Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Feeling pretty good about my selections, I waited in line to purchase them. A little girl seated in her mother’s cart waved at me. I waved back. The magnitude of the exchange struck me full force in the chest. It was like they had accepted me as one of them. I was a normal adult, shopping at a grocery store, doing normal adult things on a workday evening. The feeling was almost like euphoria.
There was only one thing missing, and that was Gina. I tried to let her go, to move on with my life, and for the most part, I was successful. But every now and then, at the most inopportune times, a memory would come back to me. Standing in the checkout line, reading headlines from the latest gossip magazines, I had a sudden desire to talk to her.
I looked around at all the husbands and wives grocery shopping together. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to share this triumph with? Gina would understand completely how much of a miracle this simple task presented for me. She could share in the wonder and the trepidation I felt at being included in the ranks of the sober. She was the only one who would see the world with new eyes, just like I was seeing it. I wished she was there with me, but then the sting of her rejection pricked me anew, and I frowned.
I bought the groceries and drove home to a clean room. Having to entertain myself without the assistance of drugs was a new thing. I didn’t have all the arts and crafts or video games of the treatment center at my disposal. My room was just a bed, a dresser, a dorm fridge, and two windows. I didn’t even own a TV. My phone didn’t work; I hadn’t had time to buy minutes, so I had nothing but an old copy of Catcher in the Rye to keep me occupied.
Luckily, I was tired as sin. As soon as my meal of fruit and nuts was finished, washed down by a protein shake, I hit the sack. As I had predicted, there was a momentary urge to go out to the trash bin to see if I could find my stash. But the moment passed, and my thoughts settled on a more painful absence.
16
GINA
Ipulled up to the hotel, checked in and found that it catered to visiting businesspeople, salespeople, and those en route to conferences in Nashville. My room was simple and clean, with a single bed and a bathroom. There was cable television and air-conditioning. It was all I would need as I searched out Porter. I couldn’t just go to the lumberyard. I hadn’t told my father I was coming into town, and I didn’t know how Porter would react if I just showed up there.
Having deposited my suitcase, I went downstairs and out the front door. Main Street stretched away from me into the distance, lined with quaint little shops and eateries. I wandered down the sidewalk, saying hi to everyone I passed. Some recognized me and some didn’t. I hadn’t spent a lot of time back here in the last several years.
I passed the hardware store and the police station. On the opposite side of the street were the library and post office. I considered which location presented the best opportunity to run into Porter. From what I knew of him, he would give a wide berth to the police station. He might frequent the hardware store, but it was more likely I would run into him in the library.
I crossed the street and pushed through the swinging double doors into the tiny library I used to come to as a kid. It was basically one large room, with bookshelves running down all four walls and consuming one-quarter of the internal space. What was clearly a toddlers’ area was marked out by colorful rugs, boxes of games and puzzles, and a TV on an ancient audio-visual cart.
There was a checkout counter in the center, and the rest of the space was taken up by computer stations. It took me no time at all to determine that Porter was not in the library. I was about to sneak away when the librarian spotted me, waving from behind the counter.
“Hello!” she cried, oblivious to the “quiet in the library” edict.
“Hello.” I hastened over to speak with her, eager not to annoy the few patrons who browsed the stacks. She wasn’t someone I recognized from my childhood, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Welcome to Singer’s Ridge,” the librarian said. “I can give you a guest pass to browse the internet, but you need proof of residency to check out any material. Where are you from?”
“Nashville,” I said reluctant to admit to the stranger that I actually hailed from Singer’s Ridge. I didn’t feel like answering a ton of questions.