When my kids were 12 and 15 we piled in the car and drove their dad, whom I had been divorced from for 11 years, to a recovery center deep in the Appalachian mountains in Galax, Virginia. Hulu filmed most of the mini-series Dopesick in Galax, and for good reason, Galax is a town that opioids have decimated. I was a hopped up Mary Poppins as I tried to keep the mood light in the car. “Look at those mountains, kids! Look at the view.” But there was no ignoring Philip who looked like a beaten sack of potatoes. His eyes were red rimmed and glassy, his face was swollen. Despair and shame rolled off him like cheap cologne. I knew I couldn’t shield the kids from it with my exclamations of, “Remember that game we played when we counted cows? How many in that field?” But damned if I wasn’t going to try. I will never know if it was right to take our kids with us, but I didn’t have the fight in me to say no when they proclaimed they were coming.

Philip chose to sit in the back with my daughter. His shame was too great to sit up front with me. I would steal glances at him in the rearview mirror and want to reach back to pat his hand gently. I’d done it a few times in the past three days, but we weren’t used to touching each other after such a long time apart and it felt weird. After 30 minutes or so, thankfully, we got into the groove of the drive and started to tell funny stories about our family. Each silent pause gave us too much time to think about what we were doing and where we were going so we tried to fill the solemn space with a better history.

“Are you all hungry?” I glance into the rearview mirror, The kids nod their assent that they are. Philip replies, “I could eat.”

“Okay then, we’ll let your dad choose where we go,” I wanted the kids to see I wasn’t mad at their dad so I let him choose.

“How about Cracker Barrel?”, Philip replied, “it’s right down the road.”

Cracker Barrel? I think, Fucking Cracker Barrel? I offered to let him pick assuming he was going to choose one of the many fast food joints peppered down the interstate, but no, he chose Cracker Fucking Barrel! I am not opposed to eating at Cracker Barrel, but money was tight for me then. Before every purchase, I had to check my bank balance to make sure whatever purchase would not overdraw my account. I was not expecting to pay for four people to eat at Cracker Barrel that week. But how could I say no during such a desperate moment?

I silently imagined giving Philip the finger, but outwardly I said in my most chipper chirp, “That sounds like a great idea.” Cracker Fucking Barrel.

Like windup toys that have reached the end of the crank turn, the mood in the car was exhausted as my little broken family pulled into the parking lot. We hoped we were in the final moments of a silent battle raging in our family for years. Our bodies felt that rest was coming and the adrenaline was winding down. Years later I am shocked by the depth of denial I had in regards to my ex’s addiction. It gives me profound compassion for people who can’t see what’s happening right in front of their faces. I have been around addiction since I was in my teens, yet somehow I could not wrap my head around what was going on with my kids’ dad. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. It is a river that flows through my soul.

We were zombie like in our approach to our table. Even the kids seemed dazed as we lurched into our seats. The restaurant was buzzing, the tables full of old people and families. Happy chatter bounced off the walls and into our weary ears. As I scanned the menu I took a deep breath and just decided, Fuck it, everyone can get whatever they want. These are the moments that credit cards are made for; broke single moms taking the family out to breakfast during a crisis. I knew that comfort food was an appropriate human response and I knew we would all try to get a side of mac and cheese if it was served for breakfast. Our little band was tender with each other in our small talk and our joking. Jabs and sarcasm were too sharp for our paper thin skins today.

After we ordered I went to the bathroom and when I returned I noticed four men, tall and trim, wearing starched button downs and crisp jeans. At least one of them carried a gun. Not unusual in a Southwest Virginia Cracker Barrel, but they were standing over one table constantly scanning the room like hoot owls looking for prey. I sat down annoyed with their ridiculous zealous protection. Good lord, do they think someone is going to run away with their wives and daughters from Cracker Barrel? My inner eye roll was deep. As I settled in my seat I noticed an old man sitting at the table that was surrounded by the matchstick men. The man’s finely pruned face was so familiar to me. “Holy shit, Philip. That is Jimmy Carter.” My kids looked back and forth between me and their dad having no clue who Jimmy Carter was. Philip’s face broke into his signature crooked grin. It was the first genuine smile I had seen on his face since I sat with him on our porch and told him he was going to rehab. It may be the first time I’d seen that smile in months.

“It is not.” He replied.

“I swear it is.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” We started quietly whispering trying to figure out how to take a sneaky picture. My back was to President Carter’s table so we enlisted my son Harrison’s help.

I excitedly told the kids about Jimmy Carter’s Presidency and legacy. I told them about the peanut bowl my mom had that was Jimmy Carter’s head. A huge grin plastered on the ceramic face. I reminisced about my favorite class in college called Presidential Character and Leadership where we studied past presidents to answer the question, Can Presidents be successful world leaders and have impeccable/impeachable character? By the end of the class, we decided they couldn’t, and Jimmy Carter was our example of a man who was too moral to be a successful president. Philip told his memories about President Carter too. No Mary Poppins-ing was needed to create the excitement that was buzzing at our table.

We continued eating and tried not to glance too often at the table where President Carter quietly, calmly ate his breakfast. Finally, as if he was controlled by hydraulics, he unwound himself from sitting. The ramrod men stood scanning the room around the former President. Then this gentle, white haired, old man began to make his way from table to table and shake people’s hands.

Like the disciples surrounding Christ, former President Carter’s secret service men gently circled him with a protective cocoon. They allowed him to stop by each table to speak and shake people’s hands. All restaurant activity on our side of the Cracker Barrel stopped. The chattering became hushed whispers, as the curved old man with his honey southern voice blessed each table with, “Nice to see you. Nice to meet you.”

Former President Carter stopped at our table and looked at my son, “Hello, young man.” He smiled as he shook my boy's hand. Then he reached out to take Philip’s outstretched paw and give it a gentle shake. Humbly he moved, table to table and out the door leaving a trail of awe in his wake.

Philip and I looked at each other wide eyed. “I cannot believe that just happened”, I said.

“I know, I know,” Philip shook his head.

Walking to the car, Philip stood taller, his smile genuine. He took on a gravely jokey voice, reminiscent of pro-wrester Randy Savage, “That was our sign that it’s going to be okay. I mean, if Jimmy Carter comes to you while you’re on your way to treatment that means it’s going to work.”

I laughed, “I guess so. Let’s hope so.” I watched my kids as they ran across the parking lot. I needed to believe that this stint in treatment would work.

The Galax recovery center was a stark contrast to Cracker Barrel. We stood awkwardly in the check-in area. I filled out the paperwork for Philip as he spoke to the woman behind the glass. My kids looked around wide eyed, shuffling their feet, glancing at each other in a silent language only they understood.

My ex looked like a broken man. He teared up as he hugged our children goodbye. I walked toward him, “I’m going to hug you.” We both laughed with tears in our eyes because it kind of sounded like a threat. I squeezed Philip tight, “You’re going to be okay.” He nodded his head into my shoulder. We pulled back and looked at each other for a moment. I patted his arm and said, “Just remember Jimmy Carter.” We both chuckled as tears slid down our cheeks. Then I turned and ushered my kids out the door and back home.

That was in 2018. Philip has been clean ever since. Thank you, President Carter.