CHAPTER ONE
Cheyenne leaned against the hood of her baby blue ’66 Ford Thunderbird convertible, her cell phone pressed against one ear and chest tight with anxiety. Two minutes into this conversation and she was already worried.
“Your mother’s had a rough week,” Dr. Robbins said, a slight lilt to her soprano voice. “That’s not unexpected, but I am concerned she’s not fully committed to the program.”
Less than twenty feet away, seagulls converged on a half-eaten hot dog that lay forgotten in the sand. When her cell phone rang five minutes ago, Cheyenne had pulled over into this mostly empty beach parking lot. There weren’t many tourists out at eleven in the morning on a Wednesday, but it was only the first week of May. Cheyenne’s best friend, Aspen, had promised that Sapphire Cove would be hopping soon enough.
Cheyenne pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to think. “What do you mean, she’s not fully committed?”
“She seems closed off in therapy,” Dr. Robbins said. “Not just group sessions, but our individual ones, too.”
Closed off. Cheyenne supposed that was one way to describe her mother. She’d been warm and loving when Cheyenne was a child, almost to the point of stifling. Practically embodied the word homemaker, at least on the outside. Mom had helped with every class party, chaperoned every field trip. But she’d also been what Dad called fragile—easily overwhelmed and constantly worried. From a young age, Cheyenne had been very aware of how her actions might affect Mom. She’d learned to bury her problems if it meant avoiding one of Mom’s panicked crying bouts, which sometimes left her in bed for days.
Mom wasn’t the kind of person you went deep with. She didn’t deal well with big emotions—hers or her daughter’s.
“It’s only been ten days,” Cheyenne said to Dr. Robbins. “Isn’t that pretty normal? No one likes spilling their guts to strangers.”
Convincing Mom to go to the Harbor Bay Drug Rehabilitation Center hadn’t been easy. But after that last overdose—Mom’s second in as many months—Cheyenne hadn’t known what else to do. The hospital psychiatrist had highly recommended the twelve-week inpatient program. It meant using her meager savings for that instead of putting it toward opening her own garage, but there hadn’t been another choice. Thankfully, Mom had signed a privacy waiver when she entered the program that allowed Dr. Robbins to discuss all of her treatment with Cheyenne.
Dr. Robbin’s voice grew softer with every word. “You should prepare yourself, Cheyenne. Your mother is here voluntarily, and we can’t stop her from leaving if she chooses to do so.”
Breathing became physically painful as Cheyenne was assaulted by the memory of her mother’s unconscious body sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor. She had rushed to Mom’s side, pills crunching beneath her only pair of heels with each step. Her black graduation robe had bunched around her knees as she crouched beside Mom’s inert form. Was she even breathing? Cheyenne had pulled her hair to one side, the unfamiliar curls stiff with hair spray, and held her breath as she waited for an exhalation of air against her cheek.
Mom was supposed to be waiting for her so they could drive together to the graduation ceremony. Instead, they rode in the back of an ambulance to the closest hospital.
During the rushed dash through the congested streets of Portland, all Cheyenne had thought about were the countless sacrifices Mom had made for her over the years. Once, in seventh grade, Cheyenne had mentioned that a car show she’d always dreamed of attending was happening in Salt Lake City that weekend. She’d come home from school to find the minivan packed and Mom bursting with excitement. They’d driven through the night, just the two of them since Dad was working a weekend shift, and slept for a few hours in the parking lot of a big box store before the show began. Mom must have been exhausted and bored out of her mind, but for twelve hours she’d smiled cheerfully while Cheyenne eagerly explored each and every car.
“Is she talking of leaving?” Cheyenne asked Dr. Robbins.
“Not in so many words, but she’s struggling with the program’s rigid structure. Facing your demons is never easy, and many patients aren’t prepared to do the work on their first go around.”
The first go-around? Cheyenne thought of her empty bank account and closed her eyes tightly against the bright Oregon sun. It had taken nearly every penny she’d saved for her garage just for the down payment on the program. She was already working two jobs to pay for it—one helping with the continental breakfast at Aspen’s family inn, and another at an auto shop running the front counter—but she wasn’t sure it would be enough. She still had to come up with half the rent each month on the small bungalow she shared with Aspen, along with expenses like food and gas, not to mention the payments on her student loans.
Maybe she should have accepted the job offer to be an on-site mechanic at that classic car museum in Portland. The pay hadn’t been much better than what she was making now, but she could have lived at home to save on expenses and would have been doing what she loved.
But no, she’d done the right thing by refusing the job. Being even a few hours away from Mom right now wasn’t an option.
Which meant she needed to figure out how to make more money in Sapphire Cove. Cheyenne mulled over the possibilities. She could start a mobile oil change business or maybe do car detailing—that might be a hit with tourists sick of crushed cereal and spilled juice cups after their cross-country treks. Neither option was as fun as restoring classic cars, but keeping Mom in rehab was the priority. Besides, Sapphire Cove—and her jobs here—were only temporary.
“So what do I do?” Cheyenne asked. “How do we make sure she stays there and does the work?” Even if Mom dropped out, Cheyenne would be liable for the full cost of the program, and she couldn’t afford to pay for this more than once.
These twelve weeks had to count.
“It’s not something we can force,” Dr. Robbins said in that same maddeningly calm voice. “Like many addicts, she’s adamant that she doesn’t have a problem.”
Cheyenne squeezed her eyes shut. Mom hadn’t had a problem—not until almost four years ago when Dad was killed in the line of duty.
“My job is to help her accept that she does have a problem, and then to walk her through the steps to recovery,” Dr. Robbins continued. “Your job is to set boundaries and be supportive. Have you set up an appointment with that therapist I recommended?”
Yeah right. Cheyenne wasn’t wasting a single precious penny on therapy for herself. Mom was the addict, not her.
“It’s on my list,” Cheyenne lied. “I’m still getting settled in Sapphire Cove.”
“You should move it to the very top of that list,” Dr. Robbins said. “Addiction is a whole-family disease, and you don’t have to suffer alone.”
Cheyenne wasn’t about to get into that conversation—not now, not ever, if she could help it. “I need to head to work in a minute. Is there anything else we should talk about before I go?”
“No, I just wanted to make you aware of your mother’s current challenges,” Dr. Robbins said. “I’ll continue to do my best to get her to open up during sessions.”
“Thank you,” Cheyenne said, although the doctor’s words did little to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. “When can I speak to her?” Phone calls were closely monitored in the beginning stages of the program. Cheyenne couldn’t call in, and Mom could only call out with the approval of Dr. Robbins.
“Sometime next week, depending on how she progresses. Maybe the week after that. I’m sorry I don’t have a firmer timeline for you at the moment.”
Cheyenne rubbed her chest, trying to take even breaths. When was the last time she’d gone this long without talking to her mother? She honestly couldn’t remember. “I understand. When she calls, how should I act?”
“Encouraging and positive. I’ll let you know when she’s ready, and we can schedule a time for the call.”
Cheyenne thanked Dr. Robbins, then hung up the phone. She pressed her lips together and covered her eyes with one hand, taking a deep breath.
Encouraging and positive. Like it was so easy.
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