by J Grace
“You feel that? This heart beats for both of us. Everywhere I go, everything I do you’re with me. You’re my heartmate, don’t you ever forget that.” I nodded, unable to speak, even as the words I wanted so desperately to say raced around in my mind, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t allow it. I let myself take in the smile on her face, the beat of her heart against my hand, the warmth of her flesh against mine.
I got out of the car and stood there as she drove off, watching as she waved her hand at me through the read window. I walked the rest of the way home filled with gratitude that she would always be in my life.
But now the memory that used to be so strong was starting to fade. There was more to the memory, I knew it, but I couldn’t see it. I silently cried myself to sleep hating that she was slipping away from me.
My day of discharge was upon me and I was relieved to know that I would not be forced to stay here any longer than the initial seventy-two-hour hold. I was, however, surprisingly sad to be saying goodbye to Sophie. I wouldn’t say she was my friend, but she made my time here less scary and I’d always be grateful to her for that.
The nurse that brought me to my room the day I arrived handed me my clothes, and as I got dressed I smiled. I’d never been so glad to see a bra in my life. Sophie walked back in the room as I finished dressing.
“Well look at you. All dressed up. Who knew you had a body under those sweats.” I rolled my eyes. It had only been three days, but I felt lighter and I knew a great deal of that was due to Sophie. “Leaving so soon, huh?” I crossed over to her with the urge to hug her and this time I didn’t fight against it. It scared me a little - okay, a lot, but I needed to show her how much her kindness meant to me. I pulled her into my arms and squeezed. She stiffened, then relaxed.
“You’re hugging me...wow!” Her voice was full of shock and appreciation.
“Thank you, Sophie. You were a lighthouse in my storm and I’m grateful for your kindness. I hope great things happen for you and I hope you find your happy place.” She hugged me back, but I pulled away quickly; the uncomfortableness was starting to creep in.
“I hope good things happen for you too, Marjorie. Good luck out there. And don’t forget to watch out for the peaches.” she winked at me, then walked out, leaving me to my thoughts as I waited to be taken to Dr. Wilson.
Minutes later I was in Dr. Wilson’s office wondering what hateful words he would attack me with this time when the door opened and another man entered. He was almost the complete opposite of Dr. Wilson; short, chubby, and pale, with unkempt black hair and kind gray eyes. He smiled when he saw me and immediately came to shake my hand. I didn’t like contact, but I didn’t want to be rude to him.
“Hi Marjorie, I’m Jonah, the on-call therapist. Dr. Wilson had an emergency, but wanted to make sure you got your papers signed off on.” He pulled a file from underneath his arm and opened it. “Let’s see here. Looks like you’ll be going to Brighton House today. Says here a car will be waiting for you at the curb. Mmhmm, mmhmm alrighty then, looks like everything is in order.” He closed the file and sat in the chair next to me. As he sat, a waft of stale fried chicken tickled my nose and I internally gagged. “I don’t know all the particulars of your case and I don’t really have the time to study your file so I’ll just tell you to embrace your time at Brighton House. Really dive in and work on getting yourself better so that you don’t end up here again. Brighton House is an excellent facility and Dr. Banner is an exceptional doctor,” he checked his watch and then quickly stood, “It’s getting late, we better go.”
Ten minutes and a quiet elevator ride later I was wheeled out of the front doors of St. Paul Presbyterian Hospital to a cab waiting at the curb.
Chapter 4
Marjorie
“Uh, excuse me, Jonah, where are my parents? I thought that when you said a car would be waiting for me you meant my parent’s car.” I asked as we made our way to the front curb and the yellow taxi waiting there.
“Oh, sorry. I just read what the file said. Maybe they’ll be waiting for you at Brighton House. Well, good luck Marjorie.” He patted me on my shoulder as I stood and then took off back into the hospital pushing the wheelchair, leaving me standing there with a strange man in a taxi.
I felt my palms grow sweaty and tears threatened to fall, but I pushed them back.
Don’t break down or they’ll just take you back to Dr. Wilson.
I opened the rear passenger side door and climbed inside as spots invaded my vision. I gulped down lungful after lungful of stale cab air and patchouli oil, which actually helped my nerves despite the nasty smell. A suitcase lay on the seat next to me with a letter on top. I buckled up as the driver began to pull away, then ripped open the envelope.
Apparently my family wasn’t allowed to accompany me on the ride from St Paul’s Presbyterian Hospital to Brighton House, nor were they allowed to meet me there. Instead, they were required to fill out any and all paperwork prior to my arrival. At least that’s what the letter said. It could've also just been that they didn’t want to see me. Which seemed closer to the truth, and I couldn't say I wasn't mostly relieved about it. Sitting in a car with my parents for over an hour would most likely result in a fight and another episode, which I was glad to avoid. Especially since the three days, I spent in the psych ward, while scary as anything I’ve ever experienced, was calming thanks to Sophie.
Either way, it didn’t matter, they weren’t here. And according to Jonah, I was going to Brighton House to ‘work on myself’. Since I would be there for at least six months, I might as well make the most of it and try. I just hoped the Doctor there wasn’t as uncaring as Dr. Wilson.
It was a quiet car ride and I was grateful that the cab driver didn’t try to strike up a conversation with me. I focused on the view flashing by outside the window and was able to relax a bit and forget where I was going for the time being. The gentle sounds of the tires against the pavement were soothing and as I lay my head against the headrest I let it lull me to sleep.
The driver’s loud voice jarred me from my nap, bringing me back to the here and now. I didn't catch what he said, and just as I was about to ask him to repeat what he said, a high pitched squeak forced my eyes to focus on the view outside the windshield. A large, black, wrought iron gate stood directly in front of us, stretching east and west for at least a mile in each direction with a large metal olive branch adorning the center of each partition. Other than that there was no wording or other signs to indicate where we were.
The car continued forward when the gate was open enough to drive through. The driveway was lined with tall Cypress trees every ten feet or so, starting at the gate and the land beyond was empty but well-manicured. As we made our way closer to Brighton House I began to see larger trees with empty swings, picnic tables, a tennis court, volleyball net, a garden, and a large gazebo.
This place sure doesn’t seem like a looney bin.
And then, as we rounded a curve, Brighton House came into view. It was amazing. It really was a house. A really freaking big house, or a mansion, I guess. It was yellow with red brick and white trim. There were shutters on the upper windows, and planter boxes on the rest. There were two tower-like structures on either side of the house that had five long windows at least ten feet in length, and smaller windows randomly placed. It looked like there were at least ten rooms in between the towers on each of the three floors based on the number of windows across. The main floor had a huge porch that covered the entire length of the house. It was littered with tables and chairs and swings. In the center was a simple looking door.
Brighton House was obviously designed to make you feel at home and not like you’re in some clinical antiseptic nightmare.
But what are the doctors and nurses like?
I pushed that thought away and focused on the positives.
I bet the inside is as beautiful as the outside.
As we pulled up to the drop-off area, directly in front of the porch steps, a beau
tiful, tall, curvy woman in a white coat, button-up shirt, pencil skirt, and heels stepped out of the front door and made her way down the steps to me. I hardly had time to take it all in. As soon as the car came to a complete stop her hand was on the handle opening my door. I sat there staring up at her for a moment, not because I was nervous, I mean, of course I was nervous, but because she was stunning! Her hair was a golden chestnut color, styled in a loose bun on the crown of her head. She had porcelain skin in both color and texture, hazel eyes rimmed by long lashes, a button nose, perfect cheekbones, and full pink lips on a heart-shaped face. She appeared far too young to be the head doctor here.
Maybe she isn’t.
She held her hand out to me and I hesitated for a moment. I looked at it and wondered what it might mean to her if I didn’t accept her greeting.
What would my mother say if she found out?
With that in mind, I took her hand as I stepped out of the car to face her. I pulled away as soon as I was fully out of the cab. She certainly seemed to be more welcoming than Dr. Wilson, but I was heeding the advice of Sophie and ‘watching out for the peaches.’
“Hello, Marjorie. I’m Dr. Banner. Welcome to Brighton House, I’m happy you’re here.” Her voice was soft and sweet but confident and her smile was warm and seemed genuine. But I’m sure people thought the same of my mother.
“I wish I was happy to be here.” I blurted out.
What the hell Marjorie?
My eyes widened in fear of her retaliation for my talking back, but she only smiled and put a delicate hand on my shoulder. I flinched a little but calmed down almost instantly. Her touch was soothing, just the way Sierra’s used to be.
“Well, let’s see if we can change that, hmm? Why don’t you get your things so we can continue this conversation in my office? Are you ready?” I nodded my head before grabbing my small suitcase from the back seat. Since I woke up in the hospital I was either angry as hell or a nervous blubbering wreck, but she was the first adult I had given attitude to, ever. Her calm demeanor seemed to set off my anger, which in turn set off my nerves at my unexpected - and unwarranted, behavior. Maybe it was because she’s the doctor and I hadn’t had the greatest experience with Dr. Wilson or Jonah when I met them at St. Paul. Maybe it was because she was a female around the same age as my mother and I was projecting my feelings onto her. Either way, she didn't seem to mind. Which in and of itself was odd to me.
We bounded up the three steps and into the house within seconds. The inside of the house was just as warm and welcoming as the outside. As soon as the front door shut behind us an audible click could be heard, indicating we were locked in. A piney scent filled the air, not as strong as pine sol, but similar. The main area looked like a hunting lodge, or what I imagined one looked like. It was wall to wall to floor wood paneling and sturdy leather couches and chairs. All that was missing was a stuffed deer head. The far left wall and half of its adjacent had built-in shelves stuffed with books, magazines, and DVDs. A fireplace took up the rest of the wall ending in a hallway entrance. Directly across the front entrance was the front desk. It was walled in on two sides by Plexiglas and waist high wood paneling, with small sections that slid open. You could see into the office, which had two desks topped with computers, files, and the usual supplies. A fax/copy machine was to the right and three small refrigerators lined the back wall underneath the wall to wall shelving. A door was to the right of the fax machine. I assumed this was the only door in or out since there was no door on either side of the desk. There was a hall to the left and right of the main area.
“Cozy, don’t you think? You’ll get a full tour in a bit. Come on, my office is this way.” she said, turning to the hall to the right of the entrance. As we walked side by side, the midday light shone brightly through the wall to wall windows that lined the hall. We passed at least six unmarked doors on the left, but no patients. “Those rooms are therapy rooms, individuals or groups. Family visitation rooms and holding rooms. You’ll see them soon enough.” She commented as we neared the end of the hall. We came to a catty cornered door that was labeled Office of Dr. Jalissa Banner, B.S., M.S., Psy.D.
“That’s a lot of letters you got behind your name,” I grunted.
Where is this attitude coming from?
It was almost like I was giving her a reason to yell at me. I was certainly tired of being attacked for no reason.
“I assure you I earned each one of those letters,” she replied as she swung open the door, “After you.” I entered her office and took it all in. It was far more formal than the parts I’d seen already. It held a hint of her Gardenia perfume, and sported gray walls with white trim. Dark wood shelving units flanked a distressed chest of drawers along the far right wall. The wall opposite the door had one long window, indicating we were at the bottom level of the tower-like structure. Large landscape watercolor paintings hung to either side of the window. A dark-gray curved tufted sofa sat directly in front with a small round table to either side. Her desk sat to the right of the door with two leather-backed chairs in front. A coat rack and a fireplace lined the wall left of the door. But more than what it looked like, it felt welcoming. Still, I was very wary of letting my guard down.
“Why don’t we have a seat on the couch? It’s a lot more comfortable than it looks,” she suggested as she walked past me, taking a seat on the left side of the couch. I dropped my suitcase unceremoniously by the desk and made my way over to the couch sitting opposite her.
“So, let me explain my earlier comment of why I’m happy you’re here. I’m happy you’re here because it means that you acknowledge that you need some help working through the things that are holding you back in life, and that you want that help. Make no mistake, the step you’ve taken in coming here isn’t an easy one to take. But it is the most important one. Acknowledgment is important, but it means nothing if you don't take the step to seek help. There are a lot of stigmas out there that prevent people from ever admitting to themselves, much less to others, that there is something inside causing turmoil, leading to feelings and actions of self-destructiveness and harm. It’s a scary thing to feel alone and separate from family and peers,” I averted my eyes from her penetrating gaze. It wasn’t cold like my mom’s, but it still made me uneasy, “But you are not alone. Yes, your story is uniquely yours, however your experience with loss and its effects is not. There isn’t a person on this planet that hasn’t, at one time or another, felt depressed, or lost, or empty, or any other emotion that isn’t one of...what is considered normal in today’s world. The difference is that, for most people, those feelings are fleeting and localized. But for some they are constant and debilitating and require more than meditation or affirmations. And unfortunately the former tend to dismiss the latter based on their experiences thus creating the stigma that it’s all in your head. When ironically, for most, it is in fact a chemical imbalance in their brain.” She finally paused giving me a moment to absorb what she said, but also to study me. A look of uncertainty settled on her face before she continued, “For you though, I believe the situation is a little more complex. Yes, you attempted suicide, but it was from an overwhelming sense of loss and desire to assuage the emptiness you feel over the death of your best friend and not because of deep-seated feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred, or severe depression. You didn’t display a sudden change of mood before the event or try to tie up loose ends or make amends with those whom you’ve hurt or wronged. You acted purely out of pain caused by outside forces, at least from what your parents told me, which says to me that you have the potential for a full recovery.” She paused and assessed me, then asked, “What do you think?”
“I think normalcy is overrated. I mean, what is normal anyway?” She was starting to irritate me with how calm she was. I was giving her attitude and she was ignoring it. Why?
Also, what if my feelings were deep-seated feelings of inadequacy and self-hatred or severe depression? How would she know that? It’s not like my parents are
going to tell her they’re assholes to me. Maybe that's not why I tried to kill myself, but I’ve never been ‘normal’.
“Agreed; normalcy is widely interpreted, but your attempt to deflect isn’t going to work with me. I need to know what you think about your potential for recovery. Are you really here to actively participate in finding ways to move past what is holding you back, so that you can live a complete and fulfilling life, or are you just going to bide your time till your six months is up?” Her tone indicated that she knew I wasn’t really here of my own accord. But I couldn’t tell her that I had essentially been bullied into it. That wouldn’t matter, would it?
“I voluntarily agreed to come here didn’t I?” An almost imperceptible twitch lifted the corner of her mouth as if in confirmation of some unspoken question.
“Yes, you did. But is that because you truly regret your actions, and want help, or is it because you wanted to escape the uncomfortableness of going home and dealing with the aftermath?” My heart skipped a beat at that moment because I didn’t know. I thought it was because I wanted help, but maybe it wasn’t. I mean, I was okay with coming here until I actually got here, even if I didn’t really have a choice. I was being defensive and unnecessarily hostile towards her, which isn’t like me. However, part of it was because I didn’t want to go home. If I was honest I was more relieved that I didn’t have to see my parents or brother than I was hurt by it. But I didn’t want to be here either, not really. Otherwise, why was I being so confrontational with her? She hadn’t done anything to me. She seemed nice enough and was actually talking to me not at me; she was nothing like Dr. Wilson, so what was my problem? Maybe it was both reasons. I met her eyes still unsure of what to say, finally deciding to be honest. Maybe she’s different.
“Can’t it be both?” I whispered finally accepting that she couldn’t be goaded so easily. Dr. Banner smiled at me and nodded.
