by CD Reiss
“I just want to talk to Deacon.”
“I know. But maybe what you want isn’t what you need.” She took my hand. “When we’re done here, you’re having your orientation meeting with the hospital admin. Be nice. Be good. Okay?”
“Will being nice get me out?”
“It’ll increase the odds.”
“Then I’m all over it.”
CHAPTER 5.
The administrator smiled. She seemed genuine enough, but she was probably genuine with everyone, which made the whole act as fake as shit. Her brown hair was straight, but at the ends, I could see it was naturally curly. A little patch of eyebrow had begun to grow at the top of her nose. She wore a little wreath with a bell hanging from it on her lapel.
“I’m Doctor Frances Ramone, but you can just call me Frances.”
Apparently, we were all on a first-name basis in Westonwood.
“You can call me Miss Drazen.”
My joke had no effect on her that I could see. Being blind with a headache, who knew what was happening in my peripheral vision. On the other side of the glass walls, people played checkers and some asshole grumbled in a wheelchair. More windows decoratively barred against escape. Lightweight plastic chairs, great for throwing but not hurting. A television permanently set to beautiful scenes of nature, flowers, butterflies. And that was how rich kids disappeared into Westonwood. No TV. No internet. No phone.
“That’s fine, Miss—”
“I was kidding. Fiona’s fine.”
“Are you okay, Fiona?”
Was I okay? What kind of question was that?
“I have a headache, and I’m a little grouchy, if you don’t mind.”
“Your medication’s worn off.”
Was her smile smug? Or just a smile?
“I need you to hear this and retain it, so I preferred you have all your faculties. Okay?” she said.
“Okay.”
“You’re here so we can determine if you’re fit to be questioned for attempted murder, and if you had your faculties about you when you committed the act.”
Though my crying was silent and controlled, Frances flipped me a tissue. I dabbed my eyes.
“Allegedly,” I said.
“Allegedly. You have a lawyer you can discuss this with further.”
“Yes.”
She put a piece of paper in front of me. There was a list on it with little boxes to the left of each item, and she ticked them off as she spoke. “We don’t allow you to use the phones or fax except to talk to lawyers. Even family calls come through us. We have some rules here, and the rules are tailored specifically for you. Everyone’s comfort here is important. You will be provided everything you need from medicine to meals. You are not allowed any of your own. This is to prevent substance abuse. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She ticked one of the boxes with her pen. I pressed my legs together and jammed my hands between my knees. I was so tense. I wanted to be in the common room having a goddamn conversation with the backgammon set.
“You will have two sessions per day with Doctor Chapman. He’s agreed to keep seeing you, despite your attack this morning.”
I nodded. I didn’t like what I’d done. Not the attack on Deacon or Dr. Chapman. It wasn’t me.
“Violence won’t fly a second time. We don’t like to use our solitary rooms, but we will if we think you’re a danger to yourself or others. You’re a compulsory patient, but we can send you to a state facility.”
I looked her in the eye for the first time. Their color was indeterminate, somewhere between light brown and blue and green. She held my gaze.
“Is that what you told my father?” I considered telling her I’d go wherever my father wanted me, and if he wanted me in Westonwood, then that was where I’d stay. You didn’t cross Daddy. Period.
She changed the subject. “There’s a light switch in your room. It doesn’t work after lights out at ten. Most residents go to bed earlier.” Tick. “You will be given medication according to a schedule. You must take it as directed.” Tick.
“I’d like an Advil or something.” I needed a Vicodin, but I knew asking for it would get marked on my paper, and I wanted out, even if it meant getting questioned by the gestapo.
“After we’re done here, I’ll get you something for the headache.” She tapped her pen, asking for attention to her list. “You will not touch any of the patients or staff.” Tick. “Your bedroom door must remain open during the day unless your doctors or staff ask that it be closed.” Tick. “You must get to your sessions on time. We consider punctuality a sign of your commitment to the process here. Two late appearances mean you are not fully committed.” Tick. “And your performance in the bathroom this morning will not be repeated.”
“What performance?”
“Specific to you, there will be no masturbation.”
I laughed. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Next time we hear you through the door, we’re coming in. We are a private institution. Accredited, yes, but we do get to custom-tailor the Westonwood experience to each patient. In your case, sex is a distraction that is strictly forbidden.”
“Lady, I can make myself come by breathing a certain way, okay? And shame’s not my thing. Privacy isn’t a prerequisite; I’ll come right in front of you. So that rule is a fucking joke.”
“I assure you, it’s not a joke.” She slid back her chair. “Your meals are scheduled. Mark will take you to the dining hall.”
***
Mark, the orderly, was one of those guys who was trouble outside his job. He had on the same pale blue uniform as the rest of the orderlies, but his goatee was fingered to a point and his hair was shaved over the ears. The top flopped down, but I knew he made it stick up on the weekends. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn’t help it. He had an empty piercing hole in his nostril. He glanced at me, and I turned away.
I held my tray in the center of the dining room, trying to decide between seats that all looked the same. The room was done up in modern grey and white, same as everything else. Even the Christmas decorations were simple brushed-chrome snowflakes hanging from the windows. The linoleum shined, the paint scuffs were removed nightly, and the chairs were Scandinavian, but it still looked and smelled like a mental ward.
A group of three ate on the patio. It rained on the other side of the overhang. They laughed and smoked cigarettes as if they were at the Wilshire Country Club, not Westonwood. They were my age, more or less, with smooth skin and trim bodies. One girl saw me and waved me over. I stood in the doorway.
“Fiona Drazen,” she said. “Heard you were here.”
They all looked at me. I waved. Their faces seemed familiar. The girl in question had her bare feet curled on the chair and a lit cigarette in the fingers that rested on her knee.
“Hey.” One of the young men, with tight curly hair and a knowing slouch, raised his hand to me. “Good to see you again.”
I didn’t know him. Had I fucked him? Was I supposed to remember? I couldn’t even remember the last two days.
“Hey.” I nodded at him, then the rest.
The girl’s shirt buckled under her crouch, and I saw the curve of her breast. I remembered her. It had been a weekend in her mother’s time share—two days in an ocean of skin. I barely remembered their three faces from that party. Karen. Karen Hinnley. Her mother was a producer.
“Ojai,” I said. “Fuck, man. What a weekend.”
“It was…” She rolled her eyes as if at a loss for words.
“Beautiful,” I finished for her.
“Damn,” said the guy with the curly hair, “we should do it again.”
“Yeah.” Karen nodded to a boy with blond hair who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. “You gotta come this time.”
Everyone concurred except me. I couldn’t bear another minute. I didn’t know why.
“Nice and quiet here,” I said.
“Christmas,” Karen said. “Ever
yone gets sprung for a couple of days. Except I don’t want to go home to look at the buffet. Gross. After New Year’s, there’ll be a line for the tri-tip.”
Too-Young shook his head. Curly Hair laughed. Warren. That was his name. Warren Chilton, son of the actor.
“I’m going inside,” I said. “Call me when we’re all out of here.”
There was agreement, but no discussion about whether or not I would serve time, even though my situation must have been public knowledge. People like us didn’t serve time. Even the suggestion meant that my lawyer wasn’t connected well enough.
I wasn’t hungry, so I drifted into the common room, where the TV screen showed nature in all its high-definition glory. It was compelling in its way. I sat on the grey leather couch and watched, staring at daisies fluttering in the breeze. I felt too weak for a walk. Frances had given me a cocktail of pills for the headache, some of which I recognized, and they dulled the pain and the brain.
I’d stabbed Deacon. What would make me do such a thing? What could he have done? Beat me? I laughed to myself, because beat me was what he did on any given day. I rubbed my eyes as if I wanted to erase the lids and see what I’d done.
My body tipped a quarter of a degree when someone sat next to me. I glanced toward my right. He had short-cropped hair and pink lips, and he smiled and blinked slowly. I could fuck him. No reason not to, besides the no touching rule and Deacon, who wasn’t dead. I’d betrayed him enough already.
“Bellis perennis,” he said, tilting his head toward the nature show. “Common daisy, often confused with their more tightly petaled family members, Arctotis. You’re Fiona Drazen, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Jack Kent. Carlton Prep. I was a year below you. You were a celebrity even then. What are you in for?”
I didn’t have a chance to answer before a nurse came close, and Jack pointed at the TV.
“Arctotis stoechadifolia, nearly extinct in its native South Africa, and now a weed pest in Southern California,” he said.
“Attempted murder,” I said when the nurse passed, “but I don’t remember it.”
“Car?”
“Knife.”
“Wow. Trust you to do it big.”
I wished I remembered this guy half as much as he remembered me.
“No, wait. I remember you,” I said. “Nerd.”
“Not totally unfuckable, I think. But yeah.”
“What are you in for?”
“Being an embarrassment, unofficially. But officially, bipolar disorder.”
“Picked up in a manic phase?” I asked.
“Totes manic. I came up with a new way to process ricinus communis in a hundred forty-seven steps. No one in their right mind could get past the seventy-fifth.”
“Why did you?”
“Because I could. And the high? Woke out of it with my underwear full of jizz.”
I nodded. I knew how he felt.
“You voluntary?” he asked.
I shook my head. The flowers changed from yellow to pink.
“Fifty-one-fiftied?”
“Yeah. I supposedly tried to stab a cop. Resisted arrest. Turned the knife on myself. Yada yada. I’m screwed.”
“Who’s your psych?” he asked.
“Chapman.”
Jack puffed out his cheeks and released slowly, an expression of overwhelming sympathy.
“What?”
“Hardass.”
“Really? Seems nice enough.”
He shifted on the couch until he faced me, one leg bent on the cushions, the other with toes tensed against the floor. “It’s his job to be nice. Listen. Do you want out or in?”
“Out, of course. What person in their right mind would want to stay here?”
“The question kind of answers itself. But if you want out, you have to do it in the seventy-two-hour window, six therapy sessions, or shit gets indefinite. Like, they keep you in thirty-day increments and revisit, and it gets less and less likely you’ll get out unless your parents start making a stink. In my case, they won’t, so I can stay as long as I want.”
He didn’t look at me for the last sentence, as if he couldn’t bear the shame. I didn’t blame him. I’d be ashamed too, if I had any.
“I’ll convince him I’m sane.”
Which meant I’d face charges. If I convinced him I was nuts, I’d be stuck in Westonwood with their no touching rule and scheduled meals. If I faced charges, would I get to see Deacon? Or would I just be out and arrested and as separate from him as I was in the hospital? Only he knew what happened. Only he could say what I’d done and hadn’t done.
Staying in, staring at a flat screen of flowers with bars on the windows between Deacon and me, wasn’t going to cut it. I had to take my chances with the real world, which meant no more tantrums. No more attacks on the doctor or anyone else. For the next two days, I would be a model citizen.
CHAPTER 6.
“How was your morning?” Doctor Chapman—no, Elliot—asked. He had a tiny scratch on his left eyelid. Otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.
“Fine,” I said. “Sorry about attacking you. I’m not usually like that.”
“You’re repressing a slew of emotions and memories. Stuff can only stay in lockdown so long.”
“Speaking of lockdown…” I curled my lip to the side. Elliot’s hands were folded in front of him, and his attention was fully on me. I didn’t know if anyone outside of Deacon had ever paid me such razor-sharp attention. “Is it even legal to have solitary confinement in a hospital?”
“I told Frances you needed an hour of restraints so you didn’t hurt yourself. I didn’t know how the tranq would affect you. Where did you get the idea of solitary?”
“She mentioned it. Like a threat. Not a fan of threats.”
“What about the thought of it scares you?” he asked.
“I didn’t say I was scared.”
“Okay. Why bring it up? I’m sure she told you plenty of rules. Why does that stick out?”
“Because it’s a legal issue.”
“Is it?”
“According to Amnesty International and a whole bunch of entities who think it’s wrong.”
“We’re a private institution serving a specific segment of society. We get some leeway,” he said.
“Meaning there’s enough money getting passed around that you can do what you want.”
“Money flows both ways. But if you need reassurances, and you might, it’s not something I’d sign off on for you.” He watched me, reading me, observing me like a thing in a cage.
I wiggled in my seat, as if that would throw him off, but it didn’t. The grip of his gaze only got tighter.
“You’re making me uncomfortable,” I said.
“You’re not here to be comfortable.”
How many times had Deacon said that when the backs of my knees bordered my face? Or when I didn’t sit right at breakfast and he straightened me out?
“I hear you’re a hardass,” I said.
“As long as you contribute to your treatment, you’ll have nothing negative to say about me. If you shut down or fail to participate fully, I will take note.”
“That’s hardassy.”
He smiled, and his face curved from chin to forehead. Somehow, those two words had either delighted him or thwarted his expectations. I didn’t know how to respond to his smile except to fidget and suppress my own grin.
“It’s the world outside your bubble, Fiona. What you call hardass, other people call real.”
“Where are you from, Doctor?”
“Elliot.”
“Elliot. Tough Loveland? Toobad City? A mile outside Hardscrabble?”
“Menlo Park.”
“Oh, sweet. Tech geek?” I asked.
“My dad actually knows how a microchip works. It’s fascinating and utterly boring at the same time. I ran as fast as I could.”
“To Los Angeles.”
I could imagine him on the train in the m
iddle of the night, running from a world where people found practical applications for calculus. He’d fail as a writer/actor/musician and put himself through school as a therapist, finding a hidden talent, yet always yearning to spend his nights with that one creative task that fulfilled him.
“Pasadena,” he said.
“What’s in Pasadena?”
“I went to school there. Let’s get back to you.”
He was evading. It had been all over his face since he mentioned the city where his school was. Would he lie? Were therapists allowed to do that? I didn’t know if making our session about him would hurt my chances of release, but I wanted him to know if I could hold a conversation, act sane, function.
“Okay. Back to me,” I said. “I’ve been to Pasadena. I was screwing a skate kid who ollied the six sets at Cal Arts. Did we meet then?”
“No.”
“Pepperdine?”
“No.”
“Four Twenty College?” I mentioned the name of the pot school, where one could learn how to deal marijuana legally, with a lilt in my voice.
He took a deep breath then, as if resigned, said, “Fuller.”
“Fuller? That’s a seminary.”
“That a problem for you?”
“Did my father pick you personally?”
Elliot laughed again, rubbing the arm of his chair. “No. At least, I don’t think so. But I’m aware that your family is, if not religious, Catholic in a way that’s in the blood. I have no idea where you stand on it.”
“I’m a C and E.” I knew he’d know the term for Christmas and Easter Catholics.
“Why bother?”
“It’s nice to touch base twice a year. Jump the hoops. You know, show face. So you’re a priest? Or did you just say no to celibacy?”
“I’m Episcopalian, first off, so celibacy isn’t on the table. And I just haven’t been ordained.”
“Why not?”
“This is really all going to be about me, isn’t it?” he said.
“If you tell me why you’re not ordained, I’ll tell you something dirty I did.”
I felt the weight of my mistake instantly.
He got dead serious. “I know that’s how you’re used to being valued, but that’s not what you’re here for.”
