by E. L. Montes
Afterward, I go downstairs in search of Charlie, but no one’s around. I’m sure my mother’s off shopping, and my father is definitely working. I go out back to see if Charlie is lounging on the patio. Not only is she out here, but she’s at the construction site by the pool—where the guys are—giggling at something one of them said.
They must be loving the little blonde bombshell in her tight—and very short—little khaki dress and high gold strappy heels.
As I approach them, I can hear Charlie a bit clearer. In a flirtatious tone she utters, “Oh, you guys are too funny.” The guys around her are all smiling and enjoying her company, as usual. I don’t blame them; she’s a beautiful girl. If I went that way, I’d probably be all over her as well. I look around and spot Logan. He’s a bit farther away from the crowd with Bryson. They both have a shovel in hand. Bryson is digging into the ground while Logan stands in front of him, using his shovel as a support to lean against. They’re in their own little world, laughing about something.
Logan looks up and we briefly lock eyes. He nods once at me, smiles, and then turns his head back to Bryson, continuing their conversation. It’s a small gesture, but it makes me feel something—a flutter in my stomach. I shake off the feeling, clear my throat, and reach my hand out, tapping a finger on Charlie’s shoulder. She turns with a smile. “There you are. Ready?”
“Yep.”
“Cool.” She adjusts the owl-shaped charm hanging on her gold necklace. She never takes it off. It was a gift from Brooke in celebration of their ten-year friendship. It reminds me of my bracelet, which is still missing from two nights ago. My chest pains at my carelessness, but I snap out of it before I start to spiral. Charlie looks over her shoulder and waves at the three men who were eating up her charm.
“Think about it!” One of the three, a good-looking, olive complexioned guy with black hair and dark eyes, points at her.
Charlie begins to walk backward away from the guys. With a giggle, she shrugs both shoulders. “We shall see.” In one bouncy jump, she turns around. Her extremely cheesy grin spreads wider as she loops her arm through mine.
I wait until we’re a bit farther from the site, closer to the front of the house, before asking, “What was that about?”
“Oh my God, did you see him? His name is Santino Ramirez. He was born in Puerto Rico, but raised in Philly. That’s why he doesn’t have the Spanish accent. Anyway, he’s twenty-seven, no kids, and fucking hot. Boom!” I shake my head as we reach her car. I’m pretty certain she learned his entire life story in the thirty minutes it took me to get ready. She unlocks the doors and we hop into her Volkswagen. As I’m sliding into the passenger seat, she adds, “And, I’ve never been with a Latino before.” Her brows wiggle. “I hear they’re…” She slams the driver side door, settles in her seat, and spreads her hands widely apart, giving me an estimated length.
“Do you think of anything else?” She’s clearly delusional. I swear Charlie should’ve been a guy. No one would ever think this tiny blonde woman would come up with half the crap that comes out her mouth. Ever.
Charlie starts the engine, snaps on her seat belt, then turns to look at me before leaving the driveway. “What do you mean?”
“Well, sex. Do you ever think of anything other than sex?”
Her facial expression says it all. It’s as if I’ve offended her. I bite back a laugh. Charlie shakes her head, presses her foot on the gas, and takes off. “Jenna, we discussed this before. Some women read for entertainment. I prefer sex.”
“You know, there are smut novels,” I say.
“Yes, but I tried reading that stuff. I just get hornier, and then I’m all over the next guy. I need to calm my whoring down to a certain extent. If not, I’ll be known as ‘the One Who Sleeps With All.’”
She doesn’t make sense half the time. I take a peek at her profile. “You do realize you’re already known as ‘the One Who Sleeps With All,’ right?”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “That was so last year. I’ve changed a lot since then.” I can’t help it. This time I burst into a hard laugh. “What?” she asks. I can’t answer through my laughing. “Oh whatever, Jenna. I can’t help it. It’s the RPD.”
RPD—also known as Rapid Pussy Disorder. The term was made up by Charlie herself. She claims that even simple things like the fine scent of a man cause her pussy to twerk in a rapid motion. Rapid Pussy Disorder. Yeah, I know. It’s stupid, but she swears it’s true.
Finally calm, I ask, “So what did he mean by ‘think about it?’”
“Who? Santino?” She makes a left and then a right at the next corner. “Oh, he gave me this.” She reaches into her purse and hands me an orange flyer.
“It’s a party,” I respond, looking over the bold letters.
YOU’RE INVITED TO THE ANNUAL
REEDS’ LAKE HOUSE SUMMER WEEKEND BASH
June 14-16
Beer. Beer. And more Beer.
Let’s Party!
“Yep. And we’re going.”
My head jerks in her direction. “What! No, we’re not going.”
“Oh, come on!” she pleads. “It’ll be fun. We’ll be together.”
“No. And don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“You deserve a double eye roll! You need to get out more.”
This is ridiculous. We don’t know any of these guys, but she wants to go to a lake house and party with them—for an entire weekend? “I get out, Charlie.”
“Oh, yeah? When?”
“I’m out now, aren’t I?”
She groans. “This doesn’t count and you know it.”
With my arms crossed, I lean back in the seat and stare out the window. “Sorry, but I’m not budging on this one. No.”
She huffs one last time and pulls into the parking lot of our favorite local restaurant.
And that’s the end of that conversation.
The one person my mother tried to keep Brooke and me away from was my grandmother. She felt it was the only way we wouldn’t find out the truth—the truth of her past. But after I received my schizoaffective diagnosis, she had no choice. Ultimately, coming clean about all of the mental health history in the family was her only option.
Born and raised in Philadelphia as an only child, my mother came from nothing. She loved her father dearly. He used to work endless hours as a mechanic to support his mentally ill wife. When my mother was only ten, her mother was admitted to a psych ward and diagnosed with schizophrenia after stabbing her husband—yes, my grandmother attempted to murder my grandfather because the voices in her head told her to. After Mom was left with no mother of her own, she fought to make sure she’d never have to go through the turmoil of her childhood ever again. She vowed to stay away from anything that remotely reminded her of her mother’s illness.
Until me, that is. Until I inherited the fucking crazy gene. Mom didn’t have to say it; the expression on her face every time she looked at me explained it all. Her every glance was filled with disgust, hurt, and disapproval. She tried to change after Brooke was gone, desperate to build a relationship with me, but by that time it was too late. I didn’t need her. I needed Brooke.
Three months before Brooke’s death, we went in search of our grandmother. Mom refused to give us any information as to which facility she was housed in. Brooke researched endless hours until we found her. She did it more for me than for herself. Brooke knew how difficult it was for me to go through this alone. Yes, I had her by my side every step of the way, but no one truly understood the demons that I fought in my head: Every. Single. Day. I needed answers. The only way we felt we could find them was by finding her.
But even after my first visit with my grandmother over ten months ago, I didn’t find answers. I still haven’t. Every time I come here, I hope to leave with some type of reason as to why I am the way I am, but I leave just as confused as I entered. My grandmother lives at The Brandy Mental Health Facility. It houses people with mental disorders who are incapable of taking care of
themselves, or are a threat to themselves or those around them. Instead of stopping my visits after Brooke passed, something compelled me to keep coming on my own. Knowing that I’m no different than her, facing the harsh reality that she is, in fact, all alone in here frightens me.
It could be me sitting in that chair with my head bowed low and my body slumped from all the mind-numbing drugs. Her eyes may be the most disconcerting thing about her. They’re empty, lost in the world inside of her. Soft music plays in the background of the visiting room. Anxiously, my eyes leave my grandmother and roam the area. There are only ten patients in the room—all different ages and genders—and my eyes zoom in on one in particular. She looks so young, maybe late teens. Long, dark locks of her hair spill over her shoulders. She’s curled up in a ball on the chair, legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her face is buried in her legs, but her eyes peek out above her knees.
The girl rocks in place, humming along with the soft tune. A woman sits in front of her, chatting away. I assume this is her mother. I wonder what’s going through the young girl’s mind. Is she terrified that this may always be her life? At such a young age, does she feel nonexistent, even though she’s clearly here? Does she see how everyone around her looks at her as if she’s crazy, even when they claim they don’t? Is she watching everyone else live a normal life while she’s stuck in a world she sees and hears differently? I feel for her immensely. I remember being her age and having these thoughts. I still have these thoughts.
“W-well, h-hello, Jenna. How are you?” I hear from behind me. Turning in my seat, I spot Thomas.
I smile at him. “I’m doing well, Thomas. How are you?”
He grins brightly. Blinking rapidly, he responds, “I-I’m d-doing well. My son is v-visiting me today.” Thomas has been a patient here for a few years. When I first came to see my grandmother, he was in the visiting room. Every day he waits patiently for his son to come, but it never happens. “W-want to play a game with me?” he stutters.
“I wish I could, but I’ll be leaving soon. I have an appointment.”
The sad expression on his face breaks my heart. “O-okay. M-maybe next time?”
For some reason, I have a soft spot for Thomas. I take a quick look at my grandmother, who’s still out of it due to the medication they gave her. It’s either sit here and watch her sleep for the last fifteen minutes of my visit or put it to good use and spend it with Thomas. “Cards?” I suggest to Thomas. His face lights up, nodding in excitement like a kid instead of a fifty-year-old man. He grabs a deck of cards from the table beside him and begins to shuffle.
Dr. Rosario’s office is empty as I enter, so she takes me in right away. I watch her as she looks over my file. Her dark hair, highlighted with shades of caramel, is twisted into a low bun. Square-shaped designer glasses frame her thin face perfectly. Dr. Rosario crosses her right leg over her left, dangling her three-inch platform shoe in place.
She reminds me of the nurses that take care of the patients where my grandmother lives. They’re good at what they do, sure, but they’re detached, clinical. They do their jobs and go through the motions. They don’t really care about their patients. And Dr. Rosario doesn’t really care about me. Everything about her and this office screams she doesn’t give a crap about my condition. She cares about the money my condition bestows upon her. She’s paid very well by my parents to “treat” me. More like keep everything hush-hush.
Everyone from family to friends thinks I’m in therapy because I need to talk about my feelings after Brooke’s death. None of them know I’ve been in therapy practically all my life. If word got out that the McDaniels’ precious little girl, the only one they have left, is screwed up in the head, rumors would spread rapidly. And my mother wouldn’t want that.
Dr. Rosario clears her throat. Lifting her head, she stares at me through her glasses. “Jenna, how was your weekend?”
“Good,” I respond.
She smiles. “Did you do anything interesting?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“No,” I answer again.
There’s an awkward few seconds of silence. She finally huffs out, “Jenna, in order for this to work out, you need to be a bit more active in these sessions.”
“Active?”
“Yes. More involved. I ask you a question. You answer.”
“I am answering, Dr. Rosario.”
She uncrosses her leg, adjusts herself in the seat, and places my file down flat on her lap. “Yes, you are, but I’d like a little more. A bit more description would be nice. Do you think you can do that?”
“Sure.” I cross my arms over my chest. She wants more description. I can handle that. I lean back against the three thousand dollar white leather sofa.
“Good.” She nods. “Okay, so how was your weekend?”
“It was good.”
“Did you do anything interesting?”
“No. I. Did. Not.” I emphasize every single word—descriptively, of course. I understand this is a bit childish of me, but let’s face it, she’s counting down the time just as much as I am. Only thing is I’m counting down to get out; she’s counting to get paid.
Of course, since she’s been my psychiatrist for the last year, she knows how to push my buttons. She leans back with a daring expression on her face. “Did you have a chance to work on your painting this weekend?”
There. She’s done it. She’s hit a nerve. I shift uncomfortably and tear my eyes away to settle over her desk on the left-hand side of the office. It’s an excessively large desk if you ask me. “No, I didn’t have an urge to do so.” She knows how to make me tick. Right now I’m ticking. “But I did look over a few old paintings,” I confess.
“Good, Jenna. That’s a start. How did you feel when you looked at them? Did it bring anything up for you?”
Another tick. “I felt and remembered things that I’ve worked hard to forget.”
She nods in understanding and scribbles something down. “Most individuals try to forget certain events or parts of their life for various reasons. It’s normal. We feel if we don’t revisit these memories or feelings, then there’s less of a chance for vulnerability or a potential breakdown. But I find when I go back and learn how to cope with these issues and memories, there’s a better chance that I learn how to deal with them and know what to do if I’m faced with them in the future.”
I laugh at the last comment, turn my head from the desk, and dart glares at her. My expression is serious now; I can hear the ticking in my head. TICK. TICK. TICK. It grows louder, faster. Soon I’ll be ready to explode. “That’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want to ever deal with any of it again. I’m trying to have it all go away.” My hands drop to my thighs. “I don’t need it. I’m comfortable staying in the small cave of my room, away from everyone, completely isolated. I’m fine with never going out, having friends, or ever meeting someone. I understand this is my life.” I point at my chest, staring at her intensely. I’m trying to make her fully understand, but it’s pointless. She never will. No one ever will. “I know that I’m going to be alone, so I accept it, Dr. Rosario. I’m one hundred and ten percent okay with knowing that I’ll always be sick in the head. Some days will be good, and others will be extremely ugly—”
She shakes her head. “No, Jenna. You can live a normal life. There are numerous recovery stories from people with your same condition. We just have to work through it, and we can do that together.”
Work through it? What the hell does she think I’ve been doing for the last four years? The fucking bomb explodes. Standing, I hover over the coffee table, which, lucky for her, separates the space between us. “No, Dr. Rosario! You don’t get it and you never will because you don’t know what I go through. You don’t know what it’s like for me. You can pump me full of as much medication as you like, send me to therapy seven days a week, and even try a new treatment. I will always have this”—I stab an index finger at my temple—“in here. T
he voices and the thoughts, bad and good. You’re talking to me and so is someone else—sometimes more than one someone else.” My head feels foggy. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down. I will not cry in front of her. Turning my back to her, I gather my things from the couch quickly.
“Jenna, our session isn’t over.”
“It is for me,” I scoff. “And I won’t be coming back.”
Dr. Rosario rushes to her feet, her eyes wary. She lifts both hands to caution me as I storm toward the door. “Jenna, think about what you’re doing.”
I’ve thought about this for a long time. It’s time to try to do this on my own. “Thank you for the last year, but I think I’m ready to be on my own now.”
“Jenna, please,” she begs. “The most important part of treatment for someone with your disorder is to have a support team.”
“I have one. Myself. I’m all the support I need.” With that said, I turn on my heel and walk out of Dr. Rosario’s office.
As I storm down the hall with tears prickling my eyes from rage, I wonder if what I just did is actually best for me. The moment I step outside and feel the warm air, I expect relief, to feel free somehow. This is what I wanted, right?
Instead, I feel more lost than ever.
I’m not exactly certain how long it’s been since I stepped out of Dr. Rosario’s office. Days. Weeks. Honestly, I lost count. Days like this are when I’m at my worst. Days without eating, without seeing daylight. Days when I ignore every call.
I’m entirely secluded.
My father is busier than ever. With his company in its prime, he’s barely home to notice. My mother, well, she’s off shopping or at the latest local housewives committee meeting, discussing the latest gossip. She barely takes note of my depressed days. And that’s awesome. I’m happy that I don’t have parents who watch my every move.
I do, however, have an annoying friend who won’t leave me the hell alone. Like right now. Charlie is banging on my bedroom door at this very second. If I hear one more damn knock, I might get out of bed, unlock the door, and strangle her until every strand of her curly blonde hair frizzes.
