A few patients mumbled their complaints, but the general consensus was pure silence.
Miss Maroon began pacing back and forth. “Raise your hand if you had a nightmare.”
A few raised their hands.
“Nightmare’s cannot hurt you. They aren’t real.” Miss Maroon said, as she met the gazes of those in the front row. “You have no control over your sleep, but you have control over yourself during the day. So let’s make some excellent goals for today, alright? Let’s combat fear with success.” Opening a filing cabinet near her desk she retrieved a red notebook and handed it off to a patient in the front row, “Pass that to Gambrielle, please. Gambrielle, we write in our journals every morning. We keep track of our nightmares, sleep quality, struggles, and more importantly, our goals. At the end of the day we’ll revisit the goals we have set each morning and see if we’ve accomplished them.” She waited for my notebook to reach me before continuing with the discussion. “Everyone go ahead and write down your goals for the day. Please remember to be REALISTIC.” Her eyes shot to Thorne. “Winning a million dollars and hiring a harem of exotic strippers is not realistic, Thorne.”
Thorne rolled his eyes and dropped his head back. “Way to kill a dream, Maroon.”
“If eating is an issue, write down something about that. Maybe you’ll eat half of your meal today?” Miss Maroon offered. “Or maybe you’ll stop thinking about the person that had you admitted for one hour.”
My eyes dropped to my notebook. A pen had been placed beside it, though I had no idea how it ended up there. Laces and Varla had already started writing, so I opened my notebook and tried to follow suit as best I could.
“No one can look at your journal, so write whatever you want. As long as you get something down on paper, we’ll consider that a victory.” Miss Maroon insisted.
I didn’t have any goals ready, so I wrote whatever came to mind and swore I would be better prepared for the next day.
Journal Entry #1
I was heavily medicated and almost drowned in a stack of pancakes.
Hannibal Sketcher rescued me.
I met a girl named Varla, who seems pretty nice. (She needs to gain a few pounds)
Wondering how my mom is doing.
GOALS: Try not to think of new and exciting ways to kill Joe.
Good job. I smiled back at my handiwork and glanced at Laces—who was now on his second freakin’ page. “Brown-noser,” I whispered under my breath.
Laces bared his teeth, but didn’t look up at me. “As flattering as that compliment is, I can’t take credit for someone else’s work.”
“Hmm?”
His eyes flashed to mine. “I’m writing song lyrics.” And when my forehead creased in confusion he gave me a look, “Snuff by Slipknot.”
My mouth popped open. “Ohhh.”
He did a double take of me, his eyes filling with humor as I flushed. “You didn’t actually write down your feelings, did you?”
“No.”
Sort of…
Nine
Gambrielle
The one part of the first day that I had been dreading—aside from being stuck around Laces & Co—was meeting with my therapist, Dr. Young. My mother had been to therapy over the years and spoken about the experience during her drunken spells; they always wanted to get down to the root of the problem by talking about your feelings, and picking off old wounds that were best left as scars.
Dr. Young was no different.
From the moment I walked into his office, closed the door, and took my seat in the vacant chair on the other side of his desk, I knew I was in for an hour of hell. His kind smiles, cool demeanor, and occasional chuckle did very little to cut the tension in the room.
“Where would you like to start, Gambrielle?” Dr. Young asked, rocking back and forth in his black leather seat. There was an open folder on his desk, post-it’s at the ready, and a pen glued to his forefinger. He was prepared to get down to the business of examining my traumatized psyche. “Your file mentioned that you have a sister, Elizabeth…why don’t we talk about her?”
At the sound of her name my shoulders tensed and my heart sped up like a jack-hammer on steroids. I wanted to indulge in her existence, to tell him everything that she was and would never be. How she loved traveling, animals, sad chick flicks, and life. Chewing on my lower lip, I shook my head. “There’s not really much to say.” I finally said. “She’s gone.”
And she was never coming back.
Joe had seen to that.
Dr. Young stopped rocking in his chair. “You had a lot to say about her in court.” He reminded me, and tears filled the corners of my eyes as he glanced back at my case file. “Elizabeth wanted to be a nurse?” He tapped the paper, “You mentioned that she often cleaned you up after Joe had one of his episodes.”
“I was referring to how she used to be, before Joe…” Before, Elizabeth could walk, talk, and do anything her heart desired. Now she was six feet under.
Dr. Young slid his finger down the first page of my file, looking for anything of value to push the conversation forward. He stopped midway to the bottom of the page, his serious gaze flashing to me. “You told Judge Wexler that you had dreams about Joe and his abusive behavior. Would you care to elaborate on that?” His voice was polite, the way a therapist should behave. But I couldn’t let my guard down. Since the trial everything I said had been used against me and I didn’t want to add anything to the outstanding list of things that Joe could benefit from.
Joe was the District Attorney. He had power, money, connections—everything he needed to take me down and make my stay at Hawthorne a permanent situation. As much as I wanted my own peace-of-mind, I craved justice more. “No, I don’t…I don’t remember much about anything.” I stammered, forcing out the lies.
“I’m here for you, Gambrielle. You understand that, right? I already know everything that happened.”
“Then why do you need me to say it, hmm?” My words were clipped, my tone full of annoyance. “I am doing my best to make it out of this in one piece. Not the whole piece, maybe tattered fragments, but still something worth salvaging. Can’t you see that?!” It was the only way I knew how to beg for pity and understanding.
Unfortunately, I didn’t sell myself well enough. Because instead of patting me on the back and telling me we’ll try again some other time, or you’ve had a hard day, Gambrielle, Dr. Young went straight for the jugular. Emotions be damned.
“What about Jaguar?” Dr. Young asked, and my body instantly froze. Oh God. Anyone but him. No! Dr. Young’s finger skimmed down my chart, stopping at what I could only assume was Jag’s E! True Hollywood Story. Curiosity entered his eyes and he raised a light brow. Something had caught his attention.
I bit my lower lip as I waited for him to continue his interrogation. I knew Jag was in the report. How could he not be? I had seen him almost every day for two years straight. He was one of the first people the police went to for a character witness. “What does Jag have to do with anything?” Like me, he had already dealt with enough from Joe and deserved to be left out of this.