Painting Sage

by Rachael K Hannah

  Life of Beta was the latest YA dystopian novel out there, and my stepmom, Abby, had brought it over for me when my dad’s family visited the other night. Beta was yet another one of those cautionary tales about where society was headed, only this time the focus was on the total devolution of the American education system. So far, the kids in the story were constantly monitored by electronic devices and were taught—or, rather, indoctrinated—by these ginormous computerized screens in towering and impersonal lecture halls divided by caste system. Human teachers were completely obsolete, and the curriculum was standardized in accordance with what was best for the community. I hadn’t gotten very far into the novel, but I had heard there was a ton of violence and romance in some of the later chapters that would keep those pages turning.

  Five, maybe ten minutes had passed when there was a knock on my door. I never left it open, even though a lot of the other girls did. Some of them, like Charlotte, were in college. I think they somehow felt that leaving their front doors open transformed the whole ordeal into some sort of all-hours fun dormitory experience and made it less like a mental hospital.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Fiona.”

  “How do I really know you’re who you say you are?” I dog-eared the page I was reading, then closed Life of Beta, though I kept the book firmly held in my hands.

  “Open the door, Sage.”

  “I’m busy reading, Fiona.”

  “Really?”

  No one really knew this, not even my own parents, but I loved to read. That, and I had a small obsession with photography. Everyone always assumed that I was strictly a math person, though. That’s because you don’t actually have to study for math. You either know the formulas, or you don’t. I happened to know the formulas.

  I was navigating my English class with a solid B-. But, still, that was practically pathological considering who my parents were. I mean, English teacher. Copywriter. I’m a great reader—don’t get me wrong—and my compositions are pretty good, if I do say so myself, but homework and classwork were a completely different story. I never did homework, and I tended to be a wee bit difficult in class—slight problems with my mouth.

  Anyway, history also turned out to be a total bust (again, homework and that mouth), and I outright flunked biology. I didn’t mean to kill the hydra that my lab partner and I were observing, and I never studied for any of the tests. Plus, my biology teacher was so boring.

  But like I said, my grades in math were near perfect, and I scored 100 percent on almost every single test and quiz. No one paid much attention to that A+ on my report card, however, and Mom got so mad at me after the first quarter. She was afraid I’d lose my scholarship and, truthfully, I was a little surprised that I hadn’t. The school placed me on academic probation instead.

  As a result, Mom and Dad got into a huge fight. Again. I felt bad about the whole situation. Mom claimed that I wasn’t studying enough during my weekends with Dad and Abby, and Dad blamed Mom for sending me to a school of her choice instead of mine.

  I eventually gave up on giving Fiona a hard time and finally decided to open the door. I was too upset to really get that much reading done anyway. Fiona stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. It was pretty obvious one of the other girls had asked her to get me, and Fiona did not want to be there.

  “God, you’re such a dork,” Fiona said. “If some of the girls hear about this, they might decide to not be your friend anymore,” she added, smugly.

  “Whatever. Hopefully, by the time that happens, I’ll be home,” I replied. And you’ll still be locked up, I wanted to add. But I didn’t say it. That would have been going a bit too far, even for me.

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “Listen, a bunch of us are headed to the common area for movie night. Are you coming or not?”

  “Movie night?” I asked. “I thought it was board game night.” I was a bit disappointed. Thanks to my Grandpa Thomas, who was obstinately stuck in the earlier half of the twentieth century, I had sharpened my board game playing skills after years of going over his house to visit. The man’s television set still only picked up basic channels, and it was in this weird boxy shape.

  “That’s tomorrow,” Fiona corrected.

  “Another PG-13 rom-com? I’m kinda over it,” I said dismissively. Then I added, “So is America. You realize all the A-list actresses take on more meaningful roles these days, don’t you? Rom-com is a dying brand.”

  By this point, Fiona was noticeable beyond annoyed by my attitude, but I didn’t care. I always listened very carefully to my dad whenever he was on a conference call at the Connecticut house. The company Dad worked for, FEADURHEDZ, was on the cutting edge of all things media. I knew my commentary was right, and I wasn’t about to apologize for it for this girl’s sake.

  “Well, are you coming or not?” Fiona demanded impatiently.

  “Fine,” I relented. It was probably better for me anyway. What good would it do to sit in my room, alone, any longer than I already had? “Is it cold out there?” I asked. “Do I need my bathrobe?”

  Fiona’s voice and accompanying scowl softened—somewhat. “I’d bring it. Or a hoodie at least.”

  I sighed. Unfortunately, it was probably better that I go along with the group than set someone off and stop getting invited altogether. Then I’d really be lost. And who knew for how long? I grabbed the giant fluffy blue robe that Mom had given me for Christmas and slipped into it quickly, tying it firmly against me with a double knot. The robe was way too big for me, but I liked it anyway. The arms of the robe were far longer than mine, and I liked to drag them at my sides—hands hiding.

  We silently made our way over to the common area, and once there, went our separate social ways. There we found the others sitting around a rectangular coffee table, where someone had set up several huge pottery bowls, filled to their brims with healthy snacks. I nodded my head knowingly. We could probably thank the helicopter moms for that one, and I just knew that somehow Abby had been involved in the arrangement.

  I could just imagine Abby: hair and make-up perfect, dressed to the nines, her four-inch heels pattering straight down the hall—click-clack, click-clack—the fiery helicopter parent brigade in tow closely behind her. Together, they’d taken their stand: an all-out attack against greasy potato chips, candy, synthetic cheese, and anything else that was undoubtedly processed in a factory, not organically grown on an Amish farm or in a community garden.

  Nevertheless, I was incredibly hungry. So, I hastily filled an available blue bowl with almonds and dried cranberry mix. I then poured myself a hefty mug of… cucumber water. Yes, Abby had definitely been here.

  It was my second official movie night since arriving at the Pines, but I had already figured out the hidden rules any of us needed to follow in order to get invited—and be accepted. Now technically these social events, if you wanted to even call them that, were open to everyone on the floor. Sure, you could come down to the common area with your big chair pillow and matching throw blanket, but that didn’t mean the others would actually talk to you. And when they really didn’t want you there, somehow there’d be a dishware shortage that only seemed to affect you. Yup. They would actually hide the bowls, cups, and utensils, forcing you to cup almonds and seasoned kale chips in your hand like a fool, making a mess and just appearing downright awkward.

  So far, despite my idiosyncrasies (and, believe me, there were many) the other girls had accepted me for the most part. I found this rather ironic. For one, I’m not mean enough to belong in any clique. Second, I don’t trust anyone in power. Think about it. How many honest, down-to-earth people make it their life’s mission to have power? Good people don’t need to announce having good intentions; they just do what they’re supposed to do in the first place. Nevertheless, despite my inherent cynicism, I was accepted. For whatever reason, I think the girls had major respect for that dumb private school I attended. Plus, it also helped that Mom hadn’t done anything to humilia
te me in front of them. Then there was that one last factor: I could tell the girls thought Dad and Connor were quite hot. Now that was both gross and embarrassing!

  You’re probably wondering how a group of mentally ill and/or drug-addicted teens—locked up in a crazy hospital, no less—found the audacity to discriminate against others. Well, it’s quite simple: This was our normal.

  Even within the confines of the Pines, there were sharply etched parameters, norms that could not be broken, and an ever-present need for social survival. Sure, we all had our moments—our breaks from reality, if you will—but at the end of the day, we were still kids. We dreamed like everyone else; we harbored insecurities like everyone else. Diseased minds or not, we were still human.

  I’ll break it down for you. Anorexics and bulimics were the alphas of this place. Despite what anyone in the mainstream claimed, eating disorders were socially acceptable. Pretty disturbing, huh? But it was true. Society’s obsession with perfection, and all its noise about being thin, was something most people could wrap their heads around. Besides, the girls at Sherwood Pines hadn’t devolved into that scary-looking, emaciated, fighting-for-their-lives stage yet. As a result, eating disorders were seen as almost glamorous here.

  The alcoholics and prescription pill-poppers followed in a very close second, because again, socially acceptable. I dare you to find a financially successful grown-up who didn’t fit into either one of those two categories. Dad and Abby drank all the time. Uncle Connor did, too. None of them were ever sent to a place like the Pines.

  The depressed and bipolar, obsessive compulsives, cutters, and the personality disordered (to an extent) came in third. Although, in my opinion, some of the anorexics were clearly undiagnosed narcissists.

  Then you got into that murky, several shades of gray territory. Acceptance of hard drug users was very, very rare. Introverted, passive psychotics were pitied and included, on occasion. Dominant psychotics, though, like the girl who had torn the place up earlier, weren’t welcomed within the community. No one wanted to touch that. Those girls were either isolated from us completely or tranquilized into nomadic zombies.

  Back to movie night. In a lot of ways, I felt like movie night was somewhat of a misnomer. It should have been called “movie evening,” because there wasn’t much we were actually allowed to do at night. Lights were out at ten, even though some of us tossed and turned afterwards for hours.

  But at the very least, these social gatherings gave us a chance to feel somewhat normal again.

  As expected, the movie being screened in the common area was a family-friendly rom-com that was in no way offensive to anybody. Although, Uncle Connor had once claimed that all critical thinkers should be offended by the whole romantic comedy formula, so he would have been offended. And Mom, being half Latina, never liked how people of color were portrayed in such films either (usually as the sidekick, goofball, or sassy one), so she probably would have been offended, too, come to think of it.

  And then there was that whole women aren’t complete without a man message… hmm.

  I found my thoughts drifting about, as they often do, not focused on the plot or the laughs and dreamy sighs coming from the other girls. Instead, I sorta got lost in a series of random questions, such as: Why cranberry and almond mix? Why not raisins and almonds? Why were the walls painted white? What was the deal with romantic movies and kissing in the rain?

  About halfway through the film, two of our youngest residents stood at the doorway, watching us almost wistfully. I remember them doing the exact same thing on Christmas morning when no one came to visit them. Their names, I think, were Morgan and Janie (or Madison and Janie), and they were both around nine years old. Maybe Janie was ten. Both girls were said to be on some sort of schizophrenia spectrum, which is so rare in general, let alone in children. I had heard that stuff usually didn’t hit full blast until you were an adult. But who knows? I guess everyone is different. I think that’s why they may have gravitated towards one another in the first place—hoping to seek solace in the storm.

  The two approached with hesitation. I motioned for them to sit with me, very subtly, almost playing it off as if we’d made previous plans to together. Looking relieved, they scurried over to where I sat on the couch and took seats on the floor in front of me. Thinking quickly, I reached into the pocket of my bathrobe where I always kept at least three elastic hair bands. My hair, when worn naturally, was ridiculously thick and wavy. It wasn’t unusual for the elastics to snap right off my ponytail or bun from time to time.

  Janie’s hair was very similar to mine—wild and obstinate with a mind of its own. We didn’t have access to straightening irons and taming gels, and Janie’s hair was completely frizzed out and doing its thing. It was positively gorgeous.

  “Let me.” I pulled out one of the elastics.

  “Thank you.” Janie looked at me somewhat sheepishly, but I think she realized I was trying to be friendly.

  “If you want, I’ll do yours next,” I promised Morgan/Madison. She silently smiled in response.

  I’d heard a lot of talk about these two, particularly Janie. I knew that her mother had died years ago. She had been the victim of an armed robbery that had gone terribly wrong. According to the story, Janie was just a baby at the time. On a seemingly perfectly regular day, her mother had decided to stop at a corner pharmacy, the mom-and-pop kind that hardly exists anymore. I guess it was on the way to their actual destination. The mom had to drop off a prescription, or something to that effect. The full details of that part of the story were still a bit unclear.

  Just moments after they entered the pharmacy, two armed robbers arrived and held up the place. Talk about bad luck, if you believed in that sort of thing.

  Janie’s mother—understandably panicked—saw that the front door had been left wide open and instinctually pushed Janie’s stroller out the door and onto the sidewalk to safety. Some random guy who happened to be passing by the pharmacy at that moment grabbed onto Janie’s stroller and prevented it from flying out into the street.

  One of the robbers, however, was spooked by Janie’s mom’s sudden motion. So, he shot her, and she died on the spot.

  Fiona, who had a big mouth and seemed to know everyone’s business, told a group of us that Janie hates taking her medication, but for reasons quite different than my own. Whenever Janie’s been off her meds long enough, she’ll start to hear voices, and her brain is convinced that one of them belongs to her mother. And in its own grimly unusual way, that particular hallucination brings Janie much comfort. It’s really the only thing of her mom that Janie has left.

  The thing about this place was that there really wasn’t a way to know which stories here were true, and which ones were fabricated. Janie’s, I suspected, was true. As for the others, it was simply too hard to tell. After all, you’ll find a lot of unreliable narrators in a mental hospital.

  I figured that, either way, regardless of fact or fiction, Janie and Morgan/Madison were probably scared. We all were.

  It can be pretty confusing when you end up at a place like this. It’s not like you actually have a choice in the matter, or an understanding of what’s going on while it’s happening. Everything happens so quickly, as the choices are made for you because, well, because you can no longer trust the inner workings of your own mind.

  And then there were always so many questions, as if everyone was just trying to figure out what your deal is. That was probably the hardest part about being here. Everything you think and feel is called into question. Suddenly you’re someone who must be watched. Analyzed. Judged. Like I said, you can’t even trust yourself.

  Whereas on the other side, people usually took you at your word.

  At last, I decided to twist Janie’s hair into a simple French braid. As I crossed sections of hair over others, tugged gently, then crossed over again, this old narrative poem we’d learned about in English class came to me, and I recited its last stanza over and over in my head.


  Chapter 4

  Elsewhere

  Sage

  Warner was probably one of the better doctors I’d met at the Pines, even though she was what Grandpa Thomas would call a cold fish. In a strange way, she reminded me of some bizarre hybridization of Mom and Abby. We had been meeting every day, both individually and with a small group, but it was still hard to read whether Dr. Warner was ready and willing to grant me my freedom papers.

  Like Abby, Warner had that typical body a lot of the suburban moms around here seemed to strive for: long, limber, and lean, with a clavicle that practically protruded from underneath tight skin and limbs constructed purely of muscle. Warner’s skin was ashen, almost translucent, if not for the millions of tiny brown freckles speckled against it. Delicate strands of auburn, gold, and strawberry-colored hair delicately grazed her lithe shoulders. When Warner spoke—and this was quite seldom—her voice remained stoic and monotone, while her eyes remained fixed blue slits, never widening, changing, or revealing sentiment.

  Despite her aloof demeanor, she was willing to listen, which was all I was really looking for in the first place. When I was a bit younger, maybe around eleven, Mom made me see a counselor because my teacher had told her that I was exhibiting signs of distress and was a concern to my classroom peers. After the first session, which I ended abruptly by storming out of the room while the guy was still talking, I really let Mom have it for sending me there. That counselor spent almost a full half-hour droning on and on about his experiences and credentials. Not once did he ask about me. He even made some stupid comment about not discussing the past because no one wanted to think about it. Instead, he said I should focus on some dumb cognitive techniques and move forward.