“Perfect!” he exclaims.
And then he skips off down the path, leading the way to the next discovery.
“By the way,” I call after him. “I found the pictures you left for me.”
Teddy looks back and smiles, waiting for me to elaborate.
“The pictures you left on my porch.”
“Of the goblins?”
“No, Teddy, the pictures of Anya being buried. They’re really well done. Did someone help you?”
Now he looks confused—like I’ve abruptly changed the rules of the game without telling him.
“I don’t draw Anya anymore.”
“It’s okay. I’m not upset.”
“But I didn’t do it.”
“You left them on my porch. Under a rock.”
He throws up his hands in exasperation. “Can we just play regular Enchanted Forest? Please? I don’t like this other way.”
“Sure.”
I realize that maybe I’ve introduced the subject at the wrong time. But after we head back to the house for lunch, I don’t want to bring it up anymore. I make us some chicken nuggets and Teddy goes upstairs for Quiet Time. I wait a little while, and then I follow him upstairs and put my ear to his bedroom door. And I can hear the whisper of his pencil moving across the page, scritch scritch scritch.
* * *
Later that afternoon Russell calls and invites me to dinner. I’m still tired from the night before so I suggest pushing it off, but Russell says he’s leaving for a two-week vacation—it has to be tonight. “I found a restaurant near your house. A Cheesecake Factory.”
I almost laugh because Russell is such a stickler for healthful eating. His diet is almost entirely plants and proteins—no added sugars or carbs, just occasional spoonfuls of carob chips and organic honey.
“Cheesecake? You’re serious?”
“I already booked a table. Seven thirty.”
So after Caroline goes home, I shower and put on a dress and on my way out of the cottage I reach for the pile of Teddy’s latest drawings. And then I stop in the doorway, hesitating. After sharing the whole story with Adrian at the bookstore, I know I’d need an hour to get through everything. And so I decide to leave the drawings at home. I want Russell to feel proud of me. I want to project the image of a strong, capable woman thriving in recovery. I don’t want to burden him with all my worries. So I stash the drawings in my nightstand.
The restaurant is big, crowded, thrumming with energy—a typical Cheesecake Factory. The hostess leads me to a table where Russell is waiting. He’s dressed in a navy-blue tracksuit and his favorite HOKA sneakers, the ones he wore in the New York City Marathon. “There she is!” He gives me a hug, then looks me up and down. “What happened, Quinn? You look wiped out.”
“Thanks, Coach. You look good, too.”
We settle down in our seats, and I order a seltzer.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Are you sleeping okay?”
“I’m fine. The cottage is a little noisy at night. But I’m managing.”
“Have you told the Maxwells? Maybe they can do something.”
“They offered me a room in the main house. But I told you, I’m fine.”
“You can’t train if you’re not resting.”
“It was just one bad night. I swear.”
I try changing the subject to the menu, which has calorie counts and nutritional information under every entrée. “Did you see the Pasta Napolitano? It’s twenty-five hundred calories.”
Russell orders a tossed green salad with grilled chicken and vinaigrette dressing on the side. I get the Glamburger with a side of sweet potato fries. We talk a bit about his upcoming vacation—two weeks in Las Vegas with his lady friend, Doreen, a personal trainer at his YMCA. But I can tell he’s still troubled. After we’ve finished eating, he steers the conversation back to me.
“So how’s Spring Brook? How are the NA meetings?”
“It’s an older crowd, Russell. No offense.”
“Are you going once a week?”
“Don’t need to. I’m steady.”
I can tell he doesn’t like this answer, but he doesn’t give me any flak.
“How about friends? Are you meeting people?”
“I went out with a friend last night.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“He is a student at Rutgers, and he’s home for the summer.”
My sponsor narrows his eyes, concerned. “It’s a little early for dating, Quinn. You’re only eighteen months sober.”
“We’re just friends.”
“So he knows you’re sober?”
“Yes, Russell, that was our very first topic of conversation. I told him how I nearly overdosed in the back of an Uber. Then we talked about the nights I slept at the train station.”
He shrugs, like these would be perfectly sensible things to discuss. “I’ve sponsored a lot of college kids, Mallory. These campuses—the fraternities, the binge drinking—they’re breeding grounds for addicts.”
“We had a very quiet evening in a bookstore. We drank seltzer water and listened to music. Then he walked me back to the Maxwells’ house. It was nice.”
“The next time you see him, you should tell him the truth. This is part of your identity, Mallory, you need to embrace it. The longer you wait, the harder it gets.”
“Is this why you invited me here? To lecture me?”
“No, I invited you here because Caroline called me. She’s worried about you.”
I’m blindsided. “Seriously?”
“She said you started off great. She called you a dynamo, Quinn. She was really happy with your performance. But the last few days, she said she’s noticed a change. And anytime I hear those words—”
“I’m not using, Russell.”
“Good, okay, that’s good.”
“Did she say I was using?”
“She said you were acting strangely. She saw you outside at seven in the morning, digging through her trash cans. What the heck was that all about?”
I realize Caroline must have spotted me through her bedroom window. “It was nothing. I threw something away by mistake. I had to get it back. Big deal.”
“She says you’re talking about ghosts. You think maybe her son is possessed?”
“No, I never said that. She misunderstood me.”
“She says you’re getting chummy with a user who lives next door.”
“You mean Mitzi? I’ve talked to Mitzi two times. In four weeks. Does that make us BFFs?”
Russell gestures for me to keep my voice down. Even in the crowded noisy dining room, some of our neighbors are turning to stare. “I’m here to help you, okay? Is there anything you want to talk about?”
Can I really tell him? Can I really outline all my concerns about Annie Barrett? No, I cannot. Because I know all my worries sound ridiculous. And I just want my sponsor to be proud of me.
“Let’s talk about dessert. I’m thinking Chocolate Hazelnut Cheesecake.”
I offer him a laminated menu, but he won’t accept it. “Don’t change the subject. You need this job. If you get fired, there’s no going back to Safe Harbor. They’ve got a wait list longer than your arm.”