“Well, what does it matter? Aren’t you supposed to form an unbiased opinion? Tabula rasa and all that?” Autumn felt her heart sputter and race. This is not going to be easy.
“I am, and from what I’ve seen from your words, both written and verbal, you’re hiding behind your intelligence and your gift for constructing worlds. You’ve built a house of cards to avoid whatever it is that happened, in hopes that everyone will be distracted by the poetic language and the outer walls. You’ve demonstrated a disdain for previous doctors, which means they likely marched in and assumed they knew what was wrong, or tried to shove you into a mould. Whatever lies at the root of your pain, you’re determined to protect it from others. That may be your right to do so, Autumn, but understand this: I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
Emma paused, leaning forward in her chair. Behind her, Win Butler sang of the month of May through tiny speakers.
“Now, that all said, of course you won’t talk to me yet. I’m a stranger. I’m a figurehead at the school that’s holding you hostage on campus for ninety days, and I’m someone with the power to tell your family doctor that this is what’s wrong, and this should probably be done. I don’t expect you to give me the memories you have locked away deep in your heart and mind today. All I am saying is that we will eventually hit a crossroads. And if you haven’t come to trust that all I want is your happiness and wellbeing by then, then we will have failed each other in this exercise.”
Autumn felt her body shudder as she averted her eyes, staring bleakly at the toes of her polished ballet flats. A part of her – the part that often talked her off the panic ledge before she plunged head-first into hyperventilation and hysteria – understood and knew that her words were truthful. But the animalistic part – the raw nerves coiled into a ball – bared its teeth, poised to lash out, should she delve any further. Too many voices, she lamented. Too many wanting too much.
“Autumn? Come back,” Emma whispered.
“Huh?” Her eyes wandered the room, her focus unsteady as she met the therapist’s gaze. Had she lost time again?
“Think of yourself in layers,” the doctor said.
“Like Shrek?”
“Shrek?”
Autumn cursed her impulsive mouth. “Shrek. He tells Donkey that ogres have layers.”
“Oh, right! It’s been a while since I’ve watched that. Exactly that: you have many layers. We all do. On the outside, I’m a woman, a doctor. But there are layers to my personality and my trust. Some people, I trust with the outer layers only – my favourite movies, hobbies, what I think of the government. But there are layers I guard, as we all do. Therapy is like peeling those layers back, one by one, very slowly. We start on the outside, and slowly move inward. For example: how was your first week at Casteel?”
Autumn shrugged. “It was pretty good, I guess. Grant was a prick when I came late on Monday.”
Emma frowned. “I gave you a slip.”
“He didn’t care. But the other teachers are awesome, especially St. James. You were right about him.”
“How about the students? Have you gotten to know anyone?”
“You know you sound like a mom right now?” Autumn groaned.
“Good parents are instinctive psychologists,” Emma countered. “Think of it: they have to guess at what their babies want and need. Those skills carry onward. But you are dodging the question again, via sarcasm and wit.”
Autumn nodded. “Touché, Dr. Freud. Actually, there’s one girl I’ve gotten to know a bit.”
It was a gross understatement. Veronica and Autumn had spent hours together over the past week, talking and listening to music in their respective rooms. It seemed they had a great deal in common, and Autumn found herself laughing more than she had in months. There was still a little distance – a measure of safety – but it had become a given within Veronica’s Drama circle that Autumn was high on the vivacious blonde’s list of favourite people.
Veronica was high on her list, too.
“Tell me about her,” Emma prompted. “Do you share classes?”
“Veronica and I have Math together.” With Jesus Calculus, she added inwardly, grinning. “We’re also in the same dorm, so we visit after class a fair bit.” To smoke pot with her friend, among other things. “She’s hyper – like, ‘possibly needs Ritalin’ hyper. But she has a good heart, and she listens.”
Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds like an incredible ally in a strange new environment. Would that be Ms. St. Clair?”
Autumn’s brow furrowed. “Yes, actually… Why?”
“Nothing bad. I’ve seen her in school productions before. The hyperactive part reminded me of her.” Emma grinned. “She really is an Energizer Bunny. Anyone else?”
Autumn shook her head. “Not really. I’ve talked to some of the Drama kids, and one girl in Writing, but just about homework and stuff. I like my alone time, really.”
“What’s your favourite thing to do when alone?”
“Writing. Listening to music and writing.”
“Anything specific, or just free writing?” Emma asked.
“Whatever I feel like. Story ideas, poems, thoughts… It helps to dump thoughts out before bed.”
Emma leaned back, tapping her fingertips on her desk. “Do you have a hard time sleeping?”
Autumn hesitated. She’s starting to dig. Shut up, shut up, shut up! “Sometimes?”
“Every night, I’m guessing,” Emma replied. “Autumn, I don’t need to know the whys and hows. It’s okay.”
“So it is going to be Twenty Questions and slap a label on it?” Autumn retorted.
“Unfortunately, in a sense, yes. Too many disorders have overlapping symptoms, and the goal is to figure out what’s actually wrong, not what a doctor assumes. But this is just one step. It’s just one layer. Also, if you’re suffering insomnia, that makes going to class hard, and we can consider ways to help you get the rest you need.” Emma leaned back, staring at Autumn. “Your eyes are rimmed in purple. I know you’re not resting.”
Fuck. Autumn’s fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt as her legs kicked harder, keeping time with her heart. She’d come in with a strategy of feeding happy little comments she could write home about, and keep her crazy habits and the bee hive to herself. She won’t leave me alone. She won’t settle for the ‘I’m fine’ routine. With an exasperated sigh, Autumn slumped deeper into the couch.
She seems like she really cares.
She’ll tell them everything.
She said you had confidentiality.
Unless she thinks you’re going to become a psycho killer. Which, let’s face it: your voices are not a sign of sound mind in a body.
“I can’t talk to you,” Autumn mumbled.
“What are you most afraid of, right now?”
Tears threatened to burst from her eyes; with a curse, she pinched her leg. Stop that! Now! “How do I know you won’t tell everyone what I say?”
“Because we have confidentiality. Do you want to go over it again?” Emma asked gently. “We can even formalize it in writing, if you like.”
Autumn nodded furiously, and the doctor spun to her computer, clicking the mouse several times before her printer whirred to life. Pages shot out into a neat pile as she sipped from a coffee mug, then pulled the pages free. Two were placed on her desk and two were given to Autumn, whose shaky hand reached out tentatively, as if the pages would scald her.
“You need to feel comfortable here. Whatever you need for that to happen, we will do it. Let’s start here.”
Without hesitation, Dr. Stieg reviewed the entire two pages out loud, pointing out things like ‘circle of care’ and her ‘duty to report’ while outlining the rights Autumn had. She grilled the doctor for examples of each exception, to the point where she was assured that she could believe she was the second coming of Cleopatra, so long as she was still able to feed and care for herself, and didn’t try to execute anyone in the name of Egypt.
&n
bsp; It was airtight: nothing in Autumn’s head was fair game for disclosure, nor could her doctor at home tell her family without risking his licence. With a loose and messy scrawl, both copies were signed by each of them, Autumn retaining one for her own keeping. Folding the paper up and stuffing it in her bag, she was suddenly struck with a deep sense of shame. Were her sleeping habits such a private matter? Emma had been on her side so far.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Emma shook her head. “No apologies, Autumn. You have a right to ask for what you need to feel safe. It would seem, though, that we’re out of time, so I’m going to ask two favours of you.”
“Okay,” Autumn agreed.
“First, I want you to keep track of three things for the next week: how much sleep you get; how often you feel very sad or upset; and how you feel about yourself as a person each day, out of five, with five being ‘I’m awesome’ and one being ‘I hate everything about myself’. Second, I want you to choose a song that reminds you of last September, and one that reminds you of this September. Okay?”
Autumn nodded, quipping weakly, “Homework, even in therapy. Casteel is serious about producing conscientious adults.”
“That’s what your parents pay the big bucks for,” Emma replied lightly. “I’ll see you next week.”
The walls seemed to shift inward, the bookshelf looming over her, threatening to spill out onto her head. It was impossible, but even the shadows cast upon the ground distorted. With a whimper, Autumn snatched up her belongings and rushed from the room, slamming the door viciously behind her. Her feet carried her briskly down the corridor, bag slapping her thigh abruptly, as she ordered herself to breathe. In and out and in and out and shit and out and in and hell! She was scarcely aware of the receptionist wishing her a good day, her sights locked on the overcast day just beyond the ornate double doors. She nearly tripped as she threw the door open, dragging a breath deep into her lungs, pressing her ribs out to make space, to engulf every last molecule of oxygen in her wake.
Better. Quieter.
Chest heaving, she closed her eyes, picturing the beach near her home. The boardwalk, rickety and uneven, a source of stubbed toes in sandaled feet for years… The water, waves lashing the white sand… The alcove, the shaded area of rocks overlooking the lake. She missed it, missed the ebb and flow of life. Ninety days… except Thanksgiving. It seemed a lifetime away.
***
The afternoon left Autumn struggling to focus on the class discussion in Creative Writing, the gears grinding as she plotted how to protect her secrets. No one would understand, not even Emma. It was her burden to bear, and she would carry it dutifully. The noisy din of students drifted in and out of her consciousness as he began talking, as she ominously spoke up as well. Words and sentences fused into fragments of a new language – the language of her racing heart.
You have to listen to me. There’s – “... a correlation between character development and establishing setting.” WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHY ARE YOU – “...writing me a scene observed this weekend, approximately 500 words in which –“ Boys are worthless bastards, anyway, so why care? Autumn, you don’t look well – be silent – I heard he’s dying of cancer and she will – “See you on Monday.”
A rustling of papers and sliding chairs jarred Autumn from her torment, and she sighed, kicking her own shin. Lost time. How much had she lost? Glancing down at her barren page, she knew the entire class had fallen into the vapour. Packing up her books, she meekly approached the front of the class, where Professor St. James stood, arms akimbo. His eyes narrowed, boring a hole in her skull, and she felt naked, exposed as she had been in Emma’s office.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked softly.
Autumn shook her head. “I have a headache.” The bile rose in her throat, the taste of the lie lingering upon her guilty tongue. “Could you go over the homework assignment again? I kinda drifted off.”
“Of course. 500 words describing a scene you observe this weekend. It can be anything you want, even a family dinner, as long as you capture both the characters and the scene itself.”
“I stay on campus,” she mumbled.
“Then I suggest watching, perhaps, as the locals depart, or return,” the professor offered, smiling. “I’m sure something will catch your eye. And next time you feel ill, just let me know. You could have gone to the nurse instead of suffering here.”
Autumn flushed, embarrassed and indignant. “Your class is never torture.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. You’ve already mastered feeding the professor’s ego.” St. James chuckled, winking as he gathered his papers and books. “Us writers are needy, after all. Precious, even.”
“Better be careful: if you were full of any more hot air, you’d float away,” Autumn joked weakly.
“I knew I bought these cement insoles for my shoes for a reason!” With a nod, he headed for the door, holding it open for her. Quietly, he said, “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”
Autumn nodded, her voice lodged beneath the lump in her throat, before rushing out into the hallway. More talking. More people wanting to listen. Why, damn it? I’m not important! I’m not here. Ignore me! Stomping down the stairs and out into the courtyard, she pushed through a loitering group of students – sixth graders at best – and wandered down the side streettowards the main figure-eight of campus road. The leaves of the maples trees lining the sidewalks were just starting to turn, hints of crimson streaking across the lush emerald. Her breaths were measured in footsteps, ballet flats slapping in a staccato.
I need control. I need to find it again.
The junior dormitories sprung into view, throngs of students milling about the main entryway to what the simple sign declared was MacDonald Hall. Several students fired Super Soakers, marring the once pristine and pressed blouses of several female students, all of them blossoming into early puberty. and none minding the attention.
Mating season has begun, Autumn thought in exasperation.
Drawing closer, her gaze fell upon a lanky girl, curled up beneath an oak tree perhaps twenty feet away. In her hands was a book – hardcover, no jacket – but as avid a reader as she might have been, it was not what she concerned herself with.
The girl was staring, longingly, at the water fight, peering over the tilted tome in her palms. Her fingertips grazed her scant bosom as she watched her classmates laugh and squeal, her body trembling as if she were swallowing tears. It reminded Autumn of her early teens, back when Heather had sprung a B cup by eleven, becoming the object of every boy’s lusty affections. Although Autumn had eventually caught up and found herself a solid C cup by fifteen, she was still that insecure twelve year-old, standing on the sidelines, waiting to be asked to dance.
Her hands fumbled wildly in her bag as she continued to study the lonely girl beneath the oak, a triumphant hum slipping through her pursed lips as she found her journal and pen. Eyes flashing wildly, Autumn found a bench five feet away, wrought iron and stained wood awaiting her as she threw down her bag and sat cross-legged. Tying back her red locks into a messy bun, she scribbled wildly, colours and sounds colliding in a mess of metaphor and half-assed ink sketches on a page.
Finally, peace.
***
It was minutes past midnight when Autumn, weary of streaming old TV shows on Netflix, decided it was time for her first exploration of her secret passage beneath the Theatre and Media Studies building. Between bursts of writing and drumming along with her playlist of 90s Grunge bands, a good three quarters of the students in her dorm had bailed for the weekend, some heading home and some tagging along as invited guests. Veronica had knocked on her door before departing, somewhat puzzled by Autumn remaining on campus, but mercifully, she didn’t pry. It was one of Veronica’s best attributes: she knew when to abandon a subject. Her hug goodbye, full of warmth and a faint citrus scent, had stunned Autumn, but it was her own tight return embrace that was more startling. She’d known thi
s girl a week. Why did she care so much already?
Maybe she’d contemplate it over the joint Veronica had left behind. “Your welcome wagon gift from Casteel!” Veronica had giggled, slipping the candy box into Autumn’s desk drawer. It was now buried beneath several layers of photos and tucked amongst her incense burner oils – a trick she’d learned from Miraj.
Autumn bit her lip as she zipped her hoodie, tucking a small flashlight into the pocket. She missed Miraj terribly. She was always the one who knew what to do. She would know how to handle Dr. Stieg, or even Veronica’s persistent friendship. She’d also enjoy Veronica’s little gift. Her emails had gone unanswered, but this was nothing new. Miraj’s parents took away her internet access on a regular basis, usually as punishment for the mischief the two of them had indulged in all summer.
The hallway was shadowed, pale yellow safety lights scarcely illuminating the doors dotting the walls. Thankful for the WD-40 she’d snagged from a friendly maintenance man, claiming her door was ‘sticking’, she swung it open soundlessly, gently closing it behind her with the faintest click. Her heart pounded as she spun each way, listening for a dorm monitor or nosy students, but the only sound was the faint droning of classical music from the room across the hall. Holding her key steady, she secured her room and tiptoed steadily towards the stairwell ten feet away, blessing her worn sneakers for their smooth, quiet soles.
Success.
She took the steps quickly but gently, planting only her toes as she killed the six short flights in haste. Her manic energy had engaged now, months of scant sleep having taken their toll on any patience she once possessed. The silence comforted her – she was almost free, almost outside. With a gentle push, she slipped out into the darkness, her eyes squinting in the faint light of a waning moon as she located the convenient stone she’d found earlier that week. Although she had her FOB with her just in case, it was traceable, and its use after hours would surely arouse the suspicions of Headmistress Logan, the almighty bitch of Casteel. The steel door lay nearly flush with it in place, and Autumn thanked the genius student who’d discovered it.
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