from a local AA or NA group were bringing a meeting to the inmates, like little temperance union missionaries. She could win her parents’ trust back, do a great job on her college apps, score a scholarship somewhere, maybe San Diego, eventually get to spend weekends with Fenn again. Angie, standing in front of the meeting group in her satanic fashion, delivered a passionate speech on recovery, and how they might make the most of this opportunity. It was just ludicrous, a howler, as Alice would say.

T
he storm had begun to subside. Elizabeth and James sat huddled at the kitchen table with papers strewn around them, computer printouts of rehabs and wilderness programs, price lists, photographs of natural beauty and healthy teenage hikers.

“She’ll go berserk when we tell her,” James said. “She’s just going to lose her mind.” Elizabeth nodded. “How will we get her to Utah? No way we can afford a transport service. Those cost a fortune, thousands of dollars. This is going to break us as it is.”

“I think you and Lank need to fly her there. You’ll have to lie, and say it’s some kind of weekend program for at-risk adolescents, strong-arm her if she resists.”

“You and Rae make more sense, because you’re women. But she’d have an easier time escaping from the car than she would if she flew with me and Lank, wouldn’t she? So yeah, I’m in.”

Elizabeth covered her ears with her hands as if she had sudden ear-aches. “Are we serious about this? About wilderness? A month in the snow? It’s freezing in Utah this time of year.”

James looked at her, faking deep concern, tugging at his chin. “Wow,” he said. “Bummer.”

Elizabeth almost shouted at him with shock and hurt—how could he be so glib, so callous? But she surprised them both when she laughed quietly, and the thin shell that surrounded her heart creaked like fault lines breaking open; her laughable armor of resistance, denial, delusion tremulously cracked like a coat of ice on a muddy puddle, and in the silence that followed, she gazed into her husband’s wide green eyes for the answer she already knew.