BooksBarbecue
Back Memories in the Drift
Chapters (39)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. CHAPTER ONE
  6. CHAPTER TWO
  7. CHAPTER THREE
  8. CHAPTER FOUR
  9. CHAPTER FIVE
  10. CHAPTER SIX
  11. CHAPTER SEVEN
  12. CHAPTER EIGHT
  13. CHAPTER NINE
  14. CHAPTER TEN
  15. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  16. CHAPTER TWELVE
  17. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  18. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  19. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  20. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  21. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  22. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  23. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  38. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  39. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

His fingers touch my face, run along my jaw, bring my face up so I’m staring into his cold-water green eyes. “Let’s start over, get to know each other again. Will you go on a date with me, Claire?”

A thought tempers the longing that unwinds inside me. “But how will I remember you?”

He smiles. “Over and over again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Thursday, February 14

Journal, shower, dressed, coffee, schedule. Check, check, check, and I still have a few hours to go before I volunteer in Kiko’s classroom.

There is a knock at my door, and I open it to find a plate of cheese Danish on my doormat with a note.

What day is it? asked Pooh.

It’s today, squeaked Piglet.

My favorite day, said Pooh. (A. A. Milne)

Dear Claire, I live in Whittier and I’ve been sober for ten years. You are strong and amazing and you redefine courage. I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere. And I hope, like Pooh, that today is your favorite day too. Love, Mom.

Her words are touching and take me back to a time when I was very little and would sit on a kitchen stool eating cereal while she sipped coffee beside me and Winnie the Pooh played on a small TV on the counter. I take the Danish inside, holding the card to my chest, warmed through and wondering what Mom looks like now.

Outside, a winter storm rocks our small town, surrounding BTI in a wall of black cotton. With the wind pushing against the building, I brew a pot of coffee and slide a cheese Danish onto a plate, happy to be inside, and sink my teeth into the treat. The pastry is creamy and crispy and doughy in the right places, and the tang of the cream cheese blends smoothly with the bitterness of the coffee. It’s a perfect pairing, and when I close my eyes to savor it, I am five years old, sitting on my knees in a kitchen chair, making trails with my finger in a bowl through paths of icing until I have a big enough glob to eat. A hand touches my cheek, followed by the cool wetness of a washcloth. Silly girl, you’ve got more sugar on your cheeks than in your mouth. I giggle and my mother laughs—a warm untroubled sound.