Unfiltered & Unraveled

by Payge Galvin

  Nurse Sarah was starting to get on my damn nerves.

  Perched next to Cynda in the plush leather recliners of the therapy atrium, I knew I shouldn’t have said those things to Cam. It shocked me that my mouth was capable of producing such effectively insulting words. I’d never been able to come with that level of venom before, and I wasn’t even sure why I’d turned them on Cam. He’d hurt my feelings, but he hadn’t said anything rude to me, or say, led me into a situation that ended in me burning a dead body. Why had I lashed out at him like that? Was I losing it completely? I’d gotten pissed at Cam when he told me I was “better” than this mean, mouthy behavior. And I was, I guess, though I had to admit that it was sort of liberating, saying whatever I wanted. But at the moment, I just felt unsettled and gross, like I’d messed up something important.

  While James stated for the third time that hour that he needed a group that better understood business, the pressure he was under and how that led to his seven-martini billable lunches, Dr. Mueller sat at the head of the Origins circle, a fancy Montblanc pen poised over her yellow legal pad. I had no idea how this woman with her reddish brown hair, streaked with gray, managed to stay so pale in Arizona. She was in her sixties, with large brown eyes and a mouth that was always curved into a knowing Mona Lisa smile, which, frankly, I found a little unnerving.

  So far, she had only listened to various members of the group talk, offering more questions than answers. I wasn’t even sure she was listening to James’s grumbling under his breath about needing more professional partners in sobriety. Dr. Mueller was staring around the circle, occasionally jotting something on her notepad.

  And then, suddenly, she was talking to me.

  “From what I have heard about your previous sessions, you seem a little angry about your stay here, Violet.”

  I bobbled my chamomile tea and made myself promise that I would not make bitchy comments about her “keen” powers of observation. I didn’t want to piss off two counselors in a row and get kicked out of this place, then get disowned by my own family. The same family that hadn’t called me in the four days I’d been here.

  I cleared my throat and said “Yes, I am angry about it. It’s another example of how I let myself get pulled into these insane situations without thinking them through.”

  The corner of Dr. Mueller’s mouth lifted in amusement as she scribbled on her notepad. “Have you stopped and considered how you might have ended up in these insane situations?”

  I nodded. “Almost every minute since I got here.”

  Dr. Mueller made a “go on” gesture. I sighed and continued, “I see a situation going badly, but I don’t seem to be able to stop it, because I’m afraid of – I don’t know, making a scene, making a fuss. Like on my birthday, I wanted to be the one who got to have fun and drink and be fucking young, for once, instead of having to be the Debbie Downer chaperone who always tells everybody ‘no.’ And I knew that Allie has a hard time staying sober at parties. I knew it was a dumb idea to trust her to be my designated driver. And I knew when I saw her drinking that first shot that no matter what she said, she wasn’t going to be able to just stop at one, like she promised me. She was going to keep going until she was drunker than I was, but I couldn’t get her to stop. Because she just hurts so much all of the time and she thinks that’s the way to make herself feel better. Nothing you say to her can convince her otherwise. And I was already so drunk and everything else just seemed to pile up and… It’s like I’m being pulled underwater and I can’t fight my way to the surface to… I don’t really want to talk about this. It’s my own fault that I got arrested. I’m mad at Allie, but I can’t blame her for it, because I made bad decisions.”

  “And how has your arrest affected your relationships?” Dr. Mueller asked.

  “I became a person that people couldn’t trust. My family said they couldn’t depend on me anymore.”

  “Can you give me some specifics?”

  I glanced around the circle of people, who were now staring at me with expressions of interest. People I barely knew. And Dr. Mueller was inviting them into my brain; my twisted, twisted little brain. “Do we have to talk about this here?”

  Cynda patted my arm in what I’m sure was supposed to be a comforting gesture. “Sweetie, I told everybody about letting a photographer take pictures of my hoo-ha in exchange for an eight-ball. So I think your birthday party shenanigans are fair game.”

  “Nude photos aren’t that bad,” I told her.

  “It was just the hoo-ha,” Cynda responded. “Like full-screen hoo-ha.”

  I pursed my lips. “Oh.”

  “And he made me put a little stick-on Abe Lincoln beard on it.”

  “Ew.”

  “And a top hat,” Cynda added. “And a little mole.”

  “OK, OK, I’ll talk, just stop adding details,” I said, waving my hands in front of my face to ward off further information.

  “Where do you think you would get a little hoo-ha top hat?” Lulu asked Danny, who just shrugged and went back to his Post-It sketches.

  Dr. Mueller didn’t even flinch at this running commentary, and for that, she had my respect. And it was nice to know I wasn’t the most screwed up person in the room. Poor freakin’ Cynda.

  “I don’t think I will ever suffer as much as Cynda’s hoo-ha,” I said, which made Cynda laugh. “I became someone my family couldn’t count on any more. At my intervention, my friends and family wrote that they couldn’t trust me to work at the family business anymore. They couldn’t trust me to babysit their kids. They couldn’t trust me with the errands I ran for my grandparents because I couldn’t drive. They couldn’t trust me any more with anything.”

  “Did your family need to trust you with those things?” Dr. Mueller asked.

  “I would think so. Otherwise, why would they ask me to do them?”

  “Well, it just seems strange that they would spend their time at your intervention pleading with you to get sober so they could ask you to work and babysit for them again. It sounds like your family puts a lot of responsibilities on you.”

  I squirmed in my chair, pulling my knees up to my chest and sitting in what was basically an upright fetal position. “Well, yeah, but that’s what families do. And friends. They help each other.”

  “How do they help you?”

  And yet, more squirming. Why were these questions making me so uncomfortable? Why did I feel like changing the subject or, God forbid, asking Cynda about her Abe Lincoln vagina to take the pressure off of me? I cleared my throat. “Well, my parents raised me, for one. Food on the table, roof over my head, that sort of thing. I had a good childhood, and my parents work hard to make sure I can graduate from a good school. And my friends have always been there for me.”

  That was right, wasn’t it? Hadn’t Allie been there for me? The other girls in my business classes? Sure, Allie had a lot of problems over the last couple of years, but surely, back when we were still in high school, I could count on her. Right? I rubbed my hands over my face and wanted to throw up all over again. Why was this so damn hard? It was just a bunch of stupid questions. Why couldn’t I answer them?

  “But how do they help you day-to-day? You said family and friends help each other. So do they pay you for the hours you spend working for the family business or babysitting? Do they run errands for you when you’re in class? Do they help you study?”

  “Well, no, but I’m in school. My parents support me so I don’t have to work a full-time job. I have the time.”

  “That’s not my point. How long do you think you’ll be babysitting and running errands for people before you’ve paid them back for being ‘good’ to you?”

  I pulled at the neck of my cardigan, which seemed to be strangling me really, really slowly. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “When you call and talk to your friends, do you talk or do you listen?”

  “Why don’t any of your questions make sense?” I asked.

  Dr. Muel
ler would not be distracted. “Do you spend phone calls with your friends discussing your problems or listening to their problems?”

  “Well, I don’t have a lot of problems,” I said, shrugging and tucking my hands around the toes of my sneakers. “Up until recently. Isn’t it someone else’s turn to talk?”

  “You’ve done very well this morning, Violet. I just have one more question for you.”

  “No, I have never put an Abe Lincoln beard on my hoo-ha,” I deadpanned. A laugh rumbled through the rest of the group, and I was surprised at how good that made me feel. I hadn’t made the Genesis group laugh. I felt like I could share anything with these people – I could even talk about that night ¬– and they wouldn’t judge me. Hell, they hadn’t batted an eyelash at all the hoo-ha references. Of course, I couldn’t actually tell them about The Coffee Cave, what with my oath of silence and all. But it was still a nice feeling.

  “That’s good to know,” Dr. Mueller said, her tone dry as toast. “But my question is, what would happen if you said ‘no’ to these people? What would happen if you told someone who was asking you for a favor that you had other plans? Or you just didn’t want to?”

  I tried to picture it. I tried to imagine telling my parents “no” when they needed me to take my grandpa to the doctor. Or tell Allie “no” when she needed me to pick her up from whatever random bar she’d gotten lost in. That warm, fuzzy feeling of acceptance quickly gave way to panic as I imagined the disbelief and hurt on my parents’ faces. I could practically hear the disappointment in their voices and the implication that without my help, they’d just find some other way to get grandpa to the cardiologist or, in Allie’s case, to stumble home through bad neighborhoods in her death-trap heels. They would be angry with me. They wouldn’t love me anymore. I would be alone.

  And I couldn’t breathe.

  I leaned forward in my seat, rubbing my hand up and down my sternum, as if I could massage air back into my lungs. I felt Cynda’s hand on my back again, softly patting my shoulders. Dr. Mueller didn’t comment on my mini-panic attack as I forced myself to suck in oxygen.

  I seemed to be having a lot of breathing problems lately. Maybe standing too close to the crematory had given me some sort of chronic lung condition? The thought made my heart race, which made it even harder to breathe. Having a measly hundred thousand wasn’t going to help me pay for chronic lung treatments for the rest of my life, especially if my parents got pissed at me and booted me off of their medical insurance. What if I had lung cancer or emphysema? Oh, gross, what if little particles of the dead guy were floating around in my lungs?

  I bolted out of my seat and ran for the nearest wastebasket, collapsing to my knees and vomiting for the second time that day. And still, Dr. Mueller didn’t react. She just waited for me to return to my seat, while Lulu pressed a bottle of Fiji water into my hand. She patted me on the back and mouthed the words, “Sip it slow, hon.”

  “So maybe your behavior isn’t the problem, Violet. It’s your reaction to the behavior of people around you, or in some cases, your inaction in response to the people around you. And maybe you should look at why you keep putting yourself in that ‘drowning’ position,” she said. I nodded as I drank the water, though I had no fucking clue what that meant on a practical, “everyday life” level.

  I sank back into my chair and nursed my aching throat with expensive bottled water. My breathing slowly returned to normal and my heart stopped beating like a bass speaker. I couldn’t really focus on what was said for the rest of the group session, though I didn’t pick up on any further historical hoo-ha talk. I considered that a blessing.

  Chapter 7

  I had about a dozen questions for Dr. Mueller when the session was over, but I had no idea how to ask any of them. It felt so stupid, to be so unsettled over a couple of innocent questions about my family, especially when I’d been through so much worse. Well, compared to Cynda, I hadn’t been through much, but still, I felt weak and stupid for breaking down over perfectly reasonable inquiries from my therapist.

  I was retreating back to my room to wallow in this new neurosis, when I saw Cam walking down the long stone-tiled hall toward me.

  “Nope, nope.” I shook my head, doing an about-face that would have made any marching band geek proud and sped toward the lobby, where I nearly collided with Dan, the large orderly responsible for carting unruly patients out of public spaces when they were having tantrums. I liked Dan. He was a big teddy bear of a guy who refused to take shit from us over-privileged whackos. He gave me a once-over and a smile. “Oh, good, you’re already wearing jeans and sneakers.”

  “And you are wearing a blue polo shirt,” I told him, patting his bulging bicep. “I’m glad we’ve had this little fashion chat.”

  Before I could step around him, Dan put one of his massive hands on my shoulder and turned me toward the east exit, toward the rec area. “You’re starting equine therapy today.”

  “Haven’t I had enough therapy for today?” I griped as he slapped a New Beginnings baseball cap and SPF 30 into my hand.

  “Obviously not. Don’t forget to put that sunscreen on your nose. Nobody likes a girl with a Bozo nose.”

  “That’s not funny, Dan,” I said, my tone all snippy as he herded me into a bright blue golf cart with the New Beginnings logo painted on the sides. But still, I applied the sunscreen liberally, much like the other two patients Dan drove nearly two miles from the center, where the stables were located. Because it wouldn’t do for the patients to smell actual horse manure while they were trying to cleanse themselves and re-connect with nature.

  Of course, the New Beginnings horses weren’t housed in a mere stable. The rough stone and adobe building was nicer than my house. It had a Spanish tile roof and river stone floor to match the general feel of the recovery center. And how they managed to keep their horses so damned clean in the desert, I would never know. My car had more dust on it.

  I wasn’t much of an outdoorsy girl, but even I was soothed by the earthy smells of horse and hay. I hadn’t ridden a horse since the pony rides at Mindy Reece’s tenth birthday party. And if I remembered correctly, Tony the Pony stopped to pee every three steps. It wasn’t exactly something to brag about, in terms of an equestrian career. But I could see the charm in riding, as opposed to sitting in the therapy atriums and listening to hoo-ha talk.

  A pure coal black horse poked its head out of its paddock and nudged at my shoulder with its muzzle. I froze. Would it bite? Eat my hair? Tony the Pony also was a biter, in addition to the incontinence, which made me wonder why Mindy’s parents had hired him to celebrate their child’s birthday. Maybe they didn’t like Mindy all that much. She was sort of snotty, even by ten-year-old standards.

  The horse bumped its nose against my pocket, as if it expected to find a treat in there.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know I was supposed to bring a hostess gift.” I glanced at the brass name plate on its door. “Uh, Wind Dancer.”

  Wind Dancer whickered and bumped its nose against my collarbone, as if to say, “Well, remember next time!”

  I reached out tentative fingers to pet the horse’s velvety nose. I looked into its shiny black eyes and was comforted by the non-bitey intelligence I found in their obsidian depths.

  “Who’s a pretty girl?” I asked. “Or possibly a boy. I’m not sure and I don’t want to insult you by checking your under-carriage. Wind Dancer is sort of like Casey or Taylor, in terms of being a nice name that gives you no gender hints at all.”

  Wind Dancer made a soft whinnying noise and bobbed its head up and down. I giggled. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” I stroked its nose, grinning. “I made a horse laugh today. That’s an accomplishment.”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited. Wind Dancer’s a flatterer.”

  I turned around to find a tall, skinny cowboy in his sixties standing behind me, saddle in hand. He had one of those thick Sam Elliot mustaches and matching salt-and-pepper hair under his broad tan
Stetson. With the battered brown boots and the jeans, the only thing ruining his whole over-the-hill Marlborough Man look was the royal blue New Beginnings polo. It was hard to look rough-and-tumble in a polo shirt.

  “As long as he thinks you might bring him a treat, Wind Dancer will butter you up like a Sunday biscuit,” the man said, reaching out his free hand to shake mine. “Mick Murphy, I’m head riding instructor here at the facility.”

  “Violet Laswell. And Wind Dancer is a treat-loving man-whore, got it.” I gave Wind Dancer one last pat. “Shame on you, you deceiver. I’ll let you make it up to me on the trail.”

  “Oh, you won’t be riding Wind Dancer today,” he said, leading me down the line of stalls to the end.

  “What exactly is the point of this?” I asked as he slung the saddle over my shoulder. My knees almost buckled under the weight. “Ow.”

  “Equine therapy is one of the more entertaining parts of substance abuse treatment,” Mick said, suddenly sounding a lot less like Wyatt Earp and more like Cam for my comfort levels. He opened the stall door and led a big reddish-brown beast out by the bridle. “You learn how to stick to a schedule and meet your commitments by taking care of another living thing. By building a relationship with your horse, you rebuild your self-esteem. After all, if you can keep control over a thousand-pound animal, controlling yourself shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Also, the horses are very sensitive to tone of voice and body language. If you’re calm, the horse is calm. Addiction can keep people from learning how to control their impulses and tempers. So working with a horse retrains them to behave in a socially appropriate ‘won’t get kicked out of Thanksgiving’ way.”

  “I don’t actually have to shovel horse poo, right?” I asked as he took the saddle from my shoulder and effortlessly threw it over the horse’s back.