September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (48 page)

With my eyes shut to stop them from
floating around, I keep listening.

“Miss Patel, we can talk about this
later, if you prefer.”

“It’s my meds. What does this
mean?”

“It means the state is closing this
money pit, shipping the remaining patients across the state to
other, more efficient facilities. It means you’ll get what you need
in a more suitable environment.”

I open my eyes to find him gently
smiling. The gray hair around his temples nudges, but the follicles
don’t separate. Too much hair gel.

“Which means what?” I ask,
again.

“That you will be moving into a more
individualized care facility better suited to a person with your
needs.”

“I don’t understand. If this isn’t
about my review, why are you here?”

“This is about the review, as well as
the state’s budgetary issues that led to it. Miss Patel, from the
outset your placement at Canyon View was meant to be temporary.
There simply were no alternative mental health facilities
available. You were a troubled girl, lost in a foster care system
that failed you.”

He sighs. “You should have had a case
worker that kept a closer eye on you. Maybe then, your troubles
would not have gotten the better of you.”

Mister Brandon tilts his chin up,
peering down at me. “Your reevaluation was concluded. Doctor
Schumacher agrees with the Boards’ findings. There are new
treatments and better facilities available to you. A few months
from now, when the time comes for you to be moved, you won’t be
going to another maximum security psychiatric hospital.”

My forehead crinkles.

He crosses his arms. “You will be
moved into a moderate secure facility.”

6
2

—
Angel

Six Months later . .
.

Having so many choices is an oddity to
me, because for years I had none. I had to accept whatever
decisions were made on my behalf.

But no more.

Now, I make decisions every day. I’m
doing it right now, actually. “Pancakes, please, with maple
syrup.”

The first choice I made seemed like a
very small one, but it turned out to be huge. I decided to run, and
to keep going no matter what. And that going led me here, to this
small diner.

“Excellent choice.” The waitress is an
older woman with short graying hair. She smiles warmly before
striding away with my menu tucked under her arm.

Staring at the steaming mug
of coffee between my palms, I can’t keep from smiling.
Excellent.

This morning, I woke up in an empty
house, just around the corner from here. I stumbled upon it while I
was walking late last night. There was a loose board over a broken
window. I managed to pry the plywood off, and climbed
through.

I have learned a very important
lesson: not all lawyers are bad. It turns out that Mister Brandon
was right: my review was never about how the cops screwed me, or
even about the terrible things that happened to Jake that night. It
was all about money and nothing more. Budget cuts: two unlikely and
beautiful words that mean something totally different when set
apart. But together, they mean freedom.

After talking to my lawyer in the
hospital that day, he said to be patient. And I was. I didn’t care
what happened; which was good, because what ended up happening
wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Just enough to create opportunity. A
small window of opportunity.

The court appointed doctors I talked
with—the lady with the tight hair bun and the quiet guy with the
sodas—they saw fit to side with my lawyer and convinced that last
Doctor, Schumacher, to have me moved. And so I got to leave a few
months after they let me out of the infirmary, once my weight
reached a healthy number.

That window of opportunity I mentioned
was less than a foot wide, shorter in height, and it was mounted in
the outer wall of the common room that the new place let me sit in
whenever I wanted. Moderate security meant I could sit
unsupervised. I wasn’t constantly watched and restrained like in
Canyon View. It was a secured sanitarium, but not a maximum
security and I liked it much better. There were still bars on the
larger windows and guards in every room. It was still surrounded by
a fence. But the guards wore no side arms. There were no guards in
towers with long range rifles posted outside, either. The place had
lots of small windows. Most of them looked too small for a person
to fit through and were placed on the upper floors. They were the
kind of windows with a crankshaft. The glass lifted out, at an
angle, from the bottom when you cranked them open.

Even though us inmates were surrounded
by guards, there weren’t enough present on that early morning in
September. It was the eleventh—a Tuesday. The sun was shining
bright. Breakfast was being served. The television in the common
room should have been turned off when the Andy Griffith show was
interrupted by Breaking News. But all anyone saw was that one
burning skyscraper. And then a second plane came into view.
Everyone froze, some captivated, some shocked. Then the news
anchors started talking about high-jacked airplanes. And then they
started saying “terror attack.”

The entire staff was distracted. Just
enough. Just long enough for me to crank the small window open,
slip out, and skid the ten-plus feet down the brick face of the
building. I was scared at first and hung there for a second,
looking around my outstretched arm until my fingers gave out. The
drop was far and I was risking more than broken bones, but it was
worth it.

So when I say it was a small window of
opportunity, I mean it literally. Just enough room to land me here,
in this cushy booth, drinking coffee with real cream, waiting for
warm pancakes. There were some stops in between, of course. Lots of
running, at first. Some hitchhiking, too, along with the necessity
of stealing. Only what I need. Like food. Clothes from a
clothesline. The occasional newspaper.

“Here you go.” The waitress sets a
stacked plate of fluffy pancakes in front of me. They’re steaming
and swimming in melting butter.

“Thank you.”

My eyes widen and close
involuntarily as I take the first bite.
So
good.
The syrup is so delicious and sweet,
it makes my teeth hurt. I wash the bite down with a swig of
fresh-brewed coffee. I’ve died and gone to heaven.

It doesn’t matter what happens now.
I’m out. I’m free. I am alone. And I’m going to do whatever I have
to do to stay this way. To choose what I put into my own body. I
can eat or not. I can sleep, or go to the library, or watch TV. I
get to choose where I go from here.

I’m still planning on finding Jake,
just not yet. I want to take some time to explore my choices first.
I know in my heart that Jake will wait for me and he loved me, so
he wouldn’t want me to make a hasty decision, especially now that
I’m rid of . . . the past.

It’s like I can think clearly. Like
waking from a dream and finding myself suddenly awake. So until I
decide to join Jake in the afterlife or whatever, I’m thinking that
I need to keep moving. West has always seemed like an excellent
direction, and it will make me feel closer to him to be in the
place he was headed.

After breakfast, I plan to walk the
two blocks down the road to a giant Wal-Mart. It took a few days,
but I’ve collected enough bottles and cans to buy my very own
bottle of shampoo. And soap without lye! I get to buy conditioner
for my hair, too, so long as it’s not too expensive.

After finishing the pancakes and
coffee, I make for the long hallway around the side of the diner,
in search of the bathroom.

In front of the mirror—a real
mirror—my image is as sharp as I remember it, though I look
different. I think I’m a little bit taller. My face is longer and
thinner. My cheeks have lost their childish roundness. My hair is
still the same style as when I was seventeen. Too long and too
straight. Combing my fingers through the tangles, I remember the
feeling of each strand slapping against my shoulders as I ran
across the open lawn, searching for guard towers that weren’t
there, heading for the high chainlink fence in the distance. I was
terrified, shoving the round toe of each plastic slip-on shoe into
the fence: expecting to hear the wailing alarm ringing over my
thundering pulse, dreading the sound of pursuit, but there was
nothing. Just my labored breath as I climbed.

No one is in any of the bathroom
stalls. No girls with black hair and bad attitudes, no green eyes
peering back at me. I haven’t seen . . . since that day in the
shower. And I don’t expect to. I don’t need . . . that relationship
anymore.

If I have learned anything from this
whole experience, it’s that I don’t know how to give up. I tried
before, but I am a fighter. I can take care of myself now. I can do
it. If my mind can make up an entire person and give it a life and
a past, dreams and goals, then it can certainly figure out how to
survive this span of . . . want.

Besides, when you’re a small female
like I am, it’s surprisingly easy to get what you need. All you
have to do is look for it. Most of the time, a man of stature is
willing to give whatever I have need of, so long as it’s small and
doesn’t require much time or expense. A ride or a drink. When I
can’t get people to give me what I need, I have to take the
opportunities as they come.

When I walk out of the bathroom stall,
there’s an older lady standing at the mirror, digging through her
purse. I keep my eyes down, washing my hands as she smears on a
shimmery lipstick before tossing it back in her bag. She blots her
lips, and when she steps a few feet away from the mirror to throw
her tissue in the trash, I pass between her and the
counter.

Three things happen very quickly. One:
my fingers lift her shiny, red designer wallet from her bag and
tuck it under my arm. Two: she turns around. But then the third
thing happens: I point to the trash can behind her and say, “You
missed.” Referring to the tissue she’s just thrown. Of course, she
didn’t miss, but she doesn’t know that. There are other tissues on
the floor. She turns back around as I walk out the door.

I only take when I have to. And if
things go the way I hope, I won’t have to do it for
long.

Out on the street, I take in the warm,
fresh air. Looking through the glass wall of the diner, I spot the
waitress that served me and walk faster, heading for the corner
where the pedestrian light has just switched to green.

Wal-Mart is confusing. A maze of
aisles and products I’ve never even imagined. I’m bug-eyed and lost
for at least a half hour before finally stumbling into the shampoo
aisle. And just when I start to breathe easy, I am overwhelmed once
more by the vast selection. There must be a hundred kinds of
shampoo: big and small bottles for every hair type, length, and
color. For dyed hair, dye-free, scented, unscented, salon quality,
like salon quality.

What’s the
difference?

I shut my eyes tight and take a deep
breath. Then, remember the wallet. Pulling the shiny red leather
from the front of my jeans, I can tell it’s loaded with credit
cards. But I’m not going to touch those. It would be wrong.
Unzipping the compartment on the inside, I find a long, neat pile
of bills. Ones on the top of the fives, on top of twenties. Two
hundred and thirty-seven dollars is divided up and shoved into
different pants pockets.

Down the aisle, I spot a tall guy in a
blue vest. His name tag says his name is Mark. I walk up to him,
all false-confidence and bravado. This is what works in every
situation: confidence. I’ve discovered I can get away with nearly
anything, so long as I seem sure of myself. Confidence makes people
think you know what you’re doing. Act confident enough and they’ll
believe anything.

“Mark,” I say, nodding to
his name tag. “I found this in the parking lot.” And then I hand
him the old lady’s wallet. Opened, showing him the edge of the few
bills I left in there, as I point at a business sized card. “This
is one of those
If Lost, Please Return
To
cards. That’s her phone number. If you
call, I’m sure she’ll come get it.”

Mark seems surprised and appreciative
as he gives the wallet the once-over, as if he could tell if
anything were missing. “Thank you for your honesty. I’ll go hand
this over to my manager.”

And he’s off, waiving back at me,
thanking me again before he leaves the aisle.

When I look to the left, my gaze falls
upon a familiar white bottle. Generic coconut shampoo. The kind
Deanna used to buy me. I snatch it and the matching bottle of
conditioner. In the next aisle, I locate the bars of soap. It’s
just as chaotic as the shampoo aisle. Too many choices. I search
for the pink wrapper that I remember seeing in the soap dish back
in the trailer. It smelled like flowers. Once I find it, I make my
way up to the registers and have to make another tough choice.
There are so many types of candy. Chocolate or fruit. Peanut
butter. Crunchy, chewy, tangy. I grab one of each type, but two
packages of Starburst because they used to be my favorite, and a
pack of mint gum. It’s been so long since I had access to anything
like this, I can’t resist. Plus, I’ll need snacks for the long bus
ride to L.A. Thanks to that old lady in the bathroom; I should have
enough to get me there.