Rehab

“Laurel? Laurel?”

I open my sleep-sodden eyes and assess the situation.

“Angie, it’s too early for this,” I tell the naked girl shivering next to my bed.

“Laurel, Laurel, they’re coming. Be quiet! They’ll hear you. Shhh. Very quiet, like a mouse, so daddy doesn’t hear.”

“Angie, they aren’t coming. You’re safe. You are at the hospital. Do you want me to go get Nurse Missy?”

“NO! Don’t leave. They’ll get you. Don’t go.”

“Missy,” I bellow, “Angie’s freaking out… again!”

“Be right there,” a calm sweet voice calls back from outside the tiny room.

Missy unlocks the heavy door and swings it open.

“S’alright Angie, nobody can get you. Do you want me to sing for you?”

“Yes,” comes the reply in Angie’s quiet kitten voice.

I turn away while Missy helps Angie dress and begins to sing. Missy always sings “Porgy and Bess”. I’m beginning to the think it’s the only song she knows, but in her honey-rich alto it’s pretty soothing.

“Summertime… and the livin’s easy/Fish are jumpin’…”

My eyes slowly close and I’m back drifting between silence and dreams.

“Six AM, rise and shine.”

I open my crusty eyes. The window drowns me in golden sunlight. I wince and turn back into my pillow.

“Up, Laurel, now.” the nurse standing over me demands.

“Un-uh. Angie had a bad night. Can I sleep in?”

”No, you have group at seven and Narcotics Anonymous at nine.”

“Sadist."

I open my eyes in my pillow and mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of sunlight. I turn over and sit up.

“I’m up, Stalin. You may go.”

I rise from the small single bed and walk to the shower. I notice Angie is already up and at breakfast.

“Sure, the crazy can function on two hours of sleep, but us recovering addicts need our rest,” I grumble to the empty room.

I hang my thin terrycloth robe on the hook behind the door and, as always, the hook rolls under its negligible weight and tosses my robe on the wet floor.

“Which circle of hell is this, exactly?” I ask no one in particular.

The hot water soon pours over my body and I feel my muscles begin to loosen. The steam opens my lungs. I cough and realize that I haven’t had a cigarette in two and a half weeks.

Suddenly, all the shower’s good is undone and I fall to the floor gasping.

My hand fumbles weakly for the call button just outside the shower. My fingers touch the warm plastic. Instantly my breathing eases a little.

Matt, one of the orderlies, rushes into the bathroom.

“Laurel?” he asks.

I gasp in reply. Matt gathers me in his arms and tosses the wet robe over my indecency.

“Hold on, kiddo. Keep breathing.”

Matt runs to the nurse’s station deposits half-naked wet me on the gurney in front of it.

“In the shower,” he explains to the puzzled nurses behind the shatterproof glass.

“Looks like another panic attack,” Cathy, the sadist who woke me up, comments as she comes around to help Matt.

Cathy calls for a syringe and injects me with Vercid. Things become blissfully bleary. I begin to breathe again and my heart stops its cavalry-unit-esque rhythm.

I open my eyes and smile gratefully at Matt and Cathy.

“I’m good,” I say, though it probably comes out “migooo”.

I sit up on the metal gurney and breathe deeply in and out. I have completely forgotten my nudity. The woefully insufficient robe has fallen to the floor. Cathy retrieves it and covers me again.

“Let’s get you dressed,” she orders.

I march alongside Cathy dutifully and, once in my room, put on my clothes like a good girl.

Cathy holds up can of Ensure. I stare at the offending vessel with vacant eyes.

“Do you want to go the I.V. route again?” Cathy asks.

I grimace remembering the last time I refused food. I was put on I.V. glucose and fluids. The only problem was I was so dehydrated that the tech couldn’t find a vein. The vampire disguised as a medical professional had to put the I.V. in my foot. Nothing hurts as badly.

“No,” I croak, “Gimme the can.”

Cathy holds the can of warm viscous slop for me while I choke it down.

“Are you okay to walk?” she asks when I finish.

“I’m fine, not even groggy.”

“For someone who only weighs 93 pounds you have the drug threshold of a horse.”

“Awww… you’re just jealous, you middle-aged cow.”

“You’re fine,” Cathy growls and stalks out of the room.

“Love you too,” I call after her.

After taking time to put on shoes and some chapstick, I walk to the group room.

Alvin is already there, sitting on the plastic couch by Angie. Alvin and Angie are 10-13’s like me. 10-13 means that the cops bring you in. We are the bad kids in crazy-town. Alvin tried to stab his mother with the stem of a wineglass. Angie was found being raped and tortured by her stepfather. I pale in comparison.

The only reason I’m here in this hellhole is because the grandbitch found me passed out and thought I had overdosed. This meant I got a free trip to the hospital, a complimentary stomach pumping, and an all-expense-paid trip to this place.

I walk to the chair in the corner and slump into its plastic seat. Alvin stares at me through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Laurel, you look pretty today,” he growls.

“Stay away from me, Caligula.”

“Lighten up people,” calls Scott, the group therapist, entering the room.

I hate Scott. Cathy is a sadist, but she is good at her job. Scott is a useless sack of excrement. He tries to minimize everyone’s problems and treats all of us like we are his best friends. He always smiles. Cathy says it’s because he doesn’t have to clean up the messes we make or hold us when we are detoxing. She’s probably right.

Scott waits for everyone else to arrive. He passes the time by clicking his pen. Thankfully everyone arrives on time.

Group always starts with Scott asking everyone about their nights.

“Alvin how was your night? Any thoughts about hurting yourself? Or others?” Scott asks.

“I didn’t sleep so good. I kept having dreams about my brothers. They were running away from me. It scared me.”

“I’m glad you shared that with us. Who wants to go next?”

Jessica, an attention-seeking bulimic, raises her skinny arm.

“Jessica?”

“I slept okay, I guess, but this morning I weighed myself and I’ve gained three pounds since last week. I mean, that’s really bad. I want to get better but my body is just so disgusting. I’m really, you know, discouraged. It seems like I’m doing all my therapy and stuff but I still sort of feel like I’m, you know, not getting anywhere.”

“That can be discouraging Jessica. Who else would like to share? Angie?”

“I slept really good and didn’t wet the bed last night at all.”

“That’s a big improvement, Angie. Good job!” Scott reassures her.

“She didn’t sleep, she woke up four times. She wet the bed twice and I had to call Missy every time.” I gripe about Angie.

“Laurel, try not to be so negative about what Angie shared. What about you, any thoughts about hurting yourself or others?

“No, and no,” my standard reply.

“Anything you want to share? Scott prods.

“No.”

“Okay, Carl, you’re up.”

“Slept okay, don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

Carl is a cokehead who isn’t much for conversation.

“Anybody else?”

Scott goes on, calling us each out and making us answer stupid questions until he is satisfied.

After about thirty minutes of staring out the window trying to block out all the nuts, group is over. I walk back to my room before I have to go to N.A.

The single bed beckons invitingly. I lay down on the cool sheets. I close my eyes. Just one more week. I wonder if I’ll be able to make it. My eyes get heavy I and I slip back to the place between silence and dreams.