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conversations are mostly me asking how Ash is doing, and Dr. Paul saying, “I’m not legally allowed to say anything, he is an adult, but …” Then he divulges some crumb of Ash’s recovery that will have to sustain me until such time that my son is willing to talk to me.
    â€œThat’s smart that they do that,” says Heather, who knows I’m lying. “Total immersion. That’ll make things go that much faster.”
    â€œHow long will he be in … um … the place where he’s at?” Janie asks.
    â€œAs long as he needs to be. That’s why I picked this particular rehab,” I say, using the word Janie was reluctant to say. “It’s called the Willows. They have a program they run them through, and they don’t release them until they’re finished. It can be anywhere from a couple months to a year, or more. Although four months is the average.”
    â€œSo what was he into?” Mary Beth asks, slugging down the last of her margarita. “Pot? Meth? Crack?”
    Is she honestly asking that so casually? What’s next—my bra size? If I’ve ever engaged in a three-way?
    Heather says, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mary Beth.”
    â€œWhat? I’m only saying, there’s all kinds of drugs and temptations out there. If we as parents are afraid to dig in and find out what’s going on in our children’s lives, anything can happen. I don’t know what I’d do if my Nicholas or Katie started messing around with any of that.”
    â€œYou’d do what any of us would do,” Heather says. “Whatever it takes. Now come on.” She stands up. “I came here to bowl, not to wag my jaw all night.”
    â€œPotato,” I say quietly to Heather as we gather our glasses to carry with us, which is code for “I love you.” I don’t even remember why.
    She squeezes my elbow. “Potato, too.”
    After that, there’s bowling and pizza eating and opening of presents and blowing out of candles. I do what I can to shut off my brain. The margarita helps, but since I’m driving, I can only have the one. Besides, there’s something wrong about drinking to forget that your son is in rehab.
    Later, I’m pushing a piece of cake around my plate to disguise that I’m not eating it—one word, coconut —when Samantha sits down next to me.
    â€œHey, Mrs. Bloom.”
    â€œHi, Samantha.” I’ve been exchanging barbs with the kids all evening—the usual trash talk about how I can bowl them under the table—but I haven’t actually talked to any of them. “It’s good to see you. Are you excited about graduating?”
    â€œUh-huh. I got a summer internship at my aunt’s ad agency.”
    â€œThat’s great! Where are you going to school?”
    â€œI got into State.”
    â€œThat’s my alma mater. I can tell you anything you need to know—especially the best places to meet guys. Oh, wait … I mean the best places to study.”
    She laughs, but she’s wriggly in that way Ash was when he had something on his mind.
    â€œI just wanted to say …” Her voice trails off. I wait. Eventually she continues, “I’m sorry I haven’t written him back. Is he mad?”
    â€œWritten him back?” I instantly know exactly what she means only I wish I didn’t. “You mean Ash.”
    â€œI feel so bad. I would’ve—only my mom? She saw the letter? And told me not to?” Her face is puffy—she’s trying not to cry.
    I suppose that means that my face is puffy, too. Ash wrote to Samantha. He hasn’t said so much as hello to me, his mother, who sold her house to pay for his rehab. But this girl that he dated for a few weeks, a couple months at most, she received a letter.
    This should make me happy. Ash is reaching out to a nice girl. He’s not writing letters to his drug