Teaching Willow: Session Four

by James, Paige

  I let my mind wander back to what I remember last—Ebon’s mom. My memories are clear and perfect, right up until I passed out, which I know now was drug induced. I can recall waking up here in the hospital, hearing my father’s conversation with Ebon, bits and pieces of what the doctors and nurses were saying. All of it is easy to remember, which is odd. I should be medicated, shouldn’t I? Surely they’ve been giving me something through my IV. All I know is that, whatever it is, they need to give me a stronger dose because I’m thinking again. I’m not drifting in oblivions anymore and that’s unacceptable. I want to avoid reality as much as I can for the foreseeable future. There’s nothing out there for me anymore. Why would I want to participate?

  Seconds or hours or days later, a nurse comes in to check on me. She seems surprised when I roll over and look at her. She smiles, but I don’t give her a chance to say anything. I preempt her.

  “My drugs have worn off,” I say flatly.

  “What drugs?”

  “Whatever kinds of sedatives I’ve been given. They’ve worn off.”

  “No they haven’t.”

  “Uh, yes they have,” I reply acerbically. Like I wouldn’t know. Ha!

  “You haven’t been given any sedatives.”

  “Oh.” Well, that explains it. “Then what are they giving me?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Why on earth not?” I ask, pushing myself into a sitting position. I can’t very well hide in my hell without some help, now can I?

  The nurse searches my eyes, her bland smile still intact. “You need to be evaluated first so that we can determine what the safest and most effective treatment for you would be.”

  “Well, when is that going to happen? I’ve been here for, what, a week or two already?”

  “You’ve been here for two days, actually.”

  “Oh,” I say again. “Well, I’m sure they’ve got all my old meds in my chart. Maybe they should just start me back on some of that. And something for anxiety,” I add hopefully. I just really want to disappear back into a fog for a while longer.

  “Most of those are contraindicated during pregnancy.”

  I shake my head. “So? Why would that matter? I’m n—” My words are cut off by the gasp that meets the lump in my throat, effectively shutting down any verbal communication on my part.

  Pregnancy.

  Pregnancy?

  I’m pregnant?

  The world is spinning. Like a basketball perched on the tip of a finger, it’s spinning so fast I can’t make heads or tails of the facts. Everything around me, everything inside me is just a blur of emotion.

  I’m pregnant with Ebon’s child. The notion brings with it such happiness and excitement, I feel my lips curve into a smile, despite my circumstances.

  I’m pregnant with Ebon’s child and Ebon hates me. That notion stills my smile, stops my heart and buffers the excitement.

  Further dulling the knee-jerk elation that I felt is my situation. My eyes sweep the room behind the nurse. I’m in the hospital. In the psych ward. My parents think I’m suicidal, that I’m irresponsible and irrational to the point of being a danger to myself. They’ve basically abandoned me into the care of professionals. I have no family, no friends, no…no one. I’m completely alone. Locked up. With no job and no future. No support system to speak of. And I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  The nurse leans down to put her face in my line of vision because I’m staring blankly at the wall. There is a look of concern on her face. I feel her palm brush my arm. I see her lips move. I know she’s speaking to me, but I don’t really hear her. I only hear one thought as it bounces around inside my head like an echo might bounce around within the dark walls of a cave.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  I’m pregnant.

  Fingers clench my arm, drawing my full focus to the nurse. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. As I digest her words, her concern, I realize that my physical answer is not enough, so I speak. “I’m fine. I just…I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’m sorry.” The concern doesn’t leave her face. And I know why. I’m going to have to prove to everyone that I am sane enough to be released.

  My parents are essentially having me committed. I’m in the hospital now because of the drugs that Ebon’s mother gave me. But I know Mom and Dad are working to get me committed on a longer term basis. This blunder was all that was needed to seal the deal for them. And while that might’ve thrown me into the pits of depression before, I’m not that girl anymore. No matter what anyone else thinks. And while it would be nice if my loved ones could see that, they are no longer much of a factor for me. I have something more important to worry about, something that’s growing inside me right this minute. I need to prove to everyone who will listen that I am stable and capable and responsible because I have a baby on the way. And because he or she doesn’t deserve to be born in a mental institution to a mother who is constantly medicated. No, I’m getting out of here. For me and for my baby.

  EIGHT- EBON

  Time has ceased to mean the same thing as it once did. A restless feeling of hopelessness hovers at the edge of my every thought, so I type. I pour my every emotion, my every thought, my every dream and desire and regret onto the white pages of my laptop screen. I eat when I remember to. I sleep when I can’t stay awake any longer. I check my phone the moment my fingers stop tapping away at the keys. But there’s never a call from Willow. The only people interested in speaking to me are various members of law enforcement, asking me questions or merely updating me as they process the evidence from the scene, and as lab and autopsy results return.

  So far, it seems that no charges will be filed against me. Thus far, the evidence has corroborated the statement that I willingly went to the police to give. Having another witness to verify my story would be helpful, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.

  Willow’s parents have refused to let the police speak to her. Her “condition” has temporarily given them the authority to make decisions for her, so there’s not much anyone can do about it at this point. I’m sure it would be different if she had perpetrated a crime, but she didn’t. She didn’t do anything wrong. None of this was her fault. And I suppose her parents have decided that since my mother is dead, there is no one to press charges against, so they’re simply ignoring the whole thing. Maybe they just don’t want Willow’s good name dragged through the mud. Maybe they don’t want her associated with something this…ugly and seedy. Or with me. That probably has more to do with it than anything.

  So I write. Because I can’t stop thinking about Willow, about what happened, about what I had and will never have again, I write. Because there’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do, no way that I can fix any of it, I write. Because I have no job and no family and no home, I write. To keep from sinking down into a dark place from which there is no return, I write. But, mostly, because nothing seems to matter quite as much as losing Willow, I write.

  And I write a lot.

  NINE- WILLOW

  I’ve discovered that the ultimate test of sanity is being locked up and treated like a crazy person. Trying to keep one’s wits about oneself long enough to prove that one is sane in those circumstances is quite a challenge! I mean, you lose many of your rights when you get committed, and everyone around you tends to take what you say with a grain of salt. I’ve begun to wonder if I’d have had this much success with holding onto reality if I didn’t have a baby to think about.

  But I do.

  This child has turned out to be a bright spot in my life in more ways than one, too. Because of my pregnancy, the only medication that they’ve been legally able to give me is an antidepressant that has shown fewer risks of birth defects than the others. I’m sure they think it’s helping because I’m walking a very fine “sane and stable” line for them. Everything I do and say is well thought out and thoroughly c
ontrived. It has nothing to do with a pharmaceutically-induced improvement in my status. I’ve only taken one of the pills they’ve given me. I learned to make myself vomit within minutes of the nurse leaving. It was my only option. They check my mouth to make sure I’m not hiding the pill somewhere. Luckily, if I don’t drink much water, it’s not very hard to get back up.

  Other than those bouts of vomiting, which I conveniently blame on morning sickness when I get caught, I’ve been taking good care of myself. I eat well and drink lots of water. I walk the halls and the day room as much as they’ll let me. I make sure to give tepid answers to any emotional questions my psychiatrist asks me. All in all, I think I’m doing a bang up job of proving that I’m sane. Mainly because I am.

  I’m not sure how much good it would have done me, however, had the day shift orderly, Matt, who I think might have a bit of a crush on me, not given me the newspaper to read. That’s when I saw the article about Ebon’s mother and the police investigation into her death. I don’t know why they haven’t come to talk to me. My guess is that my parents have something to do with it. It’s hard to tell what they’re doing out there on my behalf, supposedly for my benefit.

  After I read the article, I debated for three days straight what to do about it. But then I decided that I should go ahead and mention it to my psychiatrist. It was a risk. She could’ve chalked it all up to deluded desperation. Or she could’ve given my words some credence and at least check into it since there was the black-and-white possibility that all this might not be a result of mental illness. Thank God, that’s what she did.

  It’s because of her that I’m going to be able to speak to the investigator on the case today. I’m hopeful that I can not only help bolster Ebon’s case, which is still somewhat in question according to the newspaper, but that I can help my own predicament as well. Maybe they’ll see that I was not the crazy person in this whole ludicrous situation. Audrey was.

  The only request of Dr. Dowling, my psychiatrist, was that she be present during the meeting. I agreed instantly, hoping it might carry even more weight if she hears the entire conversation and learns what really happened. I stopped trying to convince anyone of the “outlandish” truth after the first week I was in here. It did nothing but make me sound…well, crazy.

  It’s much easier for them to believe my parents’ pat story of how a girl who had emotional problems growing up resorted to drastic measures to gain the attention of a man with whom she’d become obsessed. After, of course, he took advantage of her poor, pitiful self in his role as her professor.

  It’s really quite disgusting, the way they portray me. But my history does nothing except reinforce their perceptions and validate their theories in the eyes of my doctor, so it’s been up to me to prove them wrong. By whatever means necessary.

  This is likely my one and only chance to do that without spending months in here. Now there are other professionals, law enforcement professionals, who will be giving legitimacy to my story, to my side of things. I can only hope it will sway my psychiatrist.

  My nerves leap to life when another of my favorite orderlies, Ben, comes to escort me to my psychiatrist’s office at 10:19 AM on a Thursday morning. When the door swings open, the first thing I see is a haggard-looking, fortyish man in a ratty brown sports coat and khaki pants lounging in the seat across from my doctor. His legs are crossed casually at the ankle and he doesn’t appear to have a care in the world. For just a moment, my hope flags a little. This is the guy who is supposed to give credence to my story? He looks like a washed out alcoholic who spends his days pretending to contribute to society.

  His bored eyes rake me from head to toe and he stands as though it takes his last bit of energy to do so. “Detective Arnold,” he drawls, thrusting his hand toward me. I take it and experience the first real sign of life the man offers. His handshake is firm and confident.

  “Willow Masters.”

  He motions to the seat beside him, all the while my psychiatrist watches us with her hands folded neatly atop her orderly desk. I sit primly in the chair, glancing back over my shoulder as Ben quietly exits the room.

  “So, you have something for me?” Detective , Ben asks without preamble.

  “I-I think so, yes.”

  “And what might that be?”

  This might be harder than I thought. “Well,” I begin, squirming in my chair and then making myself still. “I have some information that might be helpful in a case that you’re working.”

  “Go on,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “It’s about Ebon Daniels.”

  “You mean Noah Snell?”

  I stare blankly at him for several long seconds before I give him a dull, “Huh?”

  “The man that you’re referring to. His real identity is Noah Snell.”

  It takes me a few seconds to remember that is what his mother called him. “O-okay. Right. Noah, then. He and I had been seeing each other for a while and I had gone to his house to speak with him. When I arrived, a woman answered the door. She introduced herself to me as his mother. I had never met her before, but I had no reason to doubt her words. I mean, she was in his house early in the morning after all.”

  As I think over my statement thus far, carefully examining it for any pitfalls or holes that could cause me problems, the detective prompts me. “And?”

  “I asked to speak to Ebon. She told me he was in the shower and then invited me in to wait for him. So I went inside. She seemed nice enough, so I sat on the couch and she fixed us some coffee. We chatted for a few minutes, just like any mother and girlfriend of her son might, I suppose. It was some time later—I’m not sure exactly how much later—when I started to feel a bit…ill. I felt hot and had trouble focusing, then I started to get dizzy. That’s when she started to talk about…other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, she called Ebon Noah a couple of times. She mentioned that he’d changed his name to get away from his family. She also said she knew about…about what I’d done.” I resist the urge to fiddle with my fingers. I clench them tightly in my lap.

  “And just what did you do?”

  I glance nervously at my doctor before returning my gaze to the sleepy-eyed detective. “I, um, I pretended to be my twin sister so I could date him. He w-was my teacher and that kind of thing is strictly forbidden. So, I…I tricked him.”

  It sounds so horrible, so humiliating to speak the words aloud. Maybe this kind of place really is where I belong. I mean, who does things like that? What sane person, what emotionally stable person would do something like that?

  Detective Arnold makes no comment. He simply raises one bushy eyebrow and rests his head against his thumb and forefinger.

  I clear my throat, determined to continue. “Anyway, I told her that I wasn’t feeling well. She asked me if I needed to lie down, which I very much did. She led me back to Ebon’s bedroom and pushed me onto the bed. By that point, I was feeling so…out of it, I had trouble making purposeful movements. The last thing I remember is her drawing up some kind of drug, I guess, from a clear vial that was sitting on the bedside table.”

  “And what do you remember next?”

  “Waking up in the hospital.”

  “Hmmm,” he says, noncommittally. Wordlessly, he watches me. His previously-bored eyes are now razor sharp, transforming him from an unassuming imposter to a hard-nosed, seasoned detective.

  After too many long, unnerving seconds of cutting me open with his penetrating gaze, Arnold glances back at my doctor, raising his eyebrows in a gesture that says…I don’t know what it says, but it makes me uncomfortable.

  I feel panicked, desperate as I see my one shot at getting out of here sooner rather than later evaporating like morning dew off the grass.

  “See?” I say emphatically, suddenly. “I didn’t try to kill myself. I don’t need to be in here. This really happened. And by none of my own doing. Yes, I made my fair share of mistakes. And so did Ebon. But I don’
t need to be in here and he doesn’t need to be…well, he just needs to be left alone to grieve and get on with his life.”

  “This is all fine and good, Ms. Masters, in showing that this wasn’t a failed suicide attempt or a cry for help on your part. But you have nothing to add in Mr. Snell’s defense with regard to his mother’s death, is that correct?”

  I stare at him dumbly. Because I don’t. I don’t have anything to say that might help Ebon, not like I thought I did. I didn’t see what happened at the end. I was unconscious.

  “No, sir. I…I…whatever she gave me…”

  He nods. “That’s understandable. Rohypnol is like that. I’m not surprised there are gaps in your memory.”

  A despondent quiet falls across the room during which I visualize my hopes circling the drain. My eyes prickle with unshed tears. My heart burns with the combustion of my expectations. My throat swells with a lump that threatens to choke me.

  I bolster myself enough to glance at my doctor, who is watching me closely. I give her a tremulous smile and slap my hands on my knees. “Well, if that’s all…”

  After only a brief hesitation, she returns my smile and nods. “Unless Detective Arnold has something else, then you’re free to go. We’ll speak later.”

  She darts a questioning look at the cop who shakes his head. I nod to them both, standing and making my way to the door. With trembling fingers, I twist the knob and exit quietly out into the hall. No one is awaiting me, which I find odd. But that doesn’t stop me from returning to my room. I have to get back into my hole before my resolve breaks and I fall apart. It won’t do me any good for anyone to witness that.

  My fingers clench and unclench as I retrace my steps to my room. Once there, I turn into the prison that now feels like a sanctuary and I close the door behind me. I walk purposefully to the bed and perch right on the edge, scooting my cold fingers under my thighs. Other than the closing of my eyes and the swell of my chest as I inhale deeply, I sit still as a statue.