Coldwater. Diana Gould

      He looked around for Boots, or some other woman he could commandeer, but the parking lot was empty.

      “Look,” he said, “please don’t take this the wrong way. But I don’t think you should be alone. Stay with me tonight. Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare room. I’m not after you. I just don’t want you to have to go through this by yourself.”

      I knew I shouldn’t give Mike the wrong idea. He thought I was going to be joining this group, and I knew I couldn’t. AA expects you to tell all the horrible things you’ve done, and I knew that was for people with secrets more benign than mine.

      But I also knew that if I went back to Gerry’s, I would drink.

      I watched as Mike made up the spare bed and loaned me a pair of pajamas. I, who had followed men out of bars to get high, woken up next to strangers whose names I didn’t know, felt suddenly embarrassed, ashamed to be the recipient of such kindness. I wondered what he’d want in exchange.

      But as I fell asleep that night, I remember realizing with amazement that I’d gone one whole day without a drink or a drug.

      CHAPTER 6

      The next day, I woke without throwing up. A milestone. But I had a pulsing headache, my skin was clammy, and I ached all over. I thought I was getting the flu and should maybe put off this sobriety business until I felt well enough to handle it. Mike explained that my body was like a toxic waste dump, that while I was using, my liver and kidneys had all but stopped even trying to eliminate poisons, knowing that more was on the way. With sobriety, my body would finally begin to purge itself of years of ingested chemicals. It might be a while before I felt better. But it would happen.

      “When? How long will it take?”

      He wouldn’t say. The way to do it was to go to a lot of meetings. Everyone there would be sympathetic; they had all gone through it and wouldn’t expect anything of me. He appointed himself my sponsor and suggested I go to the morning meeting at the clubhouse. He was out in the field today, but we exchanged cell phone numbers, and he told me to call him later to tell him how I was doing.

      “Today, there’s only one thing you have to do: don’t take the first drink. Or the first drug. That’s it. No matter what.”

      I went to the morning meeting, and when it was over, thought I’d better just hang out until the one at noon. I knew I’d have to go back to Gerry’s eventually—I was supposed to be house-sitting, after all—but I was afraid to be alone. I’d gone one whole day without drinking and using, but I had no confidence I could do that again. So I sat in the clubhouse, drinking cup after cup of coffee, allowing myself to be introduced as a newcomer to other sober alcoholics who came and went throughout the day.

      After the noon meeting ended, I called Mike, told him I’d been to two meetings that day, and thought I’d better go back to Gerry’s.

      “Have you eaten?”

      “No.”

      “You’d better get yourself something to eat.”

      “Yes, Mom.”

      “I’m serious. You need to keep your blood sugar up. Don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. Those are set-ups for relapse.”

      I told him I’d found a meeting in the directory not far from Gerry’s house. I’d get something to eat, drive back to Malibu, take in the mail, and go to another meeting. I thought I could do that much.

      “Call me any time. Don’t take the first drink. Or drug. And call me.”

      I had to admit I enjoyed being fussed over.

      * * *

      I drove back to Malibu, stopped at a coffee shop near Gerry’s, and ordered a burger and a Diet Coke. A TV in the corner was tuned to an all-news station, with the sound off. I’d been too consumed with my own suffering to pay attention to anything happening in the outside world, but as I glanced up, I saw footage of Marty and Erika Nussbaum, standing in front of their mansion. Marty was in shirtsleeves, Erika a designer suit. She clung to his arm and looked frightened and fragile, allowing him to do the speaking for both of them.

      For once, Marty’s boyish enthusiasm was absent. He appeared haggard and anxious.

      I asked the waitress if she could turn the sound up. She pressed a button on a remote.

      “I think any parent can understand the anguish my wife and I are experiencing.”

      His fist was clenching and unclenching by his side. He looked down at the tiny woman clinging to his arm. Erika looked up at her husband and then vacantly out into space, saying nothing. Her suit, neat and trim, had epaulets on its padded shoulders, as if to lend a military snap to the fragile woman within. I remembered that when I’d met her, she’d reminded me of my mother. Maybe it was the combination of hauteur and sadness.

      “If there is anyone who has information that will lead to finding our daughter...we beg them to come forward. There will be a reward. And if anyone thinks they can get away with harming her...” His voice came close to cracking. “...they will find that retribution will be swift and merciless.” His fist opened and closed by his side.

      At the news desk, the anchor turned from the screen showing the live feed to face the audience, ruminating, “The very human side of one of the giants of the corporate world.”

      He took a moment before continuing.

      “To recap, Caleigh Nussbaum, sixteen-year-old daughter of Marty Nussbaum, CEO of Poseidon Entertainment has been reported missing. She was last seen Monday, leaving her cosmetologist’s office in Beverly Hills, wearing her school uniform of tartan plaid pleated skirt and white shirt, with a lime green cashmere sweater over the shoulders. She drives a red Mercedes SL63 with the license plate, MY SL63. Anyone who has seen her, or who has any information about where she is, is advised to call this special hotline.”

      The screen showed a still photo of Caleigh dressed for her school prom. A teenager now, I could still recognize the little girl I used to know. She had inherited some of her father’s pudginess, but encased in her strapless sheath, she did not exceed acceptable bounds of beauty. Her hair and make-up had been done with sophistication and style, yet she still had the youthful awkwardness of a newly hatched chick. The professional lighting, accentuating what bones there were beneath chubby cheeks, cast a haunting shadow over her innocent features. It was a portrait of a very young woman striving to be glamorous beyond her years.

      The police were looking for Caleigh. Julia would have no need for me now.

      I remembered how frightened she’d been when she came to see me.

      I looked at my watch. A little after three. I thought maybe I’d just go find her at school and see what she thought about this development.

      The next meeting wasn’t until 7:30. What else was I going to do with myself?

      The Eastman School was a private school that served both sexes, from kindergarten through twelfth grade. It was harder to get into than Harvard; parents applied after the first ultra-sound. Its students were children of the wealthy; friendships and alliances made here were invaluable assets for later success. Sensibly, the administration required a uniform. The campus consisted of several buildings sprawled over a choice piece of real estate north of Sunset in Brentwood, the former estate of a silent screen star, from the days when there was no income tax, and this was countryside.

      As I pulled into the parking lot, parents were shepherding kids towards their SUVs and mini-vans, while the teens with licenses headed for their own cars. Julia had been in middle school the last time I’d dropped her off here. I wondered if I’d recognize any of her friends in the long and leggy teenagers I was watching.

      A gaggle of Eastman girls in soccer uniforms came towards me, laughing and razzing each other about the game. One of them stopped to rummage in her bag, while the others chattered on. A tall willowy blonde turned towards the straggler.

      “Move