by Eliza Park
Although I’d only known Emily for a day, she was at my bedside with a glass of water and a cool cloth throughout the whole ordeal, reminding me that the pain was only temporary. She watched me cry and listened to me talk about Eli, brushed the hair from my face and offered sympathetic nods. She told me happy stories, asked me about my favorite memories, tried to distract me from the constant needle-like pain poking through every cell of my arms and legs.
On the fourth day I woke up with a slight headache, a welcome reprieve from the brain splitting pain I’d gotten used to. Emily was sitting at the end of my bed with a book in her lap, her legs folded under her. She smiled when I lifted my head from the pillow, feeling greasy and wet. “Good morning, Sunshine. You ready to take a shower?”
I nodded vaguely, feeling like the light streaming in through the window was far too bright. The colors of the walls were a pale baby blue, the sheets white, the bed frames an eggshell metal. Even our nightstands were of a pale oak, matching the identical desks on either side of the room.
Emily helped me out of bed, making an exaggerated face, “You stink, girl. The first shower after detox is the most amazing thing. You’re going to feel brand new stepping out of there, I promise.” She led me to our shared bathroom, all pale blue, and yellow tiles, and pointed to a crisp white towel hanging from a bamboo rack. “That one’s yours,” she said. “All the shampoo and stuff is already in there for you. You gonna be okay alone?”
I looked around me slowly, “I think so.”
She gave me a small smile and left, closing the door behind her.
My reflection shined back in the silver nozzle on the wall of the shower, and I blinked at the blonde girl staring back at me. It was distorted, twisted, unrecognizable, and I couldn’t help but admire how fitting that was. There were no mirrors in the bathroom, just the shiny, slanted silver. The water turned warm in seconds, filling the room with steam before I had a chance to remove all of my clothes and step behind the curtain. The river that ran over my aching body was like lava and I gasped at how real and painful it felt, marveling at the way it turned my skin the color of a red rose. I looked up into the shower head, wishing the water could be hot enough to give me a whole new body, peel the skin away, melt the bones, and reform them on the tile into an entirely new person. An emotion I hardly recognized carved a hollow into my throat and my eyes filled with tears. I let my face scrunch up, unable to let out the breath I was holding, to stop the emotion, as the sobs overtook me.
I was safe.
I was free.
I was sober.
And I was terrified of facing my own trauma.
I knew I’d have to sit and talk about it. I’d potentially have to tell complete strangers in a trial. I’d have to see him again in the court room and try not to look at his monstrous face.
I took a deep breath, inhaling mostly steam, and let it out, shivering despite the scalding water. I don’t know how long I spent in the shower, but when I finally emerged and put on a new pair of matching sweats, I felt better. I felt like things could be okay again. I got through the last four months and I would get through the next 26 days. Then I could go home and attend a local high school, hopefully catch up with how Maverick was doing in college.
I hadn’t been able to thank him for finding me at the party. It had felt so much like another dream, one of the ones I conjured up to get through the days. But I felt his body against mine, his hand in my hair, and when I’d fallen against him, inhaled the smell of his familiar cologne, I knew it was finally over.
Emily was sitting on her bed, reading the same book, “You feel better?”
“Yeah,” I moved over to my bed and sat down, “Thanks for…being there for me.”
She shrugged and gave me a small smile, “It’s what we do for each other. One junkie to another.” She closed her book and set it on the nightstand, “Besides, you’re not nearly as bad as the last girl.”
“Oh?”
“Gave me a black eye, the bitch. But it is what it is. She’s out now and back home. And you will be too.”
It is what it is.
“But not you?”
“You remember that?” she asked, standing.
I guess I did.
“Nah, I’m gonna ride this pony all the way to the grave.” She flashed me a broad grin, crossing her eyes together.
I laughed but it felt strange. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d genuinely felt happy enough to laugh.
“Come on, blondie, you got done just in time for your first round of group therapy.”
I sighed and pushed myself from the thin mattress, “Oh joy.”
“It’s not so bad, super cathartic really. When we’re done, you can write a letter to that hot guy you told me about.”
I froze.
“What was his name again? Something to do with being a pilot?” She grabbed something off her desk, a large black journal.
“Maverick,” I said, his name sounding unfamiliar in my mouth.
“Right, that’s the one.” She opened the door to our room and turned back to look at me, “There’s a journal on your desk. Bring it with you, it helps keep things straight.” She smiled, “You’ll get phone privileges in about eleven days.”
“What day is it?”
“December 28th.”
I nodded, following her from the room, counting in my head. My 18th birthday was in 8 days.
The rehab center was mostly white, but not a stark, scary kind of white. It was calming, closer to a yellowing cream than a bleached eggshell. Photos on the wall were of beautifully painted landscapes, their frames all matching in a light wood. Emily led us down the hall, her thin figure swaying as she waved at fellow patients and nurses, all of them greeting her with kind smiles. Her long brown hair was a pretty chestnut, streaked with red and plaited neatly in a braid down her back. It went against what I had put together of her personality. She scratched at her arm several times as we walked, her nails chipped and torn.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not nearly long enough, sunshine.” Her smile was easy, small teeth in her wide mouth to match her petite frame. She linked her arm through mine and turned me to a large, carpeted room with a wall full of windows, two glass paned doors opening up onto a broad patio. The ocean sat beyond it, the sound of waves crashing against the shore forcing calm to wash over my senses. I could smell the salt in the air, taste the humidity. “Group Therapy’s on the patio,” Emily said, wiggling her eyebrows, “You get it, now I bet.”
“Yeah,” I breathed, my eyes on the horizon. “I get it.”
A group of five people sat in matching cushioned wicker chairs, two of them wearing pale blue in place of the cream we were in. The therapist in charge of us sat with her back to the ocean, clear rimmed glasses on her narrow nose. She was dressed casually in slacks and a sweater, looking every ounce the picture of calm. “Welcome,” she said brightly, her voice softer than bunny fur. “Welcome to Group Therapy, Celeste, we’re so grateful to have you.”
Emily and I took seats right next to each other. Mine faced the ocean, and I had to concentrate to pull my gaze from the beautiful blue. It reminded me of Maverick, that cerulean blue that matched his eyes so well.
With Emily and I, there were six patients total to one therapist. Three boys and three girls. The therapist introduced herself as Helen, then instructed the groupies to do the same.
The two people in blue were boys and also roommates. I tried to repeat their names in my head but forgot them quickly. They were here for alcohol abuse. The other two-one boy, one girl, were in cream and also in the facility for pills. Their names also disappeared as soon as they were mentioned.
Helen was asking each individual to detail what they’d accomplished that week to aid in their recovery. I tried to keep my focus on their answers, but my gaze continued to drift to the waves crashing against the sand. I hoped we could go down there, explore the beach, maybe lay in the sun.
“Celeste
?” Helen’s soft voice tugged me back. Her smile was only kind, “You’ve only been here a few days, can you tell us what you’ve accomplished?”
My mouth fell open, “I—detoxed?”
One of the boys in blue smiled at me.
Helen nodded, “That’s a huge accomplishment, Celeste, and something you should be proud of. Congratulations. How long have you been using?”
I thought for a moment. How long had I been using? “Almost thirteen years, I guess.”
Helen’s eyebrows rose nearly imperceptibly and the guy next to me shifted in his seat. “What? How old are you?”
“I’ll be eighteen soon.”
There was silence around the group. Emily stared at me, her eyes wide.
I went on, guessing this demanded an explanation, “I got my first one sometime around my fifth birthday, I think. My psychiatrist could never find the right prescription for me, so I’d start to get them confused.”
The boy next to me was sitting forward, his hands on his elbows, “You were five? They started medicating you when you were five?”
“Chase,” Helen said to the boy, a calm warning.
He fell back in his seat.
“He’s right, Helen, that isn’t normal. It sounds like she was doing it involuntarily. You don’t even belong here,” offered the other boy. It didn’t feel like an accusation, but a defense on my own part.
“I disagree,” Emily was frowning, “This is the best place for her to escape those monsters.”
“Celeste,” Helen brought the conversation back, “How are you feeling now?”
I wanted to answer honestly, “Clear.” That didn’t seem like enough, so I added another piece, “Sad.”
Emily reached out her hand to hold mine and I was grateful for it.
“It’s common to feel down after detox, you miss the substance—.”
“No,” I interrupted, “I don’t miss the pills. I miss the life I could have had without them.”
Chase nodded, “I get that.”
“Me too,” Emily added.
“Without coke, I could have been valedictorian,” the other girl said.
I turned my attention to her then, realizing how skinny and pale she looked, how hollow her cheeks were. She seemed itchy and uncomfortable, and way too tired.
“Not me,” said the other boy, “I miss booze every day.”
I laughed, received a sharp look from Helen, and cleared my throat.
“I always felt like,” Emily started, her voice filling with emotion, “I could have protected myself better without them.”
I wanted to scream at her that I understood. Exactly. Too well.
“They control you from the second you start. They change your brain, the way you perceive things. It makes it hard to find a reality.”
“Trauma can do that too,” Helen pointed out.
Emily’s mouth set in a hard line, “I believe the trauma could have been prevented had the pills not been in the way. It’s too easy for people to blame the things we go through on the substances we abuse. They were stealing? Shot by a cop in their car? Raped at a party by a classmate? Well, was their alcohol in their system? Weed? Coke? The person who experienced the trauma gets blamed the minute the tox report comes back positive. Never mind the grades they get,” she gestured to the other girl, “How caring they are, if they’ve got no history of a criminal record, or even if they’re being prescribed a series of drugs they don’t need.” She squeezed my hand.
“That’s a good point,” Chase said, “It’s always going to be our fault.”
“Only,” Helen said, “If you continue on this path.”
“That’s not true,” I said, “Even after detox, the history of abuse is on our files.”
“It’s on the faces of the people that we see,” Emily said. “In their minds forever.”
“It can be used against us for the rest of our lives, as a means to manipulate, to blackmail.”
“So, there’s no hope,” said the other boy, “We may as well just keep doing what we’re doing.”
Helen interjected, “No, the only way to expunge your record is to continue on the path forward.”
The valedictorian girl spoke up then, her voice small, “We have to work so much harder than anyone else.”
“That’s true,” Helen agreed, “You do. And you will for a long time. But one day you won’t have to work as hard, you may even forget for a minute.”
“And then we’ll remember again,” I muttered.
“You will. You’ll remember, but you’ll look back on this period of time fondly. The catalyst that led you to a successful life.”
“How long will that take?” Chase asked.
Helen shrugged, “Depends on how hard you work at overcoming your addiction.”
Emily and I walked back to our rooms an hour later, talking the whole way about the group session.
“That was more than most anyone says in a single day, it was incredible.” She grinned.
“Really?”
“Yeah, no one wants to talk about their own shit, especially not with Helen. She’s like apple pie incarnate.”
I laughed at that. Helen did remind me of baked goods.
“Who was the other girl?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s Sarah. She’s a cokehead. You can always tell. They’re always sniffing.” She leaned towards me and sniffed me several times.
I pushed her away, giggling, “How long has she been here for?”
“I don’t know, on and off a few years, I think. Sarah’s really sweet though, and hyper smart, she just fell in with the wrong crowd. It happens to us privileged kids.”
I nodded. I knew what she meant all too well.
“So why did they start drugging you?” She asked, plopping onto her bed when we reentered our room, leaving the door open.
“I don’t know.”
Emily’s eyes widened, “You don’t know?”
I shrugged, “My mom told me the pills were supposed to help me concentrate.”
“But they didn’t, obviously.”
“They may have at one point, I can’t remember.”
“What did they give you?”
I tried to think back, “Risperidone, paliperidone, chlorpromazine, Zoloft,” I paused, “Um, Prozac, I think, for a while. And others.” I was surprised at my own memory retention, but I’d seen the bottles often enough through my life I should have been able to recall them somehow.
“Fuck, Celeste.”
“What about you?”
“Oh, Percocet, Vicodin, oxy. The usual stuff.”
“Yikes.”
She laughed, her head thrown back, “What do you mean ‘yikes’? We’re a couple of black sheep in a herd, you and me.”
I smiled, knowing that somehow, within just a short week, I’d managed to make one of the first friends I’d ever had who didn’t want anything from me but companionship.
Day 11
Emily and I were sitting on the floor of our room playing a game she’d invented called, “Porn Roulette.” We sat with our legs folded under us in thin pretzels, our kneecaps touching. She had a kindle in her right hand, and she read passages aloud from dirty books. Whoever laughed so hard their knees disconnected from the others lost the game.
It was ridiculous.
I loved it.
“He shoved his nose deeper into her drenched pussy, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets at how good she tasted.”
I was already laughing, pushing down on my thighs to keep from toppling over.
Emily’s prose was interrupted by her own snorts, “’I should have done this sooner,’ he said to her, his voice as deep as the ocean—,” she chortled loudly, unable to finish her sentence, “is blue,” she cried. “As deep as the ocean is blue!” She fell backwards, her knees lifting from mine, and I threw my hands in the air in victory, landing back on my right palm as my body shook with laughter.
“I can’t believe some of the shit people get away with pu
tting in books,” Emily said, wiping an eyeliner-stained tear from her eye.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t writing your own romance novel in that journal of yours,” I teased. My own journal was beginning to fill up with the single and group therapy sessions I’d been having. My personal therapist, Jenny, was helping me retrieve some of the memories I’d lost to pills. It was a long process, and working through the harder memories wasn’t easy. Luckily, I had a great roommate to distract me when I needed it.
Emily fluttered her eyelashes at me, “You’re just jealous because you want to be in it.”
I almost fell onto the floor, laughing.
Our nurse, Marie, appeared in our open doorway, surveying us with amused disapproval. She held a large white envelope in her hands. “This came for you today, Celeste,” she said with a smile. “Happy Birthday.”
I pushed off the ground and straightened my sweats, taking the white envelope from her hand.
“Is this how you two are celebrating? Reading dirty books?”
I giggled and Emily offered her most winning grin. “It’s not every day you turn 18, Marie! Celeste is legally allowed to enjoy adult novels if she so chooses.”
Bouncing onto my mattress, I pried at the envelope.
Marie rolled her eyes and left the room.
Emily hopped up and flopped down on her own mattress, swiping through the pages of her e-book. “Is that from your mom and dad?”
I shrugged, “I don’t know, there’s no return address. Guessing it’s the details of my trust.”
Emily’s eyes widened, “You have a trust?”
“Yeah, it becomes available to me on my 18th birthday.” I pulled a stack of papers out of the envelope and a purple sticky note fell to my lap. I picked it up and looked at it. In messy handwriting, it had two names I didn’t recognize and a hastily scrawled phone number with a 208-area code.
Witnesses? I wondered.