We're All Mad Here

by Angel Lawson

  She makes a stack of washcloths, piling them up, one by one. “I guess there’s a reason I’m like this. The real reason, one that I’m not about to share in a group of losers.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Go on.”

  Charlotte squirms a little, shifting on her feet. Obviously the truth made her uncomfortable, and after the last month of living with her I have no problem pushing her buttons a little. This is her idea, after all. “I used to be normal, okay? Like a typical kid. Sure, my parents are self-absorbed twats, caring more about personal time and spa dates, but I had everything I wanted. A fairly close family, toys, games…friends. But all that changed one night and nothing has ever been the same for me.”

  “I can relate to that,” I laugh.

  “You can?”

  “Sure. I was coasting along fine, too, and then…well, right. This is your big reveal, not mine.” We stare at one another. “So what happened?”

  “What happened is my uncle is a disgusting pervert.”

  That gets my attention and turns my stomach queasy. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he tried to mess with me when I was a kid.”

  “Tried to?”

  “Yeah, tried to,” she repeats. “I used to be nicer and less of a thief and partier, but I’ve never been one to sit back and let someone take advantage of me. It’s not in my nature.”

  “So you fought him?” I wasn’t exactly sure where this is going or if any of it is even true. Charlotte always had a little bit of a disconnect thing going on. It may be because of all this, that she was trying to protect herself, or it could have been that she’s just a big, fat liar. I can’t tell.

  A wicked grin appears on her face. “Yeah, I fought him. And then I blackmailed his ass, to keep my mouth shut. He caved and I learned that everyone has a price. Anyone can be bought and sold. Especially men.”

  “Like Paul or Max.”

  She nods. “I admit sometimes I get ahead of myself. The lies just happen and I get a rush from the manipulations. Plus, guys are so easy. You’re all perverts. You only want one thing.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve got no interest in being with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  She didn’t look convinced. I wasn’t going to insult her by explaining how she didn’t exactly fit the criteria for my type. Maybe she had some delusions about her own attractiveness, but she had a point. Most guys are pigs.

  “How did you blackmail him?”

  “He’s a big-wig in his church and community. I threatened to tell everyone, including my aunt, if he didn’t cooperate.”

  “Cooperate how?” I ask.

  “Money, trips, clothes…whatever I wanted. All of the things he bought me pushed me into a higher level of popularity. My parents didn’t buy me those things. Blood money did. To the point that it spiraled and I ended up here.”

  “So no one else knows this?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. No one.”

  I load the stacks of towels into the large basket we will use to carry them upstairs. “Thanks for telling me, I guess.”

  “So does that help? You know, getting to know me a little better?”

  I want to tell her to piss off, that no it doesn’t matter, but what Charlotte didn’t point out was that in addition to being perverts, men have one other thing that we fall for every time.

  Vulnerable women.

  Chapter 13

  The sunlight streams through Dr. Cross’ window. I watch as he makes notes. He asks about my medication and general well-being. I feel fine, I tell him. My moods are stabilized. My participation is excellent. My behavior continues to be above the rest of the patients. Obviously.

  “I see no reason why you shouldn’t anticipate going home on the twenty-sixth.” He gives me an approving smile. “You’ve done very well here, Connor. I think that if you maintain your medication schedule and avoid triggers like drugs and alcohol, you should be fine when you get home.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, nodding in agreement. None of those will be a problem. Well, in reality, they weren’t the problem in the first place. The ghosts are held off by the anti-depressants, which is fine by me. I don’t want to risk that anyway.

  “Any concerns about your release?”

  “No sir. I think I’m ready.”

  “School will be back in session so you’ll have some catching up. You will also be required to see the school counselor as well as a psychiatrist to monitor the medications.”

  “Sure, no problem. I can handle all that.” I run my hands over the top of my thighs. “I think.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Since I’ve been lying for the last three months and no one here has any idea what I’ve been dealing with, I can only hope he’s right.

  *

  Your life is the result of choices you make, if you don’t like your life it’s time to make better choices.

  “Settle down!” Marcy stands in front of the chalkboard, her voice barely penetrating the volume of the group. “On the rare, but exciting occasion we have someone graduate from the program, we get to have a party. So in honor of Connor successfully completing his ninety days, we get to have snacks with our group today!”

  Most of Marcy’s excitement seems to be about someone actually graduating from Brookhaven instead of being kicked out or being sent somewhere else. That or she really likes cake, because she almost trips over a chair while passing out the paper plates.

  “So Connor, what are your plans once you get home?” she asks me through a mouthful of icing.

  I smell that trick question a mile away. I’m not out of here yet.

  “School and seeing my friends. I’ll have after-care and follow ups with the counselors, though.” Avoiding haunted houses and cemeteries have a central spot on my list, too. “I’ll use the methods you taught us.”

  “You’ll continue with your art?” She smiles at my answers.

  “I’ll sign up for art at school. We have a pretty good teacher.” And buy a dozen cans of paint. Maybe silver and gold. I had a whole sketch book of ideas to work on at The Ruins back in my dorm room.

  “Excellent. I know you’ll do so well.” To my relief, she focuses her attention on the rest of the group. Party time is over and everyone else still has to earn their release. Everyone seems content to think today is my last full day, but I won’t feel relief until my feet are out the door.

  *

  “How many people know what you told me the other day?” I ask Charlotte the night before my release. It’s a rainy Saturday and everyone lounges around the recreation room. Charlotte and I share a table and pretend to work on a puzzle that had been sitting on the game shelf. The box had a thick layer of dust coating the top. One swipe with a finger revealed a faded beach scene, complete with a red and white striped light house.

  “Just you,” she says quietly. “And my uncle. Fucking bastard.”

  “Do you think you could ever tell your friends about this? About being here?” I find two pieces of the edge and fit them together.

  “No freaking way. They think I’m in rehab.”

  “So rehab is better than the alternative?”

  “What? That I spend my life manipulating everyone and everything because my uncle couldn’t keep his hands off me? That I steal and drink and smoke weed to forget that no one in my life really cares about me? Yeah, rehab sounds way better than admitting that to the sheep.”

  To her surprise, I nod in understanding. “No one knows why I’m here.”

  “No one?”

  “Nope.” I find two more pieces, linking a row together. I notice Charlotte has her own section and pull it toward mine and snap them into one long section. Over the last couple of years my secret has become an overwhelming burden. The lies piling up to keep my story together, but I decided late last night I should tell Charlotte. She trusted me with her story, can’t I do the same?

  “Ready for your own revel
ation, Jacobs?” she asks, nudging me with her foot.

  “Well,” I said. “It’s not really my story, but it happened to a friend of mine.”

  “A friend?”

  “Yes. Not me, because what I’m going to tell you is crazy. And crazy people do not get out on release to go back into society. They just don’t.”

  Charlotte stops her hunt through the puzzle pieces and gives me a wary look. “Okay, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Keeping my eyes on the table, I snap another piece in place. “So I have this friend, that when he was about thirteen, he started seeing things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “People? Spirits? Ghosts, I guess.” She doesn’t respond so I keep going. “At first he didn’t understand what was going on. The first ghost was a girl searching looking for her family. Then there were more and more.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yep. Ghosts or whatever you want to call them. All the ones that can’t get to the other side or whatever.”

  “Were they scary?”

  “Sometimes. More like overwhelming,” I pause. “Or so he says.”

  “Did he tell his parents?”

  “He tried but no one believed him. So he kind of dealt with it on his own. But it didn’t work. He stopped sleeping and going to school. Eventually, my friend tried some weed out of desperation. Surprisingly, drugs helped block the spirits. So he kept using, more and more, until that didn’t help either.”

  “That’s kind of how getting high works. It helps for a while but then it stops,” Charlotte agreed. “For the record, I would totally get high right now.”

  I laugh. “I know what you mean. Maybe they’ll up your meds.”

  She clicks her tongue. “It’s not the same, you know?”

  “When the drugs stopped working, he got really desperate. His parents were exasperated and scared. The therapists thought he was just seeking attention. They put him through all these tests but none of them came up with any real diagnosis. All he wanted was for those ghosts to go away, but they wouldn’t, so instead he wanted to go away. So in one fogged, crazed moment he lit a fire in his house hoping to just burn it all down. Ghosts, himself, everything.”

  I feel Charlotte’s eyes on me but I continue working, fitting another puzzle piece together. The brief relief of telling her the whole story is instantly replaced with the fear that I’ve made a horrible mistake. She’ll tell someone and use it against me and I’ll be trapped here, or somewhere worse, forever.

  “So basically, there’s nothing the doctors can really do to help your friend,” she says.

  “Basically. The medication seems to dull the visions. He hasn’t had any since he started taking them. We’re not sure why.” I finally look up. Charlotte’s eyes are wide and a little panicked. Shit. If I’ve freaked Charlotte out then my story must really sound crazy. “Things are better for him. I think he’s going to be okay.”

  We work on the puzzle in silence for a while. Together we piece together the border and the sandy beach. Halfway through the lighthouse, Charlotte presses her foot down on mine under the table. Awkwardly she says, “You know, I think your friend is going to be okay, too.”

  I smile at her attempt at kindness. “I think we’re all going to be okay.”

  Chapter 14

  My mother cries during my discharge. She signs the papers for my release, taking turns hugging me and writing her name on a dozen sheets of paper. I fight my own unexpected tears and give Paul one last fist bump before leaving the building. I don’t see Charlotte that day and I don’t really care. I figure I’ll never see her again, and that is definitely okay with me. Her secret is safe with me and I hope mine is safe with her.

  In the car, my father gazes warily at me from the rearview mirror, but I have my cocktail of meds in my bag and I know I’m safe. The ghosts can’t get through the shield of prescription medication. Leaning back against the leather car seat I listen as my parents discuss the renovations at our house, leaving out the fact they had to be done due to my destruction. My mother now has her dream kitchen. My father has his own den. See? My brief flirtation with arson worked out for everyone.

  At home, I pick up my sister and hug her. She clings against me, happy, her unconditional love enough to push past any fear she may have of me. She makes fun of my short hair and I pull her long braid. I promise to see her paintings, first thing, right after I check out my room.

  My room, my God, how I missed it. The comfortable, supportive mattress. The soft sheets. The privacy. Real privacy. I lay on my stomach, realizing how exhausted the hospital made me, and how much I just want to sleep it off like some kind of bad dream.

  “Connor,” my mom calls from the hallway.

  “Yeah?”

  “Matt’s on the phone, he’s been calling all week.”

  I roll over to the edge of the bed and pick up the phone off the floor, eager to hear my best friend’s voice. Sleep can wait.

  *

  They give me three days. I use them primarily for sleep, food, and setting up my aftercare.

  My mother orders my prescriptions, arranges doctor’s appointments and picks up my school schedule. I plot growing out my hair and wondered how long it will take to grow a beard. If I can’t get high anymore, I can at least rebel in the little ways.

  My mom drives me to school the first day back, even though my car is sitting in the driveway ready and waiting. Being a senior, I feel like an idiot, but I know better than to argue. I’d overheard my mother discussing private school with my father and I’m well aware that I’m on a short leash. I can risk a little social suicide by riding with my mom to school the first day back.

  “Have a good day, honey.” She frowns at the scruff already forming on my jaw and chin.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I give her a kiss on the cheek.

  The hallways are familiar but loud. I’m unaccustomed to being around more than two dozen kids at a time. Here the lockers echoed with each slam, and the voices seem echo-y and distorted. I’ll adjust. Dr. Cross and I had discussed this very thing. The noise and chaos are nowhere near the biggest distraction, though. It only takes a minute to realize that.

  Girls.

  I haven’t been around this many females in months. Their perfume assaults my nose. I can’t stop looking at their arms and legs. Their hips and shirts reveal more skin than I’ve seen in forever. I recognize a few, all of them older and prettier than the last time I saw them. Jesus, it’s going to be a long day.

  “Hey man.” Matt waves from his locker. “What class do you have first?”

  “English with Ms. Bates.”

  “I’ve got calculus.”

  I look over his shoulder and feel my eyes bug. “Holy crap, is that Allison?”

  Matt glances back. “Yeah, man. Big change, huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Allison spots us and interest sparks in her eyes. She walks over, leaving a trail of girls in her wake. “Connor Jacobs, I heard you were back.”

  “I’m back,” I say, unable to form a more coherent sentence. Luckily, vague and aloof works for me.

  “You look good. The short hair suits you.”

  Instinctively, I run may hand over my head. “Oh, yeah, I’ll probably grow it back out.”

  The bell rings, cutting the awkward conversation short. Thank god.

  “See you guys later,” she calls, walking off to join her friends. The whole group looks over in our direction, laughing.

  Girls.

  “Is she seeing anyone?” I ask, following Matt down the hall.

  “Nope. I think you’ve got a chance.”

  “Maybe.” Assuming Allison is into guys with a reputation. Which I think she may be.

  We walk to where the hall splits into different directions. Language Arts to the left, Math and Sciences to the right. Before he walks away, Matt touches my arm. “Oh, before I forget, we’re meeting on Sunday at The Ruins. You in?”

  “Definitel
y.”

  I enter the classroom, away from the curious eyes and whispering voices and hand my schedule to Ms. Bates. I’d been enrolled in this class last year but failed it when I’d missed so many classes.

  “Welcome back, Connor,” she says with a genuine smile. “I hope this semester will be a little more successful than the last.”

  “Me too, ma’am. Where should I sit?”

  She points me to one of the two free desks in the room. One is next to the window and the other behind a girl with short, blonde hair. I take the one by the window.

  At my desk, I pull my notebook out of my backpack. The class material is similar enough to last year’s that I tune Ms. Bates out and I flip past the images of wild blonde hair and another of dark soulful eyes. The birds, sleek-winged crows and the curved tail of a cat. I start sketching my next project for The Ruins. I have an idea about these big eyes, watching all the time. That’s what the hospital felt like. That’s what today feels like. Constant scrutiny.

  I glance at the board and see the reading list for the year. First up? Catcher in the Rye.

  Oh, the irony.

  Someone across the room shouts out, an abrupt and out of place, “Ha!” and then tries to cover it with a fake coughing fit. I search the room and spot the blonde, red-faced and apologizing to her neighbor. The other girl-- Amanda, a girl I’ve known since elementary school—sneers in reply.

  Okay, so there are things I really didn’t miss about public school.

  I refocus on my drawing, scratching the back of my head in concentration, trying to avoid eye contact and the occasional whispers from my classmates. There’s been a soft murmur coming from the middle of the room off and on all during the class. I’m aware it was about me and even though I try to ignore it, with every passing minute I can’t help but become more agitated.

  Someone else coughs and I look across the room, hoping to catch the person talking about me. Is it Amanda? Maybe that jerk Carl, whose house I teepeed in middle school? He’s always carried a grudge about that.