Impulse (7 page)

They are so incredibly gross, always talking about sex, as if it's a commodity something to be bartered. I know some people believe that, and I guess, thinking back to Trevor and me, I traded sex for a chance at love. 164

169

Breakthrough Moment

That's what Dr. Starr would call that sudden bit of insight. Sex, for me, was only about feeling good when vines of mama snared me, pulled me into this space where my brain felt so great, my body didn't want to get left behind. I can't really blame Trevor for taking advantage of that, only for telling me he loved me. Liar.

Conner gets up, goes over to Tony, extends a hand.
I
'
m Conner. How long before we have to go back to our rooms?

Tony looks into Conner's

eyes, as if trying to find

some ulterior motive.

He shrugs.
You
'
ve got

ten minutes to finish your pie.
165

170

I watch them interact, and this odd shot of envy hits. The two of them are allowed to talk. But I, being a girl, am supposed to stay on "our" side of the room, when what I'd really like to do is plant myself between them.

Soak up the warmth of them.

Fall asleep listening to their voices, snowing down all around me.

To sleep at all tonight, I'll have to self-medicate. With a whole different kind of drug. 166

171

Ten Minutes to Finish

I sit across from Tony, who's picking at his meringue. Wonder why I feel like kicking it with him anyway.

I mean, he's really not the kind of guy I'd hook up with at school--not a jock, not refined, surely not moneyed.

There's just something about him, something attractive, but not in a physical way. On a whim, I tell him,

"They just let me out of my room today, and I've only had shrinks to talk to. I feel like I've escaped from a tomb."

He gives me this strange look, like he needs to climb inside my head, walk around in there, see where that path leads. 167

172

Finally he says,
You know

I
'
m gay,
in a tone that

adds, This is a test. You can

leave if you want. It's okay.

Part of me gets a failing grade. If I stay, will the other guys think I want to get laid--by a dude?

Most of me couldn't care less about what a bunch of freaking losers think. Why try to impress the brain-dead? 168

173

Still Another Part of Me

Stresses over a simple fact, In a major way. I thought he was attractive. Can that possibly make
me
gay?

I really don't think so. I mean, from the time I was twelve I had an insatiable urge to climb into the sack with any girl who would let me. Then it was older girls, coeds, who would seduce a kid simply to get

even with a boyfriend. Or to play teacher. Cool game. Finally, it came down to women, the perfect score.

But men? No, the thought has never crossed my mind, except in a voyeuristic way. Like, does a gay guy
ever
169

174

want to be with a woman?

Which I guess could translate the other way, which

will continue to stress me a bit.

The weird thing is, Tony

says he's gay and I'm guessing he really believes it, but he doesn't seem that way to me.

Anyway, gay or no, something about Tony has piqued my interest. So I'll step out of my homophobic shoes.

175

Homophobia Stashed

I'll probably have to lie to pass Tony's litmus test. "No problem," I tell him. "Some of my best friends are gay."

Tony arches an eyebrow.
Really? And here I had you pegged for a total jock.
But he smiles freely, and I

realize he's mostly kidding. I'm up for some fun. "You saying gay guys can't be jocks? Ever heard of Dennis Rodman?"

His laugh breaks whatever

ice was left between us.

Good point. But let me give you some advice--

never wear a dress to group. The girls don
'
t even wear

them. Stockings, heels, and pearls are also on the
"
don
'
t
"
list.
171

176

Okay, I like him, can trust my instincts again. I notice Vanessa, taking mental notes, know I must

cozy on up to her, too. Part of it is my old self wanting nectar from a new

flower, the beat of a new heart.

Part of it is a simple need to connect with someone who might understand me, might reach out to imperfect

Conner.

177

Amazing

To find Conner the stud, sitting across from me, trading gay jokes. I don't get a gay vibe from him at all. In fact, I notice a probable interest in Vanessa. Like she's even close to his type! No, he looks more like the sorority/socialite type. Anyway, I'm most likely not his type.

Not that I mind having him at my table, literally or tongue-in-cheek. (Where else does Conner

put his tongue? I wonder.) Quit! Just go with his flow.

"Did they let you out of isolation already? That was pretty quick." 173

178

Was it? Well, it seemed like a long damn time to me--eight days.

"That's not so bad. They kept me locked up for two weeks."
Two frigging weeks, pacing that room, I
'
d be a basket case by now.

"You must have worked some kind of magic. Eight days is cake." Conner grins.
Magic, yeah, that
'
s it. I put Dr Boston under my spell.
174

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I Don't Doubt That at All

The Black Widow believes she's a player. But players are easily played by better players, someone, for instance, of Conner's caliber.

"Yeah, well, what about Dr. Starr? You'll have to work voodoo on her."
She
'
s a special case, okay. Voodoo, huh? Have a couple strands of her hair?

"Shee-it! I wouldn't touch that greasy gray hair with Stanley's fingers."

Good point. And speaking of Stanley, what
'
s his story? Can
'
t be meth, that c for sure.

"Definitely not crystal. Rumor has it he tried to kill his little brother."

180

Conner's smile vanishes.

No shit? They let total nutcases in here, huh?

"Enough money can buy a total free ride. His parents were just a little short."
More likely they wanted him locked up somewhere. Just not behind real bars.
176

181

An Excellent Observation

One I consider as I give my plate to the girls working kitchen duty. No, there aren't always girls in there--this just happens to be their week to play Martha Stewart.

One thing I'll say, chauvinistic or not, the girls are much better cooks. As far as dish washing, I can't see that gender makes a difference.

The dining room buzzes with after-dinner activity. The goon squad stands by, making sure everyone heads in the right direction-- rec room or bedroom,

182

depending on what level they've achieved. Dr. Starr awarded me Level Two, so I get my choice. This is a favorite time for a little male-female

interaction, and Conner takes total advantage, moving in on Vanessa before Kate or Paul can get the chance to move in on him,

As they wander toward the door, he whispers something in her ear. I'm not close enough to hear, but I'm close enough to notice her blush. 178

183

Credit Where It's Due

I've got to hand it to Conner. He walked into a room that hovered on the brink of chaos, and the simple weight of his entrance seemed to put everything right.

Tony didn't hit Stanley, didn't wind up in isolation. Stanley left the room in what would have been a state of shame for anyone who could feel ashamed. I think he mostly felt lucky to have survived the incident with only the slightest hint of a bruise on either cheek.

Then Conner had the nerve to go sit with Tony, who was stewing alone at the back of the room. 179

184

He even joked him into smiling, something I couldn't do. Now, as we get ready to go back to our rooms, close ourselves in, fall into our lonely vigils, he comes to me, touches the small of my back.

Then he whispers,
I just want you to know you light up this dingy room.

Yeah, I know it's a line. But it makes my face heat up--and something else, too-- in a very good way. 180

185

Play It Cool

As if boys say stuff like that to me all the time--no big deal, right? I whisper back a plain-

Jane, "Thank you" but don't dare turn around, show him how red my face has grown, a clear indication that I am not used to such compliments.

I think the best thing Trevor

ever said to me was,
You
'
re pretty cute, with your clothes off

Clothes off is actually the worst view of me, a few too many pounds of flab, in all the wrong places (i.e., my thighs, but not my breasts). Of course, Grandma says I'm just right, a perfect size seven. Size three would be preferable. 181

186

Still, I feel almost desirable, with Conner's breath against my neck, his voice like a warm wind in my ear.

At the very least, he's pulled

me way up out of the blue, into a new bloom of white.

Two swings in one day.

Something is majorly going on.

187

The Refuge of My Room

I almost decide sleeplessness is better than the monster, come knocking at the little door smack in the middle of my forehead, begging for a teaspoon of Prozac. I know what I have to do but don't quite know how to do it. They check my stitches, make sure they're not infected. Or messed with.

Wouldn
'
t want to come in and find your hand hanging by threads again,
the nurse

told me once.

I don't want that either. But I do need release. I've saved my "secret weapon" for a night like tonight, when nothing else will suffice. 183

188

I borrowed it from Dr. Bellows's

desk one day, when his attention

turned to a ring of his cell phone, stashed in his briefcase on the floor.

The paper clip sat in plain sight, almost an invitation.

I retrieve it from my hiding place, beneath the leg of my bed.

It's cool and comforting in my hand as I slowly unfold it, test its semisharp point with one finger.

Careful not to probe too deeply, draw too much attention,

I insert it just below the skin of my right wrist, down into a single blue vein. Oh God! Not enough! Easy now, right to left, vein to vein, connect the dots. 184

189

Wailed in Again

I walk to the window, sit in the chair, try to dissect the darkness with my eyes. How black it is out there!

And how green it is in here. Still, I can almost stomach it tonight, just a few hours until I can escape it again.

My head is light, cluttered with emotion, a jumble of lust, love, pride, hate, jealousy, devotion.

I still want to protect Emily, the secrets we shared. But I'm not sure why--she turned on me, broke down and confessed every detail of our love affair. Dr. Boston says she won't go to jail 185

190

because I'm past the age of consent. But her days of teaching high school went out with the recycling.

Weird, because they wouldn't

have suspended me. The same

sex that was okay for me

ended Emily's career.

I wonder if what I did made her hurt as much as she hurt me. Only fair, to trade hurt. But life isn't fair.

191

Life Isn't Fair

My dad has told me that at least a hundred times.
Life isn
'
t fair and luck? That is something you create.

He's spent forty-five years, creating a monster stash of luck, working twelve-hour

days, hating every minute he had to devote to problems at home. Mom isn't much better, but at least she can remain calm when everything

turns ugly--like the day I spurted blood on her new Berber carpeting. Amazing, how she skirted the puddle, staunched the flow with a towel, and barely touched me at all--

didn't dare stain the Versace.

Mom rarely touched Cara 187

192

or me, though, not even when

we were spotless. Diaper changing and bubble baths she left in the hands of our nanny.

Leona pulled "Mommy" duty until Cara and I turned fourteen. She was plump, pretty, and I will always remember her with a love far beyond what a child might feel for his substitute mother. When Leona

smiled, all was right in my world. 186

193

The Memory Stirs Sadness

It scatters around me like dust. My heart beats against the dent in my chest and I feel far apart from the things in my life that brought me to this place. My evening meds have yet to kick in. I get out of the chair, pace.

One, two, three, four, halfway to the piss green wall. Five, six, seven, eight. Pivot, hit replay. One, two, three...

It occurs to me that just hours ago, all I wanted was to get out of here, to crawl back to Emily.

I planned on trumping her with the guilt card, showing her how a .22 bullet had scarred both body and psyche. 189

194

But now I don't think she'll

see me. Won't open the door or answer the phone, which

leaves only my family to go home to. I know I'm not ready for that. Suddenly I find myself caught by a wave of nausea.

Was it the chicken? I fall on the bed, close my eyes, hope the churning wake

will vacate my head, let me

sleep.

195

Sunday Morning

I slide into a clean pair of black jeans, a button-up blue work shirt. Comb my hair, brush my teeth, ready for God.

But is He ready for me? Funny, but the person who gave me my first real taste of the Good Lord was dear, gay Phillip.

"Do you really believe in an all-powerful Creator?"

I asked him, one Sunday morning, a year or so ago. "And in some place we go after we die?" 191

196

I do, indeed. I can
'
t say exactly what He is, or where Heaven might be. But I believe there
'
s a place there for me.

It made no sense at all to me, but I followed Phillip to church that morning, and something (Someone?) there spoke to my heart.

You
'
re safe here,
it (He?) said.
No judgments, no worries, you
'
re one of My children, and a special part of the Grand Plan.
192

197

Okay, It Sounds

Like some weird soap opera. But that's what I heard, or maybe I felt it. I don't know. Don't care. And hey, if I'm wrong, nothing lost.

It does comfort me to think there might be something after we close our eyes for the final time-- a light to walk toward.

I hope Phillip took that walk. According to the Book, all that's required is faith. He believed, so he should be There, waiting for me.

"But what about being gay?" I asked Phillip once.

"Some say that dooms you." 193

198

I think God cares more about how you treat others than who you sleep with.

Which worries me some. I did once mistreat a man about as bad as you could do someone. Though I asked Him for forgiveness, maybe

I don't deserve it, because I don't feel even a little bit bad about what I did. I know He knows why. I only hope it matters. 194

199

He understands why I tried to kill myself and that He doesn't turn His back if I one day succeed. Surely that's better than taking up room on this dying planet, when so little room is left. The hardest part about this religion thing is that every "believer" believes something different.

Anyway, I don't really believe like this visiting chaplain does. He's pure hellfire and brimstone--

too Baptist for my taste. Oh yeah, I know Baptists, 195

200

Catholics, too. I sampled both along the way, in deference to the two sides of my family. Ma wasn't a churchgoer, obviously, but her ma was a Texas Southern Baptist who took me to a revival or two when we went to visit once. Holy rollers! Who could qualify for
their
Heaven?

Pa's people were Pope lovers, and the Vatican view of right or wrong leaves me reeling too. I bet Pa's at mass right now, spouting Hail Marys for me. 196

201

I'm Told Level One

Means Sunday services, an hour or more being scared silly by some volunteer preacher. They even make the little kids go. Church didn't used to scare me. But that was before Mama introduced me to her angel. He was so real to her, I used to wonder why I couldn't see or hear him, when Mama could.

Plain as day. And if you can
'
t hear

him, little girl, it means

you haven
'
t qualified to enter the pearly gates.

You
'
d better ask for forgiveness.

She never said what for, but she sat me at the table with a dog-eared King James, made me read for hours. Out loud. 197

202

There's that other thing, too. Most women in that situation move on with their lives. No second thoughts. No guilt. Most other women aren't me. I did ask for forgiveness then. Still don't know His answer.

My bad wrist throbs, and my good one pulses pleasant memories of a paper clip.

One more little poke couldn't hurt.

I tiptoe to the door, listen for movement in the hall. No footsteps. Out comes my little friend. This time I insert it just behind my knee, where a long skirt will cover it so no one but God can see. 198

203

A Long Flowing Skirt

And a long-sleeved blouse disguise all signs of SI--no, not
Sports Illustrated.
SI stands for self-injury; another term I learned surfing the Web. The best thing about those boards and blogs is knowing I'm not alone.

I cut to focus when my brain is racing. I cut to make physical what I feel inside. I cut to see blood because I like it. I don
'
t like to cut, but I can
'
t give it up.

I have felt all those things, cut for all those reasons. But now I cut for another, much more substantial reason. 199

204

I cut when I think I hear a baby crying. When I think

I hear Mama calling. Knowing those things are impossible but hearing

them just the same. And that's something I'll never break down and admit to anyone but myself. Bipolar crazy is one thing.

Schizophrenic is another.

Could I have inherited both?

205

I Sit at the Back

Of the dining-room-turned-

chapel. It's the only room big enough to accommodate all of us. And attendance is mandatory. Do they really think they're saving souls? If so, my suggestion would be not to bother. In my admittedly limited knowledge of religion, desire to change is a requirement.

Glancing around the room, I can find only a few who might qualify. Justin, of course. A couple of girls whose names I don't know, with beatific grins lighting their plain faces. And--this is weird--Tony, who's sitting two rows up. It seems to me that "gay" and "God" make strange bedfellows, in the most figurative sense, of course. 201

206

But Tony seems caught up in the drama of the morning--

singing hymns, praying the Our Father, listening

raptly to the sermon, a ramble

straight out of Revelations.

There's a lot more to Tony than what's on the surface, that's for sure. Wonder how deep I'd have to dig to find it all.

207

Mandatory Church Services

What other surprises does Level One have in store? I don't believe in God, don't believe in the devil.

Unless you want to count my mother. She might be Satan's sister, I suppose. What other explanation

could there be for someone sizzling hot on the outside, yet frozen solid beneath the skin. Not quite human.

Anyway, I get to wear my wrinkled Ralph Lauren. It's worse than I thought, having stayed crinkled against the back of the drawer going on a dozen days now. At least my Dockers aren't showing signs of mistreatment. 203

208

Whatever. It's good to be out of sweats, feeling half human again. I arrive just as the minister says,
Let
'
s

get started. Turn your eyes to the Lord, fill your hearts with gladness, reach out for your heavenly reward.

He's a poster board preacher and I hate him already. I spy an empty chair in back, suddenly glad I'm late. 204

209

I Sit Beside Vanessa

I can't believe the chump on my right left a place next to her for me. I settle in as the brainwashed recite a well-worn prayer, not

completely foreign to me:
Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...

It's not like I've never been to church before. My parents make us go on holidays, fighting sin

twice every year--the day Mary gave birth, the day her son died, so the stories go. All to save me? Right.

Vanessa leans over, sweeping my cheek with an auburn wisp.
I
'
d rather

be
sleeping,
she whispers. 205

210

She smells of industrial-

strength soap, but so do I.

At least we're clean. I notice the length of her skirt, which covers too much, if

you ask me. One slender

arm comes to rest on one

knee, and at the wrist, a few

drops of blood, scarlet clues to the mystery that is Vanessa. I lean back, watch her secret ooze.

211

After
the Last Amen

We're allowed some time to mingle, guys and girls together as if, now holy, not a single indecent thought

could cross our commingled minds. Vanessa's knee brushes mine, raising some quite improper thoughts. A voice reminds

me we're not exactly alone.
Good morning! Hope I
'
m

not interrupting.
Tony's eyes

fall, a warning to Vanessa to hide her wrist. But she doesn't, maybe because she doesn't care, or maybe she just doesn't see.

He reaches out, touches her arm.
What
'
s this, sweet

lady?
He disguises concern with charm. Unexpected. 207

212

Vanessa snatches her arm away.
Nothing. No worries. I poked myself with o fingernail.
Her eyes betray the lie.