PamyNovaes: WHAAAAAT? Here's more. Lol. (And I appreciate the sentiment.)
Guest: Thank you so very much. I certainly appreciate it.
Author's Note: I've got a vague idea of where this is headed. So, without further adieu...
Seven Months Earlier
When you're little, the idea of grass being greener on someone else's side isn't necessarily something to dwell on. For each experience is entirely new. Each popsicle is the sweetest. Every day the sun shines brightest of all. And every jagged blade of grass is the greenest hue you've ever laid eyes on.
But as time progresses, new experiences fall few and far between. Days turn into routines; school becomes a chore. Things you once enjoyed gradually lose their appeal.
So, when you're sixteen years-old, digging through your parents' medical cabinet for the first time, an eerie sensation of being little once more sets in. Two muscle relaxants and twenty minutes later- you're floating higher than you ever have. As if you're eight again, swinging higher, higher, and higher. Only this time- when you jump free, prepared to free-fall toward the ground, a cloud catches you, and the rest is history.
Today, as I tear into my mother's various medications, that same painful history becomes clear with each passing second. I try recalling that childish feeling. Try to remember the sweet popsicles, bright days, and green grass. It doesn't return. For each pill bottle reads the same: May cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery after taking. There is no warning of the necessity that follows. The constant need for more. A nagging itch that insists you return to the cloud just one more time. There is no warning of the disappointment, bitterness, and self-loathing that trail slowly behind the cloud.
I couldn't tell you where this started, even if I tried. Maybe it was out of curiosity. A release from existential boredom. Maybe it was from the pressures of school and sports. Having the knowledge of college's unlikelihood without some sort of scholarship constantly in the forefront of my mind. Regardless of the "why", "how" begins to take precedent. How am I going to hide the stealing? And at the same time, how am I going to swipe another? How would I ever make it through a day if these things didn't exist? To ask why would leave you trapped in the past. Coming to grips with how keeps us ever present-minded, barreling recklessly toward the future.
A future with far more new experiences to be had. Like stumbling into your parents' conversation one evening after dinner. Eavesdropping as terms like "family services" and "treatment" are thrown around.
"Family Services has given us an ultimatum, Emily," my mother explains, tears welling in her eyes. "Either you enter treatment, or they'll place you in a more suitable home. Apparently your father and I are no longer properly equipped to raise you."
I'm trying to make sense of her words. Trying to pinpoint what might warrant their involvement. Why I've heard nothing of this before. I'm more concerned, however, with how reckless I was. Careless with this secret. "Somebody must have said something," I accuse, my mind reeling over potential suspects. Teachers. A classmate. Spencer, Aria, or Hanna. Someone from work. Hell, even swimmers from a rival school. I bet they'd love to see the competition taken down.
Only now does my father chime in. He takes hold on one of my arms, eyes narrowing in. "You're not listening, sweetheart," he says. "It doesn't matter who said what. The fact is that Family Services are involved and we've got to act." It's his typical, Army reaction to every situation. Always on the offensive. Action, action, action.
Too much action kills a buzz, unfortunately. Their worry knocks me clean from the cloud, forcing a rapid plummet to the ground. And since it took me longer to ascend with the last fix, fretting over the threats of people with clipboards and too much time on their hands is at the bottom of my agenda. Instead, irritation is the only emotion I can actively recognize. "And if I refuse both?" I eventually ask.
My mother steps forward, placing a gentle hand to my eyelid, forcing it open. "Are you on-" but I cut her off, yanking away. In one swift motion, I'm darting upstairs, two steps at a time. It takes all of six minutes to cram the necessities into a duffel bag. Toiletries. Clothes. A small baggie of capsules I bought off of some kid in Calculus. The basics.
Both are still waiting downstairs when I emerge. "I take it that neither of you think I'm innocent, huh? That people are talking purely because they can?"
"We're worried, Emily. About you," my father insists.
"If you want to send your only child to the junkie house, be my guest," I dismiss, hoping that the guilt card is more than an urban myth.
My mother pipes up. "Nobody wan-"
But I cut her off again. And in the steeliest tone that I can muster, I announce, "When do we leave?"
The car ride is nothing short of completely silent, mind the occasional choked sob from my mother. I don't bother with consoling. This is her doing. I might have loaded the gun, but she pulled the trigger. And I'm intent on making that known.
Within an hour, we near a large, light blue building. From the outside, it looks welcoming. Like a resort. As if I'll be going on an extended vacation. One that distant, towering guard posts will prevent me from leaving.
Heading alongside the sidewalk, we pass a sign that reads, in large block letters: Piney Groves Rehabilitation Center.
Where in the actual fuck do they come up with these names? I'm about to ask Dad when we come upon a circular desk, nestled in the room's center. A thin man sits behind, answering multiple phones. "Piney Groves Rehabilitation Center. Brett speaking," he mutters into the receiver, placing a finger up to my mother.
In the minute that follows, I'm afforded time to canvass the area. Groups of kids my age wander throughout the foyer, filing into long corridors underneath the grand staircase. Each looks cheerful enough. One might compare the scene to a high school setting. That is, if everyone in high school wears the same powder blue scrubs and flip flops.
My trance is broken when a lanky woman in a pants suit clicks up to our trio. She extends a hand before saying, "Dr. Evans. Welcome." And then her attention shifts to me. "Emily Fields?" When I can only muster an anxious nod, she smiles and continues with, "We've been expecting you. Follow me."
Dad shoos Mom and I away, tending to a stack of paperwork that Desk Clerk Brett places on the counter. We venture downstairs first, following the sounds of heels click-clack on tile. Dr. Evans slows to a halt, just outside a massive window. It overlooks rolling fields and a lake off in the distance. In the following minutes, we pass an empty cafeteria, a slew of tiny classrooms, and the random office. The downstairs tour ends in a large, tiled room. A swimming pool is inside, complete with lanes.
Mom nudges me excitedly. "See, Emily," she whispers. "You'll be able to swim. Just like old times."
Dr. Evans's face brightens at the remark. "Our swim program competes against local high schools," she explains, gesticulating wildly. "The board finds that swimming is a great way to channel aggression without physical contact. All while being far less strenuous than a chess club." She and my mother both laugh at the last bit.
Upstairs has the same vibe. Halls and halls with rooms to either side. The dormitories, as Dr. Evans explains. A quick peek inside the only open door shows two single-size beds, a nightstand to the side of each, and a single lamp. Though not the most spacious, at least it's carpeted. Quaint.
Toward what I take as the end of our tour, Dr. Evans halts at the staircase top, checking her wrist. "I'm afraid that I must bid you both adieu," she huffs. "The lunch rush is always most hectic. And Emily, I look forward to seeing you at orientation." She and Mom shake hands, and then the click-clacking slowly fades away.
"What do you think?" Dad asks as we return.
Truthfully, I didn't know what to expect. Security planted in every corner? People strapped to rolling chairs? Instead, there is nothing intimidating about this place. I've chalked it up to nothing more than a luxury day care for junkies. So I muster a confident, "It's different."
Both parents start gathering themselves, as if about to leave. "No need to fret, dear. January 28th will be here before you know it," he says, placing a light kiss to my cheek.
Wait. I do the math quickly. "Six months?" I blurt. From what they broadcast on television, people are in and out of these places in one, two months, tops. Senior year is less than a month away. How am I supposed to explain a six month absence? Claim some arbitrary sickness? Say that I was kidnapped over summer vacation? No. The team needs me. I'll miss the entire season. This can't be.
Mom must sense my uneasiness, for she draws me into a firm hug. "It's the minimum length for admittees," she explains.
"But-"
"Complete the program," my father chides. "Listen to the doctors. Get better. And come home to us." Then they're both turning toward the door. Nerves force me in pursuit. Desperation.
Choking on each word, I call out, "There's got to be another way. I screwed up. I get it. Let me come home, and I promise that it won't happen again." The rambling leaves me breathless, praying for a change of mind.
My mother hardens her expression, forcing away the mist that threatens to break free. In a callous tone, she says, "I'm afraid we're all of out of options." And then they're gone.
As if their exit opened the flood gates, a bell rings and swarms of teenagers file through the foyer. Desk Clerk Brett instructs me to sit as he makes a call. As a sea of powder blue flows past, eyes shift from me toward the ceiling. Only now do I notice the mural that hangs at the right wall's top. In italicized letters, it reads:
"Valiant is each individual in their effort to rise. Soldiers from the dust. Unbound by chains of the past that hold firm, threatening the future. But more courageous are those willing to fall. Those who knowingly plummet into the depths of all that is unknown. For they, too, rise. Emerging triumphant and built anew. And so we call out: woe to the unfallen. Woe to the unfallen. Amen."
The reverie is broken by DCB's voice. "Ms. Fields," he calls, snapping me to attention. And with the turn of his head, I'm directed to a tall brunette in plain clothes. Without a word, she collects my bags and tears off in the other direction.
I'm lead into the corridors, seedy looks from passersby raining down. We stop in a caged, dimly lit room. Locked cubbies hang all about. The brunette retrieves a container and unzips my luggage, rummaging through the pack. I begin to protest when she puts a hand up, silencing me. Seconds later, my wallet and cell phone are tossed into the plastic container. The small baggie doesn't resurface in my mind until she holds it out front, examining the contents.
"I can expl-" but she puts another dismissive hand up.
Grueling moments pass until she finally speaks. "Strip," she commands, placing a folded pile on the metal table. Feeling the sting of my previous error, I comply. When I'm down to nothing but my underwear, bra, and socks, she waves a hand. As if instructing me to continue. "You'll get everything back in two weeks, when we've decided that you aren't a flight risk."
"This isn't prison," I grumble, undressing further.
She huffs, eyes cutting into mine. "Have you ever seen an addict in detox?" she sneers, snatching my bra away. Long fingers dig into the lining, ripping the wiring free. "This isn't prison," she agrees, holding the piece of steel to my eye. "But prison isn't the only place where tensions run high. People lash out. They run away. Withdrawal's not a pretty sight."
A chill runs through my naked, semi-covered body. I'm soon allowed a sports bra, pair of loose-fitting scrubs, and sandals. Then we leave the cage, winding through twists and turns, up a back stairwell, and down yet another dimly lit hallway before screeching to a halt. The nameless tour guide whips out a pair of keys, swinging the door open.
It's nothing like the room I inspected earlier. Cold, white tile floors. Two mattresses supported by a steel frame. White sheets. White curtains. White everything. The only familiar thing is the voice that calls out, "Orientation's in five." before slamming the door shut.
Five minutes feels like it could be six months with how slowly the time passes. Soon enough, I poke my head outside. Lines of equally frightened faces flow through the narrow space. I follow suit, aimlessly strolling in tandem until we reach a large auditorium. Dr. Evans stands on stage, towering over the forty or so of us.
"Welcome to Piney Groves," she booms over the microphone. "Where we believe that new beginnings are right around the corner." The next forty-five seconds are devoted to reading the creed aloud. The same one that I spotted on the wall earlier. At its end, she extends both arms and asks, "Amen?" To which the crowd repeats.
I scan the crowd of solemn faces from afar. Two lines are formed on either side of the stage. Each person in civilian garb. Arms crossed behind their backs. Standing tall. Proud. They've undoubtedly been here for some time. As if tenure in a place like this is boast-worthy. I spot the brunette from earlier, ten people deep into the left side. She looks smug, much like our earlier encounter.
Dr. Evans runs over a set of rules. Basic stuff. Group therapy is every morning. Followed by prescription pick-up, lunch, and classes. Dinner at five. Lights out by ten. Anything done with the time between is of our choosing. "You're going to struggle," she continues. "It's to be expected. And you're going to be irritable. That's expected, too." Dr. Evans twirls the microphone cord around her finger.
"There will be times that the annoyance will become too much, and you'll feel as though you must endure this process alone. Feel as if we're holding your hands. Babying you," she says gently. "That is not the case. We," she signals to the lines below, "are here to help. This fine selection of patients are going to be your mentors for the next six months. Show you the ropes. Get you acclimated. Should you ever feel uncomfortable speaking with a counselor- they'll be here."
A collective sigh ripples through the auditorium. Restlessness from her constant droning. Dr. Evans must realize this, for she uprights and speaks a bit louder. "Speaking of holding hands… This brings me to my next point," Dr. Evans announces and pauses. "There will be no physical contact of any kind. Fighting will not be tolerated. And neither will bumping uglies behind the dumpster." The last snippet elicits a chuckle from the crowd.
She then explains how drugs, alcohol, missing curfew, and absence from mandatory sessions are prohibited. A headache settles in just below my left eye, reminding my internal clock of the time. Reminding my senses of the trouble I'm in. We're allowed to leave just as soon as Dr. Evans finishes with, "An infraction of any kind will result in the stern reevaluation of your time here. Take it from me- you don't want that. So take a deep breath, and we'll get through this together."
An orderly then ushers rows of us to a far wing. Mutters throughout the line suggest meeting with the resident physician. It's only after another thirty-minute wait do I learn that some rumors possess truth. In the office is another sea of white. Another metal table.
"Treatment is individualized. Medications and the like," a man named Dr. Andrews explains. "And I had your previous doctor send over the records from your last visit." He pauses, flipping through the sheets attached to a clipboard. After skimming through, he sighs, "How long have you been abusing prescription drugs, Emily?"
The question throws me off balance. No one's ever asked, let alone so blatantly. He takes my silence as answer, scribbling onto the clipboard. "Any aches or pains that I should know about?" Dr. Andrews asks.
"A headache," I admit.
"Your head has to get used to detox, just as the rest of your body," he says. "It'll go away in about a week."
The weight of my situation sets in. Trouble with adjusting to pain is what landed me here in the first place. Fear is next. Fear of aching bones that formed when I tried to quit a couple of months back. Fear of skin that will soon fit much like these scrubs. Fear of the migraines. Fear of losing the cloud. So I bring up the only injury I can recall and the only one likely to be hidden deep within his files. "My shoulder," I lie. "I hurt it a while back and the pain has yet to disappear."
Dr. Andrews' face lights up as he thumbs through the pages, jaw tensed. "Here it is," he says, placing a finger onto the sheet. "Cyclobenzaprine. Fifteen milligram dosage, three times daily. Not to be taken with antidepressants." The name sounds familiar, so I nod. It's confusing, though, his amusement by the ordeal. For the doctor chuckles, reaching into a desk drawer, and places three peppermints into my hand. He then mutters a sly, "Nice try, kid."
The rest of the day is a blur. And when the ten o'clock bell rings, my fourth hour in bed is signaled. Sleep has become a figment of the imagination. At home, this would be about the time I pop two tablets and call it a night. Since home is so very far away from this place- this room- I stare as my roommate wordlessly enters and falls into bed.
She's a bottle blonde type. Slumped, taut frame. Glasses. We didn't speak earlier, either. A sneaking suspicion says that we won't any time in the near future.
When a morning alarm goes off, the sun has yet to rise. I would know, for I've been staring out of the barred window all night, waiting. Per yesterday's onslaught of information, the early routine consists of showering then breakfast. So I zombie from bed, down the hallway, and to the right, where the second floor stalls lie. An orderly hands out towels, insisting that they be returned before leaving the bathroom. I pull the curtain to, hoping that warm water will reawaken my senses. It doesn't. I splash cool faucet water on my face, hoping for the same. It doesn't, either.
The food is shit. Reconstituted eggs, leathery bacon, and room temperature orange juice. I eat alone and in silence, working feverishly to block out the surrounding noises. A sleepless night and twenty-hour withdrawal make hangovers seem like child's play.
Every other face that enters the cramped room used for group sessions emulates my feeling. Eight folding chairs, neatly arranged in a circle, await bodies. I'm the second to appear, falling behind a lanky fellow. He's slouched over in the chair, scowling at the ground. Minutes pass as the others enter one by one. The last to appear is an older woman who dances sprightly into the room.
"My name is Angie, and I'll be your team leader for the time being," she sing-songs, taking a seat across from me. "Why don't we start with some basic introductions? Names, ages, and the battles we plan on fighting over the next six months." All of these fucking military references. No wonder Dad didn't put up much of a fight against sending me away.
We begin with the lanky guy from earlier. An eighteen year-old named Ross who got busted for selling drugs on an elementary school playground. Next to him is Sarah, who's fifteen and starting doing meth a year ago. And so ensues. Each person with a far more elaborate story than mine. So, when it comes time for me to speak, I'm apprehensive. "Emily," I mutter. "Sixteen. And not sure what I'm here for."
"What was that, dear? You'll have to speak up," Angie says.
Tiredness begins to cloud my judgment. An intense stabbing feeling courses through my legs. Before so much as a second thought, I snap, "I. Don't. Know."
Silence falls quickly, mind the slow, muffled breathing of my fellow newcomers. I fixate on Angie, whose calm demeanor vanishes instantly. Icy features take the place of previously warm ones. "Are you saying that you've been wrongly admitted?" she retorts. "Do you have an evil twin, Ms. Fields?"
"No," I mumble, regaining control of a cranky tongue.
Angie readjusts in her seat, elbows on her knees. Leaning over in my direction. "I'll treat you like a child as long as you react like one. You're not a child, are you?" I shake my head, not once breaking her gaze. "That's what I thought," she says, leaning back. "You're not a victim, either. None of you are. And the sooner everyone recognizes this, the better."
I don't make another sound over the hour. Even as the others in my group answer Angie's countless questions, I listen intently. Arms crossed, paying close attention. Just enough to appease the counselor. After she recites the creed, ending our meeting, her attention shifts to a list. Last name is paired with another last name. The mentor assignments that Dr. Evans mentioned earlier, I assume.
When my name is omitted, I'm forced to confront Angie. "Excuse me," I stutter. "I don't have a partner."
"Last name?" she spits. I respond, waiting as she flips the page over. All of this while muttering, "Fields. Fields. Fields." under her breath. Moments later, her finger taps against the clipboard. "Here you are. Consider yourself lucky, Ms. Fields. She's a good one. Your mentor has the orientation work shift today, but will be back tomorrow."
"Who is it?" I ask. "What's her name?" Praying that it isn't someone I've already met. Someone I've already pissed off.
"McCullers," she reads. "Paige McCullers."