Los Angeles, CA – February 2009
Lisa lay in bed for three days. She shakes. She vomits. Her eyes sting, and her stomach cramps. Her head aches. Everything hurts. Her arms and legs burn, and her back screams. The room is spinning, and the walls are closing in. She dreams of needles—pushing into her veins and flooding her system. The high. It's euphoric. But it's not real. Instead, she's here, curled in a ball, rocking, praying for death.
"Hey, sweetie," The nurse, Maria, says as she opens the door, "How are you doing today?"
"It hurts." Her body aches. That is the withdrawal. But her shoulder. Her shoulder is unbearable. She tries to think back over her time in Landsthul and Walter Reed. She remembers the physical therapy. And the exercises she was given to do when she felt pain. But the surgeries. The pins. The screws. The metal plate. It's not going away. Is she really supposed to learn to live with this? She has not gone twenty-four hours without the drugs since being found. She didn't expect the pain to be still so intense.
"Body aches are normal," Maria says a tad dismissively. She's used to hearing the complaint. Lisa bites her tongue, and her nails dig into her palms, "I brought you some ibuprofen. It'll help with the muscle soreness."
Lisa fights the urge to chew on them and swallows them whole with the water the nurse offers.
"It's been three days. Ready to try some food and a shower?" Maria asks.
Lisa thinks. She doesn't want to. Not in the slightest. Food. Shower. They are normal things. Everyday things. But the energy both of them will take her is daunting. She wants to lay in bed and suffer in silence. She wants this bed and its blankets to swallow her whole and never spit her out.
"You'll feel better," Maria says softly. She places her hand on Lisa's arm in an attempt at encouragement, and Lisa nearly jumps out of her skin. The more clear-headed she gets as the drugs wane from her body, the more she is acutely aware of what happened to her. And so is her body. There is nothing to keep her from feeling his hands. The memories are vivid and unrelenting. They don't stop. Not when she's awake. Not when she's asleep. She can't escape.
"S-sorry. I... I don't like to be touched. Sorry." She says quickly. Her heart pounds and her breathing speeds up. She closes her eyes, willing the memories to stop.
"That's alright. Do you want to get up?" Maria asks, and Lisa nods. She can do this. Right? She puts her hands on the bed and pushes her body up. Her shoulder pops as her muscles force her ligaments to stretch. She exhales hard and forces her mind to stay here. She can do this. She can't focus on the memories. She stands and lets her body adjust. She's stiff, but it's not the worst pain she's ever experienced. No. That was lying on the floor after the first time he had his fun.
"Just one thing at a time." Maria softly reminds her. She's been through this with hundreds of patients, and it's never easy. She's gotten skilled at reading people, knowing when to push and when to back off.
"Okay," Lisa takes a breath, and Maria smiles. Lisa stands slowly as if testing her weight on her legs, not unlike the first time post-surgery in Germany. And, like that time, she wobbles slightly but manages to find her footing.
The bathroom tile is cold beneath her feet. She wants to avoid the mirror. She doesn't want to see it. What is there to see anyway? A skinny, pale woman with scars and a haunted look. She's a broken shell of who she used to be. And she can't even blame it on the drugs. But she looks up, moving her eyes slowly from the floor, her arms, her neck, her face. Her hair is long and limp. Her cheekbones are prominent. Her collar bones stick out. She's gaunt. She doesn't recognize the person looking back at her. She has become something she never thought she'd be. How did she let this happen?
She removes her clothes slowly. Piece by piece, she examines her body with a clear and sober mind. She has healed. The bruises have faded, and the swelling has subsided. The cuts are scars. Her skin has grown back, and her bones are mended. But the man's marks on her aren't what stops her from breathing. The caesarian scar from Allison is there, and she cries. Her hand covers the scar and rests on her belly as if the children that grew there are dead. They might as well be.
"Sweetie, are you alright?" Maria's voice is muffled through the door.
"Fine," Lisa responds, forcing her tears back and swallowing the lump in her throat. She steps into the shower. She uses cold water, letting it prickle her skin and numb her. It feels good. Her body relaxes as her skin grows accustomed to the cold.
She's surprised when she finds herself wanting to wash. It's the most normal activity, but her fingers itch for her body to be clean. It's been a long time since they've done that. She grew up in a home where one was always expected to put their best foot forward, and cleanliness was part of that. Now, though, she washes her hair three times to remove the buildup of filth and sweat.
Once done, she dresses in the clean sweats. Her body feels more alive and present than it has in months.
"That's my girl!" Maria says when she returns, "Now, how about some food? Something light and healthy."
Lisa nods. It's a strange feeling to eat something that is not cheap and processed. She's not sure if she'll like it, but her stomach is growling, and she's hungry. Actually hungry. The last time she was hungry, she was in the room, being starved.
She's quiet—lost in thought. She hasn't been alone in her head since her ordeal. It's frightening yet strangely comforting. She's being reminded of her ability to think and analyze. It's nice. She takes the omelet and fruit salad and sits at the table. Her mind wanders, and she doesn't realize she's eating until Maria points it out.
"How is it?" Maria asks.
"Good," Lisa smiles, and for the first time in a long time, it's genuine.
…X…X…X…
On day four, she's given a schedule.
"So, this is our typical daily routine." Dr. Kensie Sherman says, handing her a paper. Lisa doesn't know what she thinks of the woman. She's soft-spoken and kind, but there is an authority behind her demeanor. She doesn't appear to be a woman that accepts any crap from her patients. Lisa isn't sure what she thinks about that yet.
"It's pretty straightforward. All meals are mandatory. Your day will start at 8:00 a.m. with breakfast, group therapy at 9:30, sober living skills at 10:30, and a therapeutic activity of choice at 11:30, which can be journaling, art, or exercise. Then lunch will be served at noon. And then, at 1:30, you are slotted for individual therapy, after which you will have a long recreation time until dinner. We have a lot of games and other activities available for you to participate in. You will be asked to select two activities, which can be anything from bible study, knitting, yoga, or whatever else you may like."
Lisa nods and glances over the page as Dr. Sherman keeps talking, "Dinner is at 6:00. And then we'll have an evening meeting. The meeting will run from 6:30 to 7:30. You are free to do whatever you'd like for the rest of the evening, but I ask that you're in bed and lights out at 10:00. Do you have any questions?"
Lisa swallows. She's overwhelmed. There is so much happening on the schedule. Barely twenty-four hours ago, she didn't want to get out of bed, and this schedule is like jumping off a high dive when you don't know how to swim.
"No. Not right now." Lisa says, shaking her head.
"Perfect. For our first group session, which we'll make our way to in a minute, you don't have to share, but I encourage you to. If you don't want to or aren't comfortable, that's fine." Dr. Sherman says, and Lisa nods, "You ready?"
"Yeah," Lisa whispers. She can do this. Can't she?
…X…X…X…
As she walks into the room that will host the group session, she wonders how much George is paying for this place. A picture of a circle of chairs in a church basement had come to her mind when she heard about group therapy. But this is a nice, bright, clean, colorful room. The windows are open, and the sun streams in. It's inviting. She sits down, and her hands begin to fidget. Her leg bounces. She feels everyone's eyes on her as if everybody in this room were silently sizing her up and judging her. She can't tell if it's just in her head or not, but she knows the feeling is real, nonetheless.
"Good morning, everyone," Dr. Sherman says, taking a seat across from her, "I want to start by welcoming our new friend, Lisa, who is going to be joining us today. We're so glad to have you here. Let's all go around the room, introduce ourselves, and tell the room one thing you're feeling today. I'll go first. I'm Kensie, and today I'm feeling hopeful."
Dr. Sherman looks at the patient next to her.
"I'm Mary, and I'm feeling angry today."
And so it goes around the circle. They all introduce themselves and say how they are feeling. Lisa sinks farther and farther into the couch, slowly pulling her knees into her chest. Her shoulder throbs. It's only a matter of time. She's going to have to say something even though she feels as if this particular exercise is ridiculous. Why should she care how these people are feeling? How is that going to help her?
When it is her turn, she doesn't lift her head. Her knees muffle her voice.
"Um... I'm Lisa. And I'm fine." She mumbles. Dr. Sherman looks Lisa over and takes note of her body language. She's closed off, scared, protecting herself, maybe? She'll have to keep an eye on her.
"Thank you, Lisa," Dr. Sherman says, "Today's topic is triggers. I want to define that term. A trigger is something that causes a strong emotional response. In a recovery program, those things are often called red flags. When a person with a substance use disorder in recovery is in an environment where they can be triggered, they may relapse. So, today, I want us to look at our lives, the things in our pasts that trigger us, and think about how we can address them in the future. So, let's get into it."
Lisa sits and listens. She can't focus on what's being said. Instead, she focuses on her hands. Her arms are still wrapped around her knees, and she can feel her pulse in her fingertips. It's strong and erratic. Why does she feel so afraid? This isn't a combat zone. This isn't The Room. She's safe here. Right? But she can't shake the fear. She tries to breathe deeply, but her ribs hurt, and she can't seem to get enough air. Her heart is racing, and her chest feels heavy. She's not a stranger to this feeling.
"You okay, Lisa?" A gentle voice breaks through her thoughts, and she snaps her head up. Dr. Sherman is sitting next to her. Her voice is calm and steady, and her expression is one of genuine concern.
"Yeah," Lisa replies quietly. She's not. But she's not sure what else to say.
"What happened? What's going on inside that head of yours?"
Lisa looks around the room. She's really supposed to speak in front of all these people? She can't. Her heart is pounding, and she can feel her face flush.
"I can't. Not here." She whispers. She is aware that everyone in the room is watching her. They're curious, wondering what the new girl's story is. Dr. Sherman runs through her list of known facts. Lisa is a closed-off woman. She hasn't spoken to her therapeutically one-on-one yet, but she's pretty confident that Lisa is going to need a lot of coaxing out of her shell.
"Alright. How about a one-on-one? Just us. No pressure." Dr. Sherman offers.
"Can we go outside?" Lisa asks softly. She needs to breathe fresh air. She needs to feel the sun.
"Absolutely." Dr. Sherman leads her out into the courtyard. Lisa breathes a sigh of relief as she sits on a bench and looks up into the sky. It's cloudless. The day of the IED was cloudless, too. But unlike that day, she most likely won't be kidnapped. She closes her eyes, letting the sun warm her.
"Better?" Dr. Sherman asks after several moments.
"Yeah." she sighs.
"Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
"I don't know." Lisa says, shrugging, "It's just a lot. And it's been a long time since I've been this sober, and my brain is working, and I'm thinking about all-" She stops. She can't talk about it. She doesn't want to, yes, but also Conrad. She can't put her children in danger.
"Take your time." Dr. Sherman is a patient woman. She understands that healing doesn't happen overnight. It's a process. She will push, but not so hard that her patients are left to drown. Lisa remains silent. Dr. Sherman watches as her face hardens. She's hiding something. But what?
"Okay, let's try something else," Dr. Sherman says, not giving up, "Tell me about yourself."
"Like what?" Lisa asks. She's confused. She knows herself. Or she did. Is this really a question worth asking?
"Whatever you'd like."
Lisa sighs and shakes her head, "I don't know."
Dr. Sherman nods. She assesses Lisa's posture and her facial expressions. Her shoulders are tense, and her jaw is clenched. Her shoulders, though, are rolled back, and her back is straight.
"Were you in the military?" She pushes just a little, trying to see what the girl will do.
Lisa's heart pounds, it's not a correct assumption, but it's not a poor one either. But she stays silent.
"Lisa, you are safe here. Anything you tell me stays between us. Both ethically and legally. Nothing leaves this space unless I have reason to believe you are a danger to yourself or others."
Lisa nods. She can't trust that. Her children's lives depend on her silence.
"Okay, let me give you an easy one. Who's the man who checked you in?" Dr. Sherman tries again.
"He's a friend." Lisa mumbles. Dr. Sherman nods. She can't press much more without seeming too intrusive. But she wants the girl to open up.
"Here, take this." Kensie says, handing Lisa a legal pad and a pen, "I want you to write. Whatever it is you're scared of. Please write it down. You don't have to share it. You can tear the page up or throw it away. But I think getting those thoughts out will help."
Lisa holds the pen in her hand. It feels heavy and powerful. The pen is mightier than the sword... who had said that? Henry would know. He knows everything. Her chest tightens. She can't think about him. It hurts. Everything is so confusing.
"Just try. You don't have to show anyone."
Lisa slowly takes the pen and moves it in Elizabeth's perfect print. He'll get them if I talk to you.
"Good. That's a start." Dr. Sherman's voice is encouraging, and Lisa smiles. She doesn't want to, but it's nice to know someone cares.
Pittsburgh, PA – February 2009
"Mom?" Allison's small voice breaks Jessica away from the ten-year-old's take-home folder.
"Yeah, noodle?" Jessica responds. She, like Henry, has taken to using the nickname.
"Last night at dinner, Kenzie and Kelly told me that if my dad died like my mommy, I wouldn't get to stay with you." Her bottom lip trembles. "Is that true?"
"Oh, sweetheart. Nothing is going to happen to your dad." Jessica says, pulling the little brunette into her arms.
"Nothing was supposed to happen to my mommy either," Allie says. She exclusively refers to Elizabeth as mommy. Jessica and Henry have noticed that time moves on, but the memory of the woman doesn't fade.
"You're right," Jessica says, stroking her hair. Jessica thinks of the woman who birthed her oldest three children a lot these days. She thinks she would like to know her. Elizabeth remains a mystery to Jess.
"What if Daddy dies?" Allison asks. "What happens to me?"
Jessica pulls back to look at the girl.
"You stay with me, noodle. I promise." Jessica looks into Allie's deep brown eyes. The fear and uncertainty there breaks Jessica's heart.
"I love you," Allie says.
"I love you too."
Jessica has been telling the children for a long time now that they will not be separated. But this is the first time one of them has ever asked for her assurance—assurance she can't yet fully give. She's wanted to broach the subject of adoption with Henry for a while, but the timing has never seemed right. Henry is still fragile when it comes to Elizabeth. Jessica thinks he may always be. But Stevie, Allie, and Jase are her kids. Just as much as Bobby and Drew. She packs their lunches, helps with homework, kisses scraped knees, and sings away bad dreams. They are her children, and she's theirs. It's time to make it legal.
