by Amy Reed
For now it is activity hour and my last time on this decrepit playground. I’m walking alone on the edge of the baseball field while everyone else plays basketball or four square. Besides Jason, everyone here is a stranger. Olivia’s in the hospital, and Eva and Christopher are stuck back at the facility because they’re on probation for their little runaway performance. So it’s just me and Jason, the last of the old guard, waiting to be let back into the real world.
I run my hand across the chain-link fence and feel it cold against my fingers. Part of me wants to grab on and squeeze until the metal turns sharp and prints into my skin, until pressure makes it a weapon. I feel like pressing up against it and feeling it cut into my face, brand my skin with its crisscross pattern. I walk and walk and the mud sticks to my shoes, but I don’t care. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I may never try to impress anyone again.
I hear something squish, squish, squish behind me, something large and fast approaching quickly. I turn around slowly, expecting to see a dog or maybe an AC who decided I’ve walked far enough. Instead it’s Jason, panting slightly, his face red and a little sweaty. This is the closest I’ve been to him in more than a week. I flinch when he says “Hi.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Is it okay that I’m talking to you?” he says. “I mean, I’ll go away if you want me to.”
“What do you think?” I say. “Should I want you to go away?”
“Probably,” he says, then it’s like a sad cloud passes over his face, and part of me feels bad, like it’s somehow my fault he’s been so depressed lately. I know I shouldn’t feel that way. I know I have every right to be mad at him. But I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about all sorts of things, but mostly about how we’re all a lot more complicated than any of us probably think we are.
“Your parents seem really nice,” he says.
“Yeah, they are,” I say. “If there was an award for World’s Nicest Parents, they’d definitely be contenders.”
“How was Family Day for you?”
“It was okay. You?”
“Couldn’t you tell?” he says. “Major breakthroughs all day long. All of my family problems are officially fixed.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. It’s good he has a sense of humor about it. I don’t know if I could if I were him.
“You’re really lucky, you know?” he says.
“Yeah, I know.” After seeing everybody’s parents on Family Day, fuck yes, I know I’m lucky.
We walk for a while not saying anything. Everyone else is on the other side of the field, bouncing balls off concrete. We’re in a residential neighborhood in the middle of a workday, so everything is eerily quiet. It’s just the two of us and the squishing of our muddy footsteps, and even though I know I’m supposed to hate him, I feel strangely comfortable. Something about the gray sky and the gray fence and the fact that this is one of the last times we’ll ever speak, something about all that makes this moment weirdly sentimental.
“I need to tell you something,” Jason says, and I’m neither surprised nor scared. If there was ever an appropriate time to tell each other something, it would be right now.
He stops walking. I look at him and realize he wants me to stop walking too. This is going to be the kind of conversation that requires standing perfectly still. “Kelly,” he says, and I look him in the eye. Something has definitely changed.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what I wanted to say to you,” he begins. “Nothing I say will ever be enough. Maybe someone else could do it better, someone smarter who knows more words. But all I can do is do my best, right?”
I nod, because I can feel that he wants some kind of encouragement. This should probably make me happy, this new humility of his, this thoughtful new Jason. But I don’t know if I should trust him. Maybe this is just another one of his jokes.
“I’m not going to try to make excuses for what I did to you, because it’s inexcusable,” he says. I feel a dull pain inside my chest at this reminder of what happened, a remnant of the fear I felt in that tiny shower stall. But another feeling comes with it, something the opposite of scary, something that feels strong and sturdy and not scared of anything.
“I have a lot of shit to figure out,” Jason says. “A lot of really fucked-up shit I thought I understood. I could try to explain to you how I grew up with bad examples and that’s why I turned out all fucked up. But the truth is everyone has to take responsibility for their actions eventually, and I need to take responsibility for mine.”
I nod again because I can’t say anything. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, more than words will come out—all my tears and sobs and snot, all my gratitude and pain, all my crazy wishing that he was speaking for every boy and every man who’s ever touched me.
“I think that’s what finally makes us adults, you know?” he says. “It’s when we stop blaming our parents for everything and realize we’re making our own choices.”
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice breaks a little.
“What I’m basically trying to say, Kelly—” He pauses, and I look up, and I realize he was waiting to continue until he could look me in the eye. “What I’m trying to say is you didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve how I treated you. You don’t deserve to be treated like that by anyone.”
I close my eyes. I feel my feet planted solidly in the mud beneath me. Something inside my chest feels a little cleaner, a little lighter, like someone went in there and scrubbed out all the crap that’s been building up for years. Maybe it’s because of Jason, or maybe it’s just the cold air. Maybe it’s neither of those things. Maybe it’s just me.
“I know,” I tell him, and maybe I actually believe it.
GROUP
SHIRLEY: There’s not much in the way of news, I’m afraid. Olivia’s father flew out as soon as we called him, and he’s been by her side at the hospital. He’s keeping me posted, but there isn’t a whole lot to report. They’re still doing tests. But he wanted me to thank you all for being such good friends to Olivia.
EVA: Did he turn his fucking bitch wife in to the police yet?
CHRISTOPHER: Yeah.
SHIRLEY: I know you’re going to hate me for this, but that kind of information needs to stay confidential right now. If Olivia wants to tell you about it, that’s her choice. But it is not my place to talk about it with you.
EVA: That’s bullshit.
SHIRLEY: Would you want me telling anybody private stuff about you?
EVA: But we’re not just anybody.
SHIRLEY: I know, and I’m sure Olivia would want to talk to you about it, but she’s the one who needs to make that decision, not me. It would be unethical for me to make that decision for her.
KELLY: God, this sucks.
SHIRLEY: Yes, it does. But I can assure you she’s going to get the help she needs now, and it’s more help than we could offer her here.
KELLY: But why couldn’t we help her? Why weren’t we enough?
SHIRLEY: We’re not a treatment center for eating disorders, Kelly. She is very sick and needs very specialized help.
KELLY: But it’s not like you don’t know anything about eating disorders. You studied it in school, right? The doctor knows things. You should have done something. Shirley, why didn’t you do anything?
JASON: Kelly, calm down.
KELLY: No. Fuck you. This is bullshit. We were supposed to watch out for her. We were supposed to make sure she was eating. Me, I was. I was supposed to be paying attention.
CHRISTOPHER: It’s not your fault.
KELLY: I was supposed to be watching her. That was my job. Shirley said it was my job, remember? She cut herself. Did you know that? I saw the scars. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell. We could have helped her.
SHIRLEY: Kelly, look at me.
KELLY: No.
SHIRLEY: Kelly, goddammit, look at me right now.
KELLY: It’s
all my fault.
SHIRLEY: No, it’s not. Listen to me. You were a good friend to her. You all were. You are the best friends she’s ever had.
KELLY: But we could have done more.
SHIRLEY: Maybe. Sure. You could have held her down and shoved food into her mouth. But do you really want that job? Do you really think that’s what she needed from you?
KELLY: I don’t know.
SHIRLEY: You did the best thing you could have possibly done for her. You were her friend. You helped her more than you’ll ever know.
KELLY: I don’t believe you.
SHIRLEY: I have regrets too, you know.
CHRISTOPHER: You do?
SHIRLEY: I know this will come as a total shock to you, but I’m not perfect either. I know, I know, it’s unbelievable.
CHRISTOPHER: I never thought you were perfect, Shirley.
SHIRLEY: Thank you, Christopher. Seriously, though. Olivia needed more than we could ever give her here. I should have seen that. And there are things I should not have let her keep secret.
EVA: Yeah. Her fucking mom. I’m going to kill her.
SHIRLEY: Is that a threat? You know I have to report that.
EVA: Very funny.
SHIRLEY: You know, this is our last Group with everyone together.
JASON: We know.
EVA: We’re trying not to think about it.
SHIRLEY: I want you to know how proud I am. Of all of you.
CHRISTOPHER: Are we your favorite Group ever?
SHIRLEY: I’m afraid that information is classified.
CHRISTOPHER
I swear this lady is the
sober, grown-up version of Eva. She’s big and beautiful and she’s got the same black hair and punky clothes and sarcastic sense of humor. The main difference is she smiles a lot more and she’s always giving everybody hugs, which I just cannot see Eva doing. I’ll admit Eva seems a lot happier the last few days, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to take a lot more than a month sober for her to get anywhere near as blissed out as this lady.
Her name is Val and she’s been clean and sober seven years. She’s the speaker tonight so she’s standing up there behind a lectern telling this giant room of people about all of the crazy things she’s done. She says having an addiction is the same as having a mental illness and these meetings are her medicine. She says all the people in these rooms are her doctors. Then she starts pointing at people randomly, saying “You” to the old wheezing guy with the oxygen tank, “You” to the housewife in the matching pink sweater set, “You” to the Indian man with the long black braid and carved-up-looking face, and “You” to me, just a kid with a month sober and one night left in rehab, dreading going home to his delusional mother.
Me with my fear and confusion and secrets. Me with my sad excuse for a life. The most living I’ve ever done has been in this last month, and I’ve been locked up in rehab. How could I possibly help someone like her? How does that make any kind of sense?
Val used to have sex with men for drugs. She’s up there telling us all about it, and she’s laughing, and people in the audience are laughing, and I guess I must have missed something, because where I come from it’s not funny to have sex with men for drugs. She’s talking about it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and people in the audience are nodding their heads like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and she’s like, “It’s amazing what we do to get high, isn’t it?” and someone’s like “Amen, sister,” and she’s like, “Really, it made total sense at the time,” and everyone’s like, “Ha, ha, ha,” and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to the point where I can laugh about the things I’ve done, but it sure seems like it feels a lot better than the way I have been feeling, and maybe if I stick around long enough and keep listening to people like Val, maybe then I’ll figure out what’s so funny and I can start laughing like everybody else instead of feeling like such crap all the time.
How can she stand up there so tall as she’s telling us how her mother beat her and her father molested her when she was a little girl? How is it possible for her to look so proud? How is she not being consumed by shame? She should be disintegrating before our eyes. She should be struck by lightning, and God’s big, angry, booming voice should be shaking the room with “How dare you? I told you never to tell.” But that’s not her God, she says. Her God is loving and kind and wants what’s best for her. Her God loves peace and serenity and forgiveness. Her God doesn’t make her keep secrets. I thought I knew God all my life, but maybe it was some other guy the whole time. I want this God. I want Val’s God. I want a God who doesn’t make me jump through hoops and hate myself to earn his love.
I kind of wish Eva was sitting next to me, it being our last night here and all, but I understand she has to spend as much time with her beloved New Guy before she graduates tomorrow. Besides, she only lives a few miles away from me, and Shirley convinced my mom it’ll be good for me to nurture the relationships I’ve made in treatment. I’m going over to her house for dinner the day after tomorrow, so it’s not like we’re never going to see each other again. Her dad’s going to make tacos. Then we’re all going to watch a movie together, which Eva thinks is weird, but I think it’s kind of nice. She says it’s too late for him to start acting like a parent, but I know she’s secretly happy about it. I’m trying not to think too much about my mom and how she’s determined to stay exactly the same. I could sit here feeling sorry for myself, but I figure, what’s the point? There’s not a whole lot I can do about it. Serenity comes from accepting the things I cannot change, right? I bet Shirley would be proud of me for this mature thinking.
Val’s up there glowing and confident, and I wonder if I can ever be anywhere near as strong as her someday. She says she can forgive her parents today, and I don’t want to say she’s lying, but I really do not understand how that’s possible. She also says she’s gay and she doesn’t have to hate herself for it anymore. I look around and wait for someone to say something, to snicker, to roll their eyes, to elbow the person sitting next to them, but nothing like that happens. It’s just the same nodding heads and serene faces, supporting her and taking it all in.
She ends her speech, and everyone claps, and people raise their hands for the next half hour to thank her and share three-minute versions of their thoughts and feelings. I take the meeting schedule out of my pocket that I picked up on the way in, and I circle the entry for this meeting. There’s a meeting at this church four days out of the week, and my house is just a short walk away. I’m sure my mom won’t be thrilled about me spending so much time in an Episcopalian church (full of homosexuals, abortionists, and communists, according to her), but that’s not really any of her business, is it? She can’t keep me locked inside the house, and let’s be honest—it’s not like she can chase after me.
Everyone gets up and holds hands, and I can tell that Eva’s crying and trying to hide it because she keeps wiping her eyes with her sleeve. The AC with us tonight is some new guy, and all the patients are new, so no one even realizes what a big deal tonight is. Don’t they know Eva and I are going home tomorrow? Don’t they know what that means?
And then it hits me. I’m going home tomorrow. All of a sudden I’m terrified. All of a sudden I don’t think I can breathe. All of a sudden that cheesy thing people say jumps into my head—“Today is the first day of the rest of your life”—and I know nothing will ever be the same again.
Val starts walking my way, shaking hands and giving hugs to everyone along the way. She catches my eye and smiles. She keeps getting closer, and even though I want to, I don’t run away. I can’t. It’s like I’m frozen.
“Hi,” she says when she reaches me. “I’m Val. You with the rehab?”
“Uh-huh,” is what I think I say.
“Lucky kid. I wish someone put me in rehab when I was your age.”
All I can do is nod my head. I’m using all my strength to keep from freaking out.
“You look tense,” she
says.
“I’m getting out tomorrow,” I tell her. I don’t know where it comes from. Why am I telling this to a total stranger?
“That’s big,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m scared,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says.
“I don’t know what to do,” I tell her.
“Of course you don’t,” she says, and for some reason I keep talking, waiting for her to stop me, waiting for her to either tell me to shut up or give me some profound insight that makes everything clear. But all she does is stand there and listen as I explode my fears and insecurities all over. All she does is let me speak until I’ve run out of things to say. Then she puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Did that feel good?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know anything.”
“Well, I have some good news.”
“What?”
“It gets better,” she says. “I swear.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
“It does.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
She squeezes my shoulder again. “Didn’t you just say you don’t know anything?”
“I guess.”
“So why are you trying to act like you know everything?”
“I don’t know.”
She starts fishing around in her bag. She pulls out a pen and a scrap of paper and starts writing.
“Here’s my number,” she says, handing me the piece of paper. “You’re going to call me as soon as you get home tomorrow.”
“Really?”