Grab

2

Letty put her hands behind her head and interlaced her fingers. She liked this couch. The leather was always warm. She liked the afternoon view through the open window in the back wall where the two blues met—sky and ocean. The air breezing through was tinged with salt and suntan lotion and the sweet rot of seaweed.

"You got fired?" Christian said. He was seated at his desk several feet away.

"This morning. I'm leaving town tonight. I've already cleared out my room at the halfway house. Won't miss that place."

"I thought we agreed it would be a good idea for you to hold down that job at least through Christmas."

"I'm done with this place."

"Where will you go?"

"Oregon."

"To see your son?"

"That's the plan."

"Do you feel you're ready for that? Ready to reenter Jacob's life on a permanent, reliable basis?"

"It's the only thing I'm living for, Christian."

"That means this is our last session."

"You've been great. The best part of my time here."

"Are you anxious?"

"About leaving?"

"It's a big deal."

"I know it is."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Ready."

"That's all?"

She stared at the Thriller-era Michael Jackson bobblehead on her substance abuse counselor's desk and said, "Christian, will it make you feel better if I say I'm scared?"

"Only if it's the truth."

"Of course I'm scared."

"Afraid you'll use again?"

"Sure."

"But you know how to fight it now. You're empowered. You know your triggers—external and internal. You know your three steps to ensure sobriety."

"Recognize. Avoid. Cope."

"There you go. And what's your main trigger?"

"Breathing."

"Come on."

"Remembering what a complete failure I am."

"That's not true."

"Convicted felon."

"Letty."

"Meth addict."

"Stop."

"Junkie whore."

"This is counter—"

"And let's not forget—you got mother of the year sitting on your couch. Christian, I got triggers everywhere I look."

Christian leaned back in his chair and sighed the way he always did when Letty turned the knife on herself. He was old-school Hollywood handsome. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck. With his short-sleeved button-down and clip-on tie, he looked like a car salesman. But his eyes implied trust. Kind and wise and sad.

How could they be anything but? Talking all day to losers like me.

"You know if you don't make some kind of peace with yourself, Letty, none of this stuff works."

On the wall beside Christian's desk, she let her eyes fall upon a painting between two framed diplomas. She inevitably found herself staring at it during some point of each weekly session. It was a print of a Romantic masterpiece—a man standing in a dark frockcoat on the edge of a cliff. His back is to the viewer, and he's gazing out over a barren, fog-swept waste. The landscape looks so hostile and unforgiving it could be another planet.

Christian turned in his swivel chair and glanced up at the wall.

"You like that painting."

"What's it called?"

"Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog."

"Nice."

"What do you like about it?"

"I like the man's fear."

"Why do you say he's afraid? You can't even see his face. I think he's exhilarated."

"No, he's afraid. We all are, and this painting says that. It says we're not alone."

"You're not alone, Letty. If you'd take my advice and join a group, you'd see that."

"NA isn't for me."

"Sobriety is a group effort."

"Christian, the only time I never used was when I was working. When I had a job."

"You mean stealing."

"Yeah."

"You still messing around with that?"

She smiled. "You know what they say. You can take the girl out of prison..."

"That's just another form of addiction, Letty."

"I get that."

"So what are you saying?"

"I want to stay clean. For me. For my son. But I don't see the world like you do."

"What do you see?"

Her lips curled up into something that could almost be called a smile. She pointed at the painting.