Death Gets a Time-Out by Ayelet Waldman Page A

either side with feathery cottonwood trees. Beyond the trees, paths wound through gardens planted with cacti and succulents. The grounds were dotted with people sitting on redwood benches, faces raised to the sun. One woman swung lazily on a wooden swing that dangled from the limb of a tall oak. The road ended in a circular driveway, before a ranch house, its thick stucco walls painted terracotta, with brilliant purple and red bougainvillea spilling down from its roof. Huge pots of brightly colored Mexican pottery bursting with geraniums and nasturtiums flanked the massive oak doors, which were propped open to catch the breeze. An orange cat lay in the doorway in a patch of sun.
    “Nice place,” Al said as he pulled into a parking space next to the building.
    “It’s a long way from the crack house,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking of all the drug rehab centers where I’d visited clients over the years, of the grimness of those facilities, made even more apparent by their pitiable attempts at cheerfulness—barred windows hidden behind bright polyester curtains, narrow cots covered with children’s bedspreads that might once have been cute but had long since grown pilly and faded from years of institutional laundries. Their grounds, if they had any, weren’t rolling meadows sprinkled with swings and benches, but cracked asphalt yards, with patches of garden tended by the patients themselves, one of the many chores they were required to do. Although all that gardening and cleaning was supposed to be therapeutic, I could never discount the suspicion that it had more to do with limited maintenance budgets. I jumped down from the truck and looked around, squinting against the glare of the sun reflected off the glistening white gravel.
    “Why do I think it might be a lot easier to kick a drug habit here, than in one of the county-run dumps our clients always ended up in?” Al said.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, what happens if you get clean and sober? They make you go home! I’d keep shooting up, just to stay here for as long as possible.”
    Inside, the building was delightfully cool. The walls were decorated with imitation Gaughins and Diego Riveras. At least I
hoped
they were fakes. I peered at the lower corner of a portrait of a bare-breasted woman in a grass skirt. There was no signature that I could see, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That really would have been too much.
    “May I help you?” a soft voice said, and I turned to find a young woman standing next to Al. She had long blond hair tucked behind ears that stood straight out from her head. She was standing with her back to the sun, and it shone through her ears, lighting them up like little pink lanterns—almost the same pink as her cashmere sweater. She smiled pleasantly.
    “We have an appointment with Dr. Blackmore,” Al said.
    “Of course. Mr. Hockey and Ms. Applebaum?” We nodded. “I’m Dr. Blackmore’s assistant, Molly Weston.” Weshook hands. “He’s waiting for you out on the terrace.”
    We followed her through the lobby, kind of a mock living room with overstuffed chairs, built-in bookshelves overflowing with fat paperbacks, and a massive stone fireplace. There was a teenage boy sprawled on the rug in front of the fireplace, his head pillowed on a book, and a number of other people sitting in small groups around the room, chatting or reading. They all looked vaguely disheveled, as if they had just woken from a nap, or hadn’t taken the time to look in the mirror when they got dressed. They seemed either too thin, gaunt and twitchy, or like they’d grown fat on a diet of donuts and French fries. A few glanced up as we passed, and I smiled a greeting. Only one person smiled back, a man of about thirty, with long tangled hair and a patchy beard. He looked familiar to me, and I wondered if we’d gone to college together. It was a moment before I remembered where I’d seen his face—on the cover of a CD Peter had