Good? No. Nothing about this was good, but at least I had an excuse not to talk. I laid my head back and shut my eyes. I was asleep again in seconds.
The next time I woke up was in the dark. I sat up, completely disoriented. It took me a minute to figure out that I was in my room. I looked toward the nightstand—the clock read seven thirty, and I couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. But then I realized that it was usually light out by seven thirty A.M. Swinging my legs out of bed I had a moment of dizziness, and I gripped the edge of the mattress tightly. As I was trying to get my balance, the scene at the hospital came back to me. How Ma had ordered me out. How Agent Faraday had been so mean. How I’d collapsed in a puddle of tears.
I felt my cheeks heat. It was all so embarrassing. At last I felt okay enough to get off the bed and shuffle to the door. Pulling it open, I heard voices downstairs. I rubbed my temples. I could hear Donny and Mrs. Duncan talking, but I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.
The smell of something delicious wafted up from the kitchen. Careful to grip the banister, I headed down the stairs and rounded the corner into the kitchen. Mrs. Duncan sat at the table with Donny, who was eating a chicken potpie so creamy and mouthwateringly delectable that it could have graced the cover of a cooking magazine.
“Oh, Maddie!” Mrs. Duncan said, hurrying out of her seat to come put her arm around me and guide me to the table. “How’re you feeling?”
I wiped the sleep from my eyes. “A little groggy.”
“Are you hungry, kiddo?” Donny asked, offering me his fork.
I nodded, and Mrs. Duncan said, “Donny, you eat that. I’ve got one warming in the oven for Maddie.”
A minute later she’d placed my dinner in front of me with a tall glass of milk, and I dove in.
“Careful!” she warned as she took her seat again. “That’s hot.”
I blew on the forkful of creamy chicken and pastry and popped it into my mouth too soon. It burned the roof of my mouth a little, but it was so good.
“I talked to the drug court advocate,” Donny said, eyeing me sideways as if to see if I was coherent enough to talk.
I blinked. “Who?”
“The drug court advocate. They assess the cases of people like your mom and make recommendations to the judge who has the authority to send those people either to rehab or jail, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“Well, on lots of things actually,” Donny said. “Whether or not the accused has an extended history of drug or alcohol abuse, if the accused has ever had treatment before…stuff like that.”
I nodded. I understood. “What’d he say?”
“She,” he said. “She said that she’ll suggest a plea agreement that’ll keep your mom out of jail, if Cheryl enters a four-month alcohol treatment program.”
I took a sip of milk, trying to figure out if that was good news or bad. “What does that mean?”
Donny wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “It means that she agrees that your mom is sick, not irresponsible. She looked at Cheryl’s history and the fact that your mom was a nurse with a master’s degree and a great job until Scott’s death. It means that she understands that Cheryl’s not some lowlife who’s made poor choices her whole life. So your mom will go to rehab, and then she’ll have a few hundred hours of community service to complete along with court-mandated blood tests and AA meetings, and hopefully we’ll be able to keep her out of jail this time. But, Maddie, if she fails even a single blood test, they’ll put her in jail and she’ll have to serve out a five-year term.”
“She can do it, Donny. If she gets help, I know she can do it.”
He nodded. “I know, too, kiddo. That’s why I pushed for it.”
And then I thought of something that made me worry. “What if she says no to the rehab?” Ma had said no to getting help plenty of times in the past. She was the only one who didn’t think she had a problem she couldn’t overcome on her own.
“She’s doesn’t have much choice. It’ll be part of the plea agreement. Either she takes the four months in rehab, or she’ll face a trial where she could do serious time.”
I pulled at my napkin. Ma could be so stubborn. I worried that she’d say no to the rehab and want to go to trial, thinking that she’d beat the charges.
Donny seemed to read my mind. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk her into it.”
I nodded and ate some more of my dinner. “She was so mean to me,” I said after a bit.
“Mean to you?” Mrs. Duncan asked.
I kept my eyes averted, feeling shame for no reason I could name. “She woke up after Donny left the room. She told me to get out, that she didn’t want me there.”
“Oh, Maddie,” Mrs. Duncan said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “I had a brother who struggled with alcohol. He was terrible to us when he was sober and sweet as punch when he had a few in him. They’re not really themselves in this state, honey. Your mom just needs some time and you’ll see. She’ll be the mother she used to be again.”
I hoped Mrs. Duncan was right, but the truth was I barely remembered who Ma used to be. “Will she have to go far away?” I asked Donny.
He shook his head. “There’s a state-funded rehab center up in Whitcomb.” Whitcomb was about forty-five minutes away by car. “I’ll come up on the weekends, and we can go visit her once her counselors feel she’s ready.”
My brow furrowed. “How long will that take?”
“It depends on your mom, Maddie,” Donny said, avoiding my eyes. “At least a few weeks. She’s going to have to face her problem and take responsibility for it. The only way she’ll get better is to accept that she’s really messed up her life.”
I tugged on my napkin some more. “It’s my fault she drinks,” I whispered.