Sisters in Sanity
Page 4
Just before seventh-grade winter break, Mom got it in her head that we should escape the gray and go live on the beach in Mexico for a month. She whispered her idea into Dad’s ear, and next thing you know, Grandma is running CoffeeNation, and we’re living in huts on the Yucatan Peninsula, eating fish tacos for breakfast. What kind of parents let their kids do something like that, even if it means missing a couple weeks of school?
Looking back, to tell the truth, I guess Mom didn’t care quite enough about stuff like school, but Dad did. Where she was like a rainbow after a storm, he was like the umbrella during it—the solid one keeping us dry: the doctor-appointment maker, the lunch packer, the worrier. Dad was the parent, and Mom was more like another kid. So maybe that’s why when she started to change, no one noticed at first. She’d do odd things, like insist that we unplug all the phones and leave on the downstairs lights at night—to prevent spies from watching us, she’d say. Or she’d leave for work and show up at CoffeeNation four hours later, with no memory of where she’d been. When she took a knife to her paintings because “the voices told me to,” we started with all the doctors and their diagnoses. First “borderline personality disorder.” Then “paranoia.” And finally “paranoid schizophrenia.” But Mom refused to admit anything was wrong and refused any treatment. My grandma moved up from California to take care of us and begged Dad to have Mom committed to a mental hospital, but Dad just kept saying, “Not yet; she might get better.” I think he really believed that. Until the day she left us.
After that, Dad had to close down CoffeeNation and go to work at a software company, which is where he met Stepmonster, who’s the kind of woman who freaks out if her handbag doesn’t match her shoes perfectly. Within a year they were married, and my wonderful family was history. Then I understood that having someone watch your back isn’t automatic. It’s special—and it can be taken away from you.
Chapter 6
“How’d they get you?” Bebe asked. It was my second week working the cinder-block piles. Autumn had arrived suddenly, cooling the desert furnace and making the sky turn an unbelievable shade of blue.
“How did who get me?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw V snicker. She and Bebe had some kind of weird friendship—constantly insulting each other affectionately—and because Bebe and I were roommates, I ended up spending a lot of time around V. Unfortunately, everything I did seemed to irritate her.
“Cassie, this is our ignorant newbie, Brit. Have you met?”
“We’ve howdied but that’s all. Nice to meet ya.”
“You too.” Cassie was from Texas, strong like a ranch hand, and great to work near on the quarry.
“Red Rock, darling,” Bebe explained. “How’d you get here?” she asked again.
“My dad drove me. How else would I get here?”
“An escort, of course,” Bebe said.
“Like a date?” I asked. V laughed again, right in my face this time.
“Now don’t laugh, V,” Cassie said, giving me a sympathetic look. “More like a kidnappin’. That’s how they got me. They came for me in the middle of the night and hauled me away like a stray dog or somethin’. They even handcuffed me. I thought it was some kind of abduction, until I caught sight of my folks watchin’ from the window.”
“They did it because you’re…..gay.”
“Well, they think I am.”
“Are you?”
“I’m bi. But don’t get all squirrelly on me. You don’t hit on every guy you meet, so it’s not like I’m gonna come after you.” She was right about that. I didn’t hit on any guy I met. I just crushed hopelessly after Jed.
“It’s nice to see that Cassie’s given you her introductory homophobia lecture. Forgive her,” V said. “She can’t help herself.”
“Yeah, well, half the girls in this place act like they think I’m checking them out all the time. And most of them ain’t even cute.”
“But you were kidnapped and brought here? That’s awful, Cassie.”
“Darling Brit,” Bebe interrupted. “It’s called an escort, and it’s standard operating procedure.”
“So your parents did that too?”
“Parent, singular. Dad’s out of the picture. And Mother, well there’s no Four Seasons within a hundred miles of this place. She wouldn’t be caught dead here.”
“Are your parents rich, Brit?” V asked.
“That’s none of your business.” I could tell that V’s were. She had that money smell to her.
“Don’t get all OC on me, newbie. I ask because if you have money, you’re screwed. Insurance pays for the first three months of your stay. If you’re poor, then suddenly at three months, boom, you’re in level Six and out the door. Cured by the miracle of Scam Rocks. But if your family has the money to keep footing the bill, that’s an entirely different set of circumstances. You could be stuck for life.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Virginia. Until you’re eighteen,” Bebe said. She looked at my panicked face. “When you’re eighteen, you can check yourself out.”
“How long have you all been here?”
“Six months,” Cassie said. “My parents aren’t rich, but they’re desperate to straighten me out.”
“Four months,” Bebe said. “But you can guarantee I’ll be here or at some other school a while. I’ve been at boarding schools for years. Of course, this is my first RTC.”
“RTC?”
“God, newbie,” said V. “It’s a residential treatment center. They call it a school, but it’s a loony bin, a bogus, bullshit, behavior-modification boot-camp warehouse for unwanted misfit teens.”
Argh! Sometimes I really wanted to hurl a brick at V, to knock that all-knowing expression right off her face. My dad would never shuttle me off to boot camp. The thought of it made me want to cry. “My dad doesn’t want me warehoused!” I said defiantly.
“Right,” V said. “He just sent you here to rest up. Sure he did.”
“It wasn’t the dad,” Bebe pointed out. “She’s a Cinderella story. The stepmom sent her here.”
“I’d reckon your stepmom reads LifeStyle magazine,” Cassie said.
She did. There were stacks of them in our kitchen. She claimed she liked the recipes.
“Red Rock advertises in the back, promising quick results to cure the surly child,” Bebe said. “You can’t totally blame your stepmom, though. They make this place seem like a therapeutic Club Med.”
“That’s why they encourage the escorts instead of drop-offs. They don’t much appreciate parents seein’ this place in its skivvies,” Cassie added with a sly smile.
“That’s also why they monitor your mail. To preempt any complaints you may have,” V said. “There’s this whole section in the brochure warning parents to expect their kids to complain about how badly they’re treated here. Our lies are part of our sickness. It’s pretty clever. They really know how to cover their asses.”
“Oh my God, it’s a total gulag.”
“That is the first smart thing you’ve said, Brit.” V tapped me on the forehead. “Of course, every gulag has its secrets, escape routes, and codes.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are ways to subvert the power.”
“What?”
“Patience, newbie. You’ll learn,” V said.
“All will be revealed,” Bebe promised.
Cassie put her hands together and bowed forward like a Tibetan monk who knew the secrets of the universe, and we all cracked up. It was the first time I’d laughed at Red Rock. But then the guards heard us having too much fun and separated us.
Chapter 7
Out in the yard, you’d think no one was paying attention, but Bebe was right—there were eyes everywhere. The next time I had my appointment with Clayton, she immediately brought up V.
“I hear you are spending a lot of time with Virginia Larson,” she said. “You girls call her V, I’m told.”
“We sometimes build cinder-block walls together, and sometimes we take down those walls. If that’s how you define spending time.”
“Brit, you may think your quips are winning but they are only self-defeating. In any case, I would discourage you from getting close to Virginia.”
“But why? She’s Level Six. Isn’t she supposed to be a positive influence on me?” I still wasn’t sure whether V was friend or foe, but Clayton’s warning made me lean toward the former.
“Virginia is Level Six for now. But she has a way of backsliding, so, no, I don’t think I’d qualify her as a positive influence. Now, I need your word that you’ll steer clear of her, and if you give it to me, it will prove that you are responsible enough.”
“Responsible enough for what?”
“To get a letter from your father. I’ve had it a while but I didn’t think you were ready.”
What right did she have to withhold mail from my dad? I wanted to lunge across the desk and wring her skinny neck until her pilgrim head popped off. But I wanted the letter even more. I bit my lip. I was doing a lot of that lately, so much so that part of it was turning purple. I told her I’d avoid Virginia, so she handed me the letter, watching me expectantly. As if I would open it in front of her. No way. I held on to it until dinner.
Dear Brit:I hope this letter finds you well. Fall has arrived in Portland, and we’ve had rain every day. No sooner does it get light than it gets dark. Never my favorite time of year. The drainpipes have already clogged with leaves and flooded the living room again. Your mother has been busy taking care of the repairs.We are all fine. Billy misses you. He crawls to your room and likes to sit outside your door. It’s sweet.Your friends from the band were very upset by your absence. Jed and Denise have come over several times to look for you, and when I finally explained where you were, Denise grew quite angry. I suppose I understand. No one likes the ogre who breaks up the group. Jed asked if he could write to you, but I told him you were not allowed to receive mail from non–family members. He insisted that I give you a message about a song you wrote. In fact, he refused to leave until I swore on your health that I’d tell you that they would not forget the Firefly song. I don’t quite understand the big deal as you’re not in the band anymore, but a promise is a promise.I expect you are very angry with me and your mother, but I hope in my heart of hearts that one day you might understand that this was done from love.I know you can’t write me yet, but when you are allowed to, I hope you will.Happy Halloween.I love you,
Dad Up until that point, I’d been left out of the CT circles, but two days after I got my letter from Dad, Sheriff decided to lead group. And guess whose turn it was for the hot seat? Sheriff played it like a twisted game of duck, duck, goose, standing at the head of the confrontation circle, cocking an imaginary trigger with his finger, squinting like he was looking through a rifle sight. “Which one of you little girls thinks you can hide from the truth?” he asked in his gruff cowboy voice. “You? You? You?” he asked while he pointed at each of us. Then he stopped on me and motioned me to the middle.
Looking back, to tell the truth, I guess Mom didn’t care quite enough about stuff like school, but Dad did. Where she was like a rainbow after a storm, he was like the umbrella during it—the solid one keeping us dry: the doctor-appointment maker, the lunch packer, the worrier. Dad was the parent, and Mom was more like another kid. So maybe that’s why when she started to change, no one noticed at first. She’d do odd things, like insist that we unplug all the phones and leave on the downstairs lights at night—to prevent spies from watching us, she’d say. Or she’d leave for work and show up at CoffeeNation four hours later, with no memory of where she’d been. When she took a knife to her paintings because “the voices told me to,” we started with all the doctors and their diagnoses. First “borderline personality disorder.” Then “paranoia.” And finally “paranoid schizophrenia.” But Mom refused to admit anything was wrong and refused any treatment. My grandma moved up from California to take care of us and begged Dad to have Mom committed to a mental hospital, but Dad just kept saying, “Not yet; she might get better.” I think he really believed that. Until the day she left us.
After that, Dad had to close down CoffeeNation and go to work at a software company, which is where he met Stepmonster, who’s the kind of woman who freaks out if her handbag doesn’t match her shoes perfectly. Within a year they were married, and my wonderful family was history. Then I understood that having someone watch your back isn’t automatic. It’s special—and it can be taken away from you.
Chapter 6
“How’d they get you?” Bebe asked. It was my second week working the cinder-block piles. Autumn had arrived suddenly, cooling the desert furnace and making the sky turn an unbelievable shade of blue.
“How did who get me?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw V snicker. She and Bebe had some kind of weird friendship—constantly insulting each other affectionately—and because Bebe and I were roommates, I ended up spending a lot of time around V. Unfortunately, everything I did seemed to irritate her.
“Cassie, this is our ignorant newbie, Brit. Have you met?”
“We’ve howdied but that’s all. Nice to meet ya.”
“You too.” Cassie was from Texas, strong like a ranch hand, and great to work near on the quarry.
“Red Rock, darling,” Bebe explained. “How’d you get here?” she asked again.
“My dad drove me. How else would I get here?”
“An escort, of course,” Bebe said.
“Like a date?” I asked. V laughed again, right in my face this time.
“Now don’t laugh, V,” Cassie said, giving me a sympathetic look. “More like a kidnappin’. That’s how they got me. They came for me in the middle of the night and hauled me away like a stray dog or somethin’. They even handcuffed me. I thought it was some kind of abduction, until I caught sight of my folks watchin’ from the window.”
“They did it because you’re…..gay.”
“Well, they think I am.”
“Are you?”
“I’m bi. But don’t get all squirrelly on me. You don’t hit on every guy you meet, so it’s not like I’m gonna come after you.” She was right about that. I didn’t hit on any guy I met. I just crushed hopelessly after Jed.
“It’s nice to see that Cassie’s given you her introductory homophobia lecture. Forgive her,” V said. “She can’t help herself.”
“Yeah, well, half the girls in this place act like they think I’m checking them out all the time. And most of them ain’t even cute.”
“But you were kidnapped and brought here? That’s awful, Cassie.”
“Darling Brit,” Bebe interrupted. “It’s called an escort, and it’s standard operating procedure.”
“So your parents did that too?”
“Parent, singular. Dad’s out of the picture. And Mother, well there’s no Four Seasons within a hundred miles of this place. She wouldn’t be caught dead here.”
“Are your parents rich, Brit?” V asked.
“That’s none of your business.” I could tell that V’s were. She had that money smell to her.
“Don’t get all OC on me, newbie. I ask because if you have money, you’re screwed. Insurance pays for the first three months of your stay. If you’re poor, then suddenly at three months, boom, you’re in level Six and out the door. Cured by the miracle of Scam Rocks. But if your family has the money to keep footing the bill, that’s an entirely different set of circumstances. You could be stuck for life.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Virginia. Until you’re eighteen,” Bebe said. She looked at my panicked face. “When you’re eighteen, you can check yourself out.”
“How long have you all been here?”
“Six months,” Cassie said. “My parents aren’t rich, but they’re desperate to straighten me out.”
“Four months,” Bebe said. “But you can guarantee I’ll be here or at some other school a while. I’ve been at boarding schools for years. Of course, this is my first RTC.”
“RTC?”
“God, newbie,” said V. “It’s a residential treatment center. They call it a school, but it’s a loony bin, a bogus, bullshit, behavior-modification boot-camp warehouse for unwanted misfit teens.”
Argh! Sometimes I really wanted to hurl a brick at V, to knock that all-knowing expression right off her face. My dad would never shuttle me off to boot camp. The thought of it made me want to cry. “My dad doesn’t want me warehoused!” I said defiantly.
“Right,” V said. “He just sent you here to rest up. Sure he did.”
“It wasn’t the dad,” Bebe pointed out. “She’s a Cinderella story. The stepmom sent her here.”
“I’d reckon your stepmom reads LifeStyle magazine,” Cassie said.
She did. There were stacks of them in our kitchen. She claimed she liked the recipes.
“Red Rock advertises in the back, promising quick results to cure the surly child,” Bebe said. “You can’t totally blame your stepmom, though. They make this place seem like a therapeutic Club Med.”
“That’s why they encourage the escorts instead of drop-offs. They don’t much appreciate parents seein’ this place in its skivvies,” Cassie added with a sly smile.
“That’s also why they monitor your mail. To preempt any complaints you may have,” V said. “There’s this whole section in the brochure warning parents to expect their kids to complain about how badly they’re treated here. Our lies are part of our sickness. It’s pretty clever. They really know how to cover their asses.”
“Oh my God, it’s a total gulag.”
“That is the first smart thing you’ve said, Brit.” V tapped me on the forehead. “Of course, every gulag has its secrets, escape routes, and codes.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are ways to subvert the power.”
“What?”
“Patience, newbie. You’ll learn,” V said.
“All will be revealed,” Bebe promised.
Cassie put her hands together and bowed forward like a Tibetan monk who knew the secrets of the universe, and we all cracked up. It was the first time I’d laughed at Red Rock. But then the guards heard us having too much fun and separated us.
Chapter 7
Out in the yard, you’d think no one was paying attention, but Bebe was right—there were eyes everywhere. The next time I had my appointment with Clayton, she immediately brought up V.
“I hear you are spending a lot of time with Virginia Larson,” she said. “You girls call her V, I’m told.”
“We sometimes build cinder-block walls together, and sometimes we take down those walls. If that’s how you define spending time.”
“Brit, you may think your quips are winning but they are only self-defeating. In any case, I would discourage you from getting close to Virginia.”
“But why? She’s Level Six. Isn’t she supposed to be a positive influence on me?” I still wasn’t sure whether V was friend or foe, but Clayton’s warning made me lean toward the former.
“Virginia is Level Six for now. But she has a way of backsliding, so, no, I don’t think I’d qualify her as a positive influence. Now, I need your word that you’ll steer clear of her, and if you give it to me, it will prove that you are responsible enough.”
“Responsible enough for what?”
“To get a letter from your father. I’ve had it a while but I didn’t think you were ready.”
What right did she have to withhold mail from my dad? I wanted to lunge across the desk and wring her skinny neck until her pilgrim head popped off. But I wanted the letter even more. I bit my lip. I was doing a lot of that lately, so much so that part of it was turning purple. I told her I’d avoid Virginia, so she handed me the letter, watching me expectantly. As if I would open it in front of her. No way. I held on to it until dinner.
Dear Brit:I hope this letter finds you well. Fall has arrived in Portland, and we’ve had rain every day. No sooner does it get light than it gets dark. Never my favorite time of year. The drainpipes have already clogged with leaves and flooded the living room again. Your mother has been busy taking care of the repairs.We are all fine. Billy misses you. He crawls to your room and likes to sit outside your door. It’s sweet.Your friends from the band were very upset by your absence. Jed and Denise have come over several times to look for you, and when I finally explained where you were, Denise grew quite angry. I suppose I understand. No one likes the ogre who breaks up the group. Jed asked if he could write to you, but I told him you were not allowed to receive mail from non–family members. He insisted that I give you a message about a song you wrote. In fact, he refused to leave until I swore on your health that I’d tell you that they would not forget the Firefly song. I don’t quite understand the big deal as you’re not in the band anymore, but a promise is a promise.I expect you are very angry with me and your mother, but I hope in my heart of hearts that one day you might understand that this was done from love.I know you can’t write me yet, but when you are allowed to, I hope you will.Happy Halloween.I love you,
Dad Up until that point, I’d been left out of the CT circles, but two days after I got my letter from Dad, Sheriff decided to lead group. And guess whose turn it was for the hot seat? Sheriff played it like a twisted game of duck, duck, goose, standing at the head of the confrontation circle, cocking an imaginary trigger with his finger, squinting like he was looking through a rifle sight. “Which one of you little girls thinks you can hide from the truth?” he asked in his gruff cowboy voice. “You? You? You?” he asked while he pointed at each of us. Then he stopped on me and motioned me to the middle.
