Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,39

going to want to go.”

“And how’s that, exactly?” asked Sheila whose eyes never strayed from the TV.

Webster had an answer. It was something he’d been thinking about for weeks. “I’m taking Rowan, and we’re going to my parents’.”

Sheila turned off the TV. “What’s that mean, exactly?” she asked.

“It means Rowan and I will be living at my parents’ house, and you will not.”

“Nana?” Rowan asked.

Webster smiled at his daughter. “We’ll see,” he said, and he thought the words We’ll see the most used phrase in a parent’s repertoire.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sheila said.

“Try me.”

Webster turned, went into the bedroom, found his suitcase at the back of the closet, and began packing his clothes and personal items. When he headed into Rowan’s room with a large canvas bag, Sheila stood.

“All right,” she said in a small voice.

“All right what?”

“I’ll go. To AA.”

Webster took the suitcase and the canvas bag back into the bedroom. “I’ll find out where and when the nearest meeting is.”

“I already know,” Sheila said.

So Sheila had gone as far as to investigate AA? That was a start.

“Mommy sad?” asked Rowan, who always needed to know. As if asking whether she should be worried or not.

“No, Pumpkinhead,” Webster said. “It’s all good.”

It wasn’t all good. But it might get better.

He parked outside the church, as far away from a streetlight as he could. It was illogical, since Sheila would be walking into the basement meeting soon enough. He thought maybe he was protecting her identity—although preserving one’s anonymity was almost impossible in Hartstone, or even the next town over. Behind them, Rowan was asleep in her car seat.

Sheila had smoked two cigarettes in the car. Ordinarily, Webster would have called her on that, too, with the baby in the backseat. Maybe he really was becoming a self-righteous prig, an epithet Sheila had once hurled at him. Lately, Webster had found himself wanting to go to a bar with his buddies at Rescue. Stay out all night, come home with a good one on. He couldn’t. She’d never listen to him, then.

“You’ll be OK,” he said to her.

“I want to do this about as much as I want to have a root canal,” she said.

“You ever have a root canal?”

“No.”

She had on jeans and a white shirt. It was getting dark later and later, even though the early April nights could be frigid.

Webster checked his watch.

“I know, I know,” Sheila said. “I have three minutes before I have to go. Actually, I could go in at any time.”

“You’ll just draw more attention to yourself.”

“It’s not going to work in just one night,” she warned. “So don’t get your hopes up.” She turned to look at him. “Are your hopes up?”

“I don’t know whether I dare,” he said.

He patted the middle of her back. He thought she flinched. It reminded him that they didn’t touch as often as they used to.

But this touch seemed to have released something in Sheila. She sighed and bent her head. “I’m sorry, Webster,” she said.

He wanted to hold her, but their positions were awkward, like those of teenagers trying to make out in a car. He wondered if Sheila would one day feel compelled to make amends. He didn’t want amends. He wanted her to stop drinking.

“I love you,” she said.

He undid his seat belt and pulled her close. “You do?” he asked.

She nodded, and he kissed the top of her head. “I love you, too.”

She put her hand on his thigh. “It’s not like a hypnotist, you know. I won’t come out cured.”

“I know that,” he murmured, resting his chin on her head. “You just keep going to meetings,” he said.

After a minute, she wiggled out of his hold and stepped out of the car. She hesitated a moment. He watched her walk, hands in pockets, shoulders straightened, toward the basement door.

* * *

When she came out, she was smiling. Webster’s heart soared, even though he’d told himself not to expect too much. He watched her saunter to the cruiser, a streetlight illuminating part of her walk.

Drop-dead gorgeous.

When they went home, they put Rowan to sleep and made love the way they had in the old days. Webster couldn’t believe his luck. If only he’d managed to get Sheila to AA sooner, they wouldn’t have done so much damage to each other. Now life would be different. He was sure of it.

Before the week was out, Webster smelled alcohol on Sheila’s breath. He was so angry, he could hardly speak.

“Just tell me one thing,” he