Read Online Recovering Charles by Jason F. Wright - Free Book Online Page A

of the road until they did. Instead I stopped for gas and gum in Strasburg and followed directions on a billboard to someplace called Crystal Caverns. I knew I didn’t have time to take the tour.
    I did anyway.
    The caverns were fantastic and I made a mental note to tell Jordan about them when we spoke that night and to e-mail her the photos. It was the kind of thing the Brooklyn-bred girl would have appreciated.
    When I returned to my car, armed with several dozen photos and more information about crystalline rimstone and calcite crystals than I could possibly ever use, I saw I’d missed two calls from the cell phone number Jerome had given me. I called back. No answer and a full voice mail box.
    I drove on. Interstate 81 carried me south and gradually southwest through Woodstock, Harrisonburg, and Roanoke. By the time the odometer read five hundred miles, I’d been on the road nearly twelve hours. I pulled off in Blacksburg, Virginia, and, remembering that my credit cards would be useless in New Orleans, I stopped at an ATM and withdrew the max. Then I checked into a Best Western across the street.
    I tapped into the hotel’s Wi-Fi, downloaded my pictures,
e-mailed a few to Jordan, and called to let her know I’d survived so far. I apologized for not calling the night before and promised to keep her updated.
    I fell asleep listening to Norah Jones on my iPod.
    I dreamt that night that I was in a grassy field with friends. A young woman appeared over a ridge wearing a white spring dress, twirling a pink parasol, and singing a song I’d never heard before. She practically glided down the hill toward me.
    ~ ~
     
    Dad had his most important dream not long after he met Mom in high school.
    He didn’t tell her about it until well after they were married, and I didn’t hear about it until Mom was already addicted to prescription drugs and mourning Grandma.
    Dad and I sat across from one another at a Cracker Barrel.
    “How’s school?”
    “OK, I guess.”
    “Just OK?”
    “It’s hard. All my teachers are treating me weird, even some of my friends.”
    “Because of Mom?”
    “I guess.”
    Dad took a bite of pot roast. “It won’t last. Mom will get through this.”
    “Soon?”
    “I sure think so, son.”
    Our waitress dropped off a second basket of bread.
    “It’s hard, Dad, to see her just lying around all the time. Watching TV. Sleeping. Watching more TV.”
    “She’s suffering, son, that’s what people do sometimes when they’re grieving.”
    I concentrated for a moment on buttering my third roll. Dad flagged down the waitress and asked for a refill of his Pepsi.
    “You know Courtney?” I asked Dad.
    “Harding? From the track team?”
    “Yeah. Her dad died of cancer last year.”
    “That’s right, I’d heard about that. How is she doing?”
    “Really good.” I added more butter to the second half of my roll. “She says her mom is doing good, too. She got a job at the Red Cross. Still sad, I’m sure, but pretty happy. Considering.”
    “Luke, I doubt they’re happy.”
    “You know what I mean, Dad. Not happy, but dealing, you know? They’re dealing with it all. Moving on as best they can.”
    I could tell Dad was weighing his words. Whenever he took extra time to calculate what to say next, or how much he thought he should say, he’d rub his right earlobe.
    “I get it,” he finally said. “But we have to be careful, son. Everyone grieves differently. Some people bounce right back. Some deal with the grieving process by working through it, staying busy, occupying their mind with other things. Other people, like your mother, need time alone. They need to move at their own speed. Rushing them, rushing her, would be a mistake.”
    I poked at the ice in the bottom of my cup with the straw.
    “She’ll surface again, Luke.”
    The waitress must have thought I was hinting because she grabbed my glass and disappeared. Dad picked at his fried apples.
    “What if she doesn’t?” I asked