“I’m so glad you’re here. Russell’s told us so many wonderful things. Are you really eighteen months clean?”
“Eighteen and a half.”
“Incredible. After everything you’ve been through? That is just extraordinary. You should be really proud of yourself.”
And I worry I might start to cry because I wasn’t expecting her to ask about recovery right away, first thing, before I’ve even stepped inside her house. But it’s a relief to get it over with, to just put all my worst cards on the table.
“It wasn’t easy, but it’s easier every day.”
“That’s exactly what I tell my patients.” She steps back, reviews me from head to toe, and smiles. “And look at you now! You’re so healthy, you’re glowing!”
Inside the house, it’s a crisp pleasant sixty-eight degrees—a welcome retreat from the muggy weather. I follow Caroline past the staircase and underneath the second-floor landing. Her kitchen is full of natural light and looks like a cooking show set on the Food Network. There’s a large refrigerator and a small refrigerator and the gas range has eight burners. The sink is a kind of trough, wide enough to require two separate faucets. And there are dozens of drawers and cabinets, all different shapes and sizes.
Caroline opens a tiny door and I realize this is a third refrigerator, a miniature one, stocked with cold drinks. “Let’s see, we’ve got seltzer, coconut water, iced tea…”
“I’d love a seltzer.” I turn to marvel at the wall of windows facing the backyard. “This is a beautiful kitchen.”
“It’s huge, isn’t it? Way too big for three people. But we fell in love with the rest of the house, so we went for it. There’s a park right behind us, did you notice? Teddy loves to go stomping through the woods.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“But we’re constantly checking him for ticks. I’m thinking of buying him a flea collar.”
She holds a glass to the ice dispenser and it makes a gentle tinkling sound—like the wind chimes on her front porch—and out fall dozens of tiny crystalline ice pearls. I feel like I’ve just witnessed a magic trick. She fills the glass with fizzy seltzer water and hands it to me. “How about a sandwich? Can I make you something?”
I shake my head no but Caroline opens the big refrigerator anyway, revealing a smorgasbord of groceries. There are jugs of whole milk and soy milk, cartons of brown eggs from cage-free hens, one-pint tubs of pesto and hummus and pico de gallo. There are wedges of cheese and bottles of kefir and white mesh bags exploding with leafy green vegetables. And the fruit! Giant clamshells of strawberries and blueberries, raspberries and blackberries, cantaloupe and honeydew. Caroline reaches for a bag of baby carrots and a pint of hummus and then uses her elbow to close the fridge. I notice there’s a child’s drawing on the door, a crude and unskilled portrait of a bunny rabbit. I ask if Teddy is responsible, and Caroline nods. “Six weeks in this house and already he’s hinting for pets. I told him we have to finish unpacking.”
“He seems gifted,” I tell her, and I worry the words sound forced, that I’ve gone too far too soon.
But Caroline agrees with me!
“Oh, definitely. He’s really advanced for his peer group. Everyone says so.”
We settle at a small dining table in the breakfast nook and she hands me a sheet of paper. “My husband typed up some guidelines. Nothing too crazy but we might as well get them out of the way.”
HOUSE RULES
??1.??No drugs
??2.??No drinking
??3.??No smoking
??4.??No profanity
??5.??No screens
??6.??No red meat
??7.??No junk food
??8.??No visitors without permission.
??9.??No photos of Teddy on social media.
10.??No religion or superstition. Teach science.
Underneath the typed list, there’s an eleventh rule, handwritten in delicate feminine script:
Have fun!
Caroline starts apologizing for the rules before I’ve even finished reading them. “We don’t really enforce number seven. If you want to make cupcakes, or buy Teddy an ice cream, that’s fine. Just no soda. And my husband insisted on number ten. He’s an engineer. He works in technology. So science is very important to our family. We don’t say prayers and we don’t celebrate Christmas. If a person sneezes, we won’t even say God Bless You.”
“What do you say?”
“Gesundheit. Or ‘to your health.’ It means the same thing.”