A Room With A View
Chapter One
It's weird how rehab facilities have silly names such as 'Sandy Ridges Rehabilitation Center'. Especially ironic was the fact that Sandy Ridges was neither by a ridge or anything resembling sand. I supposed it's a nice feature though, that way when my friends call my cell , my voicemail can tell them I'm at Sandy Ridges, and they'll probably think I'm off on a lavish vacation.
Not here, in one of those all-white facilities that always smell like bleach and crayons. Nope, they'll all think I'm living up the rock star life on some beach, sluty girls in tiny bikinis hanging on my every word.
My palms are sweaty, and my sweater smells stale and the couch in the rec room where I'm sitting, is way too plasticy for my standards. The room is pretty much empty, at this time in the afternoon. All the other 'guests' here are in group therapy now, except for a thin, mousy girl in the corner and an old man sitting six inches from the blue television screen. Man, that guy has a horrible swirl comb over.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Joey talking to the plump receptionist, a frail looking red head. He looks like hell; dark circles, and bags under his eyes, his mouth a tight line as he signs some more paperwork. I feel bad for him, Jesus, I'm not even his goddamn biological son. And yet he is still taking care of me, helping me.
Sure, Joey was pissed when Mr. S called and told him the coke addict I've become. But, he never illustrated his anger to me. In fact, when he met me at the airport, the only thing showing on his face wasn't anger, or regret, but empathy. Joey's such a nice guy, Angie's lucky to have him as a father. Then again, I guess I am too.
I can't help but laugh to myself in spite at how my real dad, if he was still alive, would react to this. I'd be dead, literally. Chills run up and down my spine. It's like even though the bruises have all healed, there still there. And I can feel them itching and pricking at my skin. Like, it's my dad's sick way of forcing me to remember him. I hate it.
This rec room, mostly occupied on visiting days, has a large TV in the corner of the room, in front of it a large square of industrial carpet. It's on the first floor, across from the cafeteria. Down the hall are numerous offices, where shrinks analyze and sum up your whole existence into the thin pages of spiral notebooks.
The dorms or whatever, are on the second floor, divided by age and sex. Wendy, the head daytime nurse who gave us the tour, gave me a look when she mentioned that guys and girls aren't allowed into each other's dorms. It was like she just expected me to be a sex addict or something. I was tempted to shove in her face that I was only at Sandy Ridges because it's the only goddamn place that'll take my health insurance, but I stay quiet.
Adjacent to the rec room is the 'Quiet Room', where you have to be absolutely silent while in there. I peeked into it as Joey and Wendy continued ahead of me. The 'Quiet Room' sort of resembles a classroom. It's filled with rows of desks, and those multi-colored metal chairs. Only a few people where in there when we walked by, a heavier set girl and, seemingly, her anorexic counterpart. They giggled when I walked by, and, being the basturd that I am, I smirked back at them before running to catch up with Joey and Wendy.
That old man flinched, and a knowing expression dawned on his, like he just realized the movie he was watching was over and the screen was blue. He rubbed his eyes and slowly stood up, arching and cracking his back with pop that made me gag. And he left the rec room swiftly, heading toward the downstairs men's room.
The mousy girl in the corner looks up at me, her eyes leaving her book for the first time since I came in. She's staring at me with intense eyes, her rectangular glasses resting in the bridge of her nose. I know what she's doing, she is trying to read me, but she's out of luck. Sorry love, I'm not an open book.
I'm seventeen years old and stuck in a mental rehab facility for the next sixty days. I want so bad to be on the tour again. To be playing gigs every night, guzzling all the free beer I can stomach. The sluty girls would hang on my every word, but I'd ignore them and look for that one girl.
That one girl at the shows that looks like she could careless if the band on stage died, right in front of her. The girl whose there so her trashy, drunk friend doesn't have sex with some old, greasy man. Man, I'd spot that girl and sweet talk her till she was convinced I was a great guy and we'd head back to my room. She'd forget her friend and we'd fuck all night.
I'm an asshole. My mother would be so ashamed of me. Heck, she probably is, if you believe in God and heaven and all that other shit. I'm not too religious, though.
Hanging on the wall is this obnoxious sign, a list of rules. I'm enticed to laugh at it, but I don't. Everyone is too serious at this goddamn place. The list is your basic loony bin clichés:
One. No pens, glass, razors, scissors, or any other sharp object not approved by the head nurse.
Two. All meals must be eaten in the cafeteria, and your tray checked before being thrown out.
Three. All guests must adhere to their individual appointment and group appointment times.
Four. Only PG and G movies are to be played in the rec room.
Five. Visitors are allowed on Monday, and Friday, 2:00pm till 8:00pm
Six. No Soft Drinks allowed.
Seven. Help your friends, if you see something, tell one of the staff members ASAP
Eight. Tobacco Smoking is permitted only on the smoking porch
"Television. Blue. Damn it. Fuck."
I jerked my eyes from the poster to the tiny girl, bending over to shut off the TV. She turns around to see me staring at her and give a shy smile, like she forgot I was there.
"Hey…" She mumbles, and shit, she's walking towards me. I swallow the spit in my mouth, I really don't feel like talking to her or anyone. Her hair is dark brown, almost black and tied with ribbon at the base of her neck.
"Why you here new kid? Try and kill yourself? Possession?" Her voice was low and official sounding, the kind you heard on the background of skin care commercials. She was tiny and she resembled a bunch or right angles, as placed her hands on her non-existent hips.
I didn't answer, mostly because I didn't want to say it out loud and secondly because, frankly, it wasn't any of her goddamn business.
She laughed and it came out airy. "Oh, you're the kind of kid whose above all this and won't talk? Right?"
Her plaid pajama pants were cut off exposing her bony ankles and her t-shirt was rolled up to expose her white midriff. She was the poster child for eating disorder kids. I looked away and closed my eyes.
I want to go home. I don't want to live here. I want to take a hit of coke and gargle mountain dew, till all I can do is see and not even think, just see. I want Ellie and Manny to feel bad for putting me through this. To just feel horrible, for them doing the 'right thing', like rule number seven out of thirty here at Sandy Ridges. I want to know that someone back home, at Degrassi, doesn't think I'm a washed up basket case on coke. But, I don't think anyone doesn't think that.
I'm looking at her again, but not at her face or her chest or anything but her tongue. It's red, like vibrant red, like she just ate a popsicle or sucker or something. And it's flapping around in her mouth, curving out the sounds of the words she speaking that I'm ignoring. When she says a word with an 's' her red tongue does this twitch against her teeth. She has a lisp, but it's not funny. Not to me at least, and I don't know why.
"My name is Mayson. And you can only ignore this place for so long…" I like the way she pronounces her name. With the weird 's' sound. But, I don't tell her because I think she'll get offended. Mayson is walking away now, out of the room, a nice looking nurse escorting her to the hallway where the shrinks are.
I entwine my fingers on my lap, as if I'm praying, but I'm not. I can hear her cruddy looking flip flops flipping and flopping on the linoleum floor down the hall. That's how quiet it is.
My eyes squinted shut, and I wonder what Ellie is doing. She's probably with her college boyfriend, eating sushi for lunch with him. Ellie probably forgot all about bi-polar, coke addict Craig, poor me. Then, there is Manny, whose probably moved on to another boy toy already. One that's smart and going places, a boy that Emma helped her pick out.
Jesus, Emma.
I haven't seen her, talked to her, in forever. Excluding peachy small talk and glimpses here and there during my last trip to Degrassi Street. Guilt is a horrible thing; Emma had made vegetable lasagna the night before I left to Joey. It would be just her, she assured me on the voice mail message. Emma wanted to talk. I had ignored it, too pissed off at everyone to do anything but that. I wonder what she had to tell me….
Somebody tapped my shoulder. I knew it was Joey, I could smell his cologne, the old spice kind. He cleared his throat. And I resisted the urge to hug him.
"Hey, Craig, everything is all set. Make sure you take your medication and get better."
Wasn't that what I was here for? To take my crazy medicine and 'get better'. I wondered if Angie would know about this. Know what a stupid, idiot, fucked up brother she had. And I wonder if she'd care, if she'd make me a 'Get Well' card or if Joey would let her come visit me.
Joey bent over, so he was eye level with me. Tears were fronting I his eyes and I almost wanted to cry myself. I held it in, though. He placed his hands on my shoulders, and gave them a reassuring squeeze.
And while he said goodbye, all I could think about was this smelly black hoodie I was wearing . I wonder if Joey smelt it's stale bar stench too. Probably.
He kept looking back at me as he walked past the front reception desk, and out the wide glass doors. I stared at his retreating back for a moment, and then that same nice nurse who escorted Mayson, showed up and said my name softly. I nodded at her and followed her up the stairs, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, and picking up my guitar with my other hand.
"It's a room with a view, we're one of the lucky ones. Some guests just have windows that showcase the back parking lot." A quiet voice spoke, interrupting my non-existent thoughts. I rest my face against the cool, clear glass, eyeing the front walkway with all it's benches and flowers and briskly white sidewalk.
"Yeah…"I trail off, not sure if there is anything else to say.
My voice was a bit strained sounding, the boy didn't seem to notice though. I watched him carefully, as he walked towards me. He wore jeans with holes in them, the kind you buy at expensive stores, and a long sleeve Newport High track tee. His hair was brown and shaggy. He looked to wholesome to be a patient here, let alone, my roommate.
"Craig Manning, the musician, right?"
"Yeah, how'd you know that?"
I scratched at my head, confused. I felt somewhat more at ease, now that my stink black hoodie was off and in my dirty laundry bag. The lukewarm air coming from the vent on the ceiling gave me the goosebumps.
The boy laughed, just a tad bit and held up an index card. "Your bio-card. It helps break the ice." The boy shrugged and looked to the side.
That made sense, I thought. So, I nodded my head and continued to gaze out the window, wondering why the fountain on the front lawn ran dry.
"I'm Forrest, by the way. Staying for one more month, hopefully. Here because I had an O.D. On purpose."
And before I could stop my nosey, rude mouth, I asked why.
Forrest ran his thumb across the metal window sill, not meeting my gaze for a moment. Then, he surprised me by smiling a dark smile.
" I caught my twenty-something step mom fucking my girlfriend."
My mouth dropped; shit, that didn't happen everyday. Forrest mumbled something inaudible that sounded like 'whore' but I wasn't sure.
"Why are you here?"
"Isn't it on that stupid card?"
It came out sarcastic and I half regretted opening my mouth.
"It just says addiction, care to elaborate?"
I scuffed my toe against the floor. Shit.
"It's the cliché musician's story. Coke made me feel, I don't know, it just…"
My voice trailed off because my throat became dry. And I couldn't talk and I just felt like sleeping. Forrest understood though, because he nodded his head.
"Y'know what Craig? You can have the bed by the window, usually the guest whose been here longer gets it, but I want you to have it."
I shook my head. "Why?"
Forrest spoke while crossing the room, sitting on the bed closest to the door frame; there are no actual doors to the dorms.
"Well, maybe the view will help you write a damn good song, I'll hear a few months from now, on the radio. And you can tell me thanks than."
Forrest's words were jumbled and didn't make too much sense, but I understood him. He turned the TV on that hung from ceiling in-between the two beds. And PBS came on, the guys with an afro painting another mountain landscape.
I looked out the window and once more and got lost in the blooming flowers and guests soaking up the springtime sunshine, leaning against the hard looking, wooden benches.
And upon eyeing the road past the green grass, I was reminded of my life outside these walls. My perfect life that had crumbled at my feet in less than a week.
I didn't want a room with a view anymore. I wanted my life back and I'll be damned if I don't have it by the end of my stay at Sandy Ridges.
(A/N: Any good, I've spent forever writing this. Review! And don't worry, some Degrassi characters will pop up, more importantly their names start with an 'e'.)