At last I come to the place I’ve been running from all along.
I’ve been at Riverglen for a week—since the day after the funeral—and this place is nothing like I feared. Here, they specialize in discreet treatment for the rich and famous. My roommate, Alison, is an heiress from New Hampshire who can’t stop pulling out her own hair. She also cries in her sleep.
They took away my phone so I can focus on healing and dealing with my trauma, so I don’t know what’s going on in the world. Today, they’re allowing me fifteen minutes on the Internet, filtered and supervised, of course. I take a seat at the computer in the lounge while the aide smiles at me. Nobody is harsh; in fact, it’s peaceful. My room is basically like a dorm.
I think about e-mailing Clay, but what would I even say? So instead I skim gossip sites. They’re still writing about the Lolita Peach, now sequestered at a “rehab facility,” so people probably think I have an addiction problem. Public opinion has turned against me, hard, as people seem to be blaming me for my father’s suicide.
Don’t tell, Morgan. You can never tell.
I’ve added it to the list of my many secrets, the things I can’t disclose to the therapists. While it’s pleasant here, this is also exhausting because I have to say just enough, express the precise amount of shock and grief. I need the right notes in my file when I go. I have to swallow all the wrong words, all the confidences that I’m half tempted to dump on kind-eyed strangers.
I have some e-mails from Oscar and the art kids, but I don’t have the time to reply properly, so I just send them all emojis and hope knowing I’m alive is enough. Just as I’m about to shut down the browser, a linked article catches my eye, of the “if you liked this, you may be interested in…” variety. I click and bring up a story about Jack Patterson. New Charges Filed as Other Victims Come Forward. Amber Nelson, 18, alleges that her affair with the assemblyman began when she was just fourteen, engaged to look after his two small children. The case is no longer just about him and me.
“Time’s up,” a cheerful voice tells me.
Head reeling, I step away from the computer and wander to a chair near the window. The grounds are lush and green. I can go out during free time, but at the moment, my legs might not hold me. Though I’ve heard “there’s never only one victim,” I always thought Creepy Jack was interested in me because of my mother, which made him a special kind of pervert, and I don’t know if it makes it better or worse that he just likes young girls.
Another week passes in group sessions, art therapy, one-on-one counseling. My lead therapist is a thirtysomething woman with sun-damaged skin and red hair that comes from a bottle. I’m supposed to call her Samantha but she’s Dr. Lasky in my head. Aloud I don’t call her anything, and she’s frustrated by my indifference in our sessions.
“You’re repressing,” she tells me. “It’s okay to cry.”
But I don’t want to do that in here—in her office with the reference books perfectly organized and the knickknacks on her desk that speak to her interest in native art. The chairs are comfortable and the air smells like vanilla. Normal people might be able to unburden themselves to her and go back to their rooms feeling light as air, but I’ve only ever been able to do that with one person.
I miss Clay.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I talk about my mother and how much I miss her. That wins me the most points. And then I end with how my father never seemed to get over her death and that even his latest girlfriend looked like my mom. “Why did he…? I’m not enough?”
That’s the trigger question that gets me all kinds of reassuring language. It’s not my fault, Dr. Lasky says. My father was clinically depressed or he never would’ve done that, especially in front of me. She talks about how he was probably overwhelmed with guilt over failing to protect me, and that sometimes people make choices that don’t accurately reflect their true feelings while they’re dealing with heavy issues.
I muster a smile and let myself be comforted. “Thank you.”
Dr. Lasky recommends some books I should read that are shelved in the library. Then she makes a note on her chart as our session ends. “See you tomorrow.”
It’s time for my fifteen minutes on the computer again. I have an in-box full of emojis this time, not just from the art kids, but some of the science club kids, too. Even Arden Fox, who dressed up as Goku because of me, sends one. I sense Oscar’s instigation here, but I don’t mind. Maybe the fact that they sent these means the whole school doesn’t hate me. That’s more than I expected out of this mess.
There are also two messages that surprise me, one I hoped for and another I didn’t. The e-mail from Clay has the subject line It’ll be okay and a single word for the body: Promise. I’m frankly astonished that Nathan sent anything after the way we left it, but his reads I’m an asshole as the subject and then, Clay made me understand some things. I’m really sorry, I had no idea what you were dealing with.
You still don’t.
Nobody does, except Clay. And I trust him not to tell. This is the last hurdle I have to leap on the way to a normal life. I reply with random smileys to the art and science groups; it takes longer for Clay and Nathan. But I don’t have a ton of time, so I simply say what’s true. I miss you. With Nathan, I just accept his apology and add, We’re cool.
With five minutes left on my computer time, I check the headlines. Since I’m in Riverglen, the police haven’t updated me. I’m floored to read, “Plea Bargain Results in Two-Year Sentence for Former Assemblyman.” It looks like Creepy Jack confessed, cut a deal, and got his sentence reduced. It’s not nearly long enough for what he’s done, and there will be no trial. Part of me is so relieved it hurts; I didn’t really want to take the stand and answer those relentless questions and have the defense rip my psyche to shreds. This also means the media will settle down sooner instead of later.
This time I don’t read the comments and just close the browser before the aide can pertly advise me to move along. I celebrate by heading out to the courtyard where a few other patients are basking in the sun. I stroll among the flowers that are supposed to soothe me. A lot of them have already died, though. Soon winter frost will leave the grounds bare.
Eventually I have to go back inside for group and I talk about my mixed feelings when it’s my turn to share. “I feel bad that I’m relieved, you know? Because he might have been punished harder at the trial and I know there were other girls…”
“Or he might’ve gotten off entirely,” Alison says. “At least this way he’s registered as a sex offender, he’s done in politics, and he has to face what he did.”
Dr. Lasky is nodding. “You can’t torture yourself with ‘what if,’ Morgan. You were brave and you did exactly enough. It’s time to let go.”
That’s the best advice I’ve gotten here. The next day in my private session, I tell her that I’m ready to go home. She nods and agrees to process the paperwork. Surely I’ve been here long enough for people to believe I’m okay. And it has helped. The isolation was good for me, allowing me time to decompress and stop obsessing over what strangers think of me.
In the end, none of that matters. It only matters how I feel.