before beginning. “Catherine, mourning can be a long, long process. Especially when the circumstances are particularly traumatic, like what happened to you. I know you’re not ready to talk to me about it, but I am here for you when the time comes. And the time should come at some point.”
I nod again, but I know I’ll never be able to talk about it.
After the session, I have no interest in going to St. Anne’s. On the ride home, Mom asks me to run into Walmart to buy napkins while she gets gas. I’m feeling shaky, unmoored. Dr. McCallum lifts up the boulders in my head and shines a flashlight on stuff I do not want to see. I don’t like thinking about Grandma. How her brain weakened and betrayed her. It reminds me too much of my own defect. It reminds me that my future is damned. Regardless of how fine and dandy things can be, I’m still in Zero’s crosshairs. He’s coming for me. My permanent mental sucker punch. With all the resulting loss of dignity. So once inside Walmart, I stride straight to the pharmacy department and select a one-hundred-tablet bottle of Tylenol with the twenty dollars Aunt Darlene slipped me after our Mexican dinner. I pocket the bottle inside my sweater before exiting the store with the napkins.
Tonight, my shoe box gets a little more crowded.
It’s Tuesday at St. Anne’s. Week Two. The intensive outpatient program runs for three hours, three o’clock to six o’clock, with a ten-minute snack break, usually around 4:15. As soon as group guru Sandy announces break time and everyone stands and stretches, Kristal catches my eye and does a subtle head tilt toward the door, her long silver earrings swinging.
Outside Room Three, Kristal gently takes my elbow and steers me toward the girls’ bathroom. The others remain clustered around the Costco-sized jar of animal crackers and the bottled waters on the table. Inside the bathroom, Kristal plants her back against the door, blocking entry from the Immaculate Conception girls. “You’ve got to give me a heads-up when you’re not coming, Cat. It is unbearable when you’re not here.” Then, whipping out her iPhone, she asks, “What’s your number?”
What’s your number? What’s your number? What’s. Your. Number.
A surge of happy floods me. It is the second time in two weeks I’ve been asked for my number.
As Kristal pecks in my number, she asks, “Why’d you miss yesterday?”
“Medication check,” I say, astonished at how easy it is to be truthful with this girl I barely know. Maybe it’s the free-to-be-fucked-up vibe at St. Anne’s. Maybe it’s the new nickname—Cat—that Kristal has christened me with, making me feel like somebody else. Or that she willingly makes physical contact with me—digging her arm into my side during discussions, taking my elbow, grabbing my hand to make a point. Or maybe it’s that a girl like her, rich and polished and smart, seems to want to hang out, at least here at St. Anne’s, with Cat Pulaski.
Kristal rolls her eyes. “Don’t you hate all this? Shrink, IOPs, therapy…it’s endless.”
“God, yes,” I say, loving how phenomenal it is to confide in somebody who understands completely. Especially on the heels of yesterday’s hell session with Dr. McCallum.
Somebody raps hard on the bathroom door, and both Kristal and I jump. A girl’s voice urgently shout-whispers, “I need to come in!”
“It’s Amy,” Kristal whispers, bracing herself against the door. “Just a minute!” Kristal calls out sweetly before telling me, “Always text if you’re not coming. ’Cause if you’re not coming, neither am I. The only person I want to do a freaking collage with here is you.”
We roll our eyes about the arts-and-crafts project Sandy has planned for us today. We’re going to cut out pictures from magazines to make special “self-soothing” collages. We have to select images of things that soothe our five senses when we’re stressed. Sandy had offered up
I nod again, but I know I’ll never be able to talk about it.
After the session, I have no interest in going to St. Anne’s. On the ride home, Mom asks me to run into Walmart to buy napkins while she gets gas. I’m feeling shaky, unmoored. Dr. McCallum lifts up the boulders in my head and shines a flashlight on stuff I do not want to see. I don’t like thinking about Grandma. How her brain weakened and betrayed her. It reminds me too much of my own defect. It reminds me that my future is damned. Regardless of how fine and dandy things can be, I’m still in Zero’s crosshairs. He’s coming for me. My permanent mental sucker punch. With all the resulting loss of dignity. So once inside Walmart, I stride straight to the pharmacy department and select a one-hundred-tablet bottle of Tylenol with the twenty dollars Aunt Darlene slipped me after our Mexican dinner. I pocket the bottle inside my sweater before exiting the store with the napkins.
Tonight, my shoe box gets a little more crowded.
It’s Tuesday at St. Anne’s. Week Two. The intensive outpatient program runs for three hours, three o’clock to six o’clock, with a ten-minute snack break, usually around 4:15. As soon as group guru Sandy announces break time and everyone stands and stretches, Kristal catches my eye and does a subtle head tilt toward the door, her long silver earrings swinging.
Outside Room Three, Kristal gently takes my elbow and steers me toward the girls’ bathroom. The others remain clustered around the Costco-sized jar of animal crackers and the bottled waters on the table. Inside the bathroom, Kristal plants her back against the door, blocking entry from the Immaculate Conception girls. “You’ve got to give me a heads-up when you’re not coming, Cat. It is unbearable when you’re not here.” Then, whipping out her iPhone, she asks, “What’s your number?”
What’s your number? What’s your number? What’s. Your. Number.
A surge of happy floods me. It is the second time in two weeks I’ve been asked for my number.
As Kristal pecks in my number, she asks, “Why’d you miss yesterday?”
“Medication check,” I say, astonished at how easy it is to be truthful with this girl I barely know. Maybe it’s the free-to-be-fucked-up vibe at St. Anne’s. Maybe it’s the new nickname—Cat—that Kristal has christened me with, making me feel like somebody else. Or that she willingly makes physical contact with me—digging her arm into my side during discussions, taking my elbow, grabbing my hand to make a point. Or maybe it’s that a girl like her, rich and polished and smart, seems to want to hang out, at least here at St. Anne’s, with Cat Pulaski.
Kristal rolls her eyes. “Don’t you hate all this? Shrink, IOPs, therapy…it’s endless.”
“God, yes,” I say, loving how phenomenal it is to confide in somebody who understands completely. Especially on the heels of yesterday’s hell session with Dr. McCallum.
Somebody raps hard on the bathroom door, and both Kristal and I jump. A girl’s voice urgently shout-whispers, “I need to come in!”
“It’s Amy,” Kristal whispers, bracing herself against the door. “Just a minute!” Kristal calls out sweetly before telling me, “Always text if you’re not coming. ’Cause if you’re not coming, neither am I. The only person I want to do a freaking collage with here is you.”
We roll our eyes about the arts-and-crafts project Sandy has planned for us today. We’re going to cut out pictures from magazines to make special “self-soothing” collages. We have to select images of things that soothe our five senses when we’re stressed. Sandy had offered up
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