Chapter One
Caroline
They—the “professionals” I’m required to check in with once a day at the hospital—tell me I ain’t right in the head. They can kiss it. None of them were there the day I found my baby brother dead or when my father left us. Not one of ‘um would know what it’s like to watch their mother drink herself to death at age ten. Can’t trust any of them: Not one.
…Okay, I admit it. I’m paranoid. But who wouldn’t be? I’ve spent half my life locked up for pulling a knife on my foster sister, Sara, as a teen. It’s not like I planned to use it. I just needed her to back off. Was tired of her stealing everything I owned. That don’t make me crazy. Part of survival is learning to depend on yourself, knowing there’s no one you can trust. And that’s how I’ve lived, locked up on the fourth floor of Escape County Hospital (ECH) for the better part of thirteen years. Now, on the outside, the only thing I really want is to be left alone. But, for now, that’s impossible.
As a condition of my release, I’m required to check in with my shrink, Nora. I have to do this daily. Nora J. Cunningham, Phd. Fancy, right? Gross. Doesn’t impress me. Maybe I’m just immune, having been around head doctors for so long. I know better than to be impressed by fancy diplomas on the walls. The fanciest thing about her is the words she uses to describe exactly how I’m not feeling. I can’t stand it. I have to meet with her, in person, a couple of times a week. I always schedule my appointments for the same time—4:15 p.m. on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The later in the day, the better shot I have of making it on time. On off days, I just have to shoot her a text to let her know I’m okay. That’s so much easier. I try not to do people-ing.
I’ve been doing this—life on the outside—for a few months now. Just got out in May. They say, if I’m good, and do everything they ask of me—take my meds and shit—I’ll be done with it all in less than nine months’ time. We’ll see about that. Like I said, I don’t trust any of them. Would you?
It’s not all bad, making the walk through downtown Escape to the psych ward. Keeps me busy. Forces me to get out and enjoy the fresh air. Of course, it’s summertime. I may feel different in a few months. Still, I don’t mind it on days when I’m feeling good. And, if it wasn’t for Nora and those stupid required appointments, I might even enjoy it a little.
One thing about the fourth floor is, at least there, I have a few friends. You live with people long enough and your standards drop. You don’t worry about shit like meltdowns, ticks, and the constant skin picking. You learn to look the other way because you ain’t got any choice. And, it’s not like you don’t have your own issues.
The best thing about appointment days with Nora is easy. The best thing, probably the only really good thing, about those days is Dennis. I could talk about Dennis for years, if I was allowed to. I’m supposed to live like a monk, so I probably should keep my mouth shut. I don’t need trouble. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime and I ain’t looking to go back to the fourth floor. Still, I can tell you a little. Ain’t like nobody really listens to me anyway. They only listen when I’m saying the things they want to hear; the things that make them feel like they done good. Yuck.
Anyway, Dennis is the maintenance guy. Sure, he’s a little dorky looking. Probably not my usual type; if I had one. He wears thick glasses and has got to be one of the clumsiest people I’ve ever seen. If he isn’t falling or tripping over something he’s having a good day. And don’t even ask about his driving. The man’s car looks like he pulled it from the junkyard. The kind ya’d see in a derby pit for charity.
Still, he’s super nice and the way he pays attention to the little things just does something for me. Sometimes, I wonder if he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Once, I saw him spend three hours straightening pages of every calendar in the entire wing. When I asked him about it, he turned the color of Christmas and looked at the floor. Finally, he laughed and told me he was just strange like that; that he liked things to be in order.
It can’t be OCD. His car would bother him too much. So would the girls on the fourth floor, who leave their socks everywhere and can’t follow the rules. They ain’t the kind of people you could work around if you were really sick in the head. So Dennis, he’s probably good. Probably as normal as they come. Still, I like trying to figure him out, ya know?
Men, not just Dennis, are interesting creatures. I’ve never been with a man. Not a single kiss; not even something online. I know. It seems strange for a 31-year-old, but when have I had time? Between shuffling from one foster care to another, into group homes and finally ECH, the only thing I’ve had time for is literally one day at a time.
Doctors and the goons in my mandatory support group say I can’t have a relationship for at least a year. Screw that. In a year, I’ll have no reason to go back to ECH. By then, the first thing I’m going to do is escape this disgusting place. I’m hoping to take Dennis with me. I just have to get up the guts to tell him how I feel.
Is it risky? Sure. I mean, I don’t really know how to live on my own. I’m trying. So far, it’s mostly okay. I have case managers and a witch who wakes me up every day—too early—to make sure I take my meds. She growls at me when I roll over and go immediately back to sleep; telling me I need a schedule. I like to remind her that ECH is always hiring and they are great at routines. Lori, the witch, would thrive in a place like ECH. Most days, I think Lori hates me. The feeling is mutual.
But, yes, it’s possible Dennis will say no. It’s possible that his rejection would set me off, tip my meds in the wrong direction, or make me feel like giving up again. I admit it. The doctors might have a point about that. But I’d never say it out loud. They get to be right all the time. With Dennis, it’s different. Dennis is a nice guy. Never heard him say a mean thing about anyone. Dennis is what the co-dependent group would consider a “low risk potential romantic partner.” Low risk or not, it’s worth a shot. I really don’t have much to lose.
Right now, I don’t really have a life at all and everything always feels like it is crumbling. I’m hoping something new, with Dennis, will save me. I just have to get up the courage to tell him so. And, I’ve got to keep all of it on the down-low. If they find out, they may throw me right back up on the fourth floor. At that point, he’ll just see me as another head case. I can’t have that. I just need to move slowly and let things happen. I’m already planting the seeds.
***
“I don’t understand it. It ain’t like it’s normal to be a thirty-year-old virgin either,” I growl, sinking my hands into Nora’s faded red office couch. “What’s it gunna hurt for me to be with someone? I’m not saying I’d jump right into it. I’m sick of being told what to do. You guys treat me like I’m some freaking character in a movie. What was that movie called?” I refuse to tell her what I did to the faucet under my bathroom sink. What she doesn’t know will not hurt her and can only help me. Maybe Dennis too, if he’s smart.
She doesn’t even look up. Under her breath, she says, “’The Forty-Year-Old Virgin.’”
Oh, I’m sorry, am I bothering you? It’s mutual.
“Yeah. That.”
“Why can’t I be like that other one? ‘Crazy Love’ or something like that?”
“How about being in a movie about recovery?”
“Easy for you to say. You’d be in some fancy rich pants movie about a lady who comes to work every day and laughs at other people’s problems. You ain’t had to suffer a day in your life.”
“Is that how you see me?” Nora stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, as though I’m wrong about something I’m so sure of.
Whatever. I shrug, wishing I could tell her how I really felt—something I’m not exactly sure of myself. Then, for a brief second, I feel bad for her. It’s not Nora’s fault. She’s more of the punching bag. But she represents them all.
“I don’t know. I’m just sick of this place and I don’t get why I even have to be here. Whole thing just pisses me off. Unnecessary, ya know?”
“Well, where would you rather be?”
“Anywhere but here. I want to escape Escape. Kinda funny right? My life is a freaking joke. Always has been.”
Nora doesn’t laugh, probably because she’s not interested in me. It’s just how doctors are. I’m her last appointment of the day and I bet she wishes the clock would move faster. It’s probably the only thing we have in common. I’m sure she has better things to do in some home by Crystal Lake, or better, in Crimson Ridge with all the other rich folk whose biggest problem is getting the perfect diagonal stripes on their lawns or a next-season-let’s worry-about-it-now ski pass. Gross.
“Where would you like to go? If you didn’t have these rules and didn’t have to stay for a year, what would you do and who would you be?”
I shrug, silently cursing myself for falling into another one of her obvious shrink traps. By now, I should know better. Nora is like a greedy spider, waiting for clients to fall into her web to make herself feel useful. Then, she eats us; devouring our every word and picking our feelings off the bone. She’s no different than the rest of them.
When I first got to ECH, I could spot the traps from miles away. Lately, it’s been harder. Recently, I have less energy to fight them – or, maybe I want to fall into them. That’s even scarier. Don’t do it. Just say what she expects. It’s your safest bet.
“I don’t have to do what you say, you know. I’m my own person and it’s my one life. You told me that yourself. I still have free will.”
Now Nora is the one to shrug. “I know.” She pushes up her glasses and looks at her watch.
Another trap. Screw that. Stall her. “I could date whoever I want and just not tell anyone.”
“You could.”
Okay, fancy lady. Whatever. I’m just not speaking. You win. I fold my arms over my chest, staring at the clock to on her desk to the left, between the Kleenex and stupid sand tray she once made me draw a diagram of my non-existent family in. We sit there, for nine full minutes, until I’m literally sweating. Fine. You win again. Finally, I say, “And?”
She smiles.
Bitch.
“And if you did…”
“What? They’d put me right back in here? So what? Do you really think I’m doing all that great in a crappy subsidized trailer? Do you have any idea what it even takes me to come here? I have to convince myself I need the exercise and that it’s healthy to get outside for fresh air. I’m only lying to myself. I do it because I have to, nothing more.” I refuse to mention my friends on the fourth floor. There’s no skin-picking, fetal-position-shaker in the world worth three days a week with Nora – no matter how nice they are.
For the first time today, Nora nods like she’s being sincere. She runs her hands through her chemically-made dirty blonde hair and presses her lips tight. Her fingers get caught in the kinks at the ends and I laugh to myself, thinking she’d have no problem making dreadlocks and that she might even be trying. Her hair is a perpetual mess. Don’t rich people go to spas and have fancy hair stylists?
She tells me that she’s proud of me. My mouth hangs. Why is she saying that? What kind of trick is this?
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it. I’m proud of you. I can imagine it takes a lot just to show up to appointments.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No. I’m serious,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. She smiles again. “You’re doing great, Caroline. Really.”
I ignore the hair sticking out on one side of her face. For a moment, I think she may actually be genuine. I consider telling her about Dennis and think better of it. Never trust anyone. Definitely not a shrink. “Thanks,” I mumble. It’s not like she doesn’t already know enough. She knows there’s someone. She doesn’t need a name or a reason to keep closer tabs on the whole thing. She’s a nark. Don’t let her trick you. She gets rich off you being a lab rat… Ain’t got no problem cashing the check, and for what? Cause you got pissed at a bitch who kept stealing your stuff? A decade ago? What the fuck?
“No. Thank you. You’re an inspiration.”
“How?”
“Like I said, I just think it takes a lot of courage to do what you are doing. You’ve been here a long time. Change is hard. This has to be really difficult. I see that. And, yet, here you are!”
“I guess.” I’m here because you and the other quacks won’t let me leave. Call me crazy when I know I’m not. Make a fortune off Medicaid.
“No guessing needed. You’ve really come a long way. I hope that you see that.”
“Yeah. You said that ten times. I mean, I think so too. But still…”
Nora wipes sweat from her forehead and pushes her glasses up the bridge of her freckled nose. I’ve never seen her outside the hospital, but her dark complexion tells me she spends a lot of time on Crystal Lake. Maybe she’s a swimmer, I decide. Great. Just like Mia. Gross. Or worse, probably has a boat. One of those idiots making all that noise on weekends before noon. Don’t let her trick you. …Screw it. You need to know…
“How would you know?” I snap my gum, glaring at her the way the nurses used to frown at me when I got caught hiding meds under my tongue.
“That change is hard?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I’m human too. It’s not like I don’t have feelings.”
Bitch, please. “Bull. You have the perfect life. Perfect career. Perfect tan. Perfect everything.” Except for that hair and those clothes. Ever heard of an iron? And get a freaking comb!
Nora snorts.
Okay, maybe not the perfect laugh either.
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I am too! I understand that it might appear that way, but things are not always as they seem.”
“How so?”
“Well, Mia for starters. You always talk about her.”
“Can’t stand her.” Why does she always have to go back to Mia? She’s exactly like the bitch that put me in here in the first place. I can see her stealing her foster sister’s clothes too. Another mean girl Sara who would let the new kid would sit alone at lunch, pointing and laughing that she’s not good enough. Stop. Don’t go backwards. It’s over. You’ve wasted enough time on it.
“But why?”
“But why what?”
“But why do you hate Mia? You don’t even know her.”
Oh, here we go again. Round and round and round. At least this will kill time. “Have you seen her? I mean, it’s ridiculous. The way she hangs all over Gage.” Gage. Another hot guy I can’t have. All because of dumb Mia. Doesn’t even matter what I did for her.
“Well, actually, no, I’ve never seen her. I wouldn’t recognize her. But I feel like I know a lot about her, from talking to you. What I’m asking is, just because she is Gage look happy together, what makes you think they actually are?”
“I can just tell. At least she’s allowed to date!”
“True.”
“So?”
“But how do you know their lives are perfect? Because she doesn’t have a treatment plan with goals and boundaries to adhere to?”
Shove your shrink shit up your ass. Why can’t you ever be a real person? “Well, they look perfect.”
“So if someone is attractive, it means they have all aspects of their lives together. Hmmm. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Oh. My. God. Shut. Up. “No.” I think of Becca, wasting away in the locked ward. I wonder if they’ve gotten her to eat more than a cracker a day for lunch. I wonder if she’ll need the feeding tube. I promise myself to visit her when this God-awful appointment ever ends.
“Well, then…”
“Just never mind. New topic. And how much time do we have left anyway?”
“Plenty.”
“Fabulous.” Keep billing Medicaid. Imagine the trip you can take on the state’s dime.
“Listen. We can keep doing this. We can sit here, talk about the little things, get nowhere. Or, we could talk about the stuff that really bothers you. The choice is yours…”
“I don’t have a choice. That’s the whole problem.”
Nora writes something on her clipboard. I imagine it’s the same words as usual, things like “outburst,” “rage,” “explosive disorder” and “irrational mood swings.” I imagine she is calling my “affect” words like “combative” and “confrontational.” Bitch. You have no idea. I consider pulling the pen out of her hand and stabbing her in the eye with it. This visual causes me to laugh, loud. It’s not the first time and it’s also probably why they’ve kept me in here. Maybe they can read my mind. Now, she’s probably writing “hysterical” and “rapid mood swings.”
Her head springs up. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing.”
She frowns.
Great. Now I get to worry about making her feel bad. Add pathetic sap to your list of labels. Truth is, I am a lot of things, but I try not to be a mean person. The only thing I can think to do is give her what she wants. Sometimes, I hate being me. If I could be anyone else…
My guilt betrays my will. For the first time in more than a decade, I say the words they’ve been trying to pull out of me. “What do you want me to talk about? What do you think is bothering me?”
The words are still in the space between us before I realize the mistake I’ve made in handing Nora the steering wheel. It’s kind of like giving a kid twenty bucks and setting them free in a candy shop. I’ve spent enough time around shrinks to know that you just don’t do that. Still, I’m tired of living with guilt. I don’t allow myself to picture stabbing her in the other eye as I wait for her answer. But I want to. I picture Becca, spitting her cracker into a napkin. In this moment, I am her.
Nora pauses, before finally leaning forward in her chair. “I want to talk about your mother.”
Perfect. Let’s do that. That will be a blast. We can talk about how she lasted a full eleven months after James. That will be fun. We can talk about Sara while we are at it; how I would have slit her throat if they hadn’t stopped me. I never should have been put in that foster home in the first place, but no one cared. Or, we could even just cut straight to James, half-floating, half-not. Who needs dancers with a party like that going on?
I refuse to make it too easy. I’ve handed her enough. I’m already giving Nora more trust than I’ve ever given anyone in as long as I can remember. “What about her?”
“Well, you’ve never really talked about her and I wonder why that is. I feel like it must have been hard, losing her so young.”
Captain obvious. “Yep. It wasn’t a great time. I’m just not sure what talking about it will do. It ain’t like it’s gonna bring her back.”
“Well, no, but it could help you.”
“I guess.” It could help you come up with a hundred more labels and pills. It could pay for your new boat and maybe, some hair conditioner. It could help you feel important or like you did something that mattered with your day. Talking about my mother would not help me. Not even a little. Ain’t gonna work.
“What was she like?”
“I don’t really know. I mean, this was twenty years ago. I was a kid. Ten. I was ten-freaking-years-old. I mostly just remember trying to take care of her after James.” And trying to survive. Stealing food from the trash and trying to convince myself it was cool that we had no heat or lights. Realizing I was dirt, invisible, just like my mother said we were after Dad left us. Nothing even close to anything you could possibly understand.
Nora flips through a file tucked under her notepad.
It’d probably be easier to ask me shit than to read notes about me, but what do I know? I ain’t the one with the fancy degrees and the white picket fence.
“How old was he when he died?”
“Two.”
“So sad.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“And it says here that you found him?”
Alright, Sherlock. Give it a rest. You already knew that. Stop acting like this is new news. And stop acting like I’m dumb! “Yep. Mom was on the phone. He was … just floating there, face down in that stupid plastic pool.”
“Wow. That’s…it’s awful.”
“Yep.”
We sit in our usual awkward silence for a few minutes while I try to think of anything but my little brother’s body in that God-awful tiny coffin. Finally, “I tried to save him. It was too late.” Idiot. She’ll jump all over that.
Nora leans forward, passing me a box of tissues.
“You were a kid. It wasn’t your fault.”
My mouth takes on a mind of its own: “Doesn’t matter. I was supposed to be watching him. Mom was arguing with the guy from the electric company; trying to keep the lights on. She told me to watch him.”
“It’s not your fault.”
For the love of Jesus, please stop repeating yourself! Aren’t you paid to come up with something smarter than that? “I didn’t think you could drown in a foot of water. I just didn’t know.”
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah. I guess. But try telling Mom that. She thought it was her fault too. Drank herself to death after that. Got to spend the next year watching her kill herself, basically. …Maybe it’s why I’m so comfortable at ECH. I’m used to people suffering and me worrying about them.”
“Oh, believe me, I hear that too.”
Maybe Nora’s not so bad. I mean, she does have a point there. It’s not like she hasn’t seen her share. …But it’s different. It’s not her shit is happening to. She’s just here to take the notes. Our lives, to her, are like a dramatic television series. Screw her. Try a different channel, lady. I refuse to like you.