“Don’t need to hear it, Mom!”
“Well, you better hear it, because this is serious stuff!” I fumed, overcome by the sudden surge of blood rushing throughout my face. “We need to figure out what we’re doing—as a family. It’s not up for debate.”
“I understand it. I can make a decision. I’m not an idiot.”
“No one is saying that, Sage.”
“Dad says I should come home.”
“Excuse me?” I grew quiet and sat motionless for a few moments, completely floored by the pure audacity of her comment. Mike was incapable of putting his foot down on anything related to Sage. “Your dad was not the one with you on the kitchen floor,” I said. “Your dad’s not the one who is responsible for taking care of you. Visits every other weekend don’t count. Buying a whole bunch of crap that you don’t need in the first place doesn’t count.”
“Lia…” Connor gently squeezed my hand.
I knew he was only trying to help, but I had become far too angry to care. “You weren’t there!” I snapped, snatching my hand out of his.
“But I came. And I tried to help,” he replied quietly.
“You know, it’s bad enough that I missed Christmas,” Sage continued. “That… gathering we had in the common area didn’t count, Mom, so don’t even pretend like it did. Now you’re not even trying to help me. What? Am I supposed to stay here and miss New Year’s Eve as well? I bet I’ll be just fine enough to return to that stupid school after winter recess, though. Hmm?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. If it hadn’t been for me, Sage wouldn’t celebrate any holiday—ever again. I pressed my lips tightly together, forcing them to remain shut before I said something we’d all regret. I reminded myself that this wasn’t the right way to go about it all. But I was furious, furious that we were dealing with this in the first place, and then acting as if I were the one—not the illness—holding her back from living life. Sage sat there, on that bed, glaring at me with absolute rage. She was acting as if I brought this upon her—like this was the result of a bad choice that I had made.
“Sage, you have to see this out,” I insisted. “You must try.”
Sage sighed heavily and then threw herself down on her bed. Grabbing a pillow, she lowered it onto her, burying her face underneath. “There is no point,” she moaned hopelessly, her voice muffled.
“When you do come home, I’m going to be there to support you, Sage.” I glanced over at Connor, who nodded in affirmation. “It’ll get better for you. I promise.”
Sage shot right back up as if propelled by a bouncy spring and crossed her arms across her chest. She glared at me defiantly. “Can I dye my hair green again?” she demanded.
Connor’s face twisted itself into a horrified, yet almost comical, grimace. In a way, his expression reminded me of the first time we ate sushi together.
Way back when we were kids, Mike’s mother would take the three of us down to the city for lunch just about every fourth Sunday of the month. It was always far enough in the month to know which bills had been paid, which emergencies had been avoided, and just how much extra change she could spare. Money never came easy for Mike’s family after his father left, so it was a rare occasion when Grainne could spend a penny on pure leisure.
I still remember Grainne very well: a real spit-fire who worked in reception for one of the big Madison Avenue ad agencies. Mike would always tell us these exciting stories about all the people he saw in fancy clothes whenever Grainne brought him by the office to visit. But, truthfully, I had always believed that if she hadn’t had to marry Mike’s father so young, Grainne probably could have finished college—and beyond—and one day run circles around her bosses.
One Sunday in May, probably back when we were in the fifth grade, Grainne had brought the three of us on an excursion to a Japanese restaurant on Sullivan Street. It had been so exciting. I still remember the floral summer dress and white Mary Janes I had happily donned for the special occasion—a noticeable deviation from my usual blue jeans and sneakers.
During lunch, Connor had made the unfortunate mistake of swallowing the wasabi whole. Mike had lied and told us it was avocado.
“Green hair!” Connor exclaimed. “Like a supervillain? When did this happen?” he asked us incredulously.
“Don’t even start,” I told him. “You should have seen what I had to go through to convince the headmaster not to suspend her. She attends this school on scholarship and almost got suspended over something that asinine.”
“It was more of an emerald green,” Sage said. “It looked great, and I found the shade online. Dad loved it.” She smiled, mentally reliving the entire episode and the satisfaction she must have felt in disrupting my day.
“How did your father even see it?” I demanded.
“I sent him a screenshot. We talk all the time, Mom.”
Of course they did. Mike and Sage probably traded texts and giggles like any typical pair of teenage friends.
“It wasn’t funny,” I insisted. Turning to Connor, I continued, “I had to leave in the middle of work. I thought something serious had happened. Like the time she cut school—”
“Oh, please.” Sage rolled her eyes. “I don’t even see what the big deal is. Dad just ended up putting that location tracker app on my phone. No one got hurt. Everyone is just fiiiiiine.”
“Something could have happened to you!” I argued. “We drove all over Yonkers and the north Bronx looking for you. You know where we found her, Connor? Outside a pet store in Norwood, looking at puppies.”
“You absolutely loved speaking to Headmaster Reardon,” Sage continued, refusing to acknowledge a single word I said. She raised an eyebrow, looked over at Connor as if they were two agents surreptitiously sharing a conspiracy, and mouthed: “He’s cuuuuuute.”
I felt my face grow flush. “Do not speak about adults that way, Sage. It’s inappropriate.”
“Well, he is,” she replied, almost too nonchalantly for my liking.
“This isn’t about me, and you know it. You think your behavior is cute, but wait till you get older. Try getting an actual adult job with hair like that,” I spat. “No one will hire you, and it’s a shame because you’re a very talented and intelligent young woman.”
“An adult job? Like in ten years? That’s not even true anymore, Mom. A bunch of Dad’s co-workers have colored hair, piercings—”
“Your father doesn’t work at a normal job.”
“Maybe that’s the type of job I’ll want!” Sage shouted. “Maybe I want to work at a place like his.” She turned to Connor. “I know everything there is to know about social media. And I’m great with technology… I love photography! I could do a million different things at a company like his,” she insisted.
“You looked ridiculous,” I said. “Your hair is so beautiful the way it is. Why would you want to ruin it with that junk?”
“It wouldn’t even be a big deal if you’d let me go to public school like I’ve asked ten thousand times—”
“All right, you two,” Connor finally butted in. “We’re not here to give each other a hard time. I think everyone is a little worked up over what’s been going on, but we have to deal with this together.” He turned to Sage. “Look, I know this place is getting to you, and it must be killing you inside. I know you want to go home. But you have no idea what you put your parents through, especially your mother. So, if the two of you can calm down, it’ll get better. But not like this, not with you two at each other’s throats… and I think you both know that.”
I crossed my arms defensively against my chest. Part of the reason I didn’t want to acknowledge Sage’s questioning concerning her discharge was because I didn’t want to give either one of us false hope. I wanted her home more than anything. And, yes, I did see progress. Only a few days earlier Sage was the girl she had described from the other day, floating hazily around the common area, heavily tranquilized for her own safety.
But how could I possib
ly express this to her without getting her even more upset? I wanted to remain positive and hopeful, but I also didn’t want her to think that nothing had happened, that we were going to ignore this and move on, never to address it again.
“Honey, as I said earlier, your father and I are scheduled to meet with Dr. Warner. We’re going to listen to her advice. And, if it all sounds good, we’re going to follow her treatment plan. But we need you to be patient about this. I want you home,” I said.
I knew that she realized this, deep down. She had to.
We stayed with her until guest hours were over. And as each minute passed us by, I reminded myself to remain calm, even when it was difficult. I had to trust that the doctors were going to help her. The hardest part, always, was saying goodbye. As we walked down the hallway, past the secured doors, it became too apparent that this was not, in fact, a bucolic New England bed and breakfast. After passing through the security doors, Connor still closely at my side, I shuddered at the sound of them locking in place behind us.
As we waited for the elevator, I looked over my shoulder and saw Sage press her face against the security door’s tiny little square-shaped window at me, her eyes blanketed in solemnity. She then held her head back from the window just a bit, pressed her pointer finger and middle finger to her lips, kissed them gently, and then pressed them firmly against the glass. I watched her, frozen where I stood for what seemed like an eternity, as my broken heart shed the tears my tired eyes no longer could.
I slowly waved back at her.
As Connor and I stepped onto the elevator, I silently counted to ten, as if that would help now. It was an old coping strategy a child psychologist had shared with me many years ago when my father and I were still struggling to come to terms with having lost my own mother. I still didn’t know how counting was supposed to somehow erase away the pain, yet I often found myself doing it anyway.
In bad times, a face held high.
It was later that night in the emptiness of our apartment that I found myself whispering these words over and over again to myself.
I walked into Sage’s bedroom and looked around desolately; I didn’t have it in me to turn on the lights. Alone, exhausted, I wandered over to Sage’s bed and sat down. My eyes wandered around the room, finally settling on a familiar shape I instantly recognized. It was an old quilt my great-grandmother had knitted a very long time ago.
The quilt had been carelessly tossed onto a bean bag chair that rested right beside Sage’s bed, almost lost amid the piles of clothing, books, and other random items I couldn’t quite make out in the dark. Reaching down, I lifted the quilt and wrapped it around my shoulders. It had just the faintest hint of a musty smell, yet I pulled it tighter against my body.
I sat there, still, lost in deafening silence, for what had to have been nearly an hour.
The walls, lonely and faded by the darkness, offered me no comfort.
Then I saw them in the corner of my eye: Owen and Henry, waking up and popping their little heads out from underneath the circular nest they had craftily constructed out of aspen wood shavings and timothy hay. Soon hopping about their terrarium, the two little guys began their nighttime round of play in pure innocence. I smiled, thinking about how Sage had so lovingly created a comfortable habitat for her two beloved creatures. The creak of their wheel as they repetitively took turns with one another, running around and around, was surprisingly soothing to me at that moment. It reminded me of her.
My head grew heavier, and my body felt weak, so I finally lay down completely. From across Sage’s bed, right there on top of her dresser, I saw a photograph of the three of us: Mike, Sage, and me.
Sage had been only two years old at the time. And even though it was a preserved remnant of my history, I felt as though I were peeking in on the lives of perfect strangers. The family in the photograph, strangely trapped there forever in time, smiled at me. They sat on the front steps of their first apartment together, arms warmly and completely wrapped around one another, and they were happy—seemingly filled with the hopeful joy of endless promise.
Wrapping myself snuggly and securely in that warm patchwork quilt, my eyes traveled back and forth from that old photograph to Sage’s two tiny and playful companions.
Then my eyes grew tired. They grew heavy. Finally, I fell asleep.
Chapter 3
See the Forrest for the Trees
Sage
My mom is self-conscious.
I could sense it as she walked away from me, defensively hugging her arms close to her body. A very long time ago, when she was about my age, Mom had surgery to fix her severely curved spine, scoliosis, and she said it was pretty bad. To this day, she never lets anyone see her bare back—ever—though I have managed to take a quick peek myself once or twice. But, anyway, Mom gets very uneasy about it, even though her scar is very thin and hardly noticeable. Whenever I’ve asked her about what it felt like as a teenager—whether she was scared when it happened, whether it hurt—she’s either shut down completely or made some derisive comment about being a freak of nature. She once told me that if it hadn’t been for modern science, she would turn into some old, ugly hunchback and probably die alone.
Yup. She actually said that to me.
The thing is I never saw her that way. To me, Mom is beautiful. Her harshest and only critic is herself. I could never imagine her turning into some sort of monster, though I’d never actually admit any of this to her. But in my mind, even if Mom had never had that surgery, she could never be ugly—inside or out. I imagined that Mom would eventually evolve into some sort of ethereal, mythical creature. Perhaps maybe an old crone (straight out of this book of fairy tales Dad used to read to me when I was just a little girl), whose face, though worn and aged with the markings of time by wrinkles, still radiated with sheer integrity and wisdom. She would live out the rest of her days in a fairytale forest — not a villain, but rather a protector of only the kindest and most vulnerable of creatures.
I also knew that Mom took this entire thing with me personally. Bad genes I’ve heard her say on more than one occasion. She’s too much sometimes—and kind of a little bit self-absorbed! It’s like I can’t even have my own problems independent from her. Still, none of it stopped me from using the phone that afternoon. I had to text Katie about what happened. And Noah.
The phone. It wasn’t anything that serious, and only a few of us here even knew about it. If you walked outside into the courtyard, down past the second oak tree on your right, there was a small stone path. Now, most of the stones were gray and smooth, but there’s this ragged, ivory colored one, and it’s kinda shaped like half of a Valentine heart. If you picked up that stone, you’d find the phone duct taped securely underneath it. It was an old flip phone like the kind my Grandpa Thomas would use.
Lauren from room 215 had hidden it there. I don’t even know how or when she charged the thing. Lauren got away with so much; I’d swear she had half the nurses on payroll. Well, there was an understanding that if you wished to use the phone, you could do so, but there was a code of silence that must be upheld. Everything was private, even though it really wasn’t… because, hello! I could theoretically look at anything, and who was going to stop me? Anyway, you could never comment on someone else’s texts. You couldn’t even hint at what you had seen. The phone was how we sent messages to the outside, messages we didn’t want anyone else to hear or see—especially the nurses.
Sometimes I wondered about what would actually happen if any of us was caught with the thing, but I guess it couldn’t be anything too bad. I mean, it wasn’t like we were trapped in some 1960s asylum where they could lock us up in a crazy torture room as punishment for non-compliant behavior. But even still, you didn’t want to get caught, and you certainly didn’t need your shrink hearing about it. Hey, let’s face it. When someone else holds the key to your freedom, you really don’t want to rub that person the wrong way.
So, I ventured off as soon as Mom and Uncle Connor
left, popping by Lauren’s room to give her the signal. Like clockwork, Lauren meandered over to the security guard’s desk and distracted him with a load of ridiculously unnecessary questions. Meanwhile, Fiona sprang into action to serve as my lookout. I quickly slipped by and made my way out the doors to the courtyard, past the trees, and finally to that special spot. Looking over my shoulder, I could see that Lauren still had the guard’s full attention; he didn’t even notice I was gone. Holding my breath, I picked up the phone in my hands, somehow resisting that little part of me that just really wanted to read the other girls’ texts. Then, texting at full speed (which isn’t very easy when you’re using a flip phone), I let Katie know where I was, without giving away too much information. Katie could Internet search the place if she had any pressing questions. I then forwarded the same text to my boyfriend, Noah, who responded almost immediately with: “It’s about time <3.”
I smirked. Typical Noah. Of course, I was the crazy one. But did anyone ever question the emotional stability of a guy who liked someone like me in the first place? I didn’t know the answer to that one.
Looking over my shoulder once again, and realizing that I was running out of time, I lost my patience with Katie. I would have to check tomorrow for her reply. Then, just as swiftly as I had escaped, I made my way back into the main hall, zipped right past security, and found my way back into the room. With nothing left to do, I resigned myself to lying in bed, lonely and bored. Time, and my own sanity, were my enemies.
But I couldn’t sleep because I was wired. It was the medication they had me on, some new stuff that kept me super-hyper and alert. I was reminded of the time when my friend Avery had gotten into her older brother’s ADHD medication. That was actually a little scary to see.
I hated being on medication. Unless I took this other pill around bedtime—some anti-psychotic that wasn’t habit-forming—this medication could make me stay up for about forty-eight hours straight. The problem was it was too early for the nurses to hand me the sleepy pill. Until then, I was stuck, awake, with nothing but my own thoughts for entertainment. Restless, I picked up a book from the end table, deciding some light reading just might be enough to help me pass the time.
Painting Sage Page 3