by Leigh Lennon
The second Nick arrives from the SOS I sent to him, I sit on the couch with tears rolling down my face and a distraught six-month-old on my lap. Nick walks in with Justine, and being the pro she is as a mother and grandma, she takes Aspen to the nursery to rock her.
Nick sits down next to me, worry etching his face, but he doesn’t pressure me. He only pulls me into a hug. This man has single-handedly changed the course of my life. He trusted me with his little girl in a way he doesn’t trust anyone, and my life has never been the same. Really, until six months ago, I’ve never been happier.
I have let him down. His little girl is out there now, and we have no idea where. How could I be so stupid to think Emma would stick to this plan? I let her down, too.
“Nick, I’m so sorry. Ems, she left the facility. She checked herself out. I didn’t push for a committal, and for that reason, she was able to leave.”
He stands immediately and begins pacing back and forth. This is the Nick I know when he’s in crisis, as we both are.
“Finances? We can track her through that.”
I only shake my head. “She took forty grand out of our savings. She wants to be off the grid for a while and doesn’t want to be found.”
With the home phone now disabled, I hear a text come through my cell from a number I don’t recognize. Picking it up, trembling, I read it silently.
Unknown Number: Tyler, I’m sorry. It’s Ems. I’m not the person you married, and you should not feel obligated. You and the baby are better off without me for now. I’m taking control of my own treatment. I’ll be in touch soon. Tell my dad I’m so sorry.
Four lines, that’s all I get. She thinks we are better off without her. I need her! I have been cruel to her if she thinks I’m better off in this life without my other half. Handing the phone to Nick, I find my head in my hands as I break down.
20
Emma
The second the transport drops me off at Desert Oasis Treatment and Commune, I inhale a cleansing breath. This is where I need to be. Besides the aesthetics of the compound, it is open and airy. Most of the spaces for the treatment are outside. I don’t feel cooped up.
When Celia told me about this place, I used one of my weekly phone calls to contact the director of this facility, and though I knew my father would pay for any treatment, I want my recovery to be on my terms.
When Anders Charmaine shared with me over the phone of his own story and how he almost ended his own life, too, I knew this was the place for me. I was almost positive I would get some flak from Ty and my dad. They should know I never do anything traditional.
It may seem selfish to everyone. I’m sure those are just some of the many words they are using, but my recovery is too important to me not to have what I need. As much as I want to repair my marriage with the one man I have loved in my life, I need to do this for me. Then maybe, one day, I can repair what is broken with Tyler.
Anders Charmaine is at the front office waiting for me, and by the way he described his own brokenness, I thought he’d be older, but he’s not. “Mrs. Hunter?” he asks.
“Yes, but please call me Emma.”
He leads me into the common area of the main house and has me sit at a large circular table. With my cashier’s check in my purse for the balance of my payment to the facility, I sit as he explains his vision, which I knew for sure my father would call a hippy-dippy facility just wanting to get my money.
The one reason this place appealed to me is, with the brief history Anders shared with me, I know money is not an issue. Granted, the facility is not cheap, but we pay one fee, and that fee covers me for up to two years. The average stay is six to nine months. With the facility staffed with doctors, psychiatrists, and nurses, I know this place can offer me some sort of healing.
“Emma, the doctors were able to get your medical records, and they will be meeting with you soon for an overview of your treatment. But first, I need to share with you my vision for this place.” I see his eyes darken as though he’s about to relive a memory he’d rather forget.
“Seven years ago, I woke to a morning like any other morning since getting married, settling down, and having a baby.”
At the words ‘a baby,’ the hair on my arms rises, and I want to fast forward through any part of the story with a baby in it.
“My son, Xavier, named after my love for the X-men, and my beautiful wife, Yolanda, were my world. We were living in a small town off the Gulf in Texas. I loved everything about my life. On this particular Saturday morning, I woke up, fixed Xavier and Yolanda pancakes, and then we drove to the marina where our boat was kept. X was three at the time, and Yolanda was five years younger than me. She was a beauty with flaming red hair, and she owned my heart. When we were on the water, there was nothing better for us. I had anchored the boat, and I was on one side fishing. Yolanda was holding X, who was asleep in her arms. Out of nowhere, a boat three times the size of our boat T-boned us close to where X and Yolanda were sitting. The crash hit so hard that it knocked them into the ocean. Yolanda, who was a stickler about X wearing his life jacket all the time, had it on him, but the hit was too much for his body to take, and he died on impact, though I didn’t know that at the time. I swam to get him first, and as Yolanda was passed out; she started to sink.” He wipes the tears from his eyes at the retelling of this story. “I chose to try to save my baby boy while his mom drowned.”
Raking his hand through his hair, he continues, “My life was over, and I decided to drown my sorrows in alcohol. And when I couldn’t drink the pain away, I tried to kill myself.”
I sit here, absorbing his whole life and the circumstances that shaped him. Seeing him on the other side of tragedy gives me hope. But the journey to get to where he is now had to be horrendous, marked with firsts of all he was missing. In his problems, I see that my own problems don’t look too bad.
“Emma, I know where you are right now. You can’t say I didn’t go through the same fucking shit you went through, so this will be a cake walk.”
What the fuck? How did he know, and before I can ask if he’s the next fucking Sylvia Browne, the psychic, he continues, “Everyone thinks their stories are not as bad as mine, but at the end of the day, something horrible in your own eyes has landed you in a place where you can’t cope. That is where we come in.”
I start to cry because I want it simple; I want to go back to Tyler, and I want to love that baby I brought in the world. I was happy, I really was, and I want it again. I’m sitting in silence when he continues his spiel. “I’m not a doctor, and I don’t claim to be. My job here is administration and groundskeeper, but this place is different. Beside our addictions program, you are free to roam the grounds. You can come and go with the permission of your treating physician. Even in the addictions program, after detox, everyone mingles. We don’t separate those with depression from those with postpartum or eating disorders or anything that can land you here. We have simple rules. First, this facility runs because we all help. You will be assigned chores and expected to complete them unless you are sick and given instructions otherwise by the on-call physician. You will most likely have a roommate unless your treatment plan is designed around you needing your space. And, this is the most important, Emma. We never threaten those around us. Even for those who have harmed themselves, like you and me, we both have seen the value in our life moving forward.”
He pauses. “Your recovery is of the utmost importance, so if your medical team deems yoga is something that will benefit you, staying here gives them permission to add what they feel is needed for your recovery. Make no mistake, they will challenge you, but, Emma, I trust them, and these are some of the same doctors whose unorthodox measures saved my own life, so keep that in mind.” He stands, and I follow suit.
“You will meet with your medical team first, then we will take you to your room. After you get settled, we will take you to the common area where, three times a day, we come together for the welfare of this retreat. That is wh
en we do chores and manage the upkeep of this facility. Afterward, we eat together.” My eyes again ask the questions he has an answer for. “If for not this one major part of our program, the one where we all pitch in, our fee would be an extra ten thousand dollars. As it is, major charities and the fact our land, dorms, and treatment camp are fully paid for offset the cost.”
For thirty thousand dollars, I wasn’t expecting to be little orphan Annie for the next six to nine months; however, that still gives me ten thousand in case of additional costs.
He moves to the doorway of the admin offices, taking me through the open land of the retreat to the treatment camp. Sure enough, it looks like a campground with open-air classrooms and two large bays, one marked on-call Physician and Treatment classrooms. Yes, there is no doubt my dad would call this a hippy-dippy place.
21
Tyler
Two days! Two fucking days of not knowing where my wife is. Since I received the text from Emma, I’ve been going crazy with worry. I could track her down to New Mexico but couldn’t find any place where she would be receiving help, something she claims and promises she’s doing.
Not able to return to work because my mind has been anywhere but on the animals I love treating, I’m on my tummy with Aspen when my phone rings. She hates tummy time, and all those books Emma read before the baby was born say you must encourage it. All my baby is doing is crying her head off in the tummy position. Of course, in all my wisdom, I’m trying to coach her and encourage a six-month-old, but it’s only pissing her off. Now, she’s red faced, so I grab her while trying to get to my phone at the same time.
“Hello,” I answer when I’m sure I missed the call.
“Dr. Hunter?” a deep voice asks on the other end of the line.
“Yes, that’s me,” I utter, rocking Aspen back and forth in my hands, trying to calm her down.
“Ah, good, but it sounds like I caught you at a bad time. Aspen sure doesn’t sound very happy.”
This gives me the creeps and sends a shiver down my spine at the mention of my daughter’s name. “Who the hell is this?” I ask, both pissed off and scared.
“Ah, I’m sorry, I must sound like a creeper knowing your baby’s name. Let me start again. My name is Anders Charmaine, owner and operator of Desert Oasis Treatment Facility and Commune.”
At those words, the pent-up frustration of this man knowing my daughter’s name, the room becomes blurry, and I can feel my pulse quicken.
“Dr. Hunter, I am so sorry. I understand my words have scared you and for good reason. I swear I am one of the good guys.” His voice elevates. “I called to discuss Emma.”
Before I threaten violence to this man, a little common sense comes back to me when I ask, “Do you know where my wife is?”
“Yes, she’s with us. She arrived two days ago, and after our new guests get settled in, we reach out to their families. Some, like you, are not aware that their loved ones are here. One of the major foundations of this facility is that they are not allowed to hide and grant us limited permission to share part of their treatment with you. Unfortunately, we are still bound to the laws of HIPAA, and Emma has only allowed us to let you know, at this point, that she’s here. I can share with you how some of our programs work but not the progress, not yet.”
I now have Aspen settled. Placing her in the high chair and grabbing her rice pinwheels as a late-morning snack, I sit in front of her with the phone cradled in the crook of my neck, trying to power on my MacBook. “You said you are from the Desert Oasis in New Mexico. I assume that is Albuquerque?” When I called the cell phone associated with the text message Ems sent me, I spoke with some young girl. She told me they were at the airport in Albuquerque when Emma asked to borrow it.
“Yes, we are an hour away. And if I had to guess, you are looking me up right now?”
I wanted to say fuck yeah, I’m looking you up since you have my wife, and right now, I want to make sure she’s not being brainwashed. It’s like Emma to do this her way, so I don’t give a fuck if it’s Captain Kangaroo offering help. If it works, I’ll be his number one fan.
When I pull up the information from Google, it looks like a post-sixties Woodstock concert site in the desert with a sunset that you’d see on some sort of retreat brochure.
“Dr. Hunter, our facility certainly doesn’t fit the mold of most mental health places, but our recovery rate is over ninety percent, which is unheard of in the mental health field. I’m not a doctor, but I was once a patient. A long time ago at our sister retreat in Texas, I took their idea and started one here, away from the memories that plagued me in my hometown. But I can tell you, we use doctors, nurses, medicines, and everything that most sites use, but we customize a plan. We will push Emma, but more so, she has agreed to it, which is a wonderful start.”
“So, tell me this, Jerry Garcia”—because looking at it, all I can picture is dead heads and a fuck ton of tie dye—“how much is this running me? I mean, my wife took forty K out of our savings, which, quite honestly, was budgeted for other things in our life, like a babysitter, and I’m barely working. So what is your cost?”
“Our average pledge is thirty thousand dollars, but that is if you are here three months or two years. Anything before three months is returned to the individual with medical costs and boarding taken out.” I sigh, and before I have a chance to insult his life’s work, he says, “Dr. Hunter, I get it. We are not of the mold, but if I’m being honest, mental health in the United States is suffering. So if I can help your wife be successful, no harm, no foul, and I’ll have restored her to you, are you willing to give it a try?”
I can’t argue with his logic. We have already paid twenty thousand, and Nick had been willing to dole out fifty for the place in LA. “Okay, Mr. Charmaine, I’ll be open to this, but please, tell me how you think you will be able to help my wife.”
Knowing that Emma is someplace getting much-needed help fills me with the confidence to take my own life back. Arranging with Hils, my mom, and the neighbor across the street, I arrive back to work ready to take on the world. Nick’s surprised to see me and pulls me out of a routine shot appointment, replacing me with Dr. Chandler.
“I was surprised when Kevin told me you were back.”
To say I was wallowing in a small anxiety attack would be an understatement; Nick wanted me to take care of myself, first and foremost. “I have to start living again. I need to get our life in order for when Emma returns to us.”
Slumping over, he braces himself, and I see on his face his ability to accept that Emma may never come back to us. “Tyler, you have to realize as much as I want her back …”
Scrubbing my face, over the scruff that has grown in the past week, I’m not sure how he will take the news. Nick is a man of science, and for that reason, he may not see this facility in the same light as Emma sees it. “Actually, I’m trying to be optimistic. I heard from the facility where Emma checked herself into, and though they are a bit nontraditional, I think Emma may have a chance.”
Nick is many things to me, and he’s great in all these ways, but I know him well enough to know when he’s about to lose it. He’s had so much piled on him. First, Rose and Lorel, then Ems’s attempted suicide, and now this. For a man of science, this whole earthy mumbo jumbo will have him heading to New Mexico on the next flight.
When he doesn’t say a word, I take it upon myself to type the information of the facility into the iPhone and hand it to him to process in his own time. Before I can reach the door of the exam room where we were talking, he calls my name. “Tyler, this isn’t what I would have picked for her.”
Stopping with my hand on the doorknob, I don’t turn to look at him. With Ems, the added responsibility of being a single dad, and the work of our clinic, I can’t take a tantrum from Nick.
I hear him take a deep breath and exhale slowly when he finally finishes his sentence, “But nothing up till now has worked. If you give me the info, I’ll arrange payment.”
&n
bsp; I only nod my head because I can’t get into logistics right now about how Ems already paid for it. I’ll tackle that subject another day.
22
Emma
My first couple of nights in New Mexico, I’m alone in the room I’ll call home for the foreseeable future. My counselor, Grace, has assured me I won’t be alone for long. A new pledge will be arriving today, and they feel she’ll be a good match as my roommate. I haven’t shared a space with another female since college, and I’m not looking forward to the drama women in general bring. But I signed up for this, and I’ll do anything to get back into the arms of my husband.
For six months, I have frozen him out, causing him to doubt our marriage. Hell, I had doubts. It wasn’t until we made love that afternoon that I remember what I have is worth fighting for.
After they let me get settled in for two days, I wake up to a knock on the door. Our day is supposed to start at seven a.m., but I was told to sleep in. A routine would begin once I’m eased into the chores and counseling and the other responsibilities of the commune.
Grace is standing in front of me when I look at my clock, and I’m surprised to see it is almost ten a.m. I’ll see the doctor two days a week for medication management, Grace every day but Sunday, and I’m expected to take part in group therapy three times a week along with whatever Grace feels is necessary for my recovery.
“Emma, I wanted you to sleep in a bit. I hope you slept well the last couple nights?” she asks.
I did, surprisingly well, but I only smile. She makes me nervous. I have been around enough shrinks to know they automatically look at every response of mine to arrive at some quick diagnosis. Turning her head to the hall, she takes her hand and waves someone over to the door. In a matter of seconds, I’m face to face with a girl who can’t be older than sixteen. More so, she’s tiny with the largest pregnant belly I’ve ever seen, including mine.