Read Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace for Free Online Page B

disorder. And I am glad.

Trail Ducks
    A t the height of summer, my least favorite season, one I would have skipped if I were God, one of my best friends had a breakdown. He is my age and almost like a brother to me, highly accomplished, well employed, newly married to a fabulous woman, and prone to severe depression. He had not been able to stop thinking about killing himself, even though he adores his wife, his son, his work, and us, his friends. So he had been in what he referred to as “the bin” for three weeks, and was now at a halfway house, where he would stay for two weeks before reentry into his life. I had not seen him in a few days, and one sultry evening, empty and anxious, I suddenly got it in my head to go visit him. It was five o’clock,three hours before visiting hours ended, and it made perfect sense that even in my mental and sweaty condition I would drive on the freeway for an hour to support him in dealing with the mess of his breakdown and rehab, the strain it put on his marriage, fatherhood, career. Maybe, subconsciously, it was to make myself feel holy and purposeful, and to buoy myself up.
    Also, it would help me deal with my own loneliness, because I was going to drag someone else along with me. I knew just the person.
    My friend Janine would agree to come, spur of the moment. She loves this man, too. She loves any excuse to escape from her house, where there were three kids, one of whom was recovering from a bleed in his brain, caused by tumor, along with the in-laws who had arrived to help her care for the kids. Now, you would think a woman with a sick kid would be exempt from being sucked into my good-idea field trips, but no, this is not how it works: see, it would help her, too. Two birds with one stone: Annie would be helping everyone! Plus, Janine would drive. She has a huge mega-car with GPS, a built-in hands-free speaker phone, a great stereo.
    I printed out a map and directions from MapQuest before I went to her house. I brought two ice-cold bottles of water and a baggie full of almonds, which I believe have medicinal powers, like SSRIs and blueberries.
    I drove to her house, which was bustling with good cheer. The kid who had been so sick sat watching TV, surrounded by loud love. I hugged all the teenagers and in-laws, and spent a few special quality Annie minutes with the recovering boy, cajoling him into a little chat. Then Janine and I set out for the town of Rohnert Park, which less charitable people called Rodent Park, a mysterious place with lots of meth labs and trailer parks, to which I have rarely been. We felt very superior and organized, in her perfect car, with our map, directions, water, and almonds. And we love each other’s company. We were both sober, crabby Christians, with a purpose: to bring our best selves to this dear friend, whose wife and child were at home while he recovered from suicidal fixation. Our directions gave us the confidence to start out on the journey, to get on the freeway and drive to the residential care facility, an hour away, one exit and two right turns off the freeway. Easy.
    We didn’t even turn on the GPS.
    The sun seemed to be thinking about setting, and hung low in the sky, and it was lovely to be together, cruising along, talking about her son’s slow but steady progress and our dear friend’s sudden breakdown.
    “It’s all so lifey,” Janine said. “It’s why we love TV so much.”
    We drove for nearly an hour and then started watching for our exit. The car phone rang, and Janine took it without seeming to move a thing. Maybe she has an AT&T chip embedded behind her ear. At any rate, she said, “Hello?” and it turned out to be Cathy, the woman in charge of transporting Janine’s car back from the hospital in Houston where her fourteen-year-old son had been in rehab. The car was going to be delivered the next day, and Janine made arrangements, which is to say, we both listened while the woman chattered. “Yes,” Janine said a