Unfiltered & Unraveled

by Payge Galvin

  So while I would continue un-waxed, I was able to take time for myself for the first time in years. I didn’t have to worry about working at the funeral home or babysitting or taking care of my grandparents. I slept late. I read tawdry romances from the rehab library. It had been such a long time since I’d read anything that wasn’t for class. I’d almost forgotten which authors I preferred. I could take long walks on the nature trail around the grounds or take yoga classes. I didn’t do those things, but it was nice to know I had the option.

  Despite the sprawling, beautiful grounds, I didn’t explore much. Oh, sure, I looked out the window. I could see the tennis courts and the grotto pool and the multi-level cactus garden. I was pretty sure there was a sweat lodge on the edge of the property. But I skipped all of that in favor of naps. I didn’t change out of sweatpants for three days.

  I regretted nothing.

  The dark circles under my eyes started to fade. My lips didn’t look like shoe leather, now that I’d stopped chewing them. The pure jojoba lip balm Cynda insisted I take from her stash helped.

  It should have been one of the most stressful times in my life, but I felt pretty relaxed. I was starting to wonder whether the staff slipped meds into our oatmeal. I didn’t even mind when Cynda flopped onto my bed (naked, as usual) during my afternoon nap and slapped me in the face with the New Beginnings Daily News. Well, I minded, but I had made no progress on convincing her to wear clothes.

  “Come on, loser,” she cried, tickling my nose with the newsletter. “You slept through dinner. It’s movie night. Get up.”

  “Why are you naked again?” I grumbled. “Were you naked at dinner?”

  “It’s movie night!” Cynda wheedled. “It’s fun. And they only do it once a week, so come on. Get up!”

  I moaned, pressing the pillow over my face. I didn’t want to join in. I didn’t want to make friends here. I didn’t want to make myself comfortable. I just wanted to do my time and get out. I sprawled across my luxuriously appointed bed.

  “They have a snack bar,” she sing-songed, springing off of my bed and throwing on a shirt. Her being clothed was a nice change of pace.

  “Do you think they have Swedish Fish?” I asked.

  “Of course, this is a full-service facility.” She nodded, shimmying into a pair of leggings. “Girls like you always love the sweets.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” she said, smiling as she skipped from the room.

  “Cynda?” I called after her. “What the hell does that mean?”

  ‡

  The media room was practically a full cinema with deeply cushioned maroon leather reclining seats, a full snack bar and a 120 inch screen TV. The black paneled walls were lined with posters from classic black-and-white movies. All of the seats were occupied, save for an empty sectional couch near the front of the room.

  Cameron was standing at the front of the room with a clipboard, checking off the names of those in attendance, which included Cynda, most of the Genesis group and a couple of older people I didn’t recognize. The only member of Genesis that even acknowledged me was semi-hot Jimmy, he of the possibly misspelled tattoos. That only confirmed my suspicion that my experience in group therapy would not include life-affirming hugs and cuddles.

  Cynda was sitting with her fellow members of the Origins group – the so-called misfits of rehab. With the exception of a grumpy-looking man in a sweater and tie, they seemed nice enough, smiling and waving at me, just because Cynda had.

  “Violet, it’s nice to see you out of your room,” Cameron said, without looking up.

  “Oh, I’m a joiner,” I told him, smiling so sweetly I hoped it gave him a toothache. He smiled back, though it was far less sarcastic than mine. That made it a little harder to be a smartass to him. That didn’t mean I would stop trying.

  The Three Blonds from Genesis group glared at me openly as I passed by. And I made my smile even sweeter. I found I kind of liked my role here as the resident pain in the ass. The pain in the ass got to say what she wanted. I’d never done that before.

  “We’re watching The Princess Bride,” Cameron announced, holding up a Blu-Ray case. “And guys, before you start grumbling, I’ll remind you that the ladies sat through the third Die Hard movie last week without complaint.”

  After I collected my cute red-and-white “Movie Time!” carton of popcorn and a box of Swedish Fish, I plopped on the empty sectional spot and covered up with one of the soft royal blue fleece blankets provided by the center. It was the least they could do, considering how high they jacked up the A/C. With no other spots open, Cameron sat on the other end of the sectional.

  “You’re staying?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Center policy,” he said, fiddling with the remote that controlled the obscenely large flat-panel TV. “There has to be at least one staff member present for all recreational activities.”

  “You’re afraid if more than one of us is left alone with the popcorn machine, we’ll take it apart and start making meth?” I asked.

  One of the many things I liked about Cameron’s face was that right before he frowned at me for making one of these little jokes, there was this flash across his face, like he really wanted to laugh, but knew he shouldn’t. A perverse part of my brain wanted to make him do that as often as possible.

  Was I just latching on to him because he was an incredibly hot authority figure and I needed something to distract me from the mountain of awfulness my life had become? I knew enough about recovery programs to know that anyone who was leading you to sobriety was off-limits, flirt-wise. Hell, it was a bad idea to develop an interest in the other patients. Alcoholics, in any stage of treatment, did not make ideal romantic partners. But there was just something about Cameron that I couldn’t ignore, especially when he laughed.

  He laughed, making my nerves sing one of those angelic harp scales, and muttered. “That’s so wrong.”

  A nurse I didn’t recognize, tall and thin with tragically frosted blond hair, sidled into the room, offering all of us inmates simpering smiles. “Hi, everybody, do you mind if I join you for movie night? I just love The Princess Bride!”

  Her voice was enough to send me into diabetic shock. Or that could be the Swedish Fish. I definitely preferred the Swedish Fish.

  The lights went down to a dimmed “ideal for watching movies, but we can still see you if you try to inject drugs into your eyeballs” level. The nurse seemed to be heading for the open seat between me and Cam. But before she could sit, he scooted over next to me and gestured to the space he’d left open. “Here, Sarah, you take the corner seat. It’s more comfortable.”

  Nurse Sarah frowned at us, but the expression only last a second. The simpering smile returned and she dropped into the open seat sitting way closer to Cameron than I would probably sit next to a coworker. Cameron leaned that much closer to me, even as Nurse Sarah threw a blanket over both of their laps and cooed – actually fucking cooed at him. And she looked really annoyed that Cam was moving away from her.

  Oh, I did not want to be anywhere near whatever post-first-date-gone-horribly-wrong-trauma this was. I scooted even further into the corner as the opening credits rolled. Cameron seemed to be holding himself in the least comfortable position ever, spine straight as a poker, arms wrapped tightly around his chest so he wouldn’t touch me or Nurse Sarah. That would be fun to watch for the next few hours.

  I glanced around the semi-darkened theatre. It was kind of sweet how the women in the room just sort of melted into their seats, their faces relaxed and somehow a little more innocent, as if they were watching it as children again. The guys just sat back and didn’t gripe, which was really all we could ask of them. As Buttercup got conked on the head and kidnapped by Vizzini, I stacked several pieces of popcorn between two Swedish Fish, effectively making little snack food sandwiches.

  “What are you doing?” Cameron whispered, as I nibbled on my Fish-wich.

  “Swedish Fish-wic
h. It’s the Holy Grail of movie snacks, the perfect combination of salty and sweet,” I told him quietly, sucking the tail of a Fish through my lips. It was probably inappropriate, but sort of worth it to see Cameron’s eyes go wide like that. “Don’t judge me until you try them.”

  “I think you’re substituting one unhealthy habit for another,” he snorted.

  “Well, this would be the original habit, since I’ve been doing it since sixth grade.” My lips quirked at the memory. Allie and I had been making Fish-wiches since my mom finally trusted me to use the microwave on my own. We would watch whatever romantic comedy starred the teen heartthrob du jour. Chad Michael Murray showed up with a shameful frequency in the rotation. Those were the best times I could remember for me and Allie, before Allie discovered booze and I discovered boys only liked me because they thought I could get them Allie’s number.

  And Cameron was staring at my mouth again.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “It’s just that would be the first pleasant face I’ve seen you make since you’ve arrived.”

  “I’ve smiled here,” I objected, loud enough that Nurse Sarah shushed me.

  “Yeah, fake, empty smiles that you give me because flipping me off isn’t socially acceptable.”

  He had a point there.

  “I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you smile. Even if it is for a completely disgusting reason like the combination of red corn syrup and popcorn.”

  I probably should have checked with him before shoving a Fish-wich into his mouth. Choking your counselor with movie snacks is probably a one-way ticket to permanent rehab internment. But I had one in my hand and his lips were parted and it just seemed like the right thing to do.

  Fortunately for me and my rehab graduation plans, Cameron did not choke. He did look really startled, chewing ferociously around the ball of salty-sweetness so he could yell at me. I snatched my hand away from his mouth, as if the contact between my fingertips and his lips burned.

  “Admit it, you were wrong, I was right. Fish-wiches are the height of cinematic deliciousness.”

  Cameron swallowed dramatically. “You were right, I was wrong. That was really good.”

  “See?” I grinned brightly at him.

  He smiled right back. “Can I have another one?”

  I lifted my chin. “If you’re nice to me.”

  Cameron’s brows rose at my sassy tone. This felt… good. Nice and normal and definitely something that pre-Coffee Cave Violet would have done without a thought. And I didn’t know how to feel about that. I felt like I should remind myself to feel guilty. I was a fucking criminal. I was a bad daughter. I was a bad friend. I let people down. I made easy, stupid choices. Did I have the right to feel normal and happy after what I’d done?

  Nurse Sarah cleared her throat and glared at us, interrupting my depressing self-evaluation. Well, she was glaring at me. She actually “ahemed” and everything. Cameron and I both settled back into our seats and bowed our heads; liked chastised kids caught talking in church. I glued my eyes to the screen, but I could see out of the corner of my eye that Cameron had his open palm extended towards me. I made a Fish-wich and dropped it into his hand. He popped it into his smiling mouth.

  Knowing that Nurse Sarah was watching, I wedged myself as far into the corner as I could. Cameron had relaxed a little, but there was still a clear two or three-inch “no-fly” zone barrier between us. But somehow, I was even more aware of his not touching me. I could feel every cell in the skin of my hand reaching out to connect with his.

  I knew it was inappropriate to have pants-feelings for my counselor. But it seemed harmless, like having a crush on my ninth-grade math teacher, Mr. Bowen. I knew it couldn’t go anywhere, but that didn’t stop me from daydreaming about losing my virginity on the back of Mr. Bowen’s motorcycle in a tender, but vigorous, fashion.

  Come to think of it, Cameron sort of looked like Mr. Bowen. It was nice to know I had a “Male Authority Figure Crush” type.

  I forced myself to focus on the enormous screen, to lose myself in the old story of Buttercup and Wesley. I willed my limbs to stay on my side of the imaginary couch border and my hands under my own blanket. I ignored the warmth radiating from his leg and the spread of his fingers over the fleece blanket. And I certainly didn’t think about those long, elegant fingers and how they might feel between my thighs.

  It worked, too, right up until he caught me mouthing the words to Inigo’s sword fight with the Six-Fingered Man. He shook his head, parting his lips, like he was about to say something about my strange obsession with this movie. But then he jumped, as if something just bit him. He whipped his head around toward Nurse Sarah, who had that “butter wouldn’t melt” expression on her face that I just didn’t trust.

  This was absolutely none of my business. If they were dating, I didn’t want to know about it. I kind of liked the sensation of having a crush on someone, the heady rush of hormones, the anticipation of seeing them and talking to them. I didn’t want that stomped on by the realization that Cameron was dating a woman who cooed. Allie would have hit her with her leopard pumps on principle.

  As soon as the lights came up, Nurse Sarah chirped, “Hey Cam, buy a pretty nurse a cup of coffee?”

  I followed the other patients’ lead, cleaning up my snack mess and completely ignoring whatever was going on with Cameron and Nurse Sarah.

  Cameron checked his watch, an old gold model that looked like it had been through a world war, and shook his head. “Sorry, Sarah. I try to avoid caffeine this late. And besides, you have desk duty in about twenty minutes, right?”

  Her big blue eyes went wide. “Oh, shoot! I completely forgot.” She squeezed Cameron’s arm in a familiar way that made me want to scratch her eyes out. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Nurse Sarah wished everybody sweet dreams and practically skipped out of the room. Cameron grabbed his own blanket and opened it with a snap, folding it carefully. The motion snagged his polo shirt, dragging the collar low on his chest and revealing an odd purplish-red line across the top of his pectoral. I cocked my head left, staring at the mark. Was it a tattoo? A surgery scar?

  Cam followed my line of sight and hastily pulled his shirt back into place. He cleared his throat and said, “Movie Nights were always my favorite activity nights here. But at the risk of sounding like an old man, back in my day, we had to settle for microwave popcorn. None of this fancy machine-made stuff.”

  My hands froze mid-fold and my blanket hung between us, mid-air. “You used to be a patient here?”

  “Eight years, six months, two weeks and four days ago,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting, though there was no real mirth in his expression.

  I just stood there, staring at him like an idiot. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re always so grown-up and together. It’s hard to imagine you being out of control.”

  He snorted ruefully. “Oh, I was. I was about as out of control as you could get.”

  I wanted to ask what he meant, but figured his lack of detail probably meant something. Was he a drunk? I couldn’t imagine him rolling up to a street corner to buy crack. Maybe it was pills? Was it rude to ask someone for their rehab origin story?

  And I was still standing there with my mouth hanging open.

  Pull it together, Laswell.

  But instead of a well-thought-out, intelligent response, what I said was, “And you just decided to stay?”

  “Not only that, I stay here full-time. I live in the staff quarters on the back of the property. That’s how much I believe in the process, Violet. It worked for me, more than you could imagine, and I want to help other people find their way. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I want you to participate as much as you can. No more holding back in group.”

  “I promise I am participating as much as I can.”

  “And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that has a double meaning,” he muttered, tossing a cushion back into place. He cleared his throat in a v
ery obvious subject change segue. “So, if a lip-reader had never seen this movie, all they would have to do is watch you. You were running the dialogue word for word.”

  My cheeks went warm and I felt a little silly. “This was my go-to ‘sick’ movie when I was a kid. If I was feverish enough to stay home, I qualified for oyster crackers, flat Sprite and The Princess Bride.”

  He smiled at me, and I swear my insides turned into lady jelly. This just wasn’t fair. “It’s nice that your parents had those little rituals for you.”

  I shook my head, waving to Cynda as she and other patients filed out of the media room. “My parents didn’t have anything to do with it. Our housekeeper, Sandy, was the one who took care of me when I was sick. My parents were too busy running the funeral homes. Sandy only came on Tuesdays and Fridays, but if she heard I was sick, she would ‘realize she’d forgotten something’ at our house and come take care of me.”

  “Oh,” Cameron said, frowning. “Well, that explains some things.”

  “I’m sure we’ll have more than enough time to explore my abandonment issues in group.”

  A strange expression came over Cameron’s face and his posture became straighter, more formal somehow. I glanced around the room. We were the only ones left in the media room. I was flagrantly violating policies left and right.

  Cameron gave me a sharp nod before heading for the door. “Good night, Violet.”

  “You better not leave me alone in here. I might start snorting the popcorn salt!” I called after him.

  “That’s not funny!” he called back.

  “I thought it was pretty funny,” I said, though there was no one listening, not even the poster for King Kong. “Nobody here gets me.”

  ‡

  I was wrong. Cynda got me, or at least, she got that I was having impure thoughts about Counselor Cameron. Because when I got back to our room, she practically pounced on me. I was just happy she had clothes on this time.