Impulse (2 page)

you might try to strangle him. So you try to think of someone else you're mad at, and the unavoidable

answer pops into your warped little brain: everyone. 30

35

They Kept Me

Locked up in isolation for almost two weeks. See, you have to make Level One to go to school and eat with everyone else. You arrive here at Level Zero.

Nothing. That's exactly what you are until you can prove to them that you won't save up your meds and OD or lynch yourself with strips of your sheets.

So you hang out in your room, maybe reading a book (approved literature) or journaling with a felt pen. No pencils (no leads). No pens (no points). 31

36

Maybe I could think up a way to kill yourself with a felt pen. Maybe I could sell the idea to the dozen or so freaks in here determined to do themselves in. Maybe I'll use it myself. Am I saying that I'm a freak? Effing A! I quit worrying about it a long time ago. Better a freak than a total loser. Better a freak than a liar.

So far, everyone I've ever met has been a liar. Everyone but Phillip, my only true friend, my savior. Never hurt me, never coerced me. Never lied to me. 32

37

The Worst Liars

Are the ones everyone thinks would never, ever tell a lie. The teachers who act like they care about you, then turn you in for smoking a cig or kissing someone in the hall.

Or the plain Jane, churchgoing soccer moms who plaster on some anonymous face, then sneak out once a week or so, pretending they're off with girlfriends when they're really

looking for ways to get laid. No, my ma wasn't one of those. She made no bones about getting laid, something she did plenty of. Laid by no good, nasty losers, single, 33

38

married, it didn't matter, long as they had a few bucks and the necessary attachments, in good working order. Beat up.

Knocked up. Messed up. She got all of those things, didn't care. Worse, she didn't give two cents about what her "lifestyle" did to me. Her son. Her only son, because after one particularly

ugly abortion, her body decided it had had enough of Ma's mistreatment and formed scar tissue around her ovaries. The odds of my having a sibling shrank to nil. 34

39

I Heard My Brother's Scream

Through the cloud that had veiled my brain, coloring everything crimson. It seemed to last forever, that scream. Poor Bryan. He's only eight, too little to understand that dying isn't something to fear. It's a comfort.

I felt comfortable, dying that afternoon, and would have, except Grandma happens to be a nurse-- a good nurse, hard, wise, through and through. And she happened to be home. She calmly dialed 911, wrapped my arm in a soft yellow towel which looked ochre through the scarlet mist.

Stay with me, Vanessa,
she repeated over and over. 35

40

I remember that, and I remember one EMT with blondish hair and a killer mouth

that refused to say a word, except to his partner. I remember his eyes the most-- brilliant blue, and filled with disgust.

Grandma rode in the ambulance with me, and the last thing I remember is telling her I was sorry for staining her new bathtub.

Screw the tub, Vanessa, there help for that. And there
'
s help for you.
36

41

Which Is How I Wound Up Here

Left hand stitched neatly back in place. They tell me it will be good as new, but my fingers feel like they belong to someone else and don't want to be attached to me. Nothing does.

I've been here about a week, I think, watching it snow and listening through the walls to other girls, sicker than I am. They talk about themselves, about the things they've done, the things they'd like to do. Parents. Teachers. Counselors. So-called friends. They'd all better run when those sociopaths find their way back outside.

There are boys here too, somewhere. I know because sometimes I hear the girls call to them down the hail. 37

42

The things they say! A truck driver would blush. I would never talk that way to Trevor. He walks on water. I want him to think I do too. For a while, he did, or at least he pretended to.

I did things with Trevor

I wouldn't dare confess to anyone--things I didn't

know anyone did. But he wanted me to, so I did. That's what you do

when you love someone, right?

43

The Door Opens

Death watch crew, come to check up on me. They've been after me all week, first every fifteen or twenty minutes, then every hour or two, making sure I don't rip stitches and let my hand drop off after all.

Hello, Vanessa,
says Paul, who is fabulously tall and almost as wide as the door. He hands me

my morning pill, unwraps

my bandage, peeks underneath.

Dr Boston says if you join us for group this afternoon, she
'
ll

award you Level One.

You could start school tomorrow.

So far I've avoided group, preferring to semi-vent my pent-up insanity in private 39

44

therapy sessions--Vanessa Angela O'Reilly, closed book.

But I have to admit I'm tired of this room, weary of these auburn walls. Maybe, if I stash my meds, I can keep my mouth shut and just listen to the sob

stories, passed around the big circle like joints. Maybe I'll find them entertaining.

So I tuck the Prozac under my tongue, nod. "Okay." 40

45

Suitcase Emptied

I walk to the sealed window, stare at the glistening world outside. Buried in snow. Glare threatens my eyes but I don't turn away. I like it. Up the hail come deliberate footsteps. Suddenly they stall and the door creaks open.

It's Paul, the rather large

guy who escorted me here.

Everything good?
It's almost a sigh.
All settled in?

"Uh-huh." I offer a (not) genuine smile. "Unpacked and ready to party. When does the shindig begin?"

Paul, who is not amused, tosses a pair of gray sweats on the bed.
Put these on.

He crosses the room, opens 41

46

drawers, assesses sundries and wrinkled clothes as I slip into the sweats.
You
'
ll wear

those except for Sunday services or when your parents visit.

Now Dr Starr would like to chat.

Please come with me.

He draws to the far side of the door, allows me by, takes his place at my elbow, reminding me I no longer own the space around me. 42

47

Dr. Starr Isn't Like Dr. Boston

No tight navy suit, no miniscule skirt. Nothing about her hints nymph or flirt. She's a bulldog.

She motions for me to take a chair, studies me as I move, as if the very way I plant myself there

can tell her something of import. She stays silent for several long seconds. Finally, as if holding court, she lifts her chin, sights down her nose, and asks,
Why are you here, Conner?
An unsettling energy flows through the room, and it emanates from the canine Dr. Starr. Her patronizing tone activates my inner 43

48

mute button. I answer with a small shrug, and she gives me a grin worthy of Hannibal Lecter--evil, overtly smug.

You don
'
t know? Don
'
t you think it
'
s time to find out?
The "f" elicits a saliva spray. The bulldog doesn't even blink.

I realize you don
'
t want to be here. But until you give

me a hint about just what you fear, you can
'
t get better

Her voice is almost gentle, and part of me wants to give her what she wants. The smart part says no way. 44

49

Play the Game

I instruct myself, give her a little taste of what she wants to hear. After all, we don't want to waste a perfectly good shrink session. So I settle deep into my chair, search for some vapid confession.

Finding none I wish to give voice to, I decide

Dr. Bulldog has given me no other choice but to lie.

"It was really all a huge mistake. I was goofing around and the gun just went off, for God's sake.

I mean, you'd think my dad would have left the safety on." I almost feel bad for blaming him. 45

50

But her eyes tell me she's

heard the line before. With

quiet ferocity, she says,

Not another word, Conner.

You believe this is a game, and you may be right. But if you think you can

play it better than me, think again.
46

51

I'm Glad I'm an Only Child

Ma didn't deserve kids. I mean, if it had been up to her--impossible, all things considered--I'd be back on the streets right now. Or maybe I'd have already

finished myself off. No, it wasn't dear old Ma who paid my way to Aspen Springs. According to Dr. B, it was, in fact, dear old dad. Dad, who dumped Ma and me

when I was still shitting green. 'Course, looking back, I guess he had every reason to leave Ma in his dust. But did he ever once think about me? 47

52

Anthony Ceccarelli III. Medium height. Medium

build. Medium brown hair. A medium chip off the ol' block. Where was medium Dad all that time?

Dr. B says he lives at Tahoe, has his own insurance office, makes decent dough. Ma never left Reno, except when she was working out at "the ranch" near Dayton.

Ranching hookers. They do that in parts of Nevada.

Funny, if it wasn't so sick. Did Dad know? And what

made him decide he gives a damn about me now? 48

53

The Clock Reminds Me

Its time for group. I open my door, nudge my hand into the hail. A faceless voice shouts,
What
'
s
up,
Ceccarelli?
"May I go to group, sir?" Stay polite. Earn ten points.

You may. Don
'
t get lost along the way, though.
Old joke, not funny. Still, I chortle and say, "I'll do my best, sir. You know how confusing

these halls can be, though." Yeah. Follow the yellow line to the classrooms, white to the dining hall. The blue one leads to the conference rooms. 49

54

Mommy Long Legs waits, black widow--style, in room C-3. Most guys would call her a fox, I guess. But to me she's all spider, poison stashed in hidden fangs. Yes, Dr. Boston's questions sink clear through flesh, into bone. She's after marrow, but she hasn't managed to get much of mine yet.

Funny thing. No one but me seems to recognize how her Barbie-doll act covers up a real lack of charm. She's a user. Same as everyone here. 50

55

We Gather

In room C (for Conference)-3, six crazies, looking to unload. Or thinking of ways to avoid it. There's Schizo Stanley, three hundred pounds of loaded gun, who tried to off his little brother. Yeah, he denies it, but hmm. wonder how Daddy's Xanax got mixed into Junior's milk. On the far side of the table sits Lowball Lori, princess of depression. I bet at home she wore nothing but black--clothes, makeup, mood. Next to her is Do-Me Dahlia, who uses sex like most people 51

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use money. I heard she tried to put the moves on Dr. Starr, even. Yech! What an ugly picture! Jesus-save-me Justin lurks in one corner, greasy hair hanging in his eyes, while Toot- it-all Todd rocks back and forth, as if his past pursuits haven't quite deserted his system.

Just as Dr. Boston says it's time to start, the door opens. Someone new steps inside. She's pretty (did
I
think

that?), with copper hair and startling eyes, and her name's

Vanessa. 52

57

Seven Pairs of Eyes

Pierce me as I walk into the room. I already know I can't measure up to Dr. Boston's expectations--she'll want me to open my head and let this crowd of eyes peer into my psyche. I want to turn and run.

Please sit down, Vanessa,
urges Dr. Boston.
We
'
re ready to start.

If I can't run, I want to scream. I want to scream, but I can't find my voice, hidden somewhere in the indigo sea that has swamped my brain. Blue. Blue. Deep, dark blue. The blue that fills me with desire, the desire to find a small, sharp blade and watch blood run, red. 53

58

Vanessa?
Dr. Boston's

voice swims down through the blue, disturbs me enough to set my feet in motion.

The eyes follow me as I sit beside the guy with the most startling eyes of all-- round, dark eyes, with gold flecks. Eyes that look like they've glimpsed behind the gates of hell. 54

59

So Why Are His Eyes

The only ones mine want to meet? I can feel the girls, taking measure, and part of me wants to turn and offer my own assessment. The bigger part is consumed by blue.

Hey, Vanessa, I
'
m Tony,
says the guy with hellfire eyes. I would have expected a deeper voice from someone who has shaken hands with the devil.

And why do I think that? He seems friendly enough. In fact, he's the only one in the room who bothers with introductions. The others sit, staring, in impassioned silence. Tony glances around the room. 55

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What
'
s up, people? Usually you won
'
t shut up. Now you
'
ve got nothing to say

just because a pretty girl walks through the door?

Well, that woke them up! Everyone looks simply stunned, including Dr. Boston. Is it because I'm anything but pretty? Or a less likely reason?

The guy with dishrag

hair finally opens his mouth.
I thought you

only thought dudes were pretty, Cascarilla.

The room explodes with laughter. I guess the session has officially begun. 56

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