Maybe I Will

by Laurie Gray

  Doc pursed her lips and cocked her head just a little to the right. “Do you ever feel like killing yourself?”

  I took a deep breath and felt the tears coming up behind my eyes. I closed them tightly to hold back the tears. I thought about the poem in the notebook. Would I be better off dead? I handed my notebook to Doc.

  She read the poem without saying a word. She handed the notebook back to me. “It feels like you’re becoming a little freer in your writing. I’m no poet, but I think this is a good thing.”

  I opened the notebook and stared at my poem.

  “Sandy, what do you think that poem is about?”

  “Whether or not I’d be better off dead.”

  Doc gave me a quizzical look. “I kind of thought it was about betrayal and how you’re feeling since someone betrayed you.”

  “Don’t you think it means I’m suicidal?” I asked.

  “Are you suicidal?” Doc countered.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “How should I know? You’re the doc; you tell me.”

  “You’ve asked yourself if you’d be better off dead, but have you tried to kill yourself?”

  “If I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” I retorted.

  Doc nodded. “Have you ever thought about how you’d do that?”

  “I’d pick something painless and very effective, that’s for sure.” I grabbed the bed control to lower my feet and raise my head again. “I wouldn’t want to screw it up and have to face that failure on top of everything else. Especially if I left myself permanently messed up. That might be worse than dead.”

  Doc sighed. “Here’s what I think, Sandy. You tell me if I’m wrong.” She rose from her chair and stood beside me. “I don’t think you’re crazy or suicidal, but I do think you need a couple of days to work through some things before we send you back to school. The best place for that to happen is right here, where we know that you’re safe, and we can kind of put the rest of your life on hold. Are you willing to do that?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared out the window. It was dark out now. I wondered where my parents went to dinner and when they would be back. “It doesn’t seem like it would change anything.”

  “Sometimes just changing the way we think about things is enough.”

  29

  Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  And then is heard no more.

  —Macbeth, Act V, Scene v, Lines 24-26

  THE NEXT MORNING we all met with the psychiatrist. He recommended several medications, but Doc and my parents didn’t seem to like any of his suggestions. I just sat there and listened to them talking about me as if I weren’t there.

  “I think Sandy’s symptoms of depression are situational rather than chemical and have been aggravated by the alcohol,” Doc said. “Every medication has its side effects, and it could take several weeks to know if it’s really even helping.”

  Mom and Dad agreed with Doc. “Based on everything I’ve read, I’m afraid the potential risks outweigh the benefits in Sandy’s case,” Mom said. “Let’s make sure we ‘do no harm,’ right?”

  “We don’t want Sandy taking any mood-altering drugs until we’re sure they’re absolutely necessary,” Dad chimed in.

  Isn’t anyone going to ask me what I think? No one did.

  They did decide that a private room would be better than having to deal with a roommate. The psychiatrist made a call and next thing I knew I was checking into my “special care suite.” It was more like a large closet with a twin bed, a night stand, and a small dresser. Very sterile. Very white. No windows.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but this place definitely wasn’t Camp Disney—more like the Night of the Living Dead. The individual and family sessions weren’t bad, but my first group session was frightening. We were supposed to be talking about controlling violence. No way was I going to say a word, and I tried not to make eye contact with anyone, either.

  There was every kind of crazy you could imagine from cutters and druggies to anorexics and videogame freaks. Everyone looked all Goth, dressed in black and more into the violence part of the discussion than the control part. I felt like I’d fallen into an M.C. Escher painting with everything becoming more and more twisted and surreal. Or maybe it was an Ansel Adams photograph in negative form that just needed to be developed so all the black would turn white and the white would turn black and maybe a little gray to soften the stark contrasts.

  I don’t belong here. I don’t want to be here. I looked around this room filled with strangers. Was it really all that different from school? Where do I belong? Where do I want to be?

  I stayed completely to myself until I met Luke. I watched Luke playing foosball in the lounge and eating lunch in the cafeteria. He reminded me of someone, but I just couldn’t figure out who. Whom. Dad’s voice will always be with me. Finally, it came to me. Luke was Hermey, the misfit elf that wanted to be a dentist in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Hermey with a pierced ear and decent haircut. We’re all a bunch of misfits on the Island of Misfit Teens. Which one am I? I’d like to be the ruler, the flying lion, that reminds me of Aslan from Narnia.

  I never actually talked to Luke until after the group therapy session where he got all bent out of shape for people saying “queer” instead of “gay.” We were going around the circle, and we were all supposed to say one word that did NOT describe us. It was pretty interesting, with people saying things like “dead,” and “perfect,” and “evil.” Then this guy Kevin, whose dad was a veterinarian and who had pretty much fried his brain snorting horse tranquilizers, looked right at Luke and said, “Queer!”

  Luke jumped out of his chair shouting that he was gay, not queer, but Kevin insisted “queer” was the politically correct term. “They call it LGBTQ now, don’t they? Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Queer!”

  The counselor finally had to step in and break it up. “Kevin, the ‘Q’ in LGBTQ actually stands for ‘questioning’ not ‘queer.’”

  “Fine,” said Kevin glaring at Luke. “I’m not GAY!” But after that the whole exercise turned into a name-calling game where you stared at the person across from you and said what they were and you weren’t. The counselor let “ugly” and “stupid” pass, probably because she didn’t realize the new rules. The game boy looked straight at me and said, “Rich.” I ignored him, but the counselor finally seemed to be catching on. When Jennifer the cutter called Karen the anorexic chick “slutty,” the session ended abruptly.

  Luke sat down beside me at dinner that night. “I don’t care about your being rich if you don’t care about my being gay,” he said.

  I just shrugged and shoveled a large bite of macaroni and cheese into my mouth.

  Luke opened his milk carton and put in a straw. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  I shrugged again, still chewing.

  “I hate it here,” he said. “This is the third time they’ve stuck me here.” He opened a bag of chips and started crunching. “The first time my parents thought they could send me here and get me straightened out—as if someone could convince me I’m not really gay.” Luke took a bite of his sandwich. We sat in silence as he chewed. I shoved in another spoonful of mac ’n cheese.

  “The second time was after I tried to kill myself. I was really messed up that time.”

  I swallowed and took another big bite. I was running out of food to keep my mouth full.

  “This time, I ran away. And I was doing just fine until they cancelled the credit card I took from my mom’s purse.”

  I started taking smaller bites and chewing more slowly.

  “It’s okay, though. I’ll have my GED by the time I turn 18, and then it won’t matter anymore. I can go wherever I want to go and do whatever I want to do.”

  I took a long drink from my water bottle. “So where do you want to go?” I asked, breaking my code of silence.

  “Austin, Texas,” Luke said
with a smile. “It’s warm, it’s affordable, and nobody cares if you’re gay.”

  “Have you ever been there?” I asked.

  “No, but I’ve been talking to people online, and I think that’s the best place for me.” He held the bag of chips up to his mouth and tapped out all of the crumbs. “That’s where I was running to. But I got picked up in Arkansas.”

  “What will you do when you finally get to Texas?”

  “Get a job,” said Luke. “Maybe apply to a community college once I get my own apartment and get settled.”

  The cafeteria was filling up, but no one else sat down at our table.

  “So what’s your story?” Luke finally asked.

  My story? I don’t want to tell you my story. “My plan is to graduate from high school and go to Juilliard in New York City.”

  “What, are you a comedian?” Luke laughed as he said it.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Have you been accepted?” Luke asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m only a sophomore. I can’t even apply for another year.”

  “Too bad,” he replied. “A year is a really long time to have to wait. A lot can happen in a year.”

  I took my last bite of macaroni and wondered what all had happened to Luke in the last year. I looked around the cafeteria and wondered what had happened to all of these people over the last year. How many are here because they really can’t fit in? Are there any who just don’t want to?

  I stood up. “I’m going back to my room,” I said. I picked up my tray and walked away.

  “See ya,” Luke called after me.

  Back in my room I started thinking about how long a year really was. And I have TWO more years of high school, not just one. Somehow, after everything I’d been through and being here, it didn’t feel like I could go back to school and actually fit in any more. I probably do belong with these misfits. At least I have the option of acting like I fit in if I want to. But do I want to? Where do I WANT to fit in?

  I stood up to do my white belt form. I could earn my black belt over the next two years. Taekwondo. That’s where I could fit in. There was only one problem with that plan. Shanika. I couldn’t go back to taekwondo as long as Shanika was there.

  30

  All things be ready, if our minds be so.

  —Henry the Fifth, Act IV, Scene iii, Line 71

  AFTER THE FIRST day, the place lost some of its “Night-of-the-Living-Dead” feel. Of course, we weren’t allowed to have cell phones or internet, so that was an adjustment. Our only real connection to the outside world was a pay phone. Karen the anorexic had a boyfriend who called the pay phone 10 times a day just so she could beg him to get her out of here. I’d never used a pay phone in my life, but that was okay. There was no one I wanted to call, and I knew no one would call me.

  I still didn’t talk in group therapy, but no one seemed freakish anymore. We were all just trying to figure out how to make it however we could . . . fitting in, sticking out, fighting back, hiding or escaping . . . whatever worked best today. Everybody except Luke pretty much just left me alone, and Luke didn’t really bother me. It was better than always being alone.

  By Thursday it was time to decide for sure whether or not I was going home on Friday. Doc had talked to me a lot in individual therapy about going back to school. What to say, what not to say, and strategies for finding a safe place if I started to feel too stressed or overwhelmed. We spent a lot of time in family sessions talking about new ground rules at home and how to ask for help if and when I really felt like I needed a drink.

  The biggest unresolved issue seemed to be how to reconnect with my so-called friends or how to make new friends instead. I did not want Cassie or Troy or Shanika coming to the psych ward. I finally told them I’d lied about Hector being my friend, and that he was really only Shanika’s friend, not mine. I didn’t mention the wrestling incident. And I just was not ready to deal with Shanika at any level, even though Mom and Dad said that Shanika called them every day to see how I was and when I would be back at school and taekwondo.

  We decided that I could go home on Friday morning. My parents really wanted me to go to taekwondo on Saturday morning, but I decided I could figure out how to get out of that Saturday morning and arguing over it before I got out of the hospital might only keep me in the hospital that much longer. We also decided that once I got home, I would call Troy and see if he, and maybe even Cassie, might be willing to meet with me at Doc’s office sometime over the weekend so that we could talk before I returned to school on Monday.

  Saying goodbye to Luke turned out to be much harder than I’d expected. We exchanged e-mails and promised to keep in touch, but we were headed in opposite directions, and I seriously doubted our paths would ever cross again. He gave me a hug, and without really meaning to, I hugged him back. When we let go I could feel the tears in my eyes. “Break a leg, kid,” Luke said.

  “Mine or yours,” I asked, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

  “I knew it!” Luke laughed. “You are a comedian.”

  Break a leg, kid. The words echoed in my head. Kid. Why is it that everyone I want to be friends with thinks I’m just a kid?

  When I finally got home, it felt good to settle back into my own room. Mom said she needed to go to the office, but Dad stayed with me. I took a long, hot shower, put on an old sweatshirt and jeans, and then texted Troy. I let Dad read the text before I sent it. “Hi Troy, I’m home. Please call me. Your friend, Sandy.” I thought the “your friend” thing sounded a little cheesy, but Dad liked the idea of letting him know that I was reaching out as a friend to kind of break the ice or set the tone or whatever, so I added it.

  Dad made us some lunch. I was really happy to be home from a food standpoint. I had been eating cold cereal for breakfast each morning and nothing but macaroni and cheese for my other meals because that was the only thing that even looked edible to me. Rich kid, the game boy’s voice muttered in my mind. No, I just happen to have taste.

  After lunch Dad asked if I wanted to watch a movie. “Let’s watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” I suggested.

  “The Christmas DVD?” Dad asked. “Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “You dig it out while I make popcorn.”

  Dad didn’t argue with me. At first I could tell he was watching me instead of the show, though. When Hermey appeared, I jumped off the couch and pointed to the TV. “There!” I shouted. “Doesn’t Hermey look just like Luke?”

  Dad laughed. “The resemblance is uncanny,” he admitted. After that he relaxed and watched the rest of the show with me. When it was over, he asked me if I was feeling like a misfit.

  “Maybe,” I answered. “I mean, I think I can fit in when I want to. I’m just not sure anymore where I want to fit in.”

  Dad sighed. “It amazes me how far ahead you seem to be from most of my sophomores in college . . . and you, still a sophomore in high school.” He gave me a hug. “I love you, Sandy,” he whispered. “You fit in our family just fine.”

  We were looking through the other Christmas DVD’s and Dad was trying to convince me that we should watch It’s a Wonderful Life next, when Mom called.

  “Fine,” Dad said to her. Then, “okay” and “How long?” The only other thing I heard before he hung up was, “we will,” and “I love you, too.”

  “She’s on her way home,” Dad told me.

  “Does she want to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, too?”

  “No,” Dad replied. “She’s bringing a visitor for you.”

  “A visitor for me?” I looked at my watch. Troy and Cassie would still be in school. Shanika might not, though, since she worked for her dad in the afternoons. I closed my eyes. Please don’t let it be Shanika.

  Dad came and sat beside me on the couch. “Sandy?” he asked. “Are you okay?” He waited.

  “Who’s coming?” I asked as evenly as possible.

  “I think your mom kind of wanted it to be a surprise, but maybe we’re better off with
no surprises.”

  “No surprises,” I agreed.

  “It’s Don Goldman,” Dad said quietly. He watched me carefully as he said it.

  “The District Attorney?” I asked. “Why is the D.A. coming to our house?”

  “Your mom said he wants to talk to you,” Dad replied.

  “Why would he want to talk to me?” I stuffed the last handful of popcorn into my mouth.

  “I’m not really sure,” said Dad. “The cynical side of me thinks he wants to make sure we don’t sue the detective for police brutality. Or maybe it’s a professional courtesy he’s extending to your mom.” He started packing up the Christmas videos to put them back in storage. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. I went upstairs to my bathroom to examine my forehead. The lump was nearly gone, but the bruise was still a deep purple. There weren’t any mirrors in the psych ward, so I really hadn’t looked at myself all week. I splashed cold water on my face, patted it dry with a towel, and then stared at myself again. I’m still not sure if I like what I see. But I’m tired of feeling afraid, and I’m done hiding. Bring it on.

  I stepped away from the mirror, stood at attention, bowed, and recited my taekwondo pledge to no one but myself. Then I went to my room and went through all of the orange belt steps I know. I was in the middle of white belt form when I heard the garage door opening. I finished the form, and was through two of the three sparring steps when I heard someone coming up the stairs.

  I’d left my door open, but Mom knocked anyway.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. I nodded, and she came in. She hugged me, and softly kissed the bruise on my forehead before letting go. “Don Goldman is here with me,” she said. “You remember Don?”

  I nodded. He and his wife had been to dinner at our house before he was the elected prosecutor. He and Mom both graduated from Duke Law School, and she had supported him in his campaign. “Why is he here?” I asked.

  “He just wants to talk to you,” Mom said. “And I think he has something for you.”