Unfiltered & Unraveled

by Payge Galvin

  All he’d meant to do was a routine hallway check, and he’d ended up with full-frontal Violet burned into his brain. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a patient naked. Frankly, between the lax attitudes towards clothes around the sweat lodge and the handful of times a patient managed to sneak contraband in, leading them to indulge in a naked bender run around the pool, he was lucky it hadn’t happened more often. But it was different with Violet. He’d reacted with Violet, and that wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Smacking his head lightly against the wall, he eyed the entrance of the men’s room. Maybe he should go take a cold shower to get himself back under control. Or, if Violet came out and saw him praying away his not-so-little problem, he could drown himself.

  ‡

  Cam saw me naked.

  Cam saw me naked, and he didn’t look away for a really long time.

  How the hell was I going to look him in the eye again?

  I pressed the fluffy blue towel over my face and screamed into it, the thick terrycloth muffling my confused cry.

  I slipped into fresh pajamas on autopilot, wondering vaguely if maybe this was one of those dreams-within-a-dream things where I would wake up from this shower sequence and find that I was still in my bed, drenched in sweat. If that meant Cam hadn’t seen me naked, I was definitely on board with that option.

  Fully dressed with finger-combed, wet hair, I pinched my arm. Nope. I was awake. Damn it.

  I crept to the hallway, listening for Cam’s footsteps on the tile. I did not think I would be able to make eye contact with him after this. At least I knew I wouldn’t see him in group the next day. I walked out in the hall, still listening carefully, but all I heard was the sound of the showers running in the men’s bathroom across the hall.

  Weird.

  ‡

  The next morning, I woke with a bedful of naked Cynda (again) and an “invitation” to my first private session with Dr. Mueller. But because the center wanted to keep me comfortable, it was called a “breakfast meeting” in one of the private solariums.

  Dr. Mueller was waiting for me in the airy, glass-encased sun room, eyes closed, letting the clean, golden rays of the Arizona morning wash over her face. Given her fair, relatively unwrinkled face, I guessed the woman slathered on sunscreen every morning. It felt intrusive to walk in on her like this, like I was interrupting her time with her thoughts or inner peace or something. I wondered if I should back out of the room and come back when she didn’t appear to be quietly worshipping the sun.

  “You can sit down, Violet,” she said, not opening her eyes. “I’m not sleeping. I’m just enjoying a quiet moment before I start my day and get bombarded with all of my patients’ thoughts.”

  “I can see why you’d want to do that,” I said, taking my seat across the copper and glass café table.

  She finally opened her eyes and gestured toward the covered dishes on the table. “The kitchen staff said that you were partial to omelets. I ordered one for you, turkey bacon and goat’s cheese. Give it a try.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, gamely cutting into the beautifully crisped eggs.

  “You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am’ or doctor, or any particular title. Just call me whatever makes you comfortable.” I nodded, waiting for her to tuck into her fruit cup before I took my first bite.

  “Do you ever do that?” she asked.

  “Try new omelets?”

  “Take a moment for yourself at the beginning of the day, to prepare yourself for what you have to do. Or at the end of the day, do you take a break to process what’s happened? Do you journal or meditate, pray?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Between school and work and family stuff, I don’t really have time to do that sort of thing.”

  “You mentioned before that your schedule is busy, that you spend a lot of time helping your family and friends. So let’s talk about that. How do you feel when people come to you to fix their problems?”

  I put my fork on the table and took a sip of juice to give me time to think. “Good, I guess, like I’m important, special. I’m the one people can come to when they need something, because I’m smart enough to take care of it.”

  “And these problems your friends and family have, the babysitting schedules and your friend, Allie, do they ever get resolved, or do they just repeat over and over?”

  “They repeat over and over,” I admitted.

  “And you don’t do anything to change the situation.”

  I shrugged and protested, “Because I don’t mind, really. Most of the time. Except with this recent stuff with Allie.”

  “So would you say you need them to need you?”

  “That would be fair.”

  Dr. Mueller dug into her own eggs, and made a circular, “and then?” gesture with her fork. “Care to elaborate, maybe talk about ‘this recent stuff with Allie?’”

  I bit my lip. There are things I could tell her, about being pulled over and being so scared when I realized that I was going to jail. I could tell her about apologizing to the police officer and promising that I would never do it again. But cops are surprising unsympathetic toward drunken coeds when they’re driving large SUVs. I was now one of those people with a mug shot. Because I made really bad choices.

  “You want to know how stupid I am?” I laughed, and it sounded bitter as day-old coffee. “I almost didn’t get into college because of shit like this. Allie and I were on the swim team together, in high school. We were part of a relay team for the two hundred yard, freestyle. We were actually pretty good, but Allie was always better than me. She was always just a second faster, no matter what I did. She had a really good chance of getting a full scholarship. So we’re in the regional championships, and we know there are college scouts in the crowd.”

  “Allie stashes a bottle of peach schnapps in her bag. And because she sucks at lying and covert ops, the chaperones found out about it within fifteen minutes of us checking into the hotel. So we’re standing there in the hotel room, and the coach is demanding to know which one of us had been stupid enough to bring booze on the trip, since school policy – and federal law – said that we weren’t to touch alcohol, much less bring it on a school-sponsored trip.”

  “I’d begged Allie not to do this. I knew she would get caught, because she always gets caught, because she just doesn’t learn from her fucking mistakes. It’s like she’s trying to get caught, like she thinks she’s done something bad, but can’t get punished for that, so she wants to make sure she gets punished for something else instead. And I also knew that because she already had two dings on her record, Ally would not only be kicked off of the team, but she’d get suspended from school for weeks. For just a second, I thought getting suspended would finally, finally drive it into Allie’s thick skull that yes, she has a problem and she needs to do something about it. But I’m standing there, listening to the coach scream so loud that his face is purple and Allie is twisting her hands around, with her face all panicky. And I just can’t stand to see her so scared, because she’s my friend. She’s my best friend in the world and I can’t just stand there and let someone scream at her. I can’t stand the idea that she’s going to lose her shot at a scholarship. Or that her parents will have one more reason to scream at her or worse. So even though I know I’m just going to end up doing the same thing the next time she gets into trouble, I raise my stupid hand and tell the coach that the booze is mine. I told him that I brought it. And I am immediately marched out of the room, into the lobby, where I had to wait while my parents drove three hours to pick me up.”

  “That must have been a fun drive home.”

  “No, it was not. And my parents still throw the ‘swim team incident’ in my face whenever I’ve made them really angry. In fact, it was one of the bullet points in their ‘Send Violet to rehab’ case.”

  Dr. Mueller frowned. “Well, that sucks.”

  I snickered at prim, proper Dr. Mueller saying anything so remotely vulgar. “It really did.”
/>   “Did Allie end up getting her swim scholarship?”

  “No, Allie brought a bottle of blueberry schnapps to the semi-finals, and got caught that time, too. So she was kicked off of the team and suspended after all,” I said, frowning. “She has a schnapps issue. She ended up getting a smaller academic scholarship and subsidizing it with student loans. Like I said, she doesn’t learn from her mistakes. It’s part of her charm.”

  “So how do you think you might better manage this tendency?”

  “Stay the fuck away from Allie?”

  “Language, Violet.”

  “Sorry. I should start being a selfish jerk who doesn’t care what happens to her friends?”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” Dr. Mueller said. “I’m not saying that selflessness isn’t an admirable trait. But when someone takes it to the level where they are risking jail time to help the people around then, I would consider that unhealthy. You should start considering your own well-being before immediately acting to protect the interests of those around you. I call it “putting your own mask on first.”

  “I’m confused.”

  She asked, “When you’re sitting on a plane before take-off, does the flight attendant tell you to make sure the people around you have their oxygen masks on before you put your own on?”

  “No, you’re supposed to put your own on first, even if the other person is too young or incapacitated, which I think is sort of a dick move, but rules are rules.”

  “The flight attendants tell you to do this because you need to make sure your own needs are met before you can take care of anyone else. What good will you be to that other person if you pass out before you’re able to help them?”

  “Not much.”

  “So that’s our lesson for the day, putting on your own mask first. Your emotional and mental reserves have to be full before you can start taking care of other people, Violet.”

  I nodded, chewing on my lip. “This is why Cam sent me to you, isn’t it? Because you’re more qualified to deal with this sort of psychological stuff?”

  “Either that or all of those colleges sent those diplomas to the wrong person,” she said.

  I snorted. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Doc.”

  “Eat your eggs, Violet.”

  “I will,” I told her. “But only because I’m trying to keep my turkey bacon and goat cheese reserves full.”

  “Smart alec.”

  Chapter 9

  Time moved slowly at rehab. It had only been a week and a half, but it felt like I’d been there forever. Maybe it was because I didn’t have work or school or anything to distract me. All I had to do all day was sit in the quiet and think about the choices I’d made. And some of my choices sucked.

  Group therapy was an education, in that I learned my life wasn’t that bad. Between James’s general personality, Lulu’s husband’s multiple infidelities and Danny’s latent homosexuality that he wasn’t ready to admit to anyone yet – including us – I was sort of grateful for emotionally unavailable parents and a friend who accidentally dragged me into covering-up a shooting.

  I continued my sessions with Dr. Mueller. I didn’t always get life lessons, like “put your own mask on first.” Mostly, we just talked about my personal history, school, my relationship with my parents, and my friendship with Allie.

  Nurse Sarah did not like me. She docked my C-points for minor infractions like not using a coaster and falling asleep during a showing of the fourth Die Hard movie. She used this weird, condescending kindergarten-teacher-dealing-with-a-recently-unfrozen-caveman tone of voice on me, like I was too stupid to understand what was expected of me. She would keep me in the dining room after breakfast, painstakingly explaining my schedule for the day, making me late for therapy, and then dock more C-points because I was late for therapy. I mentioned this to Dr. Mueller, who was confused by the behavior, since Nurse Sarah always expressed such concern for me during staff meetings.

  So without taking so much as an Intro to Psychology class, I diagnosed Nurse Sarah as having several serious personality disorders.

  To avoid the gaslighting little bitch, I spent a lot of time at the barn, brushing the horses’ coats and learning how to take care of them. (I did, in fact, volunteer to shovel manure, earning Cowboy Mick’s respect.) That didn’t count the hours I spent in the training ring, learning how to control Pickles without panicking. Also, how to kick him like I meant it, and not, as Mick put it, like a ‘wimpy, noodle-legged accountant.” I didn’t know what Mick had against accountants.

  Eventually, Mick started counting my hours toward my “service time,” which got me out of kitchen duty and cleaning. He said that since I was going to be in the barn anyway, I might as well get something in return. Taking care of something so physically large really helped put things in perspective. I was in control of the animal, but only because the horse allowed it. Pickles trusted me to feed him, keep him healthy, and not kick him too hard. He depended on me, but he didn’t call to demand free babysitting or call me at two in the morning because he was drunk and couldn’t get home. So I considered it a healthier relationship than what I shared with ninety percent of the people in my life.

  I hadn’t seen Cam since the shower incident. He avoided me in the therapy suites, the hallways and the dining room... He’d even run out of the Trivial Pursuit Tournament the other night when he saw me claiming an orange pie piece from James. (There may have been a victory dance involved.) At this point, I’d gotten over the weirdness of Cam seeing me naked and was enjoying the fact that Cam freaked out every time I walked into a room.

  Rehab was bringing out some really twisted aspects of my personality.

  I was contemplating these new personal developments while using a hoof pick to pry a rock loose from Autumn Gold’s foot, when Mick stuck his graying head in the stall. “You ready to saddle up, young lady?”

  “Just a second,” I grunted as the rock finally unwedged itself from the palomino’s hoof and bounced across the floor. “Yes! Suck it, rock!”

  “You’re getting pretty handy with that hoof pick,” Mick said, grinning at me.

  “It is my greatest accomplishment to date: horse pedicurist.” I carefully dropped Gold’s foot to the floor and slid around to pat her on the big white star on her nose. “Is there money in that?”

  “No, there is not,” he told me. “But the good news is that you are up for your first solo trail ride today.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Are you sure? You don’t need to ride with me?”

  “Nope, you’ve completed your orientation, and you and Pickles seems to be doing well together. Plus, you’ve put in eight hours of grooming time, which is technically four more than you owe me, and I feel bad for taking advantage.”

  “I knew it!” I exclaimed, closing the door to Gold’s stall. “Nobody else talked about using the hoof pick!”

  “Nobody else would do it,” Mick told me, though he looked completely unashamed. “Don’t be nervous. Pickles has never thrown a rider yet. I’m sure you’ll be fine. There are only a couple of turns and very few changes in elevation. The path is just a big circle. If you have any problems, just hit your panic button.”

  He looped a little personal alarm button around my neck. It looked like a tiny garage door opener.

  “Is there a reason for me to panic?” I asked.

  “No, but they make us give you the buttons anyway,” Mick grumbled. He led Pickles out of the stall, already saddled and tacked up. “Stupid pansy lawyers.”

  “You have a real problem with white-collar professionals. Aw, you put all of his gear on already!” I exclaimed. “Thank you. You do feel bad about the hoof pick, don’t you?”

  “No such thing,” Mick said as I swung up onto Pickles’s back. “Now get out there and make me proud.”

  “Does that mean I have to kick Pickles without apologizing?”

  “Yep,” he replied, his moustache twitching.

  I groaned and pressed my h
eels into Pickles’s side. He lurched forward and sauntered out of the barn. “Bring my horse back in one piece!” Mick called after me.

  “Thank you for the concern about me!” I yelled back.

  While it did feature some lovely, carefully landscaped scenery, the riding trail was a little boring. It was absolutely even and smooth, with very few bends and curves, like a runners track for horses. Still, the sun was warm against my back, the wind smelled pleasantly of creosote, and I wasn’t sitting in a circle talking about my feelings, so I considered it a win. I pushed my sunglasses up my slightly sweaty nose and fumbled the reins, letting the leather strap fall around the horn of the saddle. Pickles stopped.

  “You OK, buddy?” I asked, looking around for rattlesnakes or bandits or some reason for him to have stopped. I leaned forward and grabbed the reins, gently tugging them as I wrapped them around my hands. Pickles responded immediately, plodding forward.

  He’d realized that I’d dropped the reins and had waited for me to pick them up. This was the smartest horse in the world.

  “You’re such a nice boy,” I cooed at Pickles, combing my fingers through his dark wiry mane. “Such a smart boy. There’s no way Wind Dancer would have done that. He’s a spoiled little trophy horse. No substance at all.”

  I was so involved in my conversation with Pickles, I didn’t hear the clip-clop of hooves behind me.

  “You know he won’t talk back, right?”

  I turned to see Cameron, smiling at me from his own saddle. And he was sitting on Sunspot, a pure white horse that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

  Fuck me.

  ‡

  Cameron was going to hell. But being an Arizona boy, at least he would be used to the heat.

  He just wanted a nice, quiet relaxing ride on the trail, where he wouldn’t have to worry about running into Violet and re-living the shower nudity face-to-face. It was bad enough re-living it every night while he was lying in bed, staring up at his ceiling, imaging an entirely different scenario in which he shucked his clothes and joined Violet under the spray.