Music Friday had been met with a chorus of cheers when the clients were told that that was what group would be. Crammed into the living room of Bluebird, Bette was given one of the best chairs in the place while the men took the two couches and a few kitchen chairs that looked like they had seen better days. The men were instructed to pick a song that spoke to them and write it down on a piece of paper being passedaround. If someone couldn't think of a song, then they would be allowed to briefly use Clinton's phone under supervision to Google it. The clients were isolated from the outside world on purpose. Once they had been there a week, they would be allowed to call home, though they could write home at any time. It was important to keep them in a safe environment. It was hard on some at first, but a large amount of them were used to being controlled and away from others thanks to stints in jail. The difference was that instead of being corralled in a cement room with nothing constructive to do, at Turtle Grove, they were learning new information and rediscovering things they had lost to addiction. Sometimes, just waking up at the same time every morning to a schedule was impactful. Having some reason to get up.
Bette was skeptical at first. How could listening to a song be that big of a deal? But then they dove into it, and the mix of music—some rap, some rock, even some outlaw country—started something amazing. The group began to meld together, to lean into the rhythm and beats. A common theme was hurt or defiance, of making it through regardless, of death and loss.
And then they started opening up. One by one, the songs were played, and one by one, they confessed. They opened up their hearts. A few newer guys, wearing red tags, which indicated they were in their first week of treatment, were standoffish. It didn't take long for them to start commenting on each other's songs, bonding over the themes. Some songs were heavy. A few uplifting. But mostly, pain appeared to be the common theme. Pain within themselves. Pain they caused their families. Pain for faith lost and pain for lost time. Bette walked away from the group therapy feeling light as a feather. The right opposite of how she woke up.
By late afternoon, though, Bette was tired of information and overwhelmed by Clinton's nonstop talking. Although she liked Clinton, the amount of gabbing was nearly too much to handle over a length of time. Bette was thrilled when Clinton finally left for the day. The weekend was in front of her, and she couldn't wait for some alone time in her room.
On her way home, the pit of her stomach filled further and further with dread the closer she got to her mother's. She knew Clara would be waiting for round two. She would do something to prove her point that she was the top dog.
Her saving grace was Zoe's name flashing on her car's Bluetooth screen: "Hello, my beautiful daughter."
"Hello, my beautiful mother," greeted Zoe. "Are you off work yet?"
"I am. I left about 15minutes ago. Why?"
"How about dinner? I want to hear all about the new job. And we need to plan for my graduation."
The dread in the pit of Bette's stomach twisted into knots. Zoe's graduation. She swallowed the large lump that was forming in her throat. "Dinner sounds much better than going home to your grandmother."
Zoe's lofty laugh was like honey over the speaker. "So things are not going well with Granny?"
"She's just her usual, lovely self," Bette ground out, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Some things never change. I'll meet you at Dent's in like 30."
Dent's Restaurant never changed. It had been a part of Roark for as long as anyone could remember. A southern diner with food that was guaranteed to clog your arteries but leave you satisfied and full. It wasn't a place that Bette dined at often, but Zoe loved their patty melt and thick-cut fries. No matter how hard she tried over the years, Bette could never seem to replicate the unique flavor that came with a Dent's patty melt. Bette was pretty sure it was the grease-covered grill.
Dent's was the kind of place that when someone walked in, everyone turned to see who came through the door. It was customary to nod at those you made eye contact with as you looked for an empty seat. There would be old men there who would sit and drink coffee for hours every day. Socializing and passing the time. The walls were decorated with NASCAR memorabilia, and half of the drivers were not even alive anymore. Car license plates took up the empty spaces between the Dale Earnhardt clocks and the Bill Elliott placards. Bette wasn't sure that she could find a single spot where there was more than 3 inches of space. On more than one occasion, she wondered what it would be like if there was an earthquake. She was half convinced that the old walls of the ancient building were being held up by the decor and grease that coated them. Truthfully, she was never the biggest fan of Dent's, but if Zoe wanted to go there, she would. Plus, she was less likely to run into some of her old hoity-toity friends who promptly dropped her when Shelly left. It was a sore spot she was still rubbing.
Bette held the door open for Zoe and followed her in closely. She knew that as soon as they walked through the threshold, everybody would turn and stare, and that's exactly what they did. She felt eyes roam over her and her daughter and then drift away as chatter resumed.
"I think there might be a table in the back," Zoe said, pointing low. She didn't seem nearly as self-conscious as Bette felt.
Bette nodded and gave Zoe a little push, eager to get seated and out of everyone's view. The atmosphere was chatty and high-energy. It was Friday evening after work. The vibe was infectious, and once seated in the red vinyl booth, Bette's shoulders began to relax. She was tucked in the back, no one behind her, and anyone coming in would have to look through a sea of red-blooded, blue-collar workers, families, and friends to spot her.
"You look good, Mom. It's nice to see you out of your PJs," observed Zoe with a smile. She fidgeted with her purse, a lovely little pale gray shoulder satchel with an unmistakable Gucci symbol on the front.Looks like Shelly is still buying our daughter's love.
"Thank you. I have to admit it does feel good to get out of that house. I'm feeling better." She left out the brain fog that still hadn't lifted. A fog that, at moments, made even talking feel like walking through mud. It wasn't as bad as before when she wouldn't leave her room for days. But it had yet to dissipate completely, but she could feel the darkness lifting at the edges. She hoped it would continue.
The waitress, a tall, lanky lady with feathered bangs she'd been styling the same way since the early 80s and a smoker's voice that was pleasantly gravelly, came over to the table. "How y'all doing, ladies? I'm Tammi. What can I get you to drink?"
"Sweet tea," chimed Zoe.
"Water with lemon, please." Tammi jotted it down on a pad and left.
Bette opened the plastic-covered menu as if she didn't already know what was there. It was the same menu for as long as she could remember. They had added a few things here and there over the years, but nothing huge. Her menu was a little sticky, so she pinched at its edges. "I'm assuming you'll be getting the patty melt?"
Zoe wiggled her eyebrows over her menu, her smile a mirror image of her own. Bette wondered when the last time she herself had smiled that carefree. "You never know, Mom. I may surprise you."
"Right," mused Bette. She decided on a choice and closed the menu, happy to release the sticky thing.
Tammi came back with their drinks and took their orders. Being out in public and having dinner like a normal person felt odd. Dinner out was something they used to do regularly. That was more to socialize and make connections, though, and this time, it felt better. She was enjoying herself. Maybe she would try to do it more often, but who would it be with? She couldn't hang out with Zoe like she would with a friend, and friends were something she did not have the luxury of at the moment. Her mind wandered to the dashing bundle of exposed nerves that was Kerrie Matthews. She certainly seemedlike someone who needed downtime. To unwind a little. Plus, despite her sometimes sour disposition, Bette thought there might be someone special underneath.
"Momma?" Zoe called out. Bette must have drifted off.
Bette shook her head, plastering on a smile. "I'm sorry, dear. What did you say?"
"I was saying that I got my results back from finals this morning, and I aced everything."
