She’d begged the Lord for mercy. But like a set of keys you can’t find right when its most urgent that you locate them, she’d misplaced God somehow. She’d lost the most important, crucial aspect of her life.
In the end, her detox symptoms had been so horrendous that no amount of willpower had been equal to them. Sickness had brought her to her knees, and to a new bottle of Oxy that she’d kept secret from Anabelle.
Every day since she’d driven into that parking lot planter, she’d held a pill in her hand and promised herself, This is the last pill I’ll ever take.
Now Genevieve changed into her top, donned her poncho, and retouched her makeup. The mirror told her that she looked presentable on the outside, even though she felt guilty and corroded and ugly on the inside.
God had entrusted her with the task of providing spiritual guidance and instruction to thousands of women—a giant responsibility. Over the last year, a gulf had opened between who she pretended to be publicly and who she actually was. The shame of that had been growing through her like a poisonous, spiky weed. At this point, the weed had expanded its awful tendrils all the way to her fingertips and toes.
She flicked open her metal pill case, selected a pill, then balanced it in the center of her palm, as she’d done so many times before.
If she was capable of nearly maiming elderly people and sleeping in cottages that didn’t belong to her, it was chilling to think of all the other things she might be capable of when under the influence of Oxy.
Had she given anyone a chance last night to take photos or record videos of her doing scandalous things, she’d have fatally damaged her reputation and her ministry. Anabelle would have seen, and Anabelle would have told.
Had she stopped near a bar last night, she could have gotten drunk, then climbed behind the wheel of her car. She could have wandered into the path of a kidnapper or an abuser or a killer or an oncoming train. She could have overdosed and died.
Even so . . .
Even so, she knew she’d need a few more pills in order to make it through this final day. She had to handle her parents. Then she had to put plans in place to prepare for detox. She couldn’t accomplish those necessities feeling physically miserable and emotionally shaky.
This is the last day, though. Tomorrow I go cold turkey.
At the thought of the torment detox would bring, dread settled over her like a blanket drenched in ice water.
No point worrying. Worrying wouldn’t make it better. God would show up for her. She was still destined to do big things for Him.
She double-checked the date on her phone, just to be sure. August 19. This is the last day I take pills. The last, the very last . . .
From August 20 on, she’d be drug free.
She popped the pill into her mouth and washed it down with a long drink of water. Then, hating herself for her weakness, she climbed back into her Volvo and continued toward her parents’ house.
Soon, waves of gentle, warm light began to massage away her headache. Her nerves calmed. Her assurance steadied.
The familiar Swallowtail Lane sign, topped by its “Historical District” designation, slid past. The stately homes in this neighborhood just north of Misty River’s downtown square had been built in the late 1800s by people who enjoyed both wealth and good taste.
Genevieve parked on the curb of her parents’ tree-lined street. They’d moved into their Colonial Revival–style home when she was seven. Its flat front housed a central door, eight windows flanked with black shutters, and six columns that soared the full two stories to support the roof. Just like every other thing her mom touched, the house projected graciousness.
With her five hundred thousand Instagram followers, Genevieve was no slouch at good staging. However, her mom’s artful arrangement of red, white, and blue bunting, lanterns, and potted white hydrangeas on the porch rivaled and perhaps even surpassed Genevieve’s skills.
She’d tugged her suitcase two-thirds of the way up the brick walkway when the front door burst open, framing the form of her mom.
Genevieve noted her mom’s lavender top and eyes red from crying in the millisecond before her mother’s arms encircled her.
“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Genevieve said, hugging her back. “So sorry. I know I cost you a sleepless night of worry. What I did was completely unforgivable.” She was preempting what her mom would say in order to deflate the force of it.
They stepped apart. “Really,” Genevieve said. “I’m very sorry. I deserve an F at being a daughter these past twenty-four hours.”
Her mom’s blond side bangs melded into a crisp bob that nearly brushed her shoulders. “Genevieve—” she started but was interrupted by the arrival of Genevieve’s dad.
Judson Woodward’s hug smelled like Irish Spring soap, just like always. All his life, thanks to his thin, six-foot-five frame, people had asked him if he played basketball. All his life he’d replied that he’d have loved to, had he the slightest amount of coordination or speed.
As it was, he’d been a glasses-wearing brainiac who played the trombone in the high school band. His ears too prominent to allow him to be considered conventionally handsome, her dad was a self-described nerd—good-natured, thoughtful, intelligent—who’d ended up winning the heart of a literal homecoming queen. After thirty-four years of marriage, Dad still believed himself to be the luckiest husband in the world.
And, indeed, if a stranger were to see them together, Mom’s startling beauty might seem like a mismatch to Dad’s lanky bookishness. But Genevieve knew just how challenging Mom could be. In her opinion, Mom was the luckiest wife in the world to have landed Dad.
Dad tilted his face down to assess her shrewdly through his spotlessly clean glasses. Silver streaked his close-trimmed brown hair and beard. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yes. Completely all right.” She repeated her apologies to him as Mom led the way into the house, Dad toting the suitcase.
They made their way to the modern kitchen at the back of the floor plan, the scent of cinnamon sticks hovering in the air.
“You haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?” Caroline asked.
“No.” Every minute since she’d been yanked to consciousness had been punishing, so it seemed like it should be later than it was. Genevieve’s smartwatch read 8:30 a.m.
“I whipped this up after I received your call.” Mom indicated the food waiting on the marble countertop. Scrambled eggs. Grits. Bacon. Fruit. Toast arranged next to ramekins containing butter and jelly. A pitcher of orange juice.
“Wow, thank you.”
Mom moved toward the coffeemaker while Genevieve and her dad ferried the breakfast platters to the round kitchen table. The numerous panes of the bow window highlighted the backyard garden, which dripped late-summer color beneath a hazy morning sky. Mom had set out the periwinkle and white Limoges china, which meant that she was feeling especially emotional this morning. A daunting prospect, considering that Mom was very emotional at the best of times.
Joy, grief, wonder, hurt, love. Caroline Woodward, the belle of Athens, experienced them all with a wholeheartedness that frequently exhausted Genevieve.
If Mom were a line on a graph swooping upward and downward, her dad was the line through the middle. He liked to say that his wife’s moods passed him on their way up, then passed him again on their way down.