Her face crumpled and she hung her head. “Please don’t be mad at me, Janice.” Her voice was small, almost a whisper. Tears slid from her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
I exhaled again and put my hand on her back, feeling a pang of guilt. It was unfair to berate her for being self-destructive, when that was all she’d ever known how to be. I was angry at myself, not her. “I’m not mad. I’m just worried about you.”
She nodded, head still hung, tears still sliding. “I know. I’m sorry. I want to go to rehab, I do. I’m gonna. It’s just been so hard.”
“I know. I know.” I rubbed her back with my flat palm. “It’s okay.”
“And…and I know it’s not fair to you, you’ve gotta come see me all the time, you shouldn’t have to deal with this shit, I wish you—”
I cut her off. “I want to come see you. We’ve established that. Remember? You tried to get rid of me, and it didn’t work. Don’t worry about me. I’m not mad; I’m still going to be here. I’m just worried about you.”
She nodded again, to herself. Shook with suppressed sobs, dripping tears. I continued to rub her back.
“I really do want to get better,” she said, small-voiced. “I just don’t know if it’ll ever happen.”
“I know.”
I moved my hand to her shoulder, pulled her toward me so her head was leaning almost on top of mine, her side pressed against me. We sat this way in silence for a minute or two.
If she didn’t get to rehab soon—if I’d helped to fuck this up for her—I’d be punching my reflection, too.
Absurdly, through all of this, I continued to have a life: working, hanging around with Bill and the cats, seeing my friends and my family.
“So how’s your little homeless girl doing?” they’d ask me.
Twenty minutes later: “…So for now, she’s still in the psych ward, waiting for rehab. But how are you?”
And I continued to volunteer, going directly from the psych ward after a quick session with Sam to the shelter, where I’d found my little butch friend, Mel, in the cafeteria having a hushed discussion with four other girls—Lola the suicidal pregnant girl, Lola’s girlfriend Vivian, and two girls I didn’t recognize.
“They say we’re all getting discharged, all of us who went to PA.”
They’d allowed me to sit at their table, so I took the liberty of joining the conversation. “Who’s getting discharged?”
“All of us,” moaned Mel. “That’s what Andreas told me. He said since we were gone for three days, they shouldn’t have even taken us back, and he was going to get us discharged.”
Andreas was a counselor on the boys’ floor, rumored to be a real hard-ass prick. Sam told me she thought he was on drugs, probably coke and pills—You can kind of smell it on him, she said, and if anyone had a nose for drugs, it was Sam. “Andreas can’t discharge you,” I said. “He’s not on your floor. And why would he want to, anyway?”
“Because we were gone. But it wasn’t our fault!”
Oh, of course not. “What happened?”
“We ran away to join a Jesus cult,” said Lola, waving it off like this happened all the time. “Like, eight of us was hanging out and these people was talking to us about their place in Pennsylvania, and they made it sound really good, so we went with them, and then all of a sudden we’re in this van, and we’re praying at three in the morning—”
“Yeah,” Mel interjected. “We were there on this cult farm for a few days, and then the cops came, and it turns out the cops were watching the cult people, and the FBI and everything, so I don’t know what happened after that, but they brought us back here. But now they say they’re gonna discharge us early.”
What the fuck? I had to hear more about this one. “Wait, wait, wait, you’re going to have to slow down.” But they couldn’t, they were too busy trying to figure out the ramifications for themselves.
“Well, they can’t discharge me, I’m MHP. I’m supposed to do crazy shit.” Lola made a nyah nyah face. MHP stood for mental health program; it was a special designation within the shelter for girls who were planning to get public assistance for being crazy. Lola’s nickname at the shelter was “Lola Lola Bipola.”
I let Mel and Lola and Vivian hash it out and went to see if I could catch Jodi before she took off for the night. She was just locking the door of her office behind her as I approached.
“How you doin’?” She gave me her arch smile. “How’s our little friend today?”
I smiled in reply. “Well, she’s not great—of course you heard she punched her mirror?”
Jodi rolled her eyes. “Oh, I heard. I’m in touch with the hospital every day about that kid, and she’s not even officially a resident anymore. You know she blew her spot in rehab again with this mirror thing—now this place is saying they won’t take her, and I gotta find her another program. She’s gonna be the death of me.”
I shuddered from the chill that hit me—no, Sam hadn’t mentioned that she’d blown her spot in rehab. I thought she was leaving as soon as she was discharged from the psych ward. Now there’d be another delay, another string of days or weeks I’d be spending by her side, soaking up the aftereffects of her miserable childhood. “The rehab won’t take her?”
“Nope. They’re just a rehab; they can’t take you if you’re mentally ill. A little suicidal ideation, okay, but now they’re balking at the mirror thing, saying maybe she’s really a threat to herself or others. So I have to find her a place that takes MICA patients—mentally ill, chemically addicted. But I think we got a thirty-day program that might have room sometime this month. We’ll see.”
“Oh, wow.” I slumped, resting my butt on the arm of the green chair outside her office. “I didn’t know that. I thought she was still going to rehab in a week.”
Jodi looked sympathetic. “Well, she may be, but only for a month. And then, I don’t know. Maybe we can get the place upstate to take her, if she stays stable and doesn’t pull any more stunts.”
“Oh, wow.”
“I know. She’s a lot to deal with.” She cocked her head and one eyebrow. “I talk to her every day. She tells me you come visit her all the time.”
“Well, I’ve been…” I flushed and tried to cover, but I couldn’t. It was true, and so what if it was? “Yeah,” I admitted.
The eyebrow got higher. “She told me about Disney World.”
Damn you, Sam. The Disney World deal was not supposed to be something that everybody knew about. It kind of didn’t sound so good, when Jodi said it out loud. It kind of sounded like I was a child molester. I braced myself for it—I think you should cool it with Sam. “Okay,” I said.
Jodi held my eyes. “And I think it’s a good thing that you’re doing for her. You’ve been very dedicated, and that means a lot to a kid like her. You know, she’s going to need a lot of help if she’s ever going to lead any kind of normal life, and if you feel like you can provide some of that to her, I think she’s very lucky.” She reached out and patted my arm—Good girl. “Listen, I gotta get out of here. My own kid is probably starving. Good to see you, though. I’ll let you know what’s happening, when I know.”
She walked away, and I composed myself on the arm of her waiting chair. Good news, bad news. The good news was, Jodi approved of me. She told me I could take Sam to Disney World. She didn’t tell me to hand over my volunteer ID and get the hell out of the building before she called the cops. The bad news was, Sam might not make it to rehab before I lost my mind completely.
Oh! Speaking of which. I jumped up to see if I could catch Jodi, but she was gone.
Hey, Jodi, what happened with that cult thing?
I finally got the story from Ashley, and I brought it home to Bill like a bouquet of flowers—Look what I got for you!
“Whoa,” he said, rapt, as I described the scene—the girls packing their bags in a frenzy to go off with the cultists, the counselors and security guards begging them to stay; then the gaggle of kids all filing
back into the shelter again with their heads hung, accompanied by the police, requesting readmission. “That’s it?”
“Yep.” I spread my hands like a blackjack dealer. “Pretty crazy, huh?”
“That’s a chart topper,” he mused. “That’s up there with the best of Samantha Dunleavy.”
“Right?” I didn’t linger on the subject of Sam—it had ceased to be a sore one between us, but I was definitely prattling on about her less than before, especially tonight. So, how’s the kid today? Well, she’s never getting to rehab. I just smiled and passed the salad dressing. “And how was your day, Shmoo?”
Internally, however, the subject was so sore it was blistered. The idea chafed at me constantly—maybe our relationship wasn’t helping Sam after all. Maybe it wasn’t helping anybody. I’d been so sure I was doing the right thing, running to the psych ward every day, whether or not I was actually in the mood to hear about the worst of human depravity and try to mitigate its aftermath. Now Sam had sabotaged her spot in rehab, and I was part of the reason why. I couldn’t avoid it anymore. I really had to take a break—for her sake, if not my own.
I was at my desk the next day when my cell phone buzzed, displaying the number of the psych ward pay phone.
Voice mail, I instructed myself, but a shriller voice prevailed—Emergency!
I picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hey Janice, it’s Sam.” Her voice was a little rushed, with an undertone of panic; she tried to cover by sounding upbeat. “I just wanted to let you know, I found out they’re sending me to that thirty-day rehab in Larchmont on Wednesday.”
“That’s great!” I felt a huge rush of relief—so she’d make it to rehab after all!—then a stab of separation anxiety. Wednesday was only two days away. Well, obviously I couldn’t take a break from her now. I had to see her before she left; we had plans to make. She’d have to give me a list of things she needed, like for summer camp; I’d have to give her my address, so she could write. Maybe I could even escort her to rehab—the social worker at the hospital had come over to our couch during visiting hours the other night, introduced herself, said she appreciated my commitment to Sam. If there’s anything I can do to help Sam…, I’d told her. There might be, she’d said.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’ll see you tonight as soon as visiting hours start. I think it’s six to eight tonight, right?”
“Yep. See you then.”
I put my phone away, smiling. I’d pore over my bookshelves later, see if there was anything I hadn’t loaned her already that she might like to read. I’d ask her if she wanted something special to eat for our going-away party. She’d shown me a list of things she wanted to do before going away. Fly a kite was one. Go to the dog run. Learn how to yo-yo. Maybe I’d get her a yo-yo.
An hour later, my phone rang again. Sam again.
“Hello again,” I answered, amused.
There was no hiding the panic in her voice now. “Janice, they’re saying you can’t see me anymore, they’re saying you can’t come visit. Why are they doing this to me? I can’t believe it. I’m gonna—”
“What?” I jumped out of my chair, almost tripped and fell over. “What do you mean? Who said that?”
“Nadine, at the shelter,” she cried. “And her boss, Kathy. And the hospital. The social worker just told me.”
“The one I met the other night? Why?”
“I don’t know! They said you were coming too much; they think there’s something wrong with it. Janice, why are they doing this?”
Oh, this was bad. I’d been visiting her every day, I’d brought her presents, given her my phone number, promised her a trip. I winced—she’d recently asked me for a Polaroid of myself, and I’d given her one. Oh, this looked very, very bad. I folded my arm against my chest, tried to breathe deeply. “Sam, I don’t know why they’re doing this, but I’m going to call Nadine and find out, and then I’ll call you right back.”
“Okay. But don’t ask for me, ask for…Britta, she’ll come get me. Janice, I’m really…I’m really freaking out.”
Yeah, so was I. But I had to stay calm, and so did she. Nothing had happened yet; this could all be a misunderstanding. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll call you back when I hear from Nadine. Just hang in there, and don’t punch anything.”
“Okay,” she whimpered, “but—”
Damn it, Sam. I didn’t have time to babysit her—I had to do damage control. “I’m serious! Stay calm, or they’re going to think something fishy is going on. If you throw a shit fit, they’re going to say our relationship is bad for you. So you have to cool off. I will fix this, and I will come see you. Okay?”
I was surprised by the firmness in my voice, how sure and capable I sounded. I would fix this, because I was the adult. For once, crisis was bringing out the best in me, instead of the worst. “Okay,” she said, more convinced this time.
“I will call you as soon as I talk to Nadine. Now, go show them that you’re calm and compliant. All right?”
I hung up and tried to take my own advice for once. I had to calm down and stop hyperventilating before I called Nadine in a lather and made it all sound worse than it was. Everything’s okay, I told myself, channeling Bill’s reassuring voice. There had been a misunderstanding, but everything was going to be okay.
I dialed the shelter and asked for Nadine. She picked up right away. “Older Females.”
“Hi, Nadine, it’s Janice.” I kept my voice light and friendly.
Her voice was neither. “Juhneece. I was just going to call you.”
“Okay. Is everything all right?”
“No.” Uh-oh. “It’s not a good idea for you to visit Samantha right now. I told you, she’s too disturbed, and she’s got to get to rehab this time—”
“I agree,” I interjected, still trying for calm, a fake smile plastered on my face as I paced the living room. “Look, I’m fine with not visiting, I just wanted to make sure—”
Nadine blew air through her teeth, frustrated. “I told you, Juhneece, if you visit her, you go off the record, not as a volunteer. The social worker said you told her you were Sam’s caseworker.”
“I never said I was her caseworker!” I caught myself yelling and modified my tone. “I never said that. She asked me how Sam and I met, and I said the shelter, but I never said I was her caseworker.”
Nadine did not play any he-say she-say. “Well, I don’t know who said what to who, but everything is too confused right now. You need to step away. The hospital is telling me you were trying to escort her to rehab. That’s not your job! And now Samantha says she doesn’t want to go unless you take her. Because she thinks if you take her, she can get away with something. And I’m not going to let that happen.”
I breathed deeply and tried again. “Nadine, I understand there’s been confusion, and I’m sorry if I added to it in any way, but I never said I was her caseworker, and I wasn’t trying to escort her to rehab. The social worker said maybe it might help, but obviously it wouldn’t, and I—”
“But I told you, don’t be so involved with her, and then I hear you’re visiting her every day. And now I don’t know who’s telling me the truth, or what’s going on, but I am telling you, you cannot see her anymore. When she comes back here from rehab, you can see each other on Wednesday nights. But no more visits now. Samantha is trying to manipulate the situation, and pit everybody against each other, and it’s working. No more.”
“Okay.” At least she mentioned Wednesdays. She wasn’t canning me, not yet, anyway. “I understand. But I still think there was some miscommunication—”
“Juhneece!” Nadine’s voice rose sharply, and I cringed. “You understand what I’m telling you. I don’t have time for this. Samantha is not our only resident. I have too much to do. You don’t visit her anymore until she goes to rehab. That’s it.”
“All right.” But I’m innocent! I wanted to say. It’s not fair! Okay, so I’d visited a lot—I thought
that made me a concerned citizen, not a criminal. I clenched my teeth in frustration; she wouldn’t let me clear my name. “I’m sorry for the confusion, Nadine, I appreciate—”
“I will see you on Wednesday,” she said, and hung up.
I put the phone down, reeling. What the fuck was this, now? What could have happened since yesterday to ring Nadine’s alarm? What had Sam told them? What did that dingbat social worker say? I called the pay phone at the psych ward, where it took a chain of three residents to get Sam on the line.
“Hello?” she said, meek.
“Hey there. So listen. I spoke to Nadine, and she’s serious. I can’t visit. They said I was passing myself off as a counselor, and that I shouldn’t have offered to escort you to rehab, and that’s why they—”
She broke in, whining. “But I want you to escort me! Why won’t they let you visit me? I’m all freaked out here, and they’re trying to take away my only support! What am I supposed to do? I’m gonna—”
“Sam.” My firm, capable voice was back, I noticed; I was the adult again. “Listen to me. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I can’t come see you, but I can call you, and you can call me. Okay? Nobody’s taking away your support. They’re not ending our friendship. They can’t do that.”
“But it’s not fair! You weren’t doing anything wrong! Why are they doing this to me?” I could hear her quick breath, feel her heart racing like it was my own.
“You’ve got to keep it together,” I warned. “Remember what I said before? Be cool, or they will suspect foul play. And I’m in enough trouble here—I don’t know who told them I was supposed to be your caseworker, but they’re ready to fire me as a volunteer, okay?”
“I never told them you were my caseworker! I just said you were like a counselor to me! And now they won’t let you come because I said that? That’s totally…”
I closed my eyes and tried to summon my strength. So she’d told them I was her “counselor.” No wonder the social worker had been so impressed by my visits; no wonder she’d mentioned me escorting Sam to rehab. She thought I was a social worker.
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