The detective straightened. “A half mile north of Tuttle Creek Lake in the parking area by the river slip off Yeti Drive.”
She frowned. The river slip? An image from her fishing dream floated before her mind’s eye, and another attached itself to it: drug--crazed John parking his truck, walking down to the rain--swollen river, and wading into the water with no intention of coming out again.
Nessa gasped and her heart convulsed, her hands rising to her chest as if to catch it. “You said it was reported yesterday,” she said, breathless. “How long has the truck been there?”
“The caller said it had been there for over a week.”
“Over a week?” Nessa echoed stupidly. “But John was just here over the weekend.”
Now Treloar reseated himself and fixed her with a mock--confused gaze. “But you said you hadn’t seen him in a -couple of weeks.”
Impatient, Nessa said, “I called the police the other night because John broke into the boathouse out back while my son and I were camping. He would have needed his truck to drive out here.” She plucked at her chin. How did John get here without his truck? Maybe the person who called in his abandoned truck was mistaken about the timeframe.
Or maybe whoever had broken into the boathouse wasn’t John.
Treloar’s eyes never left her face, and she couldn’t discern what he was thinking, but she was pretty sure he thought she was lying.
“You can look it up,” she said, her voice quavering. “The cops who came out here were—-” What were their names again? “Watt and . . . I don’t remember the other’s name. But you can look it up.”
He nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. He stood again and pointed at his business card, which Nessa had placed on the coffee table. “Please call if he gets in touch.”
Nessa rose to walk him out. “I will,” she said.
Detective Treloar paused at the door. “When I mentioned the river slip,” he said, “it looked like you knew what I was talking about. Do you fish?”
“I don’t,” Nessa said. “But John does. Did. Whatever. He used to put his canoe in the water in that spot.”
“So he’s a fisherman,” Treloar said, nodding. He turned away from the door. “Is he a hunter too?”
“No,” she said.
He nodded again and opened the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
6/2
I have to do this before I go to the radio station tonight, or I won’t be able to concentrate. It’s obviously more important than ever that I have a steady income.
Hi, my name is Nessa, and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober for six years, four months and fourteen days.
Today I will concentrate on my Fear (“Wrong Believing” according to the AA Big Book), which are “feelings of anxiety, agitation, uneasiness, apprehension, etc.” Here are Fears that have been realized: Fear of abandonment, being alone, change, failure . . . the list is too long. I feel like Charlie Brown in the Christmas special when Lucy asks him if he has pantophobia, which is the fear of everything. That’s it!
My fear that I’ll never be loved (Daltrey doesn’t count because he doesn’t know enough not to love me) has come true because John didn’t love me enough to stay away from drugs. No one could love me enough. Only God can love me the way I want to be loved, unconditionally, no matter what I do.
I hate even writing this next part, because it shames me. Because it was my mother who taught me that love is always conditional. She knew something that not everyone does—-the most effective punishment, the most effective way to keep kids in line, is to let them know you will stop loving them if they step out of line. Joyce knew that better than anyone I’ve ever met. Each time I did something she didn’t like, she let me know she loved me a little bit less. Just a little. But the message was clear: someday the sand in the top of the hourglass would run out, and there would be nothing left.
I learned Joyce’s lesson all too well. Each time John relapsed, a little more of my love for him drained away. Please forgive me for being such a good student. But not a perfect student, because my love for John will never completely disappear. Never. Even if he is dead.
At the same time, I know there isn’t enough love in the world to stop someone else from being an addict.
Before John, Brandon was the only one who always loved me. Sure, he got mad at me, but we’d fight, and then he’d get over it. He was so easygoing that way. Knew that nothing was so serious between us it was worth severing our relationship. The only thing that could come in between us was—-surprise, surprise—-Mom. If it was a choice between standing up for me and losing Mom’s love, Brandon would jump ship in a heartbeat. I didn’t blame him. I was the same way. It was every man for himself where Mom was concerned.