Free Deliver Her: A Novel by Patricia Perry Donovan Page A

wasn’t one square inch of the place that didn’t remind her? She had tried again yesterday, and all it did was drive home how lost she was. And yet her own mother expected her to suck it up and go.
    A wedge of hall light sliced across her bed.
    “I said, don’t come in.” It wasn’t her mother’s fault she felt like crap. If she’d allowed her mother to pick her up last night, she could have shared some of her horrible day. Not a deep heart-to-heart. But maybe a moment on the couch, bonding over Conan’s stupid DVR’d jokes. A place to start.
    But she hadn’t let her. And now her mother approached in those clunky, horrible plastic shoes everyone wore, their stupid charms jangling. They must give the patients a headache. She peeled back a corner of the blanket. Alex heard her distinct inhale—the sniff test, her mother’s favorite morning ritual. Alex held her breath for as long as she could, until the thud of more footsteps, heavier than her mother’s and heading toward her bed, made her exhale.
    This was a new approach. Was her dad now in on the negotiation? Alex jerked the covers back over her face. Why couldn’t everyone leave her alone?
    “Alex. Wake up. I need to tell you something.”
    Even through the covers, the full-on blast of overhead light seared Alex’s lids. “Mom, please,” she moaned. “Go awaaay .”
    “I want you to meet someone.”
    Was she kidding? Who had company at this hour? “Not interested, Mother.”
    “Alex, Daddy and I love you. We just can’t live like this anymore. We want to get you the help you need.”
    Whaaaat??? Her mother’s voice sounded fake, rehearsed—like she was speaking lines in a terrible play.
    “This is Mr. Alden and Officer Murphy,” she continued. “We’ve asked them for help. They’re going to get you safely to a school in New Hampshire. I love you, honey.”
    Through the blanket, her mother dropped a kiss in the vicinity of Alex’s head.
    “Mom, wait. What?” By the time Alex raised herself on her elbows, the plastic squeaks had faded and her bedroom door clicked shut. This was a joke. Alex crawled to the edge of her bed and peered out. Below was a pair of unfamiliar brown work boots—so close she could smell the shoe polish. Above the boots, crisply pressed khakis. She rolled over, shading her eyes against the harsh light, and a man extended a black-leathered arm toward her. A perfect O of white hair circled his mouth; in his aviator sunglasses, she saw the Day-Glo reflection of her lava lamp.
    Downstairs, the front door slammed. An engine revved and faded. Angel didn’t bark. Angel always barked when someone left. Something was seriously messed up.
    “Good morning, Alex.” The man’s voice was deep and booming, like a TV announcer. “Time to get up. My name is Carl Alden. We’re going to get you to your program.”
    “What program?”
    “The Birches. The one your parents picked.”
    “No way. I’ve seen that rehab stuff on TV.” The shows where the family guilt-trips the person into going. At the end, you find out what happened. It almost never worked out.
    Alex sat up fast, her stomach roiling, deeply regretting the tuna-sub chaser the three of them devoured in Evan’s Corvette, blasting Amphibian. It had been fun, even with bitch Larke squeezing next to Evan, forcing Alex to take the window. She would never sit in the back, no matter how crowded they were.
    “The Birches is nothing like that.” A female voice floated toward her, and a woman in glasses stepped forward. “I’m Officer Murphy. I’ll be in the car with you today.” She had a boxy mom haircut and wore all black—not cool black, but black like she didn’t give a crap: baggy pants, ski jacket over a turtleneck. Mock turtleneck. Alex squinted. Was that a fanny pack around her waist?
    The woman had the nerve to sit on Alex’s bed, motioning to a pile on a storage cube. “Your mom put clothes out. Get up now and get dressed.”
    Alex’s heart began to pound