“Necessary, important, honest, loving, and true.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

“The narrative presents a nuanced look at a family trying to keep their loved ones safe and the toll that addiction takes on all of its members…A heartbreaking yet important story.” –SLJ, starred review

"...compassionately illustrates the profound power of love...[a] remarkable and engrossing novel of life’s balance and imbalance between struggle and joy."—Booklist, starred review

“As beautiful as it is raw… an unflinching tale of addiction.” —Amy Beashel, author of The Sky Is Mine
 
“Raw, honest, and over-flowing with feelings… unlike anything I’ve ever experienced on the page.” —Erin Hahn, author of You’d Be Mine and More Than Maybe
 
“In her gripping tale of an addict-adjacent teen and the fragile ecosystem she inhabits, Kathleen Glasgow expands our hearts and invites in a little more humanity.” —Val Emmich, New York Times bestselling author of *Dear Evan Hansen: The Novel  

“Renders the invisible faces of addiction with *rare humanity*.” —Amber Smith, New York Times bestselling author of The Way I Used to Be

“*Nails what it’s like to love someone with an addiction and humanizes the struggle of a teenage drug addict.” —Hayley Krischer, author of *Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf

• “An evocative, soaring exploration of family, friendship, and the many lives that encompass a small town.” —Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, author of The Girls Are All So Nice Here

  Autorentext

  Kathleen Glasgow

  Klappentext

  After a fatal car accident that reveals Emory's brother Joey's opioid addiction, Emory struggles to help him on his road to recovery and make herself heard in a town that insists on not listening.

  Zusammenfassung
  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the critically acclaimed author of Girl in Pieces comes a stunning novel that Vanity Fair calls “impossibly moving” and “suffused with light”. In this raw, deeply personal story, a teenaged girl struggles to find herself amidst the fallout of her brother's addiction in a town ravaged by the opioid crisis.

  For all of Emory's life she's been told who she is. In town she's the rich one--the great-great-granddaughter of the mill's founder. At school she's hot Maddie Ward's younger sister. And at home, she's the good one, her stoner older brother Joey's babysitter. Everything was turned on its head, though, when she and Joey were in the car accident that killed Candy MontClaire. The car accident that revealed just how bad Joey's drug habit was.

  Four months later, Emmy's junior year is starting, Joey is home from rehab, and the entire town of Mill Haven is still reeling from the accident. Everyone's telling Emmy who she is, but so much has changed, how can she be the same person? Or was she ever that person at all?

  Mill Haven wants everyone to live one story, but Emmy's beginning to see that people are more than they appear. Her brother, who might not be "cured," the popular guy who lives next door, and most of all, many "ghostie" addicts who haunt the edges of the town. People spend so much time telling her who she is--it might be time to decide for herself.

  A journey of one sister, one brother, one family, to finally recognize and love each other for who they are, not who they are supposed to be, You'd Be Home Now is Kathleen Glasgow's glorious and heartbreaking story about the opioid crisis, and how it touches all of us.

  Leseprobe

1 

My sister, Maddie, is crying, her pretty face damp and frightened. One of my legs is heavier than the other and I don’t understand and I want to ask her why, but I can’t form words, because there’s an ocean inside me, warm and sweet, and I’m bobbing along the waves, just like the ones that carried me and Joey all those years ago in San Diego, when everything was perfect or as close to it as we could get. That was a nice time, when I was twelve and Joey was thirteen, letting the waves carry us, Maddie stretched out on the beach in her purple bikini and floppy-brimmed hat. Far away from Mill Haven, we were in a different world, where no one knew who we were.

I try to ask Maddie where Joey is, but she can’t understand me. She thinks I’m saying something else, because she leans forward and says, “Do you need more? Do you need me to press the button?”

And her finger presses a button on the side of the bed and the largest wave I’ve ever known billows over me, like the parachute game we played in the gymnasium in kindergarten, all of us laughing as the fabric gently overtook us and blocked out the world.

My mother’s voice is trembling. “This is not normal. This is not something that happens to people like us.”

My father sounds weary. He has been weary for years now. Joey makes people weary. 

He says, “There is no normal, Abigail. Nothing has ever been normal. Why can’t you see that? He has a problem.” 

My finger stretches out for the button to make the waves come again. My parents make me tired, years and years of fighting about Joey. 

My mother’s hand touches my head. Like a kitten, I respond, leaning into it. I can’t remember the last time she touched me, stroked my hair. Everything has always been about Joey. 

“There was heroin in his system, Abigail. How did we miss that?” 

The word floats in the air before me, something eerie and frightening. 

There was vomit spattered on his hoodie at the party. When we found him in the bedroom. He was woozy and floppy and strange and made no sense and I thought . . . 

I thought he was just drunk. Stoned, maybe. 

“I will fix this,” she says to my father. “He’ll go to rehab, he’ll get better, he’ll come home.”

She says rehab in a clipped way, like it hurts to have the word in her mouth. 

“That’s not a magic wand you can wave and make it all go away, Abigail. He could have died. Emory could have died. A girl did die.” 

The ocean inside me, the one that was warm and wavy, freezes. 

“What did you say?” I whisper. My voice feels thick. Can they understand me? I speak louder. “What did you just say?” 

“Emory,” my father says. “Oh, Emory.” 

My mother’s eyes are wet blue pools. She curls her fingers in my hair. 

“You’re alive,” she tells me. “I’m so grateful you’re alive.” 

Her face is blurry from the waves carrying me. I’m struggling inside them, struggling to understand.

“But she just had a headache,” I say. “Candy just had a headache. She can’t be dead.” 

My father frowns. “You aren’t making any sense, Emmy.” 

She had a headache. That’s why she was in the car. She had a headache at the party, and she wanted a ride home and it can’t be right that a person has a headache and gets in a car and dies and everyone else lives. It can’t be right. 

“Joey,” I say, crying now, the tears warm and salty on my face. “I want Joey. Please, get me Joey.”

 

2

When I open my eyes, he’s there. 

I’ve seen my brother cry only once before, the afternoon he and Luther Leonard decided to dive from the roof of our house into the pool. Luther made it; Joey didn’t, and the sound of his sobs as he writhed on the brick patio echoed in my head for days.

But his crying is quieter …