Broken Glass Page 8

  “I’m not mad about any of this,” my mom said to me, as she was about to leave. “And I don’t want you to be mad at me, either.” I didn’t look at her. I was sitting on the bed in my room and she was standing by the door. We’d both been in there for the last two hours unpacking. What I mean by unpacking is putting a couple of sweaters, some lounge pants (no strings, mind you), a pair of yellow, Spongebob Squarepants bedroom slippers, a bathrobe that didn’t tie, but instead buttoned, and some t-shirts in the lidless trunk in my room. According to Julianne, the hospital would be providing me with shoes and other necessary clothing items like underwear and socks. My mother and I hadn’t spoken that much to each other in those two hours.

  “I’m not mad at you,” I said finally. “At least, I don’t think I am.”

  “I can’t take the risk of leaving you alone,” she went on. “And I really don’t think me being there is going to do much good, either. Julianne cares about your well-being as much as I do. Please give it a chance. Let her help you.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Ava, I love you,” she said then. “I’ll always love you, no matter what happens.”

  “Wow, that’s original,” I said darkly. She just looked at me.

  “Look at the time,” she said in a quiet voice, glancing down at her watch. “It’s already six. I’ll walk with you to Julianne’s office.”

  Wordlessly, I followed after her, numb.

  We stepped into Julianne’s office, and I took a seat in the soft chair in front of Julianne’s desk. My mom bid us goodbye, saying she’d be back in two days for a visit, and left.

  “Have you soaked it all in yet?” Julianne asked me, after a few minutes’ silence. I shrugged.

  “I don’t really see how anyone could ever soak any of this in,” I replied. “This is hell.”

  “Well, you keep in mind that it is what you make it,” she said, and I heard tiredness in her voice. “You can’t start getting better until you want to.”

  “Oh, blah, blah, blah!” I groaned, letting my head fall back. “This is all bullshit, Julianne!”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked. I looked at her.

  “Because I’m in a nuthouse!” I exclaimed. “My room is the size of a cardboard box that a TV comes in! I can’t wear jewelry, my own shoes, my own panties, my own socks! For some reason, I can’t wear blue jeans or anything nice! I have to walk around in pajamas! I can’t even look out my own window, for Christ’s sake! Not to mention that I can’t even open a door on my own!”

  I stopped talking, breathing hard.

  Julianne was quiet for a moment, and then a smile slowly spread across her lips.

  “How did that feel, Ava?” she asked me.

  “Good, actually,” I admitted. “I haven’t been able to vent in a few weeks.”

  “I’m glad we got that out of the way, then,” she said. “Listen, Ava, you can get as mad as you want to about the way this situation is working out. If I were you, I’d be pissed off, too. But you can’t forget that you are who put you here. Not me. Not your mom. Nobody but you.”

  I was quiet.

  “The reason I wanted you to come here this evening is because there are some things I need to explain to you,” she continued. “First of all, no, you’re not going to make a major fashion statement here. The pajama-type clothes are for both comfort and your protection. Jeans have zippers and buttons, so naturally they’re out. Shoes have buckles and shoelaces. Forget it. You will be allowed to have your own bedroom slippers, however. Certain types of underwear are dangerous. The list goes on. Just accept it. At least you get to wear your own clothes. A lot of psychiatric hospitals require their patients to wear pajamas so as to distinguish them from other patients and civilians.”

  “What about what I have on now?” I asked her.

  “You’ll be giving me those tonight after you change into your pajamas,” she informed me. I rolled my eyes. She started to speak again.

  “Also, you’re on a schedule now. Monday through Friday, your days will start at nine a.m. You’re to be showered, dressed, and ready at ten a.m. The nurse will then come by your room, and you, along with the others on your ward will be escorted to the activities room, where you will eat your breakfast. There, you will also be given your daily medication. Breakfast will end at eleven a.m. and you’ll have one hour to do as you please, whether it be watching TV in the lobby, going for a walk outside, or whatever you choose. At noon, you will go to the group therapy room, where you will have a group therapy session that will last anywhere from half an hour to three hours. After the group session, you’ll return to the activities room for lunch and then you’re free to do whatever you please until four-thirty p.m., and that’s your time to come to my office for your personal therapy session.”

  “How long is my therapy session?” I broke in.

  “Up to two hours, four days a week,” she told me. “Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, we won’t have a personal therapy session.”

  “So what am I supposed to do on those days?” I asked.

  “I’ll get to that in a moment,” she replied. “Now, after our therapy session, you’ll go to the activities room for dinner, and after you’re done, you’re free to do whatever you want until eleven p.m., which is lights out, time for bed.”

  I sighed. So much change.

  “On Wednesdays, the only difference in your schedule is that you’ll have free time from after the group therapy session until lights out time,” Julianne went on.

  “What about Saturdays and Sundays?” I asked again.

  “Those are completely free days,” she told me. “Breakfast is served between eight a.m. to eleven a.m., lunch is served from one p.m. to three p.m., and dinner is between five p.m. and seven p.m. On Saturday nights at eight, everyone meets in the activities room to watch a movie and have some popcorn.”

  “Is bedtime at eleven on weekends, too?” I inquired.

  “No, lights out on Friday and Saturday nights is at midnight,” Julianne said.

  “God, this is so much to remember…” I grumbled.

  “Don’t worry, Ava, you’ll get the hang of things faster than you think,” Julianne assured me, with a smile. “I believe in you.”

  “Do I ever get to go home to visit my mom?” I asked then.

  “Depending on your behavior, every once in a while, you can receive a weekend pass home,” she said. “If you earn it. Otherwise, visiting days are Wednesdays and Sundays. Also, on the second Saturday of every month, we take a trip out and about, whether it be to a museum or a movie theater. It’s always a really fun trip.”

  “Sounds glorious,” I replied, with an eye roll. Julianne sighed.

  “Ava, I think you’re going to be okay,” she said, softly. “I really do.”

  I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap.

  “When will I be able to have my stuff?” I asked her.

  “Your mom will be back in two days, so she’ll bring it with her then, I suppose,” Julianne said. Then, in a more serious tone, she asked, “Ava, what do you think it’s going to take for me to help you to get better?”

  I pondered the question a moment and then looked up at her.

  “Bring Tyson back,” I answered, with all the honesty I had in me. She nodded and there was an inkling of disappointment in her blue eyes.

  “Let’s go get you something to eat,” she said, not acknowledging my reply. “It’s almost seven already. When was the last time you ate today?”

  “Three,” I said, getting up from my chair.

  “I’ll eat with you tonight, how about that?” she suggested. I just shrugged. I didn’t have control over anything in my life, so nothing I said or did felt like it would matter. I was trapped. And the worst part was I had done it to myself.

  I felt somewhat normal walking into the activities room. After all, I was still dressed “normal” in my khaki shorts, pink hoodie, and flip-flops. It was a pretty big room with wood floors and those typical bright, w
hite walls. There was a long table in the back of the room with an assortment of food and drinks on it, being watched by four nurses sitting in chairs. Five smaller tables were on the left side of the room, all occupied by male and female patients, I presumed.

  I followed Julianne up to the table.

  “What are we having tonight, ladies?” Julianne asked them, with a big smile.

  “Only the best, ma’am,” one of the older nurses said. “Grilled chicken, peas, cornbread, and mashed potatoes.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Julianne replied. “Ava, this is Connie, May, Louise, and Betty. Connie and May do most of the fantastic cooking here. You’ll be seeing Louise and Betty patrolling your ward some days.” I nodded.

  “She reminds me of someone,” Connie, the older nurse said then. “Look at her, May, who do you think?” May was also an older nurse, though with more gray hair than Connie, and she observed me for a moment. I wanted to punch her in her old face for looking at me like I was some test subject. If she said Sylvia Plath, there was definitely going to be a punch.

  “Grace Kelly!” Connie impatiently exclaimed.

  “She does!” May agreed, looking at the other two nurses. “You girls are too young to remember Grace Kelly, probably.” The younger nurses just shrugged.

  “Wow, what a compliment, Ava,” Julianne said, smiling at me.

  “Is that a good thing?” I asked, totally oblivious as to who Grace Kelly was.

  “She was gorgeous!” Connie told me. “She was an actress way back when and ended up marrying a prince.”

  “Well, that’s good then,” was all I could think to say. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s get you a plate, Ava,” Julianne said, handing me a plastic plate. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew if I wanted to get out of this place in sixty days, I was going to have to suck it up and eat. My hospital check-up had confirmed that I’d dropped sixteen pounds in a month’s time. With a 5’4” frame, Julianne had informed me that the lowest weight I should ever be was 115 pounds. I was 106 pounds.

  I loaded my plate up with acceptable portions of peas, potatoes, chicken, and cornbread, and opted for a bottle of water. After Julianne had also gotten a plate of food, I followed her to find a seat.

  “Hey, guys, mind if we sit here?” Julianne asked, stopping at a table where two young guys sat.

  “Sure,” one of them said, smiling pleasantly. He got up and moved to the other side of the table, so that Julianne and I could sit next to each other.

  We sat down and Julianne began the introductions, yet again.

  “This is Ava,” she said. “Ava, this is Henry and Shakespeare.”

  “That’s a cool name,” I said immediately. The boy, Shakespeare, looked to be just a little older than me, and he looked like the type of guy you’d never imagine seeing in a psycho hospital. He had very handsome features, dark hair, dark eyes, prominent bone structure, and for a second, I wondered if perhaps he was foreign.

  “Thank you,” he said, in a very Virginian accent.

  “How do you like the place so far?” the other guy spoke up. I did a once-over on him, then. He definitely looked like he belonged in Craneville. Skinny, pale, shaggy brown hair, and light blue eyes formed an unhealthy crazy look.

  “I haven’t really formed an opinion yet,” I lied. “I haven’t been here long enough.” I pushed the food on my plate around with my fork.

  Julianne then proceeded to make small talk with them while I somehow managed to push the less-than-delectable food down my throat. I was successively tuning them out, which is why I was surprised when Julianne stood up.

  “Are you ready, Ava?”

  I looked up at her quickly.

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, standing up as well. “Um, see you guys later.”

  I followed Julianne to the trashcan by the door leading out of the room, threw my trash in, and left.

  “Where are we going now?” I asked.

  “To your room,” Julianne replied. “You’ll need to go ahead and change out of those clothes so I can take them before I leave.”

  “Leave?” I asked, not expecting this.

  “Yes, leave,” she chuckled. “I don’t live here, Ava.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I muttered.

  I changed into the white cotton panties I’d been given by Julianne, pink lounge pants and the white “I Live For Rose Madder” t-shirt I’d made for Tyson’s band back in high school. I handed Julianne the clothes I’d been wearing with a grimace.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now, you’re free to do whatever you choose until eleven. If you need to get out those doors, just ask a nurse or attendant to type in the code for you.”

  “Okay,” I replied, as she walked to the door.

  “And remember, you must be up by nine in the morning,” she reminded me. “Someone will be by your room to wake you.”

  “What, no alarm clock?” I asked, putting the sets of panties and socks Julianne had provided me with into the trunk in my room.

  “There’s a digital clock in the top drawer of your nightstand,” Julianne said.

  “Really?” I asked her, surprised. “I didn’t see any outlets.”

  “It’s battery powered,” she said, smiling slightly. “See you tomorrow at noon, Ava.” I gave her a wave and lay back on my bed. I let out a loud sigh when she’d left. I sat up and opened the top drawer of my nightstand. I pulled out the digital alarm clock, the time was already correct, and programmed the alarm for nine a.m. I set it on the top of the nightstand and then lay back on the bed again. None of this was happening. It couldn’t be. Tears began welling up in my eyes. Why had this happened? Why did Tyson have to die? Of all the people in the world. Of all the things to happen.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a loud bang on my door. I quickly sat up and wiped my eyes dry with the back of my hand. I got up and walked to the door, opening it slowly.

  There stood the girl with the pink and white hair.

  “Hello, new girl,” she said, smirking and walking past me and into my room. She stopped and looked around.

  “Not much different than mine,” she commented, giving me a wink.

  “What are you doing?” I found myself asking her.

  “Oh, beg your pardon,” she said, walking up to me. “We met earlier, remember? I’m Aurelia and you’re…Ava, is that right?” I just nodded.

  “Please tell me you remember meeting me,” she threw her head back and laughed. “Or are you one of the really crazy ones?”

  “No, I remember you,” I told her, going back over to my bed and sitting down. “What do you want?” I couldn’t believe I’d said it. But who cared? Clearly, she was crazy.

  “What do I want?” she asked, in a very dramatic fashion. “Funny you should ask because my therapist never seems to care what I want!”

  Oh, my God. I’d opened a can of worms.

  “I want a purple Jaguar, a house in the Hamptons,” she began. “An Academy Award, a winning lottery ticket…and oh, yes, let’s not forget drugs, alcohol, and loooooots of sex!”

  I stared at her.

  “But never mind me,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m Aurelia, I’m your neighbor, and that’s all you need to know for now. I want to know all about you.”

  “Not to be rude, Aurelia,” I said, in a tired voice. “But I’m not really in the mood for company tonight.”

  “Oh, don’t be a drag!” Aurelia replied. “We’ve still got three hours until lights out. Surely you want to meet everyone.”

  “Not really,” I told her. “I’m sleepy. I want to go to bed.”

  “No you don’t,” she evened. “You want to lay in here by yourself and wallow in your self-pity that probably put you here in the first place.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “Are you trying to get under my skin?” I asked, chuckling.

  “Maybe,” she responded. “Is it working?”

  “Not at all,” I said, getting to my feet and pulling the covers down
on my bed.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I told you I’m sleepy,” I said, getting into bed and pulling the covers up over my legs. “I’m going to bed. You don’t have to leave, but you’ll be bored. As for getting to know each other, we have the next two months to do that in group therapy. Good night.”

  I closed my eyes, praying she’d leave. I heard her shuffle about the room, and then the door opened and closed and it was silent. I opened my eyes and saw that I was alone.

  It was going to be a long two months.

  10.

  “I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire, went down, down, down, and the flames went higher…”

  I opened my eyes and groaned, slamming my hand down on the snooze button of the alarm clock to cease the blaring music. I rolled over and closed my eyes again. They quickly fluttered back open when someone pounded on my door and then opened it.

  “Time to get up!”

  I rolled over to face whomever it was lingering in my doorway. A short, very heavyset woman with thick glasses was smiling.

  “Good morning!” she said, brightly. She flipped on the light. My hand flew up to shield my eyes.

  “C’mon, get up!” she even more pleasantly pushy. “Gotta get your bath things and head off to the showers!”

  I sat up, groggy, and threw my legs over the side of the bed. I got up slowly and treaded over to the nurse, who handed me a little bucket with a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shower shoes, and a towel.

  “What do I do with all this stuff once I’m done?” I asked her.

  “You’ll keep it in your room,” she informed me. “But be sure to throw your towel in the laundry bin in the hall outside the bathroom when you’re done drying off!”

  I just looked at her for another moment before going back into my room to change into my robe. How on earth could someone working in a mental hospital be that cheerful? I took off my pajamas, put on my robe, and padded down to the bathroom, still squinting in the new bright lights of the day.