Reinventing Rachel

by Alison Strobel

  The nurse returned with some coffee and shrugged. “I talked to the doc handling her case and told him the situation. He said he’d be out in a minute.”

  A small measure of relief allowed Rachel to finally relax. She sipped the coffee, hands wrapped around the paper cup to soak in the warmth. “In a minute” turned into half an hour, and by the time the doctor showed up the coffee was gone and anxiety had begun to thrash her stomach.

  “You’re Daphne’s friend?”

  “Yes, Rachel Westing.”

  He nodded. “Rachel, could you come with me?”

  She jumped up and followed him, sneaking a peek into every room they passed, looking for Daphne. He ushered her into a private ER room and shut the door, then pulled a stool out from a counter and motioned for her to sit. His gaze hovered just beneath her eyes. “Daphne had bleeding in her brain. We’re unsure if it was caused by her fall or by the crystal meth we found in her system. If it was from the meth, the bleeding may have caused a stroke, which in turn may have caused the fall.” He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Regardless, too much damage had already been done. I’m sorry—she’s gone.”

  Rachel was speechless. Her mouth hung open, on the verge of speaking, but her mind was on tilt. She started to shake. The nurse who had brought her the coffee appeared and walked her back to the waiting area, then asked if there was anyone she wanted to call to get a ride home.

  She shook her head, feeling numb. “No,” she said. “There’s no one.”

  Chapter 20

  Daphne is gone.

  Daphne is gone.

  Daphne is gone.

  The broken record in her head kept her from sleeping. She stared at the wall, helpless, bereft, and slowly suffocating under the cloud that had descended once more to blacken her thoughts. The vodka she’d drunk when she’d gotten home hadn’t touched the pain in her heart, and she’d finally given up trying to make it go away. Instead she stared it in the face, drew the razors of memories over her mind, over and over and over, bleeding out loneliness and fear and hopelessness.

  Although the past six months had revealed Daphne’s ugliest sides—and some of Rachel’s—she couldn’t help but think about the things she loved about her friend. Daphne had always been one of the people Rachel had most admired. Rather than let her upbringing hold her back, she had broken free of it and forged a new life for herself. She had pursued her passions, however frivolous they might be. She had tried to make every day memorable.

  And she did, right up until the very end. I’ll never forget this day, no matter how hard I try.

  It wasn’t just the shock of the day’s events that kept Rachel awake. It was knowing how helpless Daphne had been in the face of her problems. Even though she’d had friends, they hadn’t been enough. Including Rachel. She felt the sting of guilt for the hundredth time that night. She hadn’t been the friend Daphne needed, and there was no going back.

  But what if people—friends—were never enough? What if there was nothing Rachel could have done? Where could Daphne had gone then?

  Bits of the conversations she’d had with Ruby Jean came to her as she watched the minutes tick by on the clock. Ruby Jean was grasping just as Daphne had been; she was just grasping at something else. But she had no confidence in the rituals and objects and traditions that she turned to—just hope, hope that they would be the right thing at the right time. When one didn’t work, she grasped another one, and another, until she felt some peace. What happened when she ran out of things to try?

  Where—Who—are we supposed to go to in this life if not God?

  The answer was surprisingly clear to her—it was the only thing that wasn’t surrounded with cottony confusion in her mind. It was God. But how could she try that again when it had failed her so thoroughly?

  It’s only clear because it’s been hammered into me since birth. Was the God she grew up on any different than the gods Ruby Jean turned to or the crystal meth Daphne used? Weren’t they all crutches, all just a way to numb the pain and get through the day?

  Let go of it all, said a voice in her head. It was eerie, but it soothed her. Your life is a shambles, it will never be better, there’s no use in trying anymore. Why bother? Let go, just let go.…

  o

  Rachel was vaguely aware of someone in her apartment. She didn’t call out from bed, didn’t open her eyes—mostly because she couldn’t seem to move anymore. But even if she could have moved she would have stayed just as she was.

  Someone was talking to her. The voice, distinctly different from the voice she had heard earlier, was muffled, distant, though the hands that held hers were much closer. She couldn’t make out what the person was saying, other than one word: Jesus. Over and over. “Jesus.” Not cursed, not hurled like an epithet, but pleading.

  The name made Rachel want to smile. It made her think of warm summer days. The image of a strong hand reaching out to her floated through her consciousness, and she imagined reaching for it, feeling its sure, steady grasp. She let herself slip back into sleep, the hand still clutched in hers.

  o

  Rachel awoke once again aware of someone in the apartment. Two someones actually—they talked in garbled voices and then faded away. Slowly more sounds came to her—beeping, a voice calling for Dr. Stein, someone crying—growing louder and more confusing until she realized these were not the sounds of her apartment. Nor were the smells: pine-scented disinfectant and her own stale sweat. She felt like she was rising up through a lake of honey, moving in slow motion, immobilized by its sticky, viscous grip. Sounds grew more distinct, sensations grew stronger—scratchy material on her body, something poking the top of her hand—and smells grew sharper until she was finally able to open her eyes.

  On either side of her were green curtains hanging from tracks on the ceiling. Before her was the bustle of the ER. An IV snaked from the back of her hand to a bag on a pole, dripping a clear liquid into her veins. She felt scrambled inside, physically and mentally. Emotionally, she just felt dead.

  She stared silently at her surroundings until a nurse happened by. “Oh, you’re awake. I’ll let Dr. Thoms know.”

  She didn’t know how much time passed, but she didn’t mind the wait. Still, the patch of sunlight that had first fallen on the foot of her bed moved a significant amount before Dr. Thoms—a middle-aged woman with red hair—finally showed up. She introduced herself, then pulled a rolling stool beside the bed and sat down. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been beat up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You were severely dehydrated, and your blood sugar levels were extremely low. What have you been doing for the past three days?”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Three days? I didn’t know it had been that long.”

  “How long did you think it had been?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Just … not that long.”

  “So … you didn’t answer my question. What were you doing?”

  “Nothing. Literally.”

  “Why is that?”

  A little voice told me to. Not that she’d admit it. “I was depressed.”

  Dr. Thoms nodded, her features revealing nothing of what she thought about Rachel’s approach to problem management. “There was alcohol in your system, too. Not a lot, but given the size of the bottle your friend found beside the bed, I assume you weren’t just having a nightcap.”

  “My friend? Who brought me in?”

  Dr. Thoms checked her chart. “Ruby Jean Cronin.”

  Rachel frowned. “Really?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Rachel could remember hearing Jesus’ name being said aloud—had Ruby Jean been praying for her? Why wasn’t she on her vacation? “Just not who I was expecting you to say.”

  Dr. Thoms closed the chart. “So, about the alcohol. Do you drink a lot?”

  “‘A lot’ is relative.’”

  “True. How much do you drink in a day?”

  “Depends on the
day.”

  “Has anyone ever expressed concern at how much you drink?”

  Rachel dropped her gaze to the patch of sunlight near her toes. “Um … yeah.”

  “Have you ever thought you ought to cut down on how much you drink?”

  She remembered the day she went into work drunk without even realizing it. “Yeah ...”

  “Have you ever had a drink first thing in the morning?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Thoms nodded and opened the chart again. “So, what—I’m an alcoholic?”

  “Well, you’re not engaging with alcohol in a healthy fashion, let’s just put it that way.” Dr. Thoms glanced up at her. “You don’t seem particularly upset about that.”

  “I don’t really feel anything.”

  The doctor nodded slowly. “I’d like to have you speak with one of our social workers. Would you be willing to do that?”

  Rachel shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Dr. Thoms hung the chart on the foot of the bed and walked away, leaving Rachel to entertain herself. She closed her eyes, bored with the traumas around her. She wanted to sleep, but a nagging question kept popping up in her mind.

  What was I doing for three days?

  “Rachel?”

  Rachel opened her eyes. A young woman, maybe only a few years older than her, stood at the end of the bed. “My name is Amelia. Dr. Thoms asked me to come down and talk with you. Are you up for it right now?”

  Rachel pushed herself up a bit on the bed. “Sure. Nothing else to do.”

  Amelia sat on the stool Dr. Thoms had left beside the bed. “The doctor told me a little bit of what happened, and that you seem to be struggling with alcohol and depression.”

  “I never thought I was struggling with alcohol, but with depression, yeah.”

  “Do you think there’s a specific reason behind your depression?”

  Rachel almost smiled. “One specific reason? No. More like six or seven.”

  “Would you mind telling me about them?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  Amelia chuckled. “All the time you need.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. “All right, then. Back in May …” She chronicled her life over the last six months, sharing every tragedy and struggle in a dispassionate voice as though reading the dictionary. When she finished, she waved a hand weakly. “And there you go. The end.”

  Amelia raised her eyebrows. “Wow. I’m not surprised you used alcohol to get a little peace.” She made a note on the clipboard she held, then said, “I have one more question for you. After Daphne died, what did you do when you went home?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t remember. I think I was just … done.”

  “Done—with what?”

  “I don’t know. Life, I guess.”

  “Dr. Thoms said alcohol was found in your system, so obviously you were drinking over the last few days. Did you drink with any particular purpose in mind?”

  A memory suddenly came to her—taking swallow after swallow as a voice in her head recounted how much it had taken Daphne to pass out from drinking. “I—I might have been drinking to try to escape,” she said slowly. She wasn’t sure how honest she wanted to get about this.

  “Escape from what?”

  “Um … life?”

  “You sound unsure.”

  “That’s because I am. Like I told you, I don’t remember much.”

  Amelia nodded. “Rachel, I’d like to recommend you for our inpatient program. It will help you dry out from the alcohol, learn how to handle the addiction to it, and address the depression you’ve been experiencing. Would you be willing to enter that program voluntarily?”

  Rachel sighed and closed her eyes. “Sounds like you think I should, huh?”

  “In my professional opinion, yes.”

  Rachel pictured hours spent weaving lanyards and watching game shows on a community television. She had no idea if this was an accurate assessment of inpatient programs, but even if it wasn’t, it had to be better than the half-human feeling she had right now and the inescapable feeling of impending doom that shadowed her every day.

  “All right then. I’ll go.”

  o

  The next five days were surreal. The withdrawal hadn’t been too bad, given she hadn’t been drinking for very long, but the mental addiction was far worse than the physical. Luckily they kept her busy, with minimal downtime for her to dwell on how soothing a drink would be.

  Through the various forms of therapy used in the program, she came to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she had been abusing alcohol. By her last day she’d accumulated a list of tools to help her cope with life, though she had a feeling she’d be returning to her coffee habit to help as well. Thankfully Ruby Jean, who had come to visit her, had assured her that her job was still there if she wanted it.

  On the advice of her psychiatrist she began journaling on her second day there, and by the time she left she had twelve pages front and back filled with stream-of-consciousness chatter. When she was feeling particularly fragile, she wrote about shallow, inconsequential things, like the kinds of coffee she was going to buy when she got out. But when she felt brave, she drilled deeper, asking herself “why” over and over to every statement she wrote.

  Why had she fallen apart in Chicago and not California? Why hadn’t she wanted to stay with Jack for the long haul? Why wasn’t she able to embrace Ruby Jean’s approach to spirituality—and why did she still care so much about spirituality in the first place?

  That question came up more than once. She still was unable to answer it.

  Jack picked her up when she was discharged. She’d been reluctant to accept the offer, but he’d read her mind and assured her she had no reason to feel weird. Nevertheless, embarrassment burned in her cheeks when she walked out of the psych ward with her duffel into the circle drive where he waited in his truck.

  “Come here often?” she quipped when she got in, hoping to break the ice.

  “A lot more than you’d think.” He grinned, then leaned over and gave her a friendly hug. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not a hundred percent, but not too terrible. Mostly I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  The closer they got to the apartment, the worse Rachel’s anxiety got. She mentally checked off the tools on her list—visualization, calming breaths, positive self-talk—and a block before home admitted, “I’m a little freaked out about going home knowing that Daphne is … you know.”

  Jack squeezed her hand briefly. “Want me to stay for a bit? I can if you want.”

  “Maybe just for a little bit. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” He gave her a smile and changed the subject to idle gossip about his roommates, and Rachel was grateful for the distraction. When they pulled up to the curb in front of the house, he helped her from the cab and gave her hand a squeeze. “You can close your eyes, and I’ll lead you up if you’d rather not look.”

  This made her laugh. “Thanks. I think I’ll make it. But keep an eye on me just in case.”

  Once in the house she thought she’d feel better, but after a few minutes she realized it would take a lot longer than that to feel comfortable.

  “We could go out, get something to eat,” Jack offered when she admitted her discomfort.

  “No, running away won’t solve anything.” She gave him a self-deprecating grin. “Therapy 101. My insurance dollars at work.”

  He smiled, but spoke seriously. “Listen, I know this—” he waved a hand between them, “might be awkward, given we’re not together anymore. But I want to help you, if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you, Jack.”

  “And don’t feel like you have to put on a brave face for me, either. You’ve had a horrible week. Don’t try to be Little Miss Sunshine, okay?”

  She nodded. “I know. I think I’m a little afraid to be honest with myself about how I feel. I’m afraid I’m goin
g to fall off the wagon. Being here alone …” She shook her head. “It’s just eerie. But—” she held up a hand, “I don’t want you to even think about offering to stay over. I know you would because you’re such a gentleman. But I don’t want things to get … confusing.”

  He gave her a brief hug. “I understand.”

  They separated and took seats opposite each other in the living room. “So, by the way,” he said, “Leah told me to tell you that she wants to come over tonight and bring you dinner.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She said for one of us to let her know if that would be okay. She’s off at three, so we can still catch her at the café.”

  The thought of talking to Leah comforted her. Rachel pulled her cell from her pocket and dialed, then asked for Leah. “Hey, it’s Rachel.”

  “Rachel, hi! Are you home now?”

  “Yeah—and Jack said something about you wanting to bring dinner over.”

  “Only if you’re up to it. And I understand if you aren’t.”

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t mind, as long as you’re not expecting engaging conversation.”

  Leah chuckled. “There’s no pressure on you, believe me. I won’t stay long, either, though I do want to run something by you. Anything in particular I can bring you?”

  “After five days of hospital food, everything sounds like gourmet.”

  “Ha, I’ll bet. I’ll bring pizza.”

  Jack stayed while Rachel unpacked, and later, as he was preparing to leave, he suddenly blurted, “I feel awful, Rachel, for everything, but especially this.”

  “For ‘this’? What do you mean?”

  “The whole … psych-ward thing.”

  She almost laughed. “Jack, that is not your fault.”

  “Are you sure? I thought maybe it was because I, you know, broke up with you—”

  “No, no, this is not because you broke up with me.” She took a deep breath and sighed. “Honestly, I was actually glad you did. I really didn’t want to move in together, but I didn’t think I had any other choice. That was feeding into my anxiety and depression. But it still wasn’t your fault. It was just one of many things that I couldn’t figure out how to handle, and they all built up until Daphne’s death put me over.”