The Beautiful Misfits, page 1
Praise for The Beautiful Misfits
“With grace, humor, and honesty, Susan Reinhardt delivers an important novel about the tragic opioid and drug addiction gripping our country. But, at its core, The Beautiful Misfits is the story of a mother’s unconditional love for her son and her unwillingness to give up on him. Weaving humor and heartbreak, Reinhardt reveals what it’s like for a woman to walk the almost indistinguishable lines between loving and enabling and letting go and holding fast. This is a book with heart and hope. Don’t miss it!”
- Tracey Buchanan, author of Toward the Corner of Mercy and Peace
Contents
Praise for The Beautiful Misfits
The Beautiful Misfits
Copyright © 2023 Susan Reinhardt. All rights reserved.
Dedication
Quote
Forward
THE UNRAVELING
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
The Beautiful Misfits
Susan Reinhardt
Regal House Publishing
Copyright © 2023 Susan Reinhardt. All rights reserved.
Published by
Regal House Publishing, LLC
Raleigh, NC 27605
All rights reserved
ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646033041
ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646033058
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022935697
All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.
Cover images and design © by C. B. Royal
Regal House Publishing, LLC
https://regalhousepublishing.com
The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my son, Niles.
Quote
There is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart.
—Washington Irving
Forward
You were wanted. This is what you need to know.
Plans don’t guarantee joy. Perfect timing isn’t the only companion of contentment.
Sometimes, it’s the unplanned that takes us from our own ideals.
And on that one-way ride where return tickets aren’t for sale.
I’m glad you’re here. I wept when I knew.
A good weep. That heart-growing kind where you realize this is your chance.
I pray I will get it right.
There is nothing you will do to mute the music of love my heart forever plays.
I’m here now. I’m here tomorrow.
Please know…I’m going nowhere but on this journey with you.
THE UNRAVELING
March 10, 2017
In ten minutes, Josette Nickels would go live with the day’s news, just as she’d done every evening without incident for the past twenty years.
Atlanta loved her, viewers trusted her, and no matter the mayhem churning behind the closed doors of her ridiculous Victorian Gothic, she’d always separated her career from the scandals.
Such was the way of Southern women who’d grown up with duplicitous mothers keen on parceling affection. Hadn’t Josie learned from the best how to live as two? As a woman who was perfect. And another who was not.
She’d not slept well the night before, her room aglow with aggressive moonlight charging through fine cracks in the blackout drapes. She’d watched the clock from the haunting pre-dawn hours, until she’d eventually given up and thrown off the covers.
By the time her dinner break rolled around, a tremor plucked at her fingertips and her silk blouse fluttered against a heart unsure of its next beat. Certainly, a couple of drinks would help, though she’d never—until then—consumed on the job.
A little tequila, two shots tops, was no worse than a pinch of Xanax. What woman wouldn’t in her circumstance?
She could do this, get through tonight, then go home to reassess. That suitcase in her trunk loaded with sundresses and swimsuits meant nothing. All women need a packed bag on standby, one of the many lessons her mother had taught by example.
As she walked into the studio, minutes from going live, her legs gave way as if boneless. She grabbed a desk and fell into the chair.
“Josie?”
“I’m okay,” she lied to her producer. “Should have worn flats.” She slipped on her mic and the in-ear monitoring and cueing system. The room seemed to move, like blacktop wavering under August steam. The walls rolled and the floor pulsed, but Josie managed to reach her anchor desk where she closed her eyes, willing a calm that would not come. When she opened them, she muttered her mantra: Flip the switch. Turn on the journalism mode and click off the personal.
One last time, she went over the shot sheet telling her which camera she’d look into for each story.
With three minutes to spare, she practiced the top story from the prompter.
And it was that story that shot a stream of sweat down her spine, pooling at the waistband of her granny-like Fruit of the Looms. Panties for champions. Panties for women who despise tugging out wedgies and who don’t have a significant other in their lives.
“Let’s roll.” Her producer’s deep baritone rang in her ears. “In five, four, three, two, one.”
Josie cleared her throat and faced the lights, the cameras, and tens of thousands of viewers she couldn’t see. But they saw her. On what would become her final evening she’d join them in living rooms and kitchens throughout a sizable chunk of Georgia.
“Good evening.” Both hands trembled on the cold glass desk, mug of water to her left and laptop in the center. “I’m Josie Nickels and tonight we bring you a story of loss and laws never before enacted until now. For the first time in decades, a district attorney’s office has charged a suspected drug dealer with murder following a heroin overdose.” Her voice cracked and her lower belly rippled. Her entire body blazed as if she were melting from inside.
The teleprompter blurred, words fading in and out of focus. She inhaled deeply and faced her viewers. More than ever, she wished her co-anchor were present and not home sick with the flu.
“According to arrest warrants, Adam Lamond Richardson, nineteen, of Courtside Drive in Dekalb County, reportedly killed twenty-year-old Grace Turbyfill with ‘malice’ caused by the unlawful distribution of heroin. Detectives believe Richardson administered the narcotic himself, causing the fatal overdose of the young woman, a sophomore studying psychology at the University of Georgia.”
Her heart flipped and her throat squeezed. She reached for her water, ignoring the alarm written across her producers’ faces.
She panted and sucked at the air, trying to get something into her lungs before she passed out. The station cut to a commercial, and the news crew suggested a reporter take over the anchor spot. “I’m fine,” Josie said. “I just need to breathe through this little panic attack.”
“You’re too close to this story,” one of the female producers said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay. Really.”
“Your son’s still missing. Now this girl, his friend, is dead. Please, let Jessica fill in. Fucking Rob out sick again.”
She thought of her children: her late-in-life daughter, Dottie, just three and born with Down syndrome. And her son, that once-beautiful little boy who’d clutched weedy flowers in his sweaty hands, pressing the blooms against her waist. A child she’d never in her darkest dreams imagined on the run, his monsters following close.
“Trust me. I’m good to go.”
Back on the air, Josie paused and listened to the beeps of technology. She took in the whispers of her colleagues, aware their eyes flashed uncertainty. She exhaled with force and wiped her wet hands across her pink Calvin Klein shift, then over her mouth, smearing her matching lipstick and tasting chemicals beneath the berry flavor. She swallowed hard, the tequila sour and fiery in her chest.
Josie held up a hand and gave the camera a one moment, please. That’s when the seams began ripping like a torn sheet and the padlock t
That’s also when she should have stepped away from the desk and let Jessica take over, because what she said next, those eighty-four seconds of spewing her business like a Baptist at altar call, went viral. And that virus snuffed out her Emmy-winning ride.
But more importantly on this day, beneath that full thieving moon, her mistake, her giant screwup, robbed her of the only man who’d ever mattered.
Her son, Finley.
And she’d do whatever it took to get him back, if only she could reach him in time.
1
One Year Later
Maybe Miranda Lambert was on to something. She knew how to channel her pain and belt out an entire song about hiding all your crazy and acting like a lady. Keeping it together even when your life plunges from flush to flushable.
Josie heard the lyrics in her head as she wriggled eyeliner along her swollen lids and dusted her bloated cheeks with a blush that cost more than a tank of gas, gratis for joining the newest cosmetics line at Brigman’s department store. Her hands shook—too much screw-cap chardonnay last night—and a cold trickle of sweat stroked her neck.
The mountain winds howled and threw branches against her kitchen window where she sat at the wobbling dinette set she’d purchased secondhand, along with most of her other furnishings, through a Craigslist divorce sale: HIS STUFF MUST GO!
One woman’s heartache spread through every room of Josie’s small condo in Asheville, North Carolina, a gorgeous little city in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
This place had walls so thin she could hear the ancient woman next door peeing during the middle of the night and smell her bitter coffee in the mornings. All to the tune of fifteen hundred a month in addition to the three-hundred-dollar homeowners fees just to trim the rhododendron and mow a slice of turf the size of an army cot.
She’d packed the tattered leftovers of her former life into a small, ten-foot U-Haul and thrown the last of her savings into a down payment on the patio home. She had no idea until she moved in that it was a retirement community, a final destination for octogenarians. Her eager realtor had conveniently left out that tidbit. But Josie figured she’d rather live with cane-walkers than crackheads.
It wasn’t much, but the place was hers. A one-level, three-bedroom rectangle with everything, including the appliances, the color of dinner rolls. Even the kitchen floor, vinyl and patterned in fake tile, complied with the monochromatic theme. She wadded a tissue and tucked it under a metal leg, steadying the table and herself as she applied the requisite full face of makeup in a bath of natural light.
Ribbons of cool air slid through single-pane windows, and Josie shivered and tightened her bathrobe. April in the mountains was nothing like April in Atlanta weatherwise. She closed her eyes and pulled in a breath so deep her lungs ached. After counting ten beats, she puffed out the air and vowed to scoop up what she had left in her falling-down life. She’d navigate that charred and smoking wake of her public shit-show last year and suit up, show up, and slap a smile on her face.
Other women did it. They slid on their lipstick and pearls (maybe nose rings) and marched through their days as if. Not all what-the-fuck. Those women didn’t give up on life until stiff arms crossed their Sunday best beneath the cold, hard dirt.
She popped a K-Cup into the Keurig and startled at the sound of rhythmic taps on her front door. Dottie toddled half-dressed into the kitchen chanting, “Ruby, Ruby here.”
“Little bug, can you wait in the living room for Ruby? It’s too chilly for you to be in here in nothing but a flimsy dress.” The sweet child, still sing-songing her babysitter’s name, returned to her cartoons.
Josie, one ankle boot on and the other in her hand, opened the door. A frenzied gale blew its way into the condo, scattering the paper plates and plastic forks across the kitchen counter and onto the floor.
“Hurry in, Ruby. Mercy, I believe God’s having a tantrum out there.”
The elderly babysitter burst into the kitchen, flicking away the silvery wisps of hair stuck against her road-cone-orange lipstick. “The wind is but a reminder that we are alive, dear girl,” she said, pushing the door shut. “It’s a hug from God. Pranayama breathing. Maybe that Lion’s Roar breath where you have to stick out your tongue like a fool.”
Ruby smelled of patchouli and lavender, a soothing scent that slowed Josie’s heart rate. It was how Finley smelled the last time she’d felt his arms around her neck, all those months ago. “Please forgive the mess. I’m in a frenzied state trying to look halfway decent for this ridiculous test today. You’d think I was preparing for the MCAT, not cramming the eight rules for a perfect brow.”
Ruby laughed, a strumming like harp chords. Even the way she walked, gliding as though her feet never touched the ground, made Josie wonder if the woman was even real or someone she had conjured during her prayers.
Ruby set her North Face backpack on the table and shucked off the hand-painted wrap that reminded Josie of Dolly Parton’s Coat of Many Colors. The woman was eighty-five and devoted to flow and yin yoga, books by Eckhart Tolle, and living every day as if she’d been given a sudden expiration date. There was hardly a wrinkle on her, no neck folds piled up like a shar-pei’s skin.
“This makeup counter job may not be on par with the work you used to do, but that store is lucky to have you,” she said and placed a gentle hand on Josie’s arm. “Have you heard anything from your son?”
“Just that he’s missing again. This time somewhere down in Florida. No one’s seen or heard a word from him.” Thoughts of Finley throttled Josie’s pulse. A rising panic clawed at her sternum. Her once sweet and innocent baby boy, the infant she’d watch as he slept, fearing he wouldn’t wake up, was now a troubled young man with jangling bones and hollowed, hunting eyes. The thought of it threatened to pull her under.
“He’ll come around. Boys can take a good while to grow up. My second—no, may have been my third—husband was way too bonded to his toddler brain.”
Josie managed a weak laugh, although everything in her primal, maternal mind pushed for her to race to Florida and cruise the seediest parts of town searching for her son, stun-gun and pepper spray in her glovebox. Right next to the three boxes of Narcan, a nasal spray that reverses opioid overdoses.
“Ruby, I’m done with the chasing.” To say it made it real. It needed to be real. Her therapist said if she kept up this one-sided fight, she’d lose her mind. Again. “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve driven crazed and red-eyed through three states hunting him down.” Josie remembered those nights, snagging sleep in the back seat of her car or fetal-curling in a sixty-dollar motel where the unwashed bedspread reeked of sin and booze.
Ruby rubbed her palms and placed them between her breasts in what she called her hands-to-prayer pose. She hovered in the tiny kitchen and searched the ceiling as she often did when thinking. “He’s what? Twenty-three years old? It’s past time to let him go. Love him, of course. But until he’s ready for a better life, he has to make his own decisions. You know good and well from what happened that night on TV how important self-care is, right?”
A volcano stays dormant only so long, Josie wanted to say. Everything in life has a tipping point.
“I think these mountains are helping. Everywhere I go I feel like I’m in a painting. So it’s good I put a state or two between my…anyway.”
“We are so blessed to live among such grandeur. The greatest works of art are born of nature. Mountains teach patience and acceptance. They are healers in disguise.”
She hugged Ruby, and it was like grasping an object so fragile it might vanish. “I could listen to you all day, but this job is the only way I keep semi-sane and maintain a roof over our heads. I’d hate to waltz in late on testing day. Making women beautiful is my only marketable skill these days.”
