All Our Broken Pieces

by L. D. Crichton

  Dr. Linderman answers all the questions the staff have about me. He keeps assuring me that my dad will be around shortly with my belongings, as if that’s a real treat. I don’t want to see my dad any more than I want to see Andrea. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to fathom what transpired today.

  Upon admission, while Dr. Linderman makes fast work of filling my dad’s absentee shoes, I’m outfitted with a bracelet displaying my first name and an allergy warning. Penicillin. The bracelet is the only thing even remotely similar to an actual hospital.

  We follow Libby, the woman who admitted me, down one of the long hallways, which is agony. I must stop every few feet to ritualize. New people. New situation. No Kyler. Everyone knows. The potential for dreadful events is infinite.

  Libby and Dr. Linderman pause and wait each time I do. Neither seeks to stop me from carrying out my ritual. This comprises tapping every third door jamb with my fingers five times on the top, five times on the middle, and five times with my foot on the bottom. Because the hallways are so long, we could have been at my new home away from home twenty minutes ago if I didn’t have to keep stopping. I wonder how many people inside those rooms heard my tapping on their doors. Only one had their door open, the room belonging to a young guy who had his face buried in a book. He looked up, watched for the briefest of moments, and then returned his attention to his book without a word.

  By some small miracle we make it to my room. Libby shows me where the help button is, where the bathroom is, and where I can find pajamas in case I brought none.

  She smiles warmly and clasps her hands together. “You try to get your rest tonight, sweetie. Big day tomorrow. You’ll be meeting with Dr. Earl Waxman, who will be your attending doctor here at Willow.”

  I look at Dr. Linderman. “What about you?”

  “You’ll still see me way more than you’d like to, Lennon. Dr. Waxman is here to keep an eye on things while I can’t.”

  “Do you need anything before I leave?” Libby asks.

  “No thanks,” I mumble. “I’m good.”

  “Perfect. I’ll tell Dr. Waxman you’re looking forward to meeting with him.”

  I force a smile. “Great. I can’t wait.”

  The room, like the one at my dad’s house, is bare. But unlike the gray industrial walls of home, this room is warm. Everything is in soft earth tones and creams. There’s a large bed and a dresser with a television. The bedding is a warm color that reminds me of the golden-brown streaks in Kyler’s hair. There’s a duvet and four pillows. I point to it, irritated that I hadn’t noticed before, when Libby asked if I needed anything. “I need another pillow.”

  “I’ll go get you one,” Dr. Linderman says. Placing his hands in his pockets, he turns and leaves the room.

  Even with the wrong number of pillows, it’s light-years ahead of my room at the hospital in Maine.

  Levi returns with a pillow. “Your father just texted. He’s leaving in about fifteen minutes to come and deliver your stuff.”

  “Tell him not to come, please. I don’t want to see him.”

  “He has your belongings.”

  “I’ll deal with the hospital pajamas.”

  “Lennon, I think—”

  I plead with him. “Dr. Linderman. I don’t want to see anyone. I want to sleep and forget about this day. Please.”

  He nods. Whether this means he’ll tell my father to stay home or not, I don’t know.

  “This is a great place,” he says. “I’ll let you settle in, but I’ll be back in a few days to check on you. You know you can call if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Try to get some sleep.” He issues one more sympathetic glance before he leaves, closing the door behind him. When he does, I perform my bedtime routine five times despite the fact that I’m exhausted. I want to pretend the last forty-eight hours didn’t happen. I want to go back to life-defining moments where big things are little things and little things are big things and we were happy for a moment.

  My head rests on the pillow. I close my eyes, my chest in a vise as my stomach pulls and twists because I miss him so much it hurts. I tell myself to remember what it felt like to be happy for that moment, to hold on to it for when I need it the most.

  EVERYTHING IS GONE.

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  I FINISHED OUR ASSIGNMENT AND handed it in. It’s been a week since they took her away. Lennon from Maine with Serious Issues Who Sews and Is Broken and Beautiful and Badass is gone. The sun is gone. The moon is gone. The stars are gone. I’m dying inside. I need to get her back.

  FACT: WRITING BY HAND HELPS RETAIN

  KNOWLEDGE OR ENHANCE MEMORY.

  I HAVEN’T SEEN MY FATHER. Levi stayed faithful to his word, and when I woke the next morning, on my big day, it was to discover my dad had left a jumble of my belongings. I spent until noon organizing things how I liked them in the room. I think they let me do this rather than attending classes on my first day because of my diagnosis. It would have been physcially impossible to walk away without organizing my belongings. I talked to Claire once on the phone and made her promise me the mask would be given to Kyler and told her that, for a few days at least, I didn’t wish to see my dad. That was a week ago.

  Since then, Kyler consumes most of my thoughts. During class, when I’m outside playing basketball, or inside doing some kind of art therapy, he is still at the forefront of my mind. And when I’m not reflecting on Kyler himself and the way he makes me feel inside, I’m conjuring up awful details about his demise. He shares this coveted spot in my brain with Claire, Jacob, and my dad, whom I am still not happy with.

  When I was home, whether it was with my mother in Maine or my father here, I ritualized at my leisure because I could. Here, the doctors (and there are so many) enthusiastically encourage me to outlast the fear, for as long as I can bear it. Sometimes it’s a win, sometimes it’s a loss.

  Trauma turns a spark, a small fire of anxiety, into a raging inferno. It’s a spiral effect. I’ve learned it firsthand two different times. It’s as if unfortunate incidents kick-start the mental illness, cranking its voltage to dangerous levels that are hard to control.

  What I didn’t tell Levi was, even if he hadn’t granted my phone call with Kyler, I would have come willingly, because maybe I’ll never be typical, but maybe that’s not the worst idea, if I could learn how to handle it. Normal is boring.

  Kyler’s words give me strength. Make peace with your fears. I’m not certain I’ll ever reconcile my fears, but I’m sure I’m done letting them control me.

  Dr. Earl Waxman is standing with me today. He’s more like what I’d expected Levi to be. Old. We don’t have the same close relationship that Levi and I do, but he’s all right for a psychiatrist. He has blue eyes that remind me of the great impostor Santas from shopping malls.

  I’ve just bested the door frame in a scenario strikingly akin to sitting in that car with Dr. Linderman. Maybe something bad will happen if I don’t do it, but maybe it won’t. Dr. Waxman praises me for my progress. He’s passionate about that, too. He dismisses me for free time because it’s four o’clock, and every third day we don’t have group therapy, so I’m off for the night. Lights out at 10:00 p.m., which gives me six hours to obsess over Kyler, worry if he’s okay, ache to talk to him, while I try to keep my shattered mind occupied with sports and painting.

  The temperature here is regulated. Designed to be the perfect ambience for comfort. It’s never too hot, never too cold, invariably perfect. My room is cozy, so far as rooms go, and although I’m missing some of my things, like my trivia books and my costume design material, it’s okay. Because it’s warm here. It’s safe. Not to mention the dim lamps throughout the room to provide atmosphere, and all the fabrics—the sheets, blankets, and towels—hold the sweet scent of vanilla.

  I hang my hoodie on the hook behind the door, sit at the desk, and fetch a piece of paper and a pencil. Dr. Linderman had to clear both items before I was allowed
to have them.

  Dear Dad

  This is the third time I’ve tried to write my father a letter. I should say something to him, but I don’t know where to begin. He struggles to understand me. I know he thinks it’s right—and maybe it is—to lock me up in this place without access to the outside world, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I struggle to understand why he thinks Kyler would do something so despicable or why I was so far beyond help that he had to send me here. If I’m honest with myself, there’s a good chance I’d have ended up here anyway, but it would have been nice to have more of a choice in the matter.

  On the fresh paper, I start again, printing in small, neat letters.

  Dear Kyler,

  I’m alive but not living and am therefore just a girl who is dying to live. I’m working on the living part, but it’s hard without you. I’ve only been here a week but it feels like a month. I’m doing my best to make peace with my fears. It’s going marginally well, not yet an A-plus student in the art of governing myself, so the progress is slow.

  Let me tell you about this place. The wonder of it all. Willow Recovery Center could be the next big idea for reality television, Where we’re all mere spectators to the madness. There’s school (of course), art therapy, support groups where we do nothing but talk about our feelings, and all kinds of outdoor activities, like basketball and even a small tennis court. I’m guessing lawn darts is a hard pass for Willow.

  The wings (parts of the house) are named after flowers. I live in Wild Rose, but there are many, even one for the really strange people. There’s a bowling alley on the property. The blankets smell like vanilla, and the dining room serves eggs Benedict for breakfast and prime rib for dinner. On my wing we have about five subsets of OCD (five, I know, ironic), generalized anxiety disorders, body dysmorphic disorders, bipolar disorder, and disturbances that have names I’ll never remember. So we have all these mental cases in a setting like a five-star therapeutic resort.

  The list of potential band names skyrockets in here. Those classic, single-word band names are limitless: Straitjacket or Purplepill, Morphine, Sedated. Alternately, you could go with Chaotic Disorder. The possibilities are endless, but here’s my favorite, Fuck with Fear.

  Think about it, Kyler.

  What’s our slogan?

  Also, please notice I swore again. I wish you were here to shove your tongue down my throat in response.

  Yours in madness (and passion),

  Lennon

  I let myself miss him. It hurts. And even though it destroys me a thousand times more, I let myself miss my mom, too.

  If I close my eyes and wish it hard enough, I can almost smell the scent of chicken and dumplings simmering on our stove on the nights when winter’s icy chill blanketed the city. I see her grinning at me while she played the guitar. She had a single rogue curl near her forehead that refused to twist any way but straight to the sky. The memory of her voice, of her smile, of those nights, of her, eats away at my insides and for what might be the first time since she died, I let it happen.

  I award myself the time to have a decent cry, then fold the paper into an airplane. I do this because it reminds me of Jacob and Jacob reminds me of heroes and sometimes we can all use one of those.

  I shower, change into sweats and a T-shirt, and head to one of the lounge rooms. Cecilia Prescott is sprawled on one of the paisley couches, her legs perched over the top, her body coiled, so her head hangs upside down where her legs and feet would normally be. She’s wearing shorts that cover a third of her butt and a sports jersey.

  Cecilia is sixteen and bipolar. Her father is a huge director in Hollywood, and her mother is an A-list actress named Penelope Prescott. Cecilia looks just like her. Tall with chocolate-brown eyes and a head full of raven-colored tresses. One look at this girl and anyone can tell she’s at the top of the food chain in terms of wealth. She has never, and will never, want for anything…except maybe to be normal-slash-boring.

  This is her third stay at Willow in three years, so she knows the ropes. I’d been here for only two days when she’d accosted me in the dining room. I was picking at something that was presumably oatmeal when she came over, wrapped up in a kimono and heels, and sat across from me, advised me to never eat the oatmeal again and opt for the French toast or the eggs Benedict instead.

  I clear my throat when I get into the lounge—a courtesy to let her know she’s no longer watching TV alone. Her long legs swing up and over until she rights herself on the couch.

  “Hey,” she says. She picks up the remote and shuts the TV off.

  “You don’t need to do that for me,” I say.

  “Wasn’t,” Cecilia replies. “Turned it off for me. It’s boring.”

  I nod and take a seat on the armchair across from her. I’m silent. I’m not sure why I came to the lounge rather than staying in my room. At least there I could miss Kyler fiercely in solitude.

  “You look like you have something on your mind,” she says.

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, if there’s one thing you learn at Willow, it’s how to be a good listener. Wanna talk about it?”

  “Yeah, I miss people, you know?”

  Cecilia nods. “I miss sex.”

  “Not what I meant, but sure. Same thing, I guess.”

  She leans forward and pats my knee. “Who are you missing?”

  I can’t be sure I can trust Cecilia, but I give her the benefit of the doubt because I have nothing to lose. “My boyfriend.”

  She perks up immediately. “Boyfriends are my specialty,” she says. “Is he a cheating slimeball? Sometimes I feel like we miss those jerks the worst of them all, ’cause the rejection is so bad.”

  “Drastic that you’d start there, but no. Not at all.”

  She looks disappointed before she holds up a finger. “Wait, let me guess—he didn’t know about the OCD and he found out and dumped you?”

  “Still off,” I say.

  I open my mouth to volunteer information, but she interrupts. “You found out another girl was after him?”

  “No. My father thinks he did something terrible, and now he won’t let us see each other.”

  “The parental intervention. That’s the goddamned worst.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “What does your dad think he did?”

  I consider what I should tell her. The truth? “My dad thinks he leaked my medical records all over social media and then broadcast them to our entire school at an assembly.”

  Cecilia’s face drops in horror. “What?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t, but now he’s accusing my stepsister, who has an attitude but a perfect reputation she doesn’t want tarnished, and he’s kind of a loner, so it’s his word against hers.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says. “That’s better than fiction.”

  I nod. “The worst part is, Kyler made things feel right. Everything felt right. I miss him. I almost felt like it was okay to be—”

  “Yourself,” she volunteers. “I can tell by the look on your face. He’s the first guy who makes you feel like it’s okay you are the way you are. Then your dad is fighting an uphill battle,” she decides. “You can’t keep two people who are meant to be together apart for long.”

  “Since I’m locked up with no computer access, no phone, and he’s out there doing God knows what, it doesn’t really seem that way.”

  “Willow is hardly a prison,” Cecilia says. “Relax. The first two weeks are stiff with rules and whatnot, but you’re an ideal patient. You do what they tell you to do when they tell you to do it. You’ll get your privileges next week. Visitors, your phone, the wondrous internet. All of that.”

  I read about the review policy in the handbook titled Welcome to Willow Recovery Center. Every Sunday patients are reviewed. If you had a satisfactory week, you’re awarded personal perks, or the removal of those same perks if you’d previously earned them and were now being unmanageable.

  “They m
onitor your phone. My dad has forbidden me from texting him.”

  Cecilia looks at the door, reaches into her pocket—which should not have room to disguise a cell phone—and retrieves one, handing it to me. “They don’t check my phone anymore. Here. Text him.”

  I could kiss her.

  I punch in Kyler’s number at lightning speed. Being this close to getting perks of my own, I don’t want to blow any chances I may have, so I type fast.

  Borrowing a phone so don’t reply, just to be safe, I type. I miss you. Play the gig and you can show me videos when I bust out of here. You can do it, Kyler.…XOXO, Lennon

  AS LENNON WOULD SAY, FACT: DYING STARS CREATE

  STELLAR BLACK HOLES. I’M A BLACK HOLE. A DEAD STAR.

  Random Thoughts of a Random Mind

  LIFE’S FULL OF SURPRISES. Welcome ones. Unwelcome ones. Regardless of which they are, both create a small tear in the patchwork of the universe, a blip in time that swallows a person whole and spits them out to point them in a different direction.

  When Lennon came into my galaxy, it was a welcome surprise. I didn’t see it coming, hence the surprise part, but then she was there. Beside me. In a different direction. It felt as if she belonged there, like she was always there and would always be there, so now that Josh has removed her from my orbit, the tear in my patchwork will spread until it’s a gaping black hole.

  If I had known it was his intention to take her away from me, I would have stayed silent. I never would have said a word. I would have kept my eyes down and my mouth shut. If I had, I wouldn’t be sitting here missing her nightly disco, or the way my hands get tangled and knotted in the hair that’s way too big for her head, or how her nose crinkles when I make her laugh.