Chapter 1 1 March "My name isn't Tiffany." The social worker flinched, put a perfectly manicured hand to her throat, as if Trinity would leap across the desk and start swinging. Cheerful voices filtered in from the hallway--a granddaughter's third birthday party, speculation on the weather--then moved on. The woman--Sandra, according to the nameplate--glanced at the desktop phone, then back at Trinity. "If you can't keep your tone respectful, I'll have to call security." "I'm not--" Trinity closed her eyes. It was never the security guards who kept the riffraff out of places like Wildwood Clinic. It was the Sandras--middle-aged women in cardigans, stationed behind reception desks or tucked into little offices like this one, with framed family photos, potted plants still wearing their gift ribbons, and wooden plaques painted with sayings about kindness. Smiling, benevolent gatekeepers ready to cut you down if you stepped an inch out of line. This particular Sandra seemed the type who lived for moments like this--when she could clutch her pearls and call for backup. "I'm sorry," said Trinity. "It's just that--" It was just that she was desperate. A six-hour drive from Chicago with a friend of a friend who'd tried to put his hand down her pants before they'd even crossed the Wisconsin border. Nothing to eat since yesterday morning. Jeans still damp from washing them in a gas station sink last night. Two years since her parents had kicked her out over a baggie of weed in her sock drawer. Two years since her first OxyContin. And everything-- everything --had come apart. She had fifty bucks and three tablets of Oxy stashed in her bra, and nothing else. Almost nothing. She dug into her backpack. "I have insurance. Here's my card." It had taken days of phone calls, online forms that wouldn't load, and endless bureaucratic roadblocks. When the card finally came, it had felt like a rare victory. Sandra looked at the laminated square as if had come from a dumpster, but at least her appetite for calling security seemed to have waned. She sniffed. "The Wildwood Clinic Addiction Medicine Program is world-renowned. There are a lot of... people ... who want to get their treatment here, and we can't take everyone." Trinity felt the first needle prick of fear. This woman was saying no. Not later . Not when a spot opens up. Trinity looked around. Original art on the walls. Furniture made of wood, not plastic. A serenity not found in the free clinics and community-run support programs she'd tried in Chicago. The trappings of wealth. Not for people like her. Just the latest in an endless succession of doors slammed in her face. Only, now she was far from home. Nowhere to go. No one to call. "There must be some way I could--" "I wish I had a better answer for you, Tiffany. I really do." Trinity didn't correct the name this time. Just sat, stunned, while Sandra reached into her drawer and pulled out a brochure. "There's a place in town. A sober living facility called Pathways. I believe they're accepting new clients." She pushed it across the desk like it was a pink slip. Trinity didn't touch the brochure, just leaned over to study the front page--glossy smiles on carefully diverse faces, set against a backdrop of a Brooklyn-style brownstone, the likes of which did not exist in rural Wisconsin. She should take the brochure and leave quietly. Find an unoccupied park bench or vacant doorway, and sit and wait for whatever came next. Or maybe she would scream. Maybe she would stand up and tell this woman to go to hell. That yes, she was an addict, and yes, she'd messed up--but she was twenty-three years old and not ready to quit trying. Not yet. And then she'd be dragged off by security and searched for weapons and drugs and any remnants of self-worth, conveniently within sight of all the good, respectable people here to get care. Trinity got to her feet, felt a moment's satisfaction when Sandra's head rocked back at the sudden movement. She pushed the brochure back across the desk, and the woman glanced at it in confusion, as if it was a stack of gold bars instead of a useless piece of paper. "Are you sure you don't--" Trinity shouldered her backpack. "I'm good, thanks." Sandra scowled, then after a moment gave Trinity a nasty little smile. "I'll just make a note that you declined additional services." She scribbled something on Trinity's application, then folded her hands on the desk and took a cleansing breath. "Well, best of luck to you, Tiffany." "My name is Trinity." She turned to walk out--she would leave with her head held high, even if she'd fallen lower than she ever thought possible. But her foot caught on the chair leg and she fell. Hard. Her knees cracked against the floor and her backpack flew forward. Items scattered across the floor--a pencil, a tampon, a hairbrush. She scrambled forward and shoved everything back into the bag with trembling hands. Sandra would think she was intoxicated. Call security after all. Or worse, the cops. All Trinity's self-righteous anger vanished. She didn't have prescriptions for the pills in her possession, and with her record, any cop would be justified in arresting her. She couldn't go to jail. Not again. She was out of chances and nearly out of time. She got to her feet, picked up her backpack, and braced herself for Sandra's scorn, or worse. She needn't have worried. Sandra had already turned her back and was busy at her computer, as if Trinity had never existed. Somehow, it would have been less painful if security had dragged her out. The Pathways Sober Living brochure still sat on the desk, its glossy surface catching the overhead light. Maybe the place wasn't so bad. Maybe it could be enough. She hesitated, then reached for the brochure and, without looking at it, shoved it into her coat pocket and left. Excerpted from Wildwood: A Novel by Amy Pease All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
