by A. R. Rivera
“. . . No danger to anyone. The date’s already been set. In six months time, Canyon View will be closed.”
“What?” My brain is much sharper than it appears. My eyes can’t find their focus the way my thoughts have. The tone he’s using . . . it’s almost upbeat.
With my eyes shut to stop them from floating around, I keep listening.
“Miss Patel, we can talk about this later, if you prefer.”
“It’s my meds. What does this mean?”
“It means the state is closing this money pit, shipping the remaining patients across the state to other, more efficient facilities. It means you’ll get what you need in a more suitable environment.”
I open my eyes to find him gently smiling. The gray hair around his temples nudges, but the follicles don’t separate. Too much hair gel.
“Which means what?” I ask, again.
“That you will be moving into a more individualized care facility better suited to a person with your needs.”
“I don’t understand. If this isn’t about my review, why are you here?”
“This is about the review, as well as the state’s budgetary issues that led to it. Miss Patel, from the outset your placement at Canyon View was meant to be temporary. There simply were no alternative mental health facilities available. You were a troubled girl, lost in a foster care system that failed you.”
He sighs. “You should have had a case worker that kept a closer eye on you. Maybe then, your troubles would not have gotten the better of you.”
Mister Brandon tilts his chin up, peering down at me. “Your reevaluation was concluded. Doctor Schumacher agrees with the Boards’ findings. There are new treatments and better facilities available to you. A few months from now, when the time comes for you to be moved, you won’t be going to another maximum security psychiatric hospital.”
My forehead crinkles.
He crosses his arms. “You will be moved into a moderate secure facility.”
62
—Angel
Six Months later . . .
Having so many choices is an oddity to me, because for years I had none. I had to accept whatever decisions were made on my behalf.
But no more.
Now, I make decisions every day. I’m doing it right now, actually. “Pancakes, please, with maple syrup.”
The first choice I made seemed like a very small one, but it turned out to be huge. I decided to run, and to keep going no matter what. And that going led me here, to this small diner.
“Excellent choice.” The waitress is an older woman with short graying hair. She smiles warmly before striding away with my menu tucked under her arm.
Staring at the steaming mug of coffee between my palms, I can’t keep from smiling. Excellent.
This morning, I woke up in an empty house, just around the corner from here. I stumbled upon it while I was walking late last night. There was a loose board over a broken window. I managed to pry the plywood off, and climbed through.
I have learned a very important lesson: not all lawyers are bad. It turns out that Mister Brandon was right: my review was never about how the cops screwed me, or even about the terrible things that happened to Jake that night. It was all about money and nothing more. Budget cuts: two unlikely and beautiful words that mean something totally different when set apart. But together, they mean freedom.
After talking to my lawyer in the hospital that day, he said to be patient. And I was. I didn’t care what happened; which was good, because what ended up happening wasn’t much. But it was enough.
Just enough to create opportunity. A small window of opportunity.
The court appointed doctors I talked with—the lady with the tight hair bun and the quiet guy with the sodas—they saw fit to side with my lawyer and convinced that last Doctor, Schumacher, to have me moved. And so I got to leave a few months after they let me out of the infirmary, once my weight reached a healthy number.
That window of opportunity I mentioned was less than a foot wide, shorter in height, and it was mounted in the outer wall of the common room that the new place let me sit in whenever I wanted. Moderate security meant I could sit unsupervised. I wasn’t constantly watched and restrained like in Canyon View. It was a secured sanitarium, but not a maximum security and I liked it much better. There were still bars on the larger windows and guards in every room. It was still surrounded by a fence. But the guards wore no side arms. There were no guards in towers with long range rifles posted outside, either. The place had lots of small windows. Most of them looked too small for a person to fit through and were placed on the upper floors. They were the kind of windows with a crankshaft. The glass lifted out, at an angle, from the bottom when you cranked them open.
Even though us inmates were surrounded by guards, there weren’t enough present on that early morning in September. It was the eleventh—a Tuesday. The sun was shining bright. Breakfast was being served. The television in the common room should have been turned off when the Andy Griffith show was interrupted by Breaking News. But all anyone saw was that one burning skyscraper. And then a second plane came into view. Everyone froze, some captivated, some shocked. Then the news anchors started talking about high-jacked airplanes. And then they started saying “terror attack.”
The entire staff was distracted. Just enough. Just long enough for me to crank the small window open, slip out, and skid the ten-plus feet down the brick face of the building. I was scared at first and hung there for a second, looking around my outstretched arm until my fingers gave out. The drop was far and I was risking more than broken bones, but it was worth it.
So when I say it was a small window of opportunity, I mean it literally. Just enough room to land me here, in this cushy booth, drinking coffee with real cream, waiting for warm pancakes. There were some stops in between, of course. Lots of running, at first. Some hitchhiking, too, along with the necessity of stealing. Only what I need. Like food. Clothes from a clothesline. The occasional newspaper.
“Here you go.” The waitress sets a stacked plate of fluffy pancakes in front of me. They’re steaming and swimming in melting butter.
“Thank you.”
My eyes widen and close involuntarily as I take the first bite. So good. The syrup is so delicious and sweet, it makes my teeth hurt. I wash the bite down with a swig of fresh-brewed coffee. I’ve died and gone to heaven.
It doesn’t matter what happens now. I’m out. I’m free. I am alone. And I’m going to do whatever I have to do to stay this way. To choose what I put into my own body. I can eat or not. I can sleep, or go to the library, or watch TV. I get to choose where I go from here.
I’m still planning on finding Jake, just not yet. I want to take some time to explore my choices first. I know in my heart that Jake will wait for me and he loved me, so he wouldn’t want me to make a hasty decision, especially now that I’m rid of . . . the past.
It’s like I can think clearly. Like waking from a dream and finding myself suddenly awake. So until I decide to join Jake in the afterlife or whatever, I’m thinking that I need to keep moving. West has always seemed like an excellent direction, and it will make me feel closer to him to be in the place he was headed.
After breakfast, I plan to walk the two blocks down the road to a giant Wal-Mart. It took a few days, but I’ve collected enough bottles and cans to buy my very own bottle of shampoo. And soap without lye! I get to buy conditioner for my hair, too, so long as it’s not too expensive.
After finishing the pancakes and coffee, I make for the long hallway around the side of the diner, in search of the bathroom.
In front of the mirror—a real mirror—my image is as sharp as I remember it, though I look different. I think I’m a little bit taller. My face is longer and thinner. My cheeks have lost their childish roundness. My hair is still the same style as when I was seventeen. Too long and too straight. Combing my fingers through the tangles, I remember the feeling of each strand slapping against my shoulders as I ran
across the open lawn, searching for guard towers that weren’t there, heading for the high chainlink fence in the distance. I was terrified, shoving the round toe of each plastic slip-on shoe into the fence: expecting to hear the wailing alarm ringing over my thundering pulse, dreading the sound of pursuit, but there was nothing. Just my labored breath as I climbed.
No one is in any of the bathroom stalls. No girls with black hair and bad attitudes, no green eyes peering back at me. I haven’t seen . . . since that day in the shower. And I don’t expect to. I don’t need . . . that relationship anymore.
If I have learned anything from this whole experience, it’s that I don’t know how to give up. I tried before, but I am a fighter. I can take care of myself now. I can do it. If my mind can make up an entire person and give it a life and a past, dreams and goals, then it can certainly figure out how to survive this span of . . . want.
Besides, when you’re a small female like I am, it’s surprisingly easy to get what you need. All you have to do is look for it. Most of the time, a man of stature is willing to give whatever I have need of, so long as it’s small and doesn’t require much time or expense. A ride or a drink. When I can’t get people to give me what I need, I have to take the opportunities as they come.
When I walk out of the bathroom stall, there’s an older lady standing at the mirror, digging through her purse. I keep my eyes down, washing my hands as she smears on a shimmery lipstick before tossing it back in her bag. She blots her lips, and when she steps a few feet away from the mirror to throw her tissue in the trash, I pass between her and the counter.
Three things happen very quickly. One: my fingers lift her shiny, red designer wallet from her bag and tuck it under my arm. Two: she turns around. But then the third thing happens: I point to the trash can behind her and say, “You missed.” Referring to the tissue she’s just thrown. Of course, she didn’t miss, but she doesn’t know that. There are other tissues on the floor. She turns back around as I walk out the door.
I only take when I have to. And if things go the way I hope, I won’t have to do it for long.
Out on the street, I take in the warm, fresh air. Looking through the glass wall of the diner, I spot the waitress that served me and walk faster, heading for the corner where the pedestrian light has just switched to green.
Wal-Mart is confusing. A maze of aisles and products I’ve never even imagined. I’m bug-eyed and lost for at least a half hour before finally stumbling into the shampoo aisle. And just when I start to breathe easy, I am overwhelmed once more by the vast selection. There must be a hundred kinds of shampoo: big and small bottles for every hair type, length, and color. For dyed hair, dye-free, scented, unscented, salon quality, like salon quality.
What’s the difference?
I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath. Then, remember the wallet. Pulling the shiny red leather from the front of my jeans, I can tell it’s loaded with credit cards. But I’m not going to touch those. It would be wrong. Unzipping the compartment on the inside, I find a long, neat pile of bills. Ones on the top of the fives, on top of twenties. Two hundred and thirty-seven dollars is divided up and shoved into different pants pockets.
Down the aisle, I spot a tall guy in a blue vest. His name tag says his name is Mark. I walk up to him, all false-confidence and bravado. This is what works in every situation: confidence. I’ve discovered I can get away with nearly anything, so long as I seem sure of myself. Confidence makes people think you know what you’re doing. Act confident enough and they’ll believe anything.
“Mark,” I say, nodding to his name tag. “I found this in the parking lot.” And then I hand him the old lady’s wallet. Opened, showing him the edge of the few bills I left in there, as I point at a business sized card. “This is one of those If Lost, Please Return To cards. That’s her phone number. If you call, I’m sure she’ll come get it.”
Mark seems surprised and appreciative as he gives the wallet the once-over, as if he could tell if anything were missing. “Thank you for your honesty. I’ll go hand this over to my manager.”
And he’s off, waiving back at me, thanking me again before he leaves the aisle.
When I look to the left, my gaze falls upon a familiar white bottle. Generic coconut shampoo. The kind Deanna used to buy me. I snatch it and the matching bottle of conditioner. In the next aisle, I locate the bars of soap. It’s just as chaotic as the shampoo aisle. Too many choices. I search for the pink wrapper that I remember seeing in the soap dish back in the trailer. It smelled like flowers. Once I find it, I make my way up to the registers and have to make another tough choice. There are so many types of candy. Chocolate or fruit. Peanut butter. Crunchy, chewy, tangy. I grab one of each type, but two packages of Starburst because they used to be my favorite, and a pack of mint gum. It’s been so long since I had access to anything like this, I can’t resist. Plus, I’ll need snacks for the long bus ride to L.A. Thanks to that old lady in the bathroom; I should have enough to get me there.
Right after the candy, just above the conveyor where my items are stacked, I spot the news magazines and gossip rags. They all have pictures of the same things: those two burning towers in New York. The terrorist attack that changed the world and sparked a war. It’s been a few months, now. Everyone is afraid of these terrorists, the unknown enemy.
Not me. I know who my enemies are. My demon has a name and face, and I have defeated her. She can’t haunt me anymore. I am no longer her victim.
I didn’t wait for anybody to give me a second chance. I took it.
I’m moving forward, conquering the terrain, carving my path as I go. I may not deserve it, but I have it none the less. It would be stupid and wasteful not to take advantage, at least for a little while. It is a different world and I am a different person and I can find a way to live that will honor Jake. I know I can.
Making my way through the parking lot with my plastic bag, I’m heading for a new place in a direction. I’m not stopping ‘til I see the Pacific ocean. I’ve never been to the beach before and am looking forward to it.
After all I have been through, all that has been taken from me, I have managed to take something back. And even though I may not have everything I want, I have found hope.
It’s a new day. Another opportunity to make up for the past, to take a new direction, one in which my future is not predetermined.
There is uncertainty, but there is also possibility. And I’m not scared. I’m excited.
For the first time since losing Jake, I have hope. Hope for a better tomorrow than yesterday. Hope for a future. For contentment.
I’m grabbing it with both hands.
63
Three years later. . .
I was seventeen years old when everything I knew blew apart. At twenty-seven, I’m still mending. But I have something now that I didn’t have then: a new name. A new life. The world is wide open for me.
I feel the emptiness of life without Jake every day—some days more than others.
Today is a more day. Mainly because I haven’t been able to shake off what happened this morning: I think I saw him in the park.
I know how it sounds. It makes me want to puke. I keep thinking, I saw someone who’s been dead for a decade and he was alive. He looked younger, too, and happy. But when I think about the way it happened, it makes me wonder if there is a possibility that it might have been real.
Being unsure about any part of any detail of anything I see makes me want to puke all over again. I haven’t heard voices or experienced any delusions in a long time. I’m careful. I take care of myself: I exercise and eat right. I don’t take risks.
I was walking through the park across the street from where I live. It’s a short cut to the nearest bus stop. A familiar route I take daily. Then, I heard music. It’s not unusual to hear music in the park; people throw parties there all the time. But this is Los Angeles, and the part I live in, most of the music is played by mariachis or has an excess amount of tubas and accord
ions. What I heard was an acoustic guitar. I looked in the direction it came from and saw two boys, young men really, sitting on the stone fountain in the parks’ center. They both looked to be teenagers, maybe early twenties. The one with the guitar was thin and had curly brown hair. He smiled and plucked, then began singing a song I’ve never heard before. As he got into the chorus, I got closer—stopping dead when I saw the lanky, brown-haired boy beside him. My heart dropped from my chest, because it was HIM! Jake—just like he used to look when I first saw him at Joes’ Pizza—except he was sitting beside the boy playing guitar, and tapping his hands on his knees, singing a harmony.
I couldn’t take the chance that I was seeing things again. I had to be seeing things—Jake is dead.
So, I ran away as fast as I could. I wasn’t dressed for a jog either. I was just starting my daily job hunt, wearing my discount power-suit and heels—which I promptly took off once I hit the pavement. I passed the bus stop and kept going until I couldn’t see the park anymore. I ran until I had to stop. By then, I was way on the other side of Figueroa.
I went into the first place with an open sign, which happened to be a diner. The waitresses were all wearing roller skates, but they had decent coffee and a ‘Help Wanted’ ad in the window. I filled out an application. It doesn’t pay much beyond tips, but it comes with a one room loft to make up for it. I don’t want to sling hash for a living, but am running out of options.
+++
As I stalk through the grassy park early the next morning, I’m singing a new song I heard on the radio. It’s by this band called My Chemical Romance. Humming ‘I’m Okay,’ I’m careful to keep most of my weight on the balls of my feet so my heels don’t sink into the spongy ground.
I left a little bit early because I have a job interview at that diner, but I also want to search the park. The muscles in my calves tighten uncomfortably, like a spasm might be coming on. I bend down and flip my heels off—problem solved. Then, it’s a leisurely stroll, through the soft green grass, not caring if the bottoms of my stocking feet are stained for the duration of their short life. The cool grass feels good.
