Falling Out of Place

by M. G. Higgins

  Gradually, I stay awake for longer amounts of time. Find out what happened. Saturday afternoon Rosie heard me puking. She found me choking on my own vomit. She turned me onto my side. Marta called 911. Dr. Su says the pill Evan gave me was a high-dosage pain killer. Combined with the alcohol, it did a number on my body. I had seizures. I was pretty much unconscious for a full day.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Dr. Su tells me Sunday night. I don’t know how to respond. So I don’t.

  I stay in the hospital Monday and Tuesday. They want to monitor me through detox. Make sure there’s no brain damage. Flowers arrive. The card says, “Get well soon, Gabby!—the Crusaders.” I know they’re either from Randi or Coach Matthews.

  A parade of people file in and out of my hospital room. Sometimes I’m asleep and Mom and Dad tell me later who stopped by. Rosie and Marta come in the afternoons after school. Abuelita visits. So do a couple of my uncles and aunts. Celia drives up from college. She’s her usual high-pressure self, but she seems truly worried about me.

  It amazes me how no one talks about what happened. Only the doctors and nurses use the words suicide and alcohol poisoning and addiction and depression. For my family it’s like I’m here to have my tonsils removed. In a way, that’s okay. I get it. They’re ashamed. Suicide is a sin. Suicide says something bad about the whole family. That they failed because I failed. But it feels like everyone is throwing a bright, flowery blanket over me to hide my ugliness. They aren’t seeing me. They aren’t seeing what’s really wrong.

  I guess Tony was here while I slept. I’m glad no one woke me. I’m not sure how I feel about him. I’d rather see him when my head is a little straighter.

  My biggest surprise visitor is Hutch. He lumbers in on Tuesday night. Mom knows him from the store. But Dad does a double take. Maybe it’s the ponytail and snake tattoo.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” Hutch tells me. “If I knew you were suicidal, I would have stayed with you on Saturday. I’m sorry.”

  His honesty is a relief. I notice Dad frown and squirm in his chair. “That’s okay,” I tell Hutch. “You didn’t know.”

  He nods. “If you want to give AA a try sometime, call me at the warehouse.”

  “Sure.” I want to ask about Evan. About Jo. If they know what happened. If they’ve asked about me. But I don’t want to talk about them in front of my parents. So I say, “Has Jake hired someone to replace me?” Mom called Jake on Monday and told him I wouldn’t be coming back to work. It looks like I’ll be starting drug rehab after school. And I have homework to make up.

  Hutch nods. “A buddy of mine.”

  “So not another little girl.”

  He smiles. “Nope.” Squeezes my shoulder. “See you around.”

  Dr. Su checks me out of the hospital Wednesday morning. He gives me a prescription for antidepressants. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he tells me for like the hundredth time.

  Right.

  I’ve decided that hospitals suck. I’m glad to be leaving. But I’m not so sure about going home. Mom and Dad won’t be so nice once their relief has worn off. I’m still failing school. I’m not any smarter than I used to be. Or a better student. My only friends at school are druggies. The guy I thought liked me thinks I’m worthless. My uncle is still dead. In other words, nothing has really changed.

  And that worries the crap out of me.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Iwon’t go back to school until Monday. But I start therapy and rehab Thursday, the day after I get home from the hospital. Talk to strangers about my life? About drinking? I’d rather take ten geometry tests in a row. But I don’t have a choice. Mom takes the rest of the week off so I won’t be alone. Doctor’s orders. She drives me to the therapist’s office.

  One of the first things Dr. Wiser asks me is, “How does it feel to be alive?”

  Wow. I thought maybe we’d start off chatting about the weather. I think about her question. “I don’t know. Fine, I guess.”

  “All right.” She smiles. “What’s fine about it?”

  I guess I won’t be hiding under a flowery blanket in here. I feel uncomfortable sitting here. It’s not like I imagined. Dr. Wiser doesn’t accept one-word answers.

  Come to find out, I’m depressed. Maybe I have been for a long time. A few years, even. That might be where my anger comes from. The fights in basketball. Getting aggressive when I’m upset. Those are symptoms of depression, which is news to me. Depression might even run in my family, like diabetes or heart disease.

  Wiser says when all of my problems heaped up on me they just made my depression worse. Then Uncle Mike committed suicide. The grief sent me into a tailspin. I coped by getting drunk. His death also planted a seed in my brain. Like, if my favorite uncle solved all his problems by killing himself, then I could do the same thing.

  The counseling session ends. My brain hurts. It’s on overload. But at least it’s information I can use. I have a disease. It can be helped with medication and counseling. Lots of people are going through the same thing as me. So I’m weird … but normal. Normally weird, I guess. I walk out of her office feeling a little less crazy than when I walked in.

  I have a couple hours to process all of Dr. Wiser’s juicy information. Then I go to rehab. It’s held in a church basement. There are ten other kids around my age and an adult counselor sitting in a circle. It’s an ongoing group, which means I’m the newcomer. Fun. I sit quietly with my arms crossed.

  They start talking about triggers. Whoa, as in guns? But I quickly figure it out. Triggers are things that make you want to drink or use drugs again. One girl, Bianca, says “I have a hard time going to movies. I used to smoke weed first.”

  The counselor, Alan, looks at me. “What about you, Gabby? What’s your biggest trigger?”

  Now everyone’s staring at me.

  Great. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to talk my first time. But I’ll feel like a total dickwad if I don’t say something. I clear my throat. “Um … my bedroom. And a tree at school. I drink there. Did drink there. At lunch.” I’m so embarrassed I want to crawl under my chair.

  But a couple of kids are nodding. One of them, I don’t remember his name, says, “I can’t go near half the trees on campus. The craving for meth kills me.”

  Come to find out I have to avoid triggers. Really? Are you friggin’ kidding me? I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Gabby?” Alan says. “You can just speak up. You don’t need to raise your hand.”

  “Okay. What about my room? I can’t avoid my bedroom. I sleep in there.”

  Kids laugh. What jerks.

  But then Alan says, “How many of you have your bedroom as a trigger?”

  Every person raises their hand.

  Oh.

  Alan says, “Give Gabby a few ideas for handling cravings when she’s in her bedroom.”

  They do. Some of the ideas sound stupid. But I guess I can at least try.

  The next night, Friday, there’s a knock on my door. Two quick taps, then a third tap. Tony.

  I take a deep breath. Open the door. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he says. I haven’t seen him in weeks. He looks exactly the same. Exactly. God, I love Tony. He’s so … familiar.

  “How’s it going?” His voice is soft. Tentative. Like I might break if he says the wrong thing.

  “I’m tired. But better than I was a week ago.”

  He nods. “That’s good. I’m really glad you didn’t. …”

  I wait, but he can’t seem to get the words out. “Successfully kill myself?” I finish for him.

  He cringes. Nods.

  “Why don’t we sit in the backyard,” I say. “The rubber band’s not doing such a great job.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  I hold up my wrist. Show him the thick rubber band around it. Snap it. “The pain is supposed to distract me from drinking.”

  “Oh. Very high tech.”

  We walk into the backyard and sit on the swings. I push my
self back and forth with my toes. It’s a nice March night. Just the right temperature. I’m glad I never drank out here. I’d hate to have to avoid the yard.

  Tony stares at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have been around for you more. Especially after your uncle. …”

  I roll my eyes. “Committed suicide?”

  He nods.

  I think about it. Having a friend, any friend, might have helped. But I didn’t give him a chance. “You would have helped if I’d asked, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then don’t feel guilty for not knowing.”

  He pauses. Grips the chains. “Gabby, I … need to tell you something. I know the timing sucks. But I want you to find out from me. Not some other way.”

  I stop my swing and stare at him.

  “I’m dating someone. A girl from school.”

  I close my eyes. Lean my head against the chains. I agreed all those weeks ago we should break up. It was the right decision. It’s still the right decision. I have to be okay with this. I have to. But it doesn’t feel so good.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I get up from the swing.

  Tony stands too. He faces me and takes my hands. “I love you, Gabby. I will always love you. But—”

  “We’re not right for each other.”

  He hesitates. Nods. “But I’m your friend. I’m here for you. Okay?”

  I don’t respond.

  “Okay?” He grips my hands tighter.

  “Yeah, okay!” I pull my hands away.

  “Now I feel like crap,” he says.

  “You should.” Then I see the fear and guilt in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill myself over you.”

  He bites his lip.

  “Really. I have new coping skills.” I snap the rubber band on my wrist.

  He smiles. We share a long look. He kisses my cheek. And leaves.

  CHAPTER

  23

  After Tony leaves, I want to get drunk. Badly. I have never in my life wanted a drink so much. So I listen to music. Tell myself the cravings will pass. Try some other stupid tricks I learned in rehab. Like thinking about the positives of not drinking (graduating high school, for example). Reminding myself of a goal that will get messed up if I drink again. Except, I don’t have a goal. I don’t have one friggin’ goal.

  Mom and Dad were smart to get rid of all the alcohol in the house. Because around midnight I go searching. Refrigerator. Cupboards. I even look in the garage. They’ve cleaned everything out. I hate this feeling of being out of control. Of hating my life. By the time I get to the bathroom, I’m shaking. I look above the sink for painkillers. Cold meds. Anything. But there’s not even an aspirin bottle.

  The bathroom door opens. Mom’s eyes widen when she sees me searching through the medicine cabinet. But she doesn’t yell. Doesn’t say anything. She walks over. Wraps her arms around me. Whispers, “Gabriella. Please don’t hurt yourself again. I would never forgive myself. Te quiero. I love you so much.”

  I hug her back. “I love you too.” Then I’m crying. Really crying. She leads me back to my bedroom. Sits with me until I fall sleep.

  The rest of the weekend sucks as much as Friday. Especially Saturday. I think about work. About Evan. About drinking and partying. Mom gets Dad to return my phone so I can call Dr. Wiser or Alan, the rehab counselor, if I need to. Dad doesn’t complain. I guess even he sees what a mess I am.

  Monday rolls around and I’m still alive. I haven’t had a drink. I’m sick of being home. But I’ve got very mixed feelings about going to school. I’m a seven-teen-year-old drunk who almost killed herself. I can’t imagine the gossip that’s been traveling around campus. And then there’s lunch. I can’t go back to the tree with Clarence and Inez. I’ll relapse for sure.

  I start down the main hallway. Feel like I’ve got a disease they’re afraid of catching. Kids stare. There’s a hiss of whispers. I lower my eyes. God, I wish I had my water bottle. I can feel the shakes coming on.

  “Hey, Gabby.” I look up. It’s Randi, walking next to me.

  “Hey.”

  “Want some company to your locker?”

  “Yeah. Please.” Thank you. Thank you. I already feel kids going back to whatever they were doing. Like I’m not as contagious anymore.

  “So how are you feeling?” Randi asks.

  “Crappy.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  I’m so sick of talking about me. “How are the playoffs?”

  “Oh. We lost in the first round.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah.” She adjusts her backpack on her shoulder. “We tanked. Tiana choked under the pressure. Can’t blame it all on her, of course, but. …” She shrugs.

  We’ve reached my locker. As I turn the combination lock, I remember loving the pressure of playoffs. I always played my best when it meant the most.

  “I was talking to Coach last Monday,” Randi says. “When we were arranging sending flowers to the hospital. She said she wished you were still on the team. You’re the best small forward she’s ever coached.”

  I grab stuff out of my locker. Slam the door closed.

  “I thought you should know,” she says.

  I nod.

  “So are you still grounded?”

  I think about it. “Probably. My grades still suck.” I pat my backpack. “Got my phone, though.”

  Randi smiles. “Cool.” She looks down the hallway. “Guess I’d better go.” She glances at me. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll hold a spot for you at lunch. If you want.”

  I’m not sure that’s what I want. I don’t know if I’m ready to hang out with the team. “Maybe.”

  She nods and heads to English.

  As I walk to social studies I notice my steps are a little lighter. I’m holding my head a little higher. I sit at my desk. Quickly grab my phone. Send Randi a text before class starts. “Thx for the flowers. And for walking with me. See you at lunch.”

  The next time I go to Dr. Wiser, she says it will take several weeks for the meds to kick in. And she might have to switch me to another brand if these don’t work. It’s a pain. I just want to feel better.

  During those weeks I go to rehab. Go to therapy. Mom and Dad go too. Sometimes just the two of them see Dr. Wiser. Sometimes they go with me. It’s hard for them. They can’t wrap their heads around our family having mental health problems. That it’s not my fault or someone else’s fault. So things are not all rosy. They still expect a lot out of me, especially Dad. But they seem to be figuring out I’m not Celia. That getting a few Cs is not a crime. And that basketball is just as good a way to get into college as straight As.

  The thought of suicide is always there. Like a huge hairy animal with its claws dug deep into my back. That’s when I talk to Mom. Or call Dr. Wiser or Alan. I even call Hutch when no one else is around. I try not to call Randi and Tony too much. At least not when I’m feeling like crap. They’re my friends. I don’t want to burn them out.

  I’m standing in front of my closet, looking for my team jacket. It’s May. We’re having a big end-of-school assembly tomorrow. Coach Matthews wants me to sit with the rest of the team. I’m feeling a little happier. The meds are finally working. The cravings for alcohol are still there. But not as bad. My grades aren’t wonderful, but I’m passing.

  I find my jacket on the floor. Next to the box from Uncle Mike. I grab the jacket and ignore the box like I always do. I’m about to turn away but notice something. The room in my brain. The one where I used to store stuff I didn’t want to think about. I thought it was empty—of Tony, Randi, basketball, my grades, my parents, Evan. But it’s not. A box is jammed tight into the corner.

  This box. Uncle Mike’s box.

  I drag it out of the closet. Into the middle of my bedroom. Press my hands on the top. Wonder if I’m ready. Take a deep breath and open it.


  There’s not a lot in there. A teddy bear we won together at the county fair. I insisted he keep it. A silly button from his bulletin board that says, Don’t Worry, Be Happy. A newspaper article about my basketball team. It’s like I’m in Uncle Mike’s room again. Talking. Laughing. About anything. Everything. Feeling like I belong. That we both belong.

  The last thing in the box is a framed photo. I carry it to my dresser. Set it under my portrait. It’s of Uncle Mike and me at my quinceañera. Me in my sparkly tiara, the queen of unicorns. Standing with my favorite uncle in the world.