Change Of Season (7 page)

She slid through the main entryway at twenty to seven, and immediately headed upstairs in search of a quiet perch of some sort.  She passed a group of departing students discussing some sort of light – Film majors, most likely – before finding a black leather loveseat near a corridor of what appeared to be tiny classrooms.  From her vantage point, she could see out towards the administration building, the residence for the middle school male students, as well as a small man-made pond, beside which a couple lay intertwined on the grass.  The sky was a rich navy blue, lined in a brilliant crimson. 

Perfect
.

Aside from a smattering of people and the occasional hushed whispering, Autumn was left undisturbed far beyond the general access restriction of seven.  By the time she’d finished scribbling out her drabble, it was twenty to ten, with nary a security guard in sight. 

It would seem, for all of their exterior security, that Casteel assumed its measures were sufficient – and that its students were trustworthy. 

Glancing over her draft, she exhaled loudly.  Finally, it was quieter.  The bees thrummed in the back of her skull, but it was the usual white noise she’d come to live with.  With any luck at all, she’d collapse into bed with a thump and pass out for at least a few hours of much-needed sleep. 

She slipped quietly down the main stairway, on guard for lingering school personnel.  The corridors, she noted, were decorated with mounted posters of student productions past, as well as still shots of the players in action. 
Rent
was performed two years prior;
Jesus Christ Superstar
was done in 2007 as a spring production.  Autumn snickered as she thought of Professor
Math-yew
, wondering what he’d thought of the musical. 
Probably horrified him
, she decided as she headed east, towards the student side entrance.  Steps before the door, Autumn halted, a small smile upon her lips.  Framed on the south wall was a black and white still of Veronica and several other students, snapped during a production of
bare
.  Veronica’s character was listed as Ivy, which she committed to memory.  Perhaps she’d look the show up and see what role she’d drawn once she was tucked away in room 308. 

It was with weary legs that Autumn ascended the winding staircase she loved in her dormitory, her notebook slapping lightly against her thigh. 
Please let me sleep tonight
, she begged to whatever force might exist, or perhaps her brain itself. 
I need sleep.  I want sleep.  Lots of sleep
.  To the left and down past all the other doors, she went slowly, jingling her key as she rummaged through her brain, choosing an album to sing to herself in bed.  Her key turned in the lock reflexively and she stumbled inside, flipping the lock and kicking her Converse sneakers across the room.  Changed into her pajamas, teeth brushed, she tucked into her bed with her laptop, doing a Google search of
bare
.  Ivy was one of the leads – unsurprising – and, to Autumn’s delight, the soundtrack featured a
Spring Awakening
alumnus.  It was also set in a boarding school, which surely pissed off Logan.  With a shake of her head, she tucked the laptop under the bed and rolled over, humming Florence + The Machine as she closed her eyes and willed rest to come.

Sobbing.

Startled, Autumn’s eyes flew open, immediately drawn to the bathroom.  And again:  a high-pitched, soft cry from the right.  Padding her way into the bathroom, she flipped the switch, cursing as the bulb flashed repeatedly before settling into a yellow glow. 
Their bathroom must adjoin mine next door
, she thought, creeping closer to the wall.  The crying continued, relentless.

It was almost eleven now. 

“I just want to fucking sleep,” Autumn whined.

Her fist knocked upon the wall urgently, a
rat-tat-tat
as she begged the crying girl to calm down.  With a last gasping sob, all was silent.  Satisfied, she returned to her bed, pulling the covers high over her head as she closed her eyes.  Maybe tomorrow, she’d check on the sad student next door. 
Everyone needs a friend
.  Thinking of Veronica, she sighed. 
Even me
.

For the first time in months, Autumn slept through the night.

65

Change Of Season

FIVE

Oakville; September 9
th
, 2011

It was precisely noon when Autumn knocked softly upon Dr. Stieg’s office door, her feet shuffling side to side as she bit her lip.  She’d been up since eight that morning, having slept through breakfast.  The mandatory wake-up call and breakfast seemed pointless to her on Fridays, given the varied schedules of the student body, but it was apparently about
cohesion
and
peer bonding
, as well as ‘establishing routines to carry forth into adult life’.  Nauseating.  She’d spent the morning finishing up a character outline for Creative Writing and walking around the campus grounds, steering away from all signs of student activity as she mulled over the notion of therapy. 
What the hell am I going to say?  What can I say?
  Her secrets lodged in her throat, and she swallowed in vain.

“Come in!” a cheery voice called through the door.

“Shit,” Autumn mumbled as she turned the knob.

She’d barely given the office interior a once over at her first appointment, but now, Autumn found herself studying it meticulously, as if the shelves of books and ornate candelabra-style lighting would provide some sort of guidance as to how to proceed.  The colour scheme was a mix of earth tones – primarily shades of brown and cherry wood – although the carpet was, of course, the trademark Casteel blue. 
I used to like blue before I got here
, Autumn thought bitterly.  For a moment, she was nostalgic for the tacky rainbow-coloured lockers of Jarvis Collegiate.  At least there was variety, even if it was of the hideous kind.

“Grab a seat, Autumn,” Dr. Stieg said, gesturing to the couch.  “I’m just sending this email to get Logan off my back.”

The music hummed low, but Autumn recognized it:  Arcade Fire. 
She remembered my request.
It was a definite credit to the shrink – it was a sign she actually listened.  It was also a tremendous liability, as far as Autumn was concerned. 
She won’t be blown off easily.  She pays attention
.  Sinking into the leather couch, Autumn’s legs kicked absently as she studied the nearby book shelf, scanning titles. 
Bodies Under Siege… Foundations of Counselling and Clinical Psychology… The Courage To Heal… and Stephen King’s Under The Dome.
  Autumn chuckled to herself at the juxtaposition of healing tomes and a writer who thrived on psychologically torturing his characters.

“What’s funny?” Dr. Stieg asked.

Autumn shrugged, gesturing towards the shelves.  “One of these things is not like the others…”

Emma nodded, smoothing out her cream silk blouse and charcoal skirt.  “Everything is kind of just thrown on there.  I don’t have time to sort it out.  If I’ve read it or I’m reading it, it’s there.”  With a nod towards a stapled set of papers on the desk, she continued, “So, I was a little surprised by your assignment.  I was expecting more cursing and expletives directed at me.”

“I was trying to be nice,” Autumn replied.

“I can see why you’re in our Writing program: you have a gift for setting a scene and telling a tale.  Or rather, not telling one.”  Picking up the pages, she flipped through them slowly.  “You’ve told me of how you feel about coming to Casteel, and of your parents, but you’ve taken great pains to avoid all discussion of why you’ve been placed in Behavioural Reform, or what led to your declining academic performance.”

“Well, what does it matter?  Aren’t you supposed to form an unbiased opinion? 
Tabula rasa
and all that?”  Autumn felt her heart sputter and race. 
This is not going to be easy. 

“I am, and from what I’ve seen from your words, both written and verbal, you’re hiding behind your intelligence and your gift for constructing worlds.  You’ve built a house of cards to avoid whatever it is that happened, in hopes that everyone will be distracted by the poetic language and the outer walls.  You’ve demonstrated a disdain for previous doctors, which means they likely marched in and assumed they knew what was wrong, or tried to shove you into a mould. Whatever lies at the root of your pain, you’re determined to protect it from others.  That may be your right to do so, Autumn, but understand this:  I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

Emma paused, leaning forward in her chair.  Behind her, Win Butler sang of the month of May through tiny speakers.

“Now, that all said, of course you won’t talk to me yet.  I’m a stranger.  I’m a figurehead at the school that’s holding you hostage on campus for ninety days, and I’m someone with the power to tell your family doctor that
this
is what’s wrong, and
this
should probably be done.  I don’t expect you to give me the memories you have locked away deep in your heart and mind today.  All I am saying is that we will eventually hit a crossroads.  And if you haven’t come to trust that all I want is your happiness and wellbeing by then, then we will have failed each other in this exercise.”

Autumn felt her body shudder as she averted her eyes, staring bleakly at the toes of her polished ballet flats.  A part of her – the part that often talked her off the panic ledge before she plunged head-first into hyperventilation and hysteria – understood and knew that her words were truthful.  But the animalistic part – the raw nerves coiled into a ball – bared its teeth, poised to lash out, should she delve any further. 
Too many voices
, she lamented. 
Too many wanting too much
.

“Autumn?  Come back,” Emma whispered.

“Huh?”  Her eyes wandered the room, her focus unsteady as she met the therapist’s gaze.  Had she lost time again?

“Think of yourself in layers,” the doctor said.

“Like Shrek?”

“Shrek?”

Autumn cursed her impulsive mouth.  “Shrek.  He tells Donkey that ogres have layers.”

“Oh, right!  It’s been a while since I’ve watched that.  Exactly that:  you have many layers.  We all do.  On the outside, I’m a woman, a doctor.  But there are layers to my personality and my trust.  Some people, I trust with the outer layers only – my favourite movies, hobbies, what I think of the government.  But there are layers I guard, as we all do.  Therapy is like peeling those layers back, one by one, very slowly.  We start on the outside, and slowly move inward.  For example:  how was your first week at Casteel?”

Autumn shrugged.  “It was pretty good, I guess.  Grant was a prick when I came late on Monday.”

Emma frowned. “I gave you a slip.”

“He didn’t care.  But the other teachers are awesome, especially St. James.  You were right about him.”

“How about the students?  Have you gotten to know anyone?”

“You know you sound like a mom right now?” Autumn groaned.

“Good parents are instinctive psychologists,” Emma countered.  “Think of it: they have to guess at what their babies want and need.  Those skills carry onward.  But
you
are dodging the question again, via sarcasm and wit.”

Autumn nodded. “Touché, Dr. Freud.  Actually, there’s one girl I’ve gotten to know a bit.”

It was a gross understatement.  Veronica and Autumn had spent hours together over the past week, talking and listening to music in their respective rooms.  It seemed they had a great deal in common, and Autumn found herself laughing more than she had in months.  There was still a little distance – a measure of safety – but it had become a given within Veronica’s Drama circle that Autumn was high on the vivacious blonde’s list of favourite people. 

Veronica was high on her list, too.

“Tell me about her,” Emma prompted.  “Do you share classes?”

“Veronica and I have Math together.” 
With Jesus Calculus
, she added inwardly, grinning.  “We’re also in the same dorm, so we visit after class a fair bit.” 
To smoke pot with her friend, among other things
.  “She’s hyper – like, ‘possibly needs Ritalin’ hyper.  But she has a good heart, and she listens.”

Emma nodded thoughtfully.  “Sounds like an incredible ally in a strange new environment.  Would that be Ms. St. Clair?”

Autumn’s brow furrowed.  “Yes, actually… Why?”

“Nothing bad.  I’ve seen her in school productions before.  The hyperactive part reminded me of her.” Emma grinned.  “She really is an Energizer Bunny.  Anyone else?”

Autumn shook her head.  “Not really.  I’ve talked to some of the Drama kids, and one girl in Writing, but just about homework and stuff.   I like my alone time, really.”

“What’s your favourite thing to do when alone?”

“Writing.  Listening to music and writing.”

“Anything specific, or just free writing?” Emma asked.

“Whatever I feel like.  Story ideas, poems, thoughts…  It helps to dump thoughts out before bed.”

Emma leaned back, tapping her fingertips on her desk.  “Do you have a hard time sleeping?”

Autumn hesitated. 
She’s starting to dig.  Shut up, shut up, shut up!
  “Sometimes?”

“Every night, I’m guessing,” Emma replied.  “Autumn, I don’t need to know the whys and hows.  It’s okay.”

“So it
is
going to be Twenty Questions and slap a label on it?” Autumn retorted.

“Unfortunately, in a sense, yes.  Too many disorders have overlapping symptoms, and the goal is to figure out what’s actually wrong, not what a doctor assumes.  But this is just one step.  It’s just one layer.  Also, if you’re suffering insomnia, that makes going to class hard, and we can consider ways to help you get the rest you need.”  Emma leaned back, staring at Autumn.  “Your eyes are rimmed in purple. I know you’re not resting.”

Fuck.
  Autumn’s fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt as her legs kicked harder, keeping time with her heart.  She’d come in with a strategy of feeding happy little comments she could write home about, and keep her crazy habits and the bee hive to herself. 
She won’t leave me alone.  She won’t settle for the ‘I’m fine’ routine
.  With an exasperated sigh, Autumn slumped deeper into the couch. 

She seems like she really cares.

She’ll tell them everything.

She said you had confidentiality.

Unless she thinks you’re going to become a psycho killer.  Which, let’s face it:  your voices are not a sign of sound mind in a body
.

“I can’t talk to you,” Autumn mumbled.

“What are you most afraid of, right now?”

Tears threatened to burst from her eyes; with a curse, she pinched her leg. 
Stop that!  Now!
  “How do I know you won’t tell everyone what I say?”

“Because we have confidentiality.  Do you want to go over it again?” Emma asked gently.  “We can even formalize it in writing, if you like.”

Autumn nodded furiously, and the doctor spun to her computer, clicking the mouse several times before her printer whirred to life.  Pages shot out into a neat pile as she sipped from a coffee mug, then pulled the pages free.  Two were placed on her desk and two were given to Autumn, whose shaky hand reached out tentatively, as if the pages would scald her.

“You need to feel comfortable here.  Whatever you need for that to happen, we will do it.  Let’s start here.”

Without hesitation, Dr. Stieg reviewed the entire two pages out loud, pointing out things like ‘circle of care’ and her ‘duty to report’ while outlining the rights Autumn had.  She grilled the doctor for examples of each exception, to the point where she was assured that she could believe she was the second coming of Cleopatra, so long as she was still able to feed and care for herself, and didn’t try to execute anyone in the name of Egypt.

It was airtight: nothing in Autumn’s head was fair game for disclosure, nor could her doctor at home tell her family without risking his licence.  With a loose and messy scrawl, both copies were signed by each of them, Autumn retaining one for her own keeping.  Folding the paper up and stuffing it in her bag, she was suddenly struck with a deep sense of shame.  Were her sleeping habits such a private matter?  Emma had been on her side so far.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Emma shook her head.  “No apologies, Autumn.  You have a right to ask for what you need to feel safe.  It would seem, though, that we’re out of time, so I’m going to ask two favours of you.”

“Okay,” Autumn agreed. 

“First, I want you to keep track of three things for the next week:  how much sleep you get; how often you feel very sad or upset; and how you feel about yourself as a person each day, out of five, with five being ‘I’m awesome’ and one being ‘I hate everything about myself’.  Second, I want you to choose a song that reminds you of last September, and one that reminds you of this September.  Okay?”

Autumn nodded, quipping weakly, “Homework, even in therapy.  Casteel is serious about producing conscientious adults.”