Dr. Sutherland tipped his chair back with a creak. “Maybe you don’t want to feel better,” he suggested. “If this isn’t something that’s bothering you…”
Tamara nibbled the icing off the donut. “Like I said, I didn’t make the appointment.”
“You had a fight in the common room the other day?”
She didn’t think another ‘sort of’ would go over well. She was pretty sure he must know all of the details already. She couldn’t very well keep the fact that she’d had a fight with Blacksnake a secret.
“I guess so. Just…” she held her fingers up like she was measuring something, “a little one.”
“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s better than a big one. Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Blacksnake was bugging me. I… defended myself.”
“What did she do to bug you?”
Tamara thought back. The events that had precipitated the fight were only vague memories. Cloudy and murky.
“She was getting in my space. Trying to start a fight.”
“Did she say or do something?”
“She was standing too close to me.”
Dr. Sutherland waited. Tamara looked away. “I just didn’t want a big gang fight. Then she started harassing me… I wasn’t going to let her diss me like that.”
“What made you think there was going to be a big gang fight?”
Tamara picked at the donut with her fingers. “I was in the common room… it was like before… I thought… it just looked like there might be a fight. I didn’t want to get caught in the middle of it, like last time.”
“How did that make you feel?”
Did he want her to say that she was scared? Or that she was angry? Or was there something else that would identify whether her reaction was normal or not?
“I was… anxious. Last time… Zobel got hurt, and…”
A shudder ran through Tamara’s body. She tried to stay focused on the donut and the coffee. On the fact that she was just sitting in Dr. Sutherland’s office, where she was perfectly safe. She looked to the side to see if Zobel were there. She clenched her hands into fists. She wasn’t back there again. She wasn’t going to slide back into it again.
“You helped Mr. Zobel when he was hurt.”
Tamara put her coffee down on the edge of the desk. She lined up the donut beside it. Her stomach was heaving under her uniform. She tried to keep Dr. Sutherland from seeing how much it upset her to talk about Zobel getting hurt. She knew her reaction was overblown. Other inmates would be happy to talk about saving someone’s life. Even if it was a guard or a cop. People liked to brag up their accomplishments.
“Sure. I did.”
“After your ‘little fight’ with Ms. Blacksnake, something triggered a flashback to that.”
He did know everything. Or at least, everything that the people who had observed Tamara in the common room knew. She contemplated taking a sip of the coffee to steady herself, but was afraid that she would end up dropping it and spilling it all over if one of the flashbacks or hallucinations became real. It was all she could do to stay focused on Dr. Sutherland, pretending that there was really nothing wrong.
“What was it that triggered that flashback, Tamara? Do you know what it was? Sometimes it is a sight or a smell. Sometimes just a feeling. Do you know what it was that triggered you?”
“I just… I just got distracted for a minute.”
“By what?”
“By… Zobel being there. That’s where it happened, him getting hurt.”
“And is that what you saw? Is that what you flashed back to?”
Tamara swallowed. “I guess so,” she said in a firm, calm voice. It was a voice that said she didn’t care. It was just a little thing, of no consequence. Hardly worth mentioning.
Even with the long sleeves of the uniform, Tamara was sure Dr. Sutherland could see that she was sweating buckets. The room was warm and close and must have been rank with the smell of her sweat.
“You’ve heard of PTSD, Tamara?”
“Yes. Everybody has.”
“Do you know what it stands for?”
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Tamara said glibly, the words rolling easily off her tongue.
“So what does the name of the disorder tell you about it?”
“That… it’s… a disorder you get… after a trauma.”
“Yes,” Dr. Sutherland agreed. “Do you think it’s traumatic to see someone stabbed right in front of you? Mere feet away? Not even feet, just inches?”
“I guess. It could be.”
“It could,” Dr. Sutherland agreed. “Even if it was someone you didn’t like?”
“I never said I didn’t like him!” Tamara protested.
Dr. Sutherland raised an eyebrow. “No,” he agreed. “I’m just running through scenarios. Zobel has been here for quite some time. Most of your incarceration, if I’m not mistaken.”
“All of it. He’s been here the whole time.”
“The good ones… you develop a relationship over time. I don’t mean an inappropriate relationship. Just that you get to know each other. Get a feel for each other.”
“Yeah.”
“So maybe you thought of Zobel as a friend.”
“Maybe—almost—like that.”
“And seeing someone who was almost like a friend stabbed in front of you, that would be pretty scary. That would be something traumatic.”
Tamara chewed her thumbnail. She stared intently at her cup of coffee. She didn’t know if Dr. Sutherland was trying to trigger another flashback. If so, he was doing a good job. She breathed shallowly and tried to focus on anything but what he was talking about. She’d been momentarily distracted by the offering of fresh coffee and donuts, thinking that she was actually happy to be there. She couldn’t let herself be fooled so easily. She had to remain on her guard despite Dr. Sutherland’s bribes. He was very good at what he did.
“PTSD can cause a wide range of symptoms,” Dr. Sutherland said, shifting his approach. “Not just flashbacks. Anxiety and hypervigilance, anger and other strong emotions, sleeplessness. It can cause physical symptoms like nausea, muscle aches, and loss of appetite. Confusion. Difficulty keeping track of time.”
Tamara leaned forward. “All of that?”
“Yes. Maybe some of those symptoms sound familiar?”
“I—how did you know all that?”
“The rate of PTSD is very high in juvenile offenders. It can make people behave in ways that they wouldn’t have otherwise. It can contribute to impulsive or violent behavior. You wouldn’t be the only person in this facility to suffer from it,” Sutherland gave a little smile. “Not by a long shot.”
“Zobel said he had it.”
“I couldn’t comment on Mr. Zobel’s specifics,” Dr. Sutherland said, “but working daily with violent offenders and being stabbed like he was could certainly lead to PTSD. A lot of police and emergency responders end up with it.”
“I don’t want any meds,” Tamara said flatly.
Dr. Sutherland stroked his goatee, considering that. “The right prescription could really help. You’d feel a lot better.”
“I don’t want them,” Tamara insisted, shaking her head.
“I see. Is there… any particular reason…?”
“I’m not crazy. I don’t need it.”
“Nobody said you were crazy. Taking a prescription for your mental health does not mean you’re crazy.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Well…” he gave her a slow smile. “Let’s not worry about that just now. Why don’t you just give me a quick rundown of how you are feeling right now? You have been rather agitated since your return.”
Tamara considered her coffee and donut. She took a deep breath and took a glance around the room to make sure once more that Zobel hadn’t appeared there and that there was nothing else to trigger a flashback.
“Some of the stuff you said,” she admitted. “Having trouble sleeping at night… or w
aking up in the morning.”
He nodded encouragingly.
“I dunno… guess maybe I’ve been kind of… moody…” She thought about throwing the table over on Lewis and grimaced. “Overreacting… not thinking…”
“Feeling a little bit out of control?” Dr. Sutherland suggested.
Just a little.
That didn’t even begin to describe the feeling Tamara had of standing at the top of a precipice, the wind getting stronger and stronger.
She picked up her coffee and took a gulp that burned her throat. The coffee felt like acid in her stomach and she fought to keep it down. As much as she wanted to eat the donut, maybe the first thing that had been appetizing since returning to juvie, she didn’t think she was going to be able to manage it.
“My stomach is messed up,” she grumbled. “I just… I can’t eat.”
“I’m sure that’s something you would like to improve.”
“Doesn’t help that the food here is crap.”
“I’m afraid that the canteen food is not something I have any control over. You can’t eat the donut?”
“Don’t know.”
“Less anxiety would improve the stomach issues. If you don’t want medication, then how about some relaxation and visualization exercises?”
Tamara rolled her eyes. “That stuff doesn’t help.”
“Meditation can have a very powerful effect on the body and brain. If stress can cause the problems you are experiencing, then de-stressing can help to reverse them.”
Tamara had to admit it made sense. She’d never bought into all of the guided relaxation exercises that Dr. Sutherland and the therapist she had seen while she was on parole had recommended. But maybe it was time to reconsider. If they would help to bring her world back into focus…
“Fine,” she sighed, “tell me what to do.”
13
ON VISITOR DAY, Mrs. Henson returned with a small stack of paperbacks that had been approved by the administration. Tamara flipped through them, nodding.
“These look really good. Thanks.”
Mrs. Henson nodded. “I hope you enjoy them. Let me know which you like best and then I know what to get next time.”
“Okay.” Tamara left them on the table between them. She ran her thumbnail along a deep cut in the top of the table as if she were fascinated by it. She didn’t want to look at Mrs. Henson.
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Henson asked. “Are you feeling any better than you were last time? I know you were a bit down…”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“That’s good.” She was smiling brightly when Tamara glanced up at her face and then looked away again. “Everybody’s entitled to a mood now and then. This has got to be a tough place for a girl like you to be.”
A girl like her? Tamara wasn’t sure what Mrs. Henson thought she was like. She’d always seemed to think that Tamara was better than she was. That if she just put a bit of effort into it, she could be like Nita and Deshawn. Like normal people. Maybe Tamara too had thought that if everybody just gave her a chance, she would show them that she was a good girl. A good girl that bad things had happened to. Things that weren’t her fault.
The Hensons took on lots of teen girls. But Tamara didn’t know how many came to them from juvie. Harry had been in juvie, she knew that. But he seemed normal. Like he’d recovered from that black mark against his name. Maybe that was why Tamara had thought she could escape the stigma of juvie as well.
“How is everyone?” Tamara asked abruptly, as it occurred to her in a brilliant flash of insight that if she talked about the others, the focus would be off of her. The visit would go by faster, without Tamara feeling like she was under a microscope the whole time, and she could go back to her cell and read a book before bed.
“Things are going fine. Harry got a promotion at work, which is really fantastic. He’ll actually earn a living income, so he can start looking at getting a place of his own. Not that we’re kicking him out or want him to go. We’ll miss having him there. But he’ll be so happy to be on his own.”
Tamara nodded with interest.
“Jason will miss him terribly, so hopefully we can get another boy to keep him company. Give him someone that he can help out, instead of being so focused on himself.”
Tamara didn’t remember Jason being particularly self-centered. But then, she didn’t remember much about him. He’d been in the background.
“Nita and Deshawn are still joined at the hip. You’d think they were really sisters with how close they are. They send their love, of course. They’re still in school. Deshawn is really struggling with the work.” Mrs. Henson’s brow furrowed. “She has a lot of challenges… we’ve been able to keep her in school, but I don’t know… they’re talking about special education if she doesn’t show any improvement. She’ll drop out before she’ll go into a special ed program.”
Tamara straightened a little in her chair. “I didn’t know Deshawn was…” she couldn’t find the politically correct words. Too much time in juvie where words like ‘retarded’ were thrown around without concern for anyone’s feelings. “That she… had… challenges.”
“Everybody has their own thing.” Mrs. Henson brushed her bangs back. “I don’t know much of Deshawn’s background you remember…”
They wouldn’t have told Tamara anything about Deshawn’s past or ‘challenges,’ would they? Had that been shared with her?
“I… don’t think I knew…”
Mrs. Henson raised her eyebrows skeptically. Tamara felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Had she been so focused on herself while at the Hensons’ that she hadn’t paid any attention to the others and their stories? She remembered Harry had been at juvie. She remembered… Tamara hit a blank wall. Nothing. She didn’t remember anything about their backgrounds.
Tamara cleared her throat.
“So she’s been having trouble at school…?” She tried to divert Mrs. Henson’s attention back to her story.
“Deshawn is very sensitive. It bothers her when other kids think she’s stupid or judge her. With her history—alcoholic parents, abuse, poverty—she hasn’t had the nurturing, or the opportunity to have her disabilities addressed. She won’t accept any accommodations. She doesn’t want to look any different from anyone else. It’s so important to her to be accepted.”
Tamara nodded, trying to read between the lines. “But if she got help…?”
“I don’t know how much it would advance her, but not getting any help isn’t helping her. She’s just got it in her head that everyone else is smart and she can’t let them see she’s stupid.”
“But she’s not!”
“No. That’s her analysis, not mine. That’s how she sees herself. And her biggest mission in life is to make sure that nobody else can find out. To look and act just like everyone else.”
Tamara had run into girls in juvie who were desperate like that. Always in a gang, because they needed that group behind them, that feeling of belonging. Even if the gang were just as abusive toward them as an enemy would have been. Thinking of Deshawn in that position made her sad.
“Deshawn was always nice to me.”
Tamara hadn’t always been nice back.
Mrs. Henson nodded. “She’s a very sweet girl in spite of being on the receiving end of some very cruel behavior. I just hope we can do something to keep her from dropping out.”
“Yeah.”
Mrs. Henson sighed and looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Nita is doing great. If you ever want an example of a kid who has turned her life one-eighty, you look at her. She’s a completely different girl than she was when she came to us. I wish you had gotten to know them better when you were with us.”
“I guess… I was just too distracted by school and everything. It was… a lot harder than I expected. I thought I’d be able to just… be normal. That everything would be like it was before I went to the Bakers.” Tamara tried to breathe through the knot in her stomach. “But it wasn’t.”
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“At least you know that for next time. You’ll know what to expect next time.”
Tamara pushed herself back from the table slightly, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “I’m not gonna be getting back out. You think I am, but I’m not. You don’t know.”
“I haven’t heard anyone say that you’re going to be disqualified from applying again. I think you’re the one making assumptions and prejudging the situation.”
“It’s not your life. I know.”
“What have they told you? Has there been some kind of filing made? Some kind of report made against you? Did they tell you that you aren’t going to be able to apply for parole again next year?”
“No. I just know. They’re never going to put me on parole again. Not after all of that stuff. Not with…” Tamara didn’t finish with, “what’s been going on lately.” Then she would have to explain to Mrs. Henson just what had been going on.
“Tamara…” Mrs. Henson shook her head, smiling a little. “You sound just like you did when they found the marijuana in your locker. You insisted they were going to send you straight back to juvie, no matter what Mr. Collins said.”
Tamara looked around her. “They should have. Woulda saved a lot of trouble if they had just put me away.”
“They will give you a chance. Even if the parole board doesn’t decide for you… they’ll still hear you out. They’ll still give you a chance to appear and plead your case. And if you’re working hard at following the rules here, I don’t think they’re going to turn you down.”
“I’m not trying to follow the rules,” Tamara insisted, frustrated to have to tell Mrs. Henson again. “I’ve done that and it got me nothing but trouble. Look at me, I’m right back where I started. Worse than that!”
But Mrs. Henson couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see inside Tamara’s head. She couldn’t understand how deeply Tamara was sinking into the quicksand. Tamara wasn’t a little girl anymore. She no longer looked like the little twelve-year-old who had been admitted three years before, striped with bruises, abused and pregnant, half out of her mind. But inside, she was still that sad, scared little girl fighting against an unfair and unreasonable world.
Tortured Teardrops Page 13
