The Apple Tree (Sunday Morning, #2) (84)

Their argument had played in my head too many times to count. It usually made me angry. But this was the first time I tried to say the words out loud.

I cleared my throat, offering a sheepish smile as I blotted the corners of my eyes. The group of eight offered nothing but sympathetic looks.

“She said she’d rather die than start all over again.” Scraping my teeth over my bottom lip, I stared at my lap. “And I wondered, why? Then I thought of all the times she told me I was going to be the death of her. And I couldn’t remember her ever saying that to my sisters. So I’ve always felt it was me. I was the child who made her think that death would be preferable to having a fourth child. And had she waited any longer to get pregnant with my younger sister, she might have tried to end that pregnancy too. But I was two when my younger sister was born, so I must not have been awful yet.”

I laughed, scratching my head and glancing around the windowless room. “Sorry. That was a lot, and I still haven’t explained the alcohol part.”

“It’s fine, Eve,” the therapist said. “And if you don’t want to share everything today, you don’t have to.”

“I feel like I’m almost there, so why quit now?”

She nodded and smiled.

“My mom spent several days in the hospital or somewhere. I don’t know. We weren’t allowed to see her. Dad said she was having ‘routine testing.’ But that’s all the information he gave us. When mom returned home, she was herself. They didn’t mention the pills or a baby. And after a few months, I realized there was no baby. Not anymore. Then I overheard some older kids from school talking about their hangout spot in the woods not too far from my house. I knew they were drinking, and one of them, who had recently lost his dad, said life didn’t suck after a few drinks. The next weekend, I had my first drink. And he was right, life didn’t suck as much after a few drinks.”

“It’s not your fault,” one of the other patients said. She was an older lady with weary eyes but a kind smile. “I have four kids. Great kids. But by the fourth I was past the point in my life where I felt like I wanted to change diapers or chase a toddler. My third child was already sixteen. The idea of starting the eighteen-year process all over again was unimaginable. But I did it. However, I don’t blame any woman who doesn’t feel like she can. And I’m sure your mom wasn’t thinking of you when she took those pills.”

She didn’t know my mom, but I wanted to believe her.

“Thank you,” I whispered.





“Do you have family coming for Thanksgiving?” A guy who looked close to my dad’s age asked as I sat on a park bench in the courtyard and watched two squirrels.

“I doubt it.”

He gestured to the bench.

I nodded and scooted over to make room for him. He sat next to me and lit a cigarette.

“Can you have that here?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He took a puff and blew out the smoke. “They want me to get better, not kill myself.” He laughed.

I grinned.

“I’m Raymond,” he said, offering me the cigarette.

I shook my head. “I don’t smoke.”

He wiggled it closer to my hand. “But you could.”

I stared at it. “I have getting my ears pierced, bangs cut, and a perm on my list before smoking.” I took the cigarette. “But I bet there’s not a salon in this place.”

He laughed.

I took a puff and instantly coughed, handing the cigarette back to him.

“It’s glorious, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It’s not really.” I wrinkled my nose.

“It’ll grow on you.”

“But what does it do for me?”

“Keeps you from being hungry.”

I shrugged. “I’m not fat. Who cares? I like food. I’m an excellent cook and baker.”

“No shit?” He gazed at me.

“No shit,” I chuckled.

His lips pursed as he took another long puff.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

Raymond twisted his lips and turned his head to blow the smoke away from me. “Seventy-two days. But who’s counting?”

“I thought this was a thirty-day program?”

“I suppose it depends on what you’re here for.”

I brought a knee to my chest and hugged it. “What are you here for?”

“You name it. I took it. There’s not much I haven’t swallowed, snorted, or shot up my veins. What about you? Wait, let me guess. I’m pretty good at this.” He angled his body toward mine, eyes narrowed. “You look like a coke girl.”

“Cocaine?” My head jutted backward. “No.” I laughed. “Supposedly alcohol, but I think I’m here as a punishment for having sex with my dad’s best friend’s younger brother.”

“How old are you?” He took another drag.

“Eighteen.”

“So how can you be punished for sex if you’re a legal adult?”

I frowned. “I live at home, and my father is the preacher of a small town.”

“What town?”

“Devil’s Head.”

“Never heard of it.”