Everything You Are(38)

“You slammed the door in my face.” The moment is etched in Phee’s memory. The ominous red shift to the light, dry leaves scuttling in the wind, the fresh scar on Braden’s face and the despair in his eyes.

“It was the day the bandages came off for the last time. As long as my fingers were all wrapped up, out of sight, I’d told myself my hands would be fine; all of the weird sensation was from too-tight dressings. And then the bandages were off, and the skin was all healed, and still . . . Lilian always said the music was a curse. That was the day I knew she was right.”

His ragged breathing tears at Phee’s heart.

“It’s not the music that’s a curse, it’s the absence thereof,” she says. “Listen, I don’t blame you for thinking I’m evil—”

“Not evil per se—”

“Or insane. But we have this good food and we’re here at the park. Let’s call a truce. Let’s take a walk and eat Chinese food and pretend that we’ve never met and have no history.”

“That is probably the craziest thing you have said yet.”

“Humor me.”

“Is this your idea of an adventure?”

“Oh no. I wouldn’t take a total stranger on an adventure. And if I did, there would be a scavenger hunt or a murder mystery party or some such. Nothing so boring as a picnic in the rain.”

“No plans to throw me into the bay or kill me with pneumonia?”

“Are you prone to pneumonia?” Phee snaps the leash on the dog and digs out the spare windbreaker she keeps under the seat in case of emergency.

It covers most of what it’s supposed to when Braden puts it on. His wrists stick out beyond the sleeves, and it’s a little narrow in the shoulders, but otherwise it works okay.

They set off, side by side, Phee keeping Celestine between them as a physical barrier. The parking lot, crowded in the summer, is almost deserted now. They pass an elderly couple walking a small, nondescript dog. A couple of teenagers stare at them defiantly.

Braden returns their stare, and Phee knows he’s thinking about his daughter.

“Talk to me,” he says, after a moment. “Something, anything. How about the Adventure Angels. Are they your brain wave?”

“Mine. And Oscar’s. I suck at following rules. AA just depressed me. Same old people doing the same old thing for the rest of their same old lives. Like driving through Kansas, only all of the fields are dust and you’re stuck in some sort of purgatory where that’s it and all it’s going to be. That’s how it felt. I kept going back to it, because it seems to work for everybody else. And I’d always get tripped up on the making-amends step, because I couldn’t really make amends, and I’d go back to drinking. It felt like playing a video game, only I could never level up.”

“And then?”

“And then I met Oscar. We met in a bar, actually. Both of us already wasted. We started talking about what sobriety should look like. I blacked out and didn’t even remember most of the conversation, except that I’d scrawled things on a napkin. So I woke up the next morning, took a morning drink to get me balanced, and there was this message to myself on the kitchen table. A list: make life fun; accountability; meaning; give back somehow. And then in handwriting I didn’t recognize—adventure’s the word. Beneath that a phone number.

“I called the number, and this guy named Oscar answered. He only vaguely remembered the bar or me, and didn’t remember the napkin or giving me his number, but when I read the list to him, he was all excited. We made a pact to try an experiment of each taking somebody on an adventure and then meeting somewhere to talk about it. And that, as they say, is how it all began.”

“And the others?”

“We took them on an adventure. They wanted in.”

The food is cold by the time they reach the water’s edge, and although the rain has stopped, it’s even colder with wind coming in over the water. Braden makes no complaint, just starts setting out the food while Phee ties Celestine to a convenient log and gives him his scraps.

She watches Braden’s hands and realizes he is watching them, too, forehead creased in concentration as if he’s driving a robotic arm with a remote control.

“I’m messy,” he warns as he fumbles a plastic fork.

“Celestine likes messy people.”

They each grab a carton and dig in.

Braden makes an appreciative sound. “Mmmmm. This is good.”

“The best.”

But try as she may, Phee is not enjoying herself. Celestine’s eager sniffing, the rush of wind, the sound of waves on the shore—all fail to drown out the phantom music and her granddad’s voice.

“Nothing good can come of this, Phee.”

“Not hungry?” Braden’s voice brings her back.

“I was thinking about my granddad.”

“The man responsible for the deadlock you and I are pretending not to be in right now?”

“He died twenty years ago.”

“Funny how grief hits you out of the blue.”

“Or outrage,” Phee counters. She sighs and munches her last egg roll. It’s cold, grease congealed in the wrapper.

Braden checks his phone.

“Anything?”

“Just another message from my informant. She’s heard nothing.” He shivers.