by CD Reiss
“As your sister, I approve.”
I sneered at her playfully, and she hid her smile.
***
The garland and lights were gone from the visiting room, as if Christmas had been mentioned once and wiped away. Mom paced in front of the window, a wisp of a thing with a bent neck, tapping her finger on her chin.
“Hi, Mom.”
When she faced me, I knew she wasn’t there to join me for the therapist’s recommendation. Her eyes were on fire, her jaw set. She sat down like it was her job.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“How are you?”
“I’m f—”
“Did your father ever touch you?”
“Mom!”
“Answer me!” She slammed her palm on the table.
I held my hands up and sat back. It was too much. I needed time to think, to talk to people. To breathe, for Chrissakes.
“Fiona, tell me. I’ll protect you. I’ll put myself between you and anything. But just tell me. Did he ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?”
“No, Mom. He never touched me inappropriately.”
“Your sisters?”
“Why now? I’m twenty-three years old. What happened?”
She sighed then pursed her lips, a series of facial tics that meant she was holding in an emotion, any emotion. I said nothing. My heart was pounding too fast.
“There’s talk that he’d had a relationship with the girl who just died.”
“Jonathan’s girlfriend?”
“Previous to that, when she was a bit younger, but yes. Your brother didn’t know until recently, and he’s not happy with it. So.” She sat up straighter. “Did he ever touch one of your sisters?”
I wished for time, and my wish was not granted. The clock still moved. Things had been said in pledge. We’d held our hands up and made promises, and though I’d broken plenty of promises in life, I’d never broken pledge. None of us had. We had a code of silence, and inside of it sat our denials, our shame, our bonds.
“I can’t say,” I said. “Not directly.”
Mom’s face melted, constricting, as if her tears shrunk and crinkled it. I snapped up the ubiquitous box of tissues and put it in front of her.
“So it’s true,” she spit out before the sob choked her.
“It’s complicated, Mom. It’s not what you think, but I can’t say. It’s not my place.”
“You think you’re protecting someone, but have you thought that the way you all are… that you hurt each other with this wall you put up?”
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”
“What are you all afraid of?”
Afraid? I wasn’t afraid of being cut off from their money. I had more than I needed, and it couldn’t be touched. I wasn’t afraid of being cut off from my siblings, because we were strung together with strong twine.
I was afraid of Dad.
Dad had a way of making things happen. He had a way of using his relationships and his money to create chaos or order, as he saw fit.
But Mom was in distress, and how much worse could it all get? I was already up a creek; what would be the difference if I threw my paddle in the rushing billows of shit?
“You should talk to Carrie,” I said, instantly regretting it, yet feeling the release of something I hadn’t realized I was holding so close.
“It was Carrie?” she squeaked.
“Talk to her.”
She wiped her eyes, but her tears barely abated. “God damn that big house.” She folded and refolded the tissue. “God damn the corners. You can’t see what’s happening. You can’t hear. We avoid each other. Did you see how that happened? How we went to the far corners?”
“There were eight kids, Mom. You needed a big house. What were you supposed to do?”
“Pay attention. I was supposed to pay attention!”
Mom looked up and behind me. I followed her gaze.
Margie stood in the doorway. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Mom thinks I’m a disappointment and a failure.” I may have been ready to break pledge, but I wasn’t ready to get busted for it. “Let’s get this done. You’re buying me dinner at Roberto’s. I’m hungry, and I need a drink.”
“You’re too young to need a drink,” Margie said, getting out of the way of the exit.
“Well, I need something.”
“How about a job?” she replied, putting her arm around Mom.
I stuck my tongue out at her.
CHAPTER 16.
We waited.
On the hard, squared-off modern couch in the common room, we waited. I imagined Elliot typing, his middle finger rubbing his upper lip. I waited for Mom to come back from the parking lot and throttle me into saying what I knew, which was nothing. I swear, I knew nothing except that Carrie had talked to Deirdre and Sheila about something in pledge. That was it. Nothing I could build a case on.
I shook a little. I was getting out. The press was out to skewer me and possibly my brother. My little coterie of fuckbuddies and hangers-on were going to steer clear of me and the media attention I dragged behind me. My relationship with Deacon was in a sick holding pattern. Amanda was still dead. I’d broken, or at least fractured, a lifelong bond of trust between me and my sisters and brother.
A little community service would go a long way to distracting me.
Bored, yet jumpy and upset, I went into the cafeteria. Dinner was starting. The staff placed trays of deluxe meals into the steam trays. I’d never see them again, those chattering people in hair nets, and I hadn’t even gotten to know their names. I said good-bye in my mind to the cafeteria, the patio, the holes in the camera matrix. I said so long to the grey painted over everything, the flat lighting, the sterile corners. Karen came in, all unkind angles and protruding bones. I excused myself from Margie, who waved me off, and stood next to Karen as she plopped her journal on the tray.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m getting my recommendation in, like, twenty minutes, then I’m outtie.”
“It was good to see you again,” she said flatly.
“You should call me when you get home. I mean it.”
“I don’t think I can do an Ojai again.” She poked through a basket of perfect yellow bananas as if unable to choose one, though they all looked the same to me.
“Yeah, me neither.” I said it, but did I mean it?
Deacon had kept me away from the life for months, but I didn’t know where he and I stood. He might be out of my world forever, and if that was the case, then what did I have left but more of what had gone before? I found I wasn’t looking forward to anything. I was terrified of speaking to Deacon, of being in my big empty condo. I didn’t care to see Earl or Charlie. Didn’t want to delve into what had happened with Martin or Debbie. But mostly, I wasn’t looking forward to partying. Didn’t want coke, but knew I’d snort it when I got bored. Didn’t want sex, but knew I’d need it when I got sad.
Karen got to the bottom of the basket. The banana at the end was black and soft. No one would want it. She picked it up and put it on her tray instead of all the firm, ripe ones.
I’d figure it all out once I was home. I might figure it out licking the base of some guy’s cock or tied to the ceiling like an enraptured side of flesh, but I’d figure it out. I just had to go deeper. Harder. Full throttle into whatever tornado I’d walked into. Yet when I spoke, something completely different came out.
“Something has to change,” I said. “I don’t think I can live like that anymore.”
“Yeah,” Karen said pensively. “If I knew how to stop doing this, I would.”
“It’s a problem. Me, I mean. I have a problem.” I said it with a little laugh, as if to disavow it even as I said it. I was taking a practice run at thinking I had something to fix. It was like an audition for recovery to see if I had the talent to pull off the role.
“Fiona,” Margie said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “We’re up.”
I
hugged Karen. “Good-bye. Eat something, would you? You’re skin and bones.”
“I will. Good luck out there.”
Elliot and Frances entered through the glass doors, and I noticed that he was frowning. We walked in silence to the conference room. I said good-bye to the linoleum, the garden outside the window. Silently, as a prayer to people not present, I said good-bye to Jack who was completely unfuckable, Warren who was an act of violence waiting to happen, Mark who was one of a hundred or more.
I didn’t know what waited for me outside. I didn’t know if Deacon would take me back, didn’t know if the media would crush me, but I was ready to be out of Westonwood—that was for damn sure.
CHAPTER 17.
Mom didn’t come back. It was just me and Margie with Elliot and Frances. The table shined in all its lacquer glory under the horizontal shadows of the window blinds. A black spider of a conference call unit sat in the middle of the table, ignored. I tried to make eye contact with Elliot, and he met my eyes once we sat. I saw no reassurances in the gaze, but he was never one to let a crack in his professional veneer show.
I tucked my hair behind my ears. Had I brushed it? I was about to go back into the world, and I’d hate to do it ungroomed, sloppy, with scraggly red hair and no makeup. I already felt as though I had one foot out the door.
“Ms. Drazen,” Frances said to Margie, “can we get you anything?”
“Out of here?”
She smiled so disarmingly, Frances laughed, and the tension of the room broke a little.
“Well, thanks for coming.” Frances looked as if she’d applied lipstick fifteen seconds before opening the glass doors. “This conversation is being recorded for the patient’s protection.”
I almost laughed out loud but choked it down.
Frances continued. “Doctor Chapman and I will be issuing our recommendations to the judge and district attorney for the City of Los Angeles, in the case of Fiona Maura Drazen.” Frances folded her hands in front of her and looked me in the eye. “After careful consideration by the administration of this hospital, and the bearing in mind the counsel of Dr. Chapman, we’ve decided to recommend you stay at Westonwood or another accredited facility for an additional fourteen to forty-five days of observation, pursuant to Section 5250 of the California Welfare and Institutions code.”
I swallowed. “Excuse me?”
“What’s this about?” Margie demanded. “She’s functioning. She’s capable. I’ve seen far sicker people released on their own recognizance.”
“She’s had three violent outbursts while under our care,” Frances said.
I spun on Elliot. “You said the meds caused the outbursts.”
“I said maybe,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, but—”
Frances broke in, “And she still has no recall of the incident.”
“There was no incident,” Margie growled. “You can ask Deacon Bruce.”
“The judge thinks there was,” Frances said. “He’s concerned about letting a woman with psychotic episodes back into society.”
“We just accepted a plea deal.”
“From the prosecutor. Judge trumps lawyer.”
Margie was holding herself together admirably, but I could see her gears turning. I bet the two psychologists across the table could as well.
“Our recommendation is that she be kept here for her own safety,” Elliot said softly. He closed his little folder and stood. “I’m in session in two minutes. Excuse me.” He nodded to each of us and strode out.
I was left sitting in shock. What had just happened?
I had been so sure I was leaving. I’d said good-bye to the place, checked my room for personal items, looked at the cafeteria for the last time. Staying was worse than a defeat. It was a humiliation.
How was I letting that motherfucker walk out of there?
I spun out of my chair and dashed into the reception area. He was just beyond the glass doors.
“Elliot,” I called.
He slowed down, as if deciding what to do.
I ran to catch up. “What happened? Come on, you know I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
He shook his head. “It’s for the best.”
“I’ll have you in session tomorrow, and I’m not saying a word until you tell me what happened.”
“Fiona, I—”
“You can shove your little pen tip up your ass. I’m going to make your life miserable.”
He smiled ruefully and looked at the floor. “I’m not your therapist anymore. I’m going back to Compton.”
“Fuck you are.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be here. I think you’ll be just fine. You’re doing great.”
“Save the platitudes for the ones who need them.”
His neck tensed, and his eyes got hard. That was my gotcha moment, and I didn’t want it. His voice went from heavy cream to wire brush, and the stroke of every syllable drew blood. “Once you get out there with your cute little plea deal, you’ll get eaten alive. Maybe by the press. Maybe by that man you almost killed. Maybe he’ll kill you this time instead of breaking your teeth. The judge on your case is not out to help you, trust me. You don’t have the tools to handle life outside these doors. You’ll go back to using, and I’m not willing to wonder if I could have done something else to help you. I’m just going to do it. This is the only way to protect you.”
“It was your job to assess my sanity. Not protect me.”
He held his hands out, his clipboard clutched in his fingers. “That’s just tough, Fiona. This was the last real thing I did here, and I’m okay with it.”
“Fuck you.”
He nodded, making me feel like a tantrum-prone child. And now what? He was going to say good-bye and leave me? No. Not allowed.
“This is not done,” I said.
“Good-bye, Fiona. Meeting you was something else.”
I turned around and ran back down the hall before he could say a word. I didn’t know what I was trying to stop. Some freight train of my thwarted expectations before it ran me over? Maybe the moment where I would wake up and realize I’d failed, and I was stuck here? So help me God, I couldn’t be there, cut off from everything for another month. Something had to be done, and if no one would do it for me, I would do it myself. I slammed past the glass doors, out of breath.
Margie stood staring at her phone.
“You have to keep Doctor Chapman here,” I said in a breath. “Make them. He can’t walk away.”
Margie heard me, I knew she did. I was right there, but she wasn’t listening.
“I fucked up,” she said.
“How? You made a deal, they can’t—”
“Dad was right. I’m too inexperienced. I would have had my finger on the judge’s pulse if I’d known better.”
What she was saying hit me like a slap.
“No,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Fiona. I tried, but you need a better lawyer. It’s not fair to you.”
“Not fair to me? I’m here now with nothing and no one… I don’t have Elliot, and now you’re leaving? What am I supposed to do? Margie, how am I supposed to make it? Don’t leave me.” My hands were flying. I was screaming.
Margie was trying to grab my hands and shush me at the same time. “Calm down.”
“Stay, and I’ll calm down. Stay with me.”
“I can’t. It’s not the best—”
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
When I tried to hold her close, hands on me pulled and tugged. There was a floor under me, and shadows in the light, and voices in all kinds of timbres and shades of gentleness. There was a discomfort in my arm like a stiff finger pushing against me, and soon after that, the hands relaxed, and everything went grey.
---------
use
CHAPTER 1.
FIONA
I often drifted off into a trance-like state that reminded me of the hypnosis sessions I used to have with Elliot. I fazed out in the ev
enings between dinner and lights out while I sat in front of the TV, watching the ocean waves on a loop, and I let my mind do whatever it wanted.
While I thought about nothing, in a cotton-candy medicated haze, the cardboard cone of my rage was hidden under the pink tufts of sugar. In the ten days since Elliot left, they’d changed my meds and I’d run the gamut from zoned out to acting out.
Too much slap, not enough tickle.
I missed Elliot and his cold professionalism, the little tics and movements he used to funnel his emotions, the promise of his naked body under his clothes. He’d been gone twelve hours before I started entertaining vivid sexual fantasies about him. I didn’t need him for anything. In the heat of our non-relationship, I didn’t need him to set me free or call me sane, so I didn’t have to block out the thoughts. Since I’d rediscovered the feel of my fingers on my body, I’d entertained thoughts of him at night once, twice, three times after lights out, falling into a sleepless daze with my hands cupped over my cunt.
My favorite fantasy was so chaste it set my clit on fire.
I’m in a coffee shop on Charleville, the one where I could get a buttercup, which was a drip coffee with butter. I’m alone which, in and of itself, is a fantasy. There are no cameras or paparazzi anywhere. I sit at a table on the sidewalk and open a book. The sun shines. The breeze is light in my hair, and the mug is made of red porcelain.
He stands over me with his paper cup, casting a shadow on my book. “Fiona?”
I look up, and I put him together as I remember him: light brown hair, green/blue/grey eyes, narrow brows, long neck, and a smile that, for once, is genuine, unburdened by self-reproach or professional courtesy.
“Elliot, hi.”
“How are you?”
“Great. Do you have time to sit?”
He always sits. Sometimes he’s on his way somewhere and decides to take the time out, and sometimes he has nothing to do. But he always sits. I imagine our conversation. I have to make his life up, because I know so little about him. I tell him how well I am. How I’m cured. How I don’t do drugs anymore and how sex is no longer a need. Sometimes I tell him I haven’t had sex since I was released, and sometimes I tell him I have, just a couple of times.
