by Amy Reed
JASON
Then the whore started laughing. I will never forget the sound of her laugh. Like glass breaking. And then she called my dad in. “Dean,” she said. “Dean, your fucking kid is a fag,” ha, ha, ha, and he came in and looked at me like that’s exactly what he had expected, like he accepted at that moment that I’d disappoint him forever. And he said, “Get the fuck out of here, Jason.” He said, “Go watch TV for a while.” And I left the bedroom. I closed the door behind me and turned the TV up loud.
EVA
Do you remember? Do you remember that first feeling of smoke filling your lungs? The spreading fog lifting you up. The gentle medicine healing everything that had been broken. And the magic bottle, the little white pills that made music when you shook them, the little white angels that made your body disappear. And the girl said, “Take me. Take my body and make me new.”
OLIVIA
I come from a whole society of perfect people. But somehow, despite the work it takes to be perfect, everyone else at my school still seems to find the time for frivolous things like dating and parties. Somehow they are capable of having relationships with people besides their maids. It seems like I’m always scrambling to keep up, to maintain my position in the various hierarchies that fate signed me up for. I have no time for friends, let alone boyfriends. I barely have time to sleep. Everyone else makes it look so easy, like it’s in their blood to be flawless and exceptional.
CHRISTOPHER
What I’m realizing is that sin is not as simple as I always thought. You can admit wrong actions and vow to change. You can say, “God, I’ve had a problem with drugs and now I’m going to stop.” Then you get sober and He forgives you and you live happily ever after. But there’s another kind of sin that goes deeper than action. What if your sin is not something you do but something you are? Something you can’t change no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you pray, no matter how many times you ask God to change you? What if you don’t change? What if you can’t? What then?
KELLY
If I told you what kind of person I really am, you’d think I’m a monster. Because the truth is that sometimes I do hate my perfect family. Sometimes I wish my sisters had never been born and I’d gotten to keep all my parents’ love. I fantasize about being even sicker than Shayla and Nicole, of having some condition even worse than theirs, like that would somehow punish everyone and get me what I want. How sick is that? To be competitive with your own sick sisters to see who can endure the most pain. And the winner is the one who does the best at threatening to die.
JASON
Have you ever tried not to cry? Like put every ounce of your being into it? Nothing I’ve ever done, no fights, nothing, has ever amounted to that kind of violence inside me. I remember sitting there, shaking, and I thought my fists were going to tear my hands apart. I remember a voice in my head, my father’s voice, “Don’t cry, you fucking pussy,” and I’ve been hearing that same voice my entire life. I heard his grunts in the hotel bedroom, the naked woman’s moans, and I have never in my life felt like less of a man.
EVA
And they made a circle around you, this new pack of misfits that did not judge. And you grew your shell like soft armor, until you were twice the size you were before. Even now that you were big, even now that no one could hurt you, you still kept your sadness like a secret, still grew thorns to keep it safe. Even now that you were not alone, you needed the medicine more than they did. Even though they thought they knew you, they did not know you needed the medicine more than you needed them.
OLIVIA
I have a secret theory that the hospital accidentally switched me at birth with my parents’ real baby. Their real daughter is off in a suburb somewhere, astounding the whole town with her beauty and brilliance. But it should be me there instead, plain and nothing special. Mostly A’s and B’s, but not the top of the class. Maybe on the track team, but definitely not the star. Maybe I’d even be a little pudgy, and maybe I’d even be okay with that. Maybe I’d have a best friend I could talk to about everything, a group of girls to do things with after school and on the weekends. Sleepovers, walking aimlessly around the mall—isn’t that what normal girls do? Maybe I’d even have a boyfriend. He wouldn’t have to be anything special either, not the most popular or smartest or richest. Just kind. And maybe a little funny. That would be nice. It would be nice to have at least kissed someone by now.
KELLY
I bet I could match up
everybody with the right parents even if they weren’t all sitting next to each other. As much as everyone tries to rebel with their clothes and hair and makeup, as much as we try to cover up every resemblance to the people who made us, it’s really no use. I know I look exactly like my mom, and I’m okay with that. You should see pictures of her when she was in college—she could have won beauty pageants if she hadn’t decided she was a feminist. And even though Christopher’s about a quarter the size of his mother, they have the exact same baby face and nervous demeanor. The Pregnant Girl and her mom have the same birdlike appearance, with the same pointy nose and fluffy yellow hair. Eva gets her dark eyes from her father, the bad posture, the same tired and brooding attitude. The New Guy and his mom have the same kind blue eyes, except hers are lined with a couple decades’ worth of worry.
But the scariest resemblance of all is between Jason and his father. It’s like someone made a copy of Jason and just aged it thirty years. They’re the same height and weight and build, with the same square jaw and broad shoulders. Something in Jason’s face had softened over these few weeks, but the hardness came back as soon as his parents walked through those doors. It’s like he was here at breakfast, but then I turned around and all of a sudden he was replaced by the old Jason, all wound up and pissed off and hating the world. His mom is like this little broken thing beside him, dressed up and painted in some kind of brave attempt to cover up the fact that she’s barely there. Then there’s Jason and his dad towering next to her, making her even smaller. There’s something in his eyes that I haven’t seen before, like something inside him is dead or hiding far away. It’s no wonder he thinks it’s impossible to get out from under his father’s shadow—I’m sitting across the room and I swear I can feel how it’s crushing him.
We’ve all heard this lecture before, the doctor’s “What Is Addiction?” speech, the facts and science behind our self-destruction, the whats and hows and whys of our disease. The PowerPoint presentation shows how our brain synapses have been transformed, how we’ve turned into pleasure-seeking machines. Christopher’s mother’s face is twisted in a combination of confusion and anger, like she resents the doctor and all his difficult information. Jason’s dad is sitting back in his folding chair with a smirk on his face like this is a waste of his time, Eva’s dad is sad but attentive, and my parents are their own special brand of perky and earnest as they sit up straight in their chairs, eager for this doctor to tell them my secrets. This is the kind of thing that makes sense to them; this is a language they know. They know what to do with “disease.” They know how to attach a doctor’s medical descriptions to hope.
All the patients are in various states of discomfort about the fact that such a huge piece of them has been revealed, that this room full of teenage addicts and alcoholics we’ve been trying to impress for the last however many days has this sudden view into our lives, as if catching this glimpse of our parents allows them to see the most intimate parts of us. Some are probably afraid that their lies are going to be exposed, that everything they’ve ever said about their childhoods is going to be proven false—or even worse. We’re afraid that even though we’ve told the truth, now everyone’s going to take our parents’ words over ours. The truth is, this is probably the first place most of us have ever had anyone believe us, where anyone has seen us as something other than a liar, a troublemaker, an all-around piece of shit. Our parents’ presence threatens to take that away. It’s like their being here negates everything we’ve worked
so hard to become.
All of a sudden it hits me that I don’t have much longer until I graduate from this place. Pretty soon I’m going to leave here and go back to the world that still thinks I’m someone I don’t want to be anymore. I feel like running out of the room and locking myself in the bathroom and never coming out. At least I’d be safe in there. All they’d have to do is bring me my meals and I wouldn’t bother anyone.
The room is packed with families, everyone with their eyes on the doctor in front of the room. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice Olivia sitting over there in the corner, small and alone and practically invisible. Her parents didn’t come. Her dad was too busy doing his important things, but her mom didn’t even pretend to have an excuse. Olivia said she didn’t care if they came or not, but of course no one believed her. Shirley said she would have liked to meet Olivia’s mother so she could give her a little piece of her mind about prescription drug laws and responsible parenting. Whenever Shirley brings that up, Olivia gets really quiet, even quieter than usual. Sometimes I think she wants Shirley to tell someone what her mom did. I know I do. I want her mom to be punished somehow and I want her dad to know the truth; I want him to know it’s not Olivia’s fault. But maybe it’s different when it’s your own mom. Maybe no matter how awful she treats you, you still don’t want to see her suffer.
So Olivia has to carry it all by herself and act like she’s got everything under control. She’s just sitting over there in the corner like an orphan. She’s not even trying to impress everyone by taking notes like the last time we heard this lecture. She’s just still and blank, like she’s trying to disappear. I wish her mother was here so I could tell her exactly what I think. I want to tell her I believe Olivia. I want to tell her I know the truth. I want to show her all the hurt and anger she’s made her daughter too afraid to feel.
The lecture’s over, and practically all the parents’ hands shoot into the air as soon the doctor announces he’s open for questions. He calls on Christopher’s mom first, and as she clears her throat, Christopher seems to shrink into himself. As she opens her mouth, the large rolls of flesh beneath her chin wiggle, and it’s a mystery of science how someone so large could produce someone so small. The doctor asks her to introduce herself, and she says, “Oh, hello. I’m Mary-Ellen Morganson and this is my son, Christopher, and I just wanted to say that your theory’s real nice for the real drug addicts in here, but my son just isn’t like that. He’s a good boy and a smart boy and he just made a few bad decisions and got led down the wrong path by someone he thought was his friend. So I’d like you to tell me, Doctor, if you have any suggestions how I as a mother can prevent him from going down the wrong path again, because I want to do everything I can to make sure he lives up to all his God-given potential. Thank you.”
There are a few snickers in the room, most of them coming from other parents. Christopher’s mom looks around like something hit her in the back of the head, and Christopher is hiding his face in his hands.
“With all due respect, Mrs. Morganson,” the doctor says, “the most important thing for you to do for your son is acknowledge that he does indeed suffer from the disease of addiction. It will be very difficult for him to recover if he does not have the support of his family.” My dad nods his head, and my mom reaches over and squeezes my hand, and something inside me breaks just a little.
“Of course I support him,” she says. “How could you think I don’t support him?” Christopher looks like he wants to crawl under his chair.
“Ma’am, I wasn’t implying that at all,” the doctor says. “Of course you love and support your son. I just want to emphasize how important it is that you acknowledge and respect his disease. He does not benefit from you thinking that he’s somehow immune from it. This is an isolating disease, and telling your son he’s different from everyone else can actually be harmful. It doesn’t matter how smart and good a person is. Addiction and alcoholism are equal opportunity destroyers of lives.”
“Yeah, I have something to say about that,” Jason’s dad announces from across the room, and Mrs. Morganson cowers at the sound of his big voice.
“Your name, sir?” the doctor says, and I swear he sounds a little defensive, like he’s already prepared to not like him.
“Dean Ford, Dean Ford Construction, Bellevue, Washington. Jason here is my fuckup of a son. The thing is, Doctor, I just don’t buy this disease idea. It sounds like an excuse to me, like some of that liberal propaganda people use to get out of taking responsibility for their actions.” Christopher’s mom says “Amen” quietly, and Eva’s dad says to no one in particular, “Can you believe these people?”
“Mr. Ford, I understand your concerns,” the doctor says, and even though I sort of hate him for never taking the time to learn my name, I have to give him some credit for handling our crazy parents. “I agree with you completely that our patients need to take responsibility for their actions. But we also can’t expect to help them unless we get honest and make an effort to understand what makes them tick.”
“Oh, I know what makes him tick, all right,” Mr. Ford says, and I can see Jason’s jaws working like they’re going to grind themselves right out of his head. His hands are clenched into tight fists, and I’m glad I’m sitting all the way over here. It looks like either of them could explode any minute, and I don’t want to be anywhere near them when that happens. Jason’s mother seems to have shut down, like she’s been trained to go into some kind of sleep mode when the hostility level gets to a certain level. It’s like someone turned off a light switch inside her. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up in that house.
What’s that expression? Tension so thick you could cut it with a knife? That’s what it feels like in here. Even though everything seems calm and quiet on the surface, I wouldn’t be surprised if a riot broke out and parents and children started tearing each other apart. “This is ridiculous,” says a mother in the back, and several others grumble their agreement, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that our parents aren’t any better behaved than us.
The doctor raises his hand, and surprisingly, the room settles down enough for him to remind us that this is the time for questions related to the medical and practical aspects of addiction, and that we’ll have two sessions of family group therapy to delve deeper into our feelings. That shuts everybody up, and there are a few moments of uncomfortable silence until my father raises his hand and says, “I for one would like to thank you, Doctor, for the work you do and this opportunity for healing that you’ve given my daughter.” Someone goes, “Oh, God,” and a couple people chuckle, and I can tell this is going to be a very long day.
CHRISTOPHER
This is hell. This is
literally hell. If I had to choose the absolute worst way to spend eternity, it would be sitting in a folding chair next to my mother while she talks crazy in front of a bunch of strangers. I should probably start getting used to it since hell is where I’m probably going, with all the sinning I’ve done. If she gets her way, I’m coming with her to heaven, but I don’t think she gets a whole lot of say in the matter. Maybe she’ll get a replica of me in heaven to keep her company, and I’ll get a replica of her in hell to embarrass me until the end of time.
All the kids from all the Groups, plus all their parents, are crammed together in the community meeting room for family group. Shirley is our fearless leader, with two ACs standing by like bodyguards. We’re stuck sitting in these plastic chairs in this stuffy room for the next hour and a half, plus another session after lunch, like this is going to fix a whole lifetime’s worth of crazy-making. Shirley told all the parents to each make a short statement about how their kids’ drinking and drug use has affected their lives, and we’re not allowed to say anything. We’re expected to just sit here while they defame our character in front of our friends and a bunch of strangers.
Pregnant Girl’s mom won’t stop crying, and she has no one to comfort her. Pregnant Girl just s
its there looking at her lap, at the small roundness just barely showing beneath her shirt. Everyone’s trying to ignore the crying and act like it’s no big deal to be listening to someone sobbing uncontrollably while hanging out with a bunch of kids and their parents at an adolescent treatment center. I don’t know what kind of world they all live in, but I can tell you there is nothing natural about this.
All the parents keep talking, blah, blah, blah, and Shirley writes what they say on the whiteboard. Loss of trust, stealing, bad grades, getting arrested, all the pain we’ve caused them up there in big red letters while all the parents nod their heads and all the kids look either ashamed or angry. Eva is in the angry category, Kelly’s ashamed, and Olivia’s just looking out the window because her parents aren’t here. Shirley said she’d still get something out of Family Day because she can relate to what other people are going through, but I don’t think that’s the point. It’s not Olivia who needs Family Day. It’s her stupid parents. They need to be here so someone can tell them what they did wrong and make them believe it. I don’t know what kind of excuse they told Olivia, but I don’t think she’s surprised. And that’s just sad, you know? To just expect your own parents not to show up for Family Day.
Jason, of course, is one of the angry ones. You can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears, and the daggers in his eyes when he looks at his dad. Before it was even his turn to speak, Jason’s dad just blurted out, “My kid’s responsible for his own sister’s permanent brain damage. Top that.” Like he was daring people to fight over whose kid is the bigger disappointment. Jason’s mom gasped and put her hand to her mouth, acting like it was the first time she’d ever heard such a thing. She would fit right into my church with her pink dress, pink sweater, panty hose, and shoes. She’s even wearing a pink headband. Everyone gets the message when they’re a kid that girls like pink and boys like blue, but she’s taken it to a whole new level, like being a girl is her religion and wearing pink is some kind of commandment. She’s got her hands folded neatly in her lap, and her legs crossed at the ankles, and a pinched, pained expression on her face while her husband paints everyone a picture of her crappy son, Jason.