Counting Backwards (17 page)

“That’s wonderful to hear. Did you see your father over the break?”

“Yes, we had lunch together on Christmas.”

“And how was that?”

It was . . . tolerable? No, something better than that.

“It was splendid.”

“
Splendid?
Well, that is good news. And what about your mother? Did you see her?”

“No,” I say. I spoke with her again the day after New Year’s, because that’s how long it takes her to recover from a bringing-in-the-new-year hangover. I wonder if she made any resolutions. Probably not.

“She said she’s going to come visit as soon as she can get some time off,” I tell Dr. Deb, which is what my mom told me, though I know better than to hold her to it.

“Good,” Dr. Deb says.

I nod enthusiastically. I could do this all day. Happy, happy Taylor Truwell, the big small-talker.

“And how’s school going?”

“Great,” I say. At least I don’t have to lie about this one. “I’m catching up in my classes.”

“That’s a step in the right direction.”

“It sure is.” I don’t care what direction I’m headed, as long as it’s out of here.

“And how’s your breathing been?”

My . . .
breathing
?

“Fine?”

“Because I’ve noticed that sometimes you have difficulty with that. Breathing.”

She’s talking about the feeling. Sneaky, Dr. Deb. She must think I’m new at this game.

“It’s just my asthma,” I say, knowing full well that it isn’t. I shouldn’t even be lying about it, but I can’t help it. Even though I hate it, the feeling is still mine.

“I didn’t see asthma listed on your medical record.”

“Acute asthma,” I say. I have no idea what that means, but I think I’ve heard of it before, and maybe I have it.

“Interesting,” she says, which is what people say when they don’t believe or agree with you. “Well, for now, let’s not try and define it. Let’s just focus on your breath, shall we?”

My good mood is fading fast, but I can’t give up so easily. I’m going to play her game, and I’m going to win.

“Great. Let’s do it.”

“All right then. We’ll begin by closing our eyes.”

I close one eye.
Never take your eyes off your assailant.

“Take a long, deep breath in,” she says. “Visualize the air entering in through your nose, expanding your diaphragm and rib cage, filling up your lungs from top to bottom.”

She models the breathing, and I follow along. One long, deep breath in and out.

“Now imagine the oxygen flowing through your arteries and capillaries, reaching the very tips of your fingers and toes. Wiggle them a little to see how the oxygen gives you energy and strength. . . . Good, now let it go. Breathe in deeply again and hold on to your breath for as long as it’s comfortable. But when you release it, do it slowly, counting in your head as you exhale.”

I exhale slowly,
ten, nine, eight
 . . . counting backwards without meaning to, but it feels better than counting up, because at
one
it will be over, right?

“Excellent,” she says. “Let’s do it again.”

We go through the whole sequence four or five times, then she starts coaching me as I breathe, saying, “I
am powerful. I am strong. I am in control.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Say it with me,” she says. “Between breaths. One statement at a time.”

The real me doesn’t believe in this corny feel-good crap, but the fake me says the words aloud. “I am powerful.” I breathe. “I am strong.” Breathe. “I am in control.”

“How do you feel now?” she says.

“Decent,” I say. “I mean . . . great.”

“I’m giving you a homework assignment. Tonight before you go to bed, I want you to sit in a quiet place and do this exercise by yourself, repeating the mantra in your head: ‘I am powerful. I am strong. I am in control.’ Will you do that for me?”

“Sure,” I say, knowing full well I won’t.

But later that night I remember Dr. Deb’s homework assignment and decide to give it a try. I sit on the edge of my bed and breathe in and out, but I don’t think I’m doing it right, and when I say the words, they just sound silly and stupid.

I can fake it to Dr. Deb, but I don’t have to fake it to myself.

“I’d like to
know more about my program.”

It’s the following week in therapy. I’m on a reconnaissance mission to figure out the rehabilitative team’s rules of engagement. Only I can’t let Dr. Deb know it.

“What would you like to know?” she asks.

When does it end?
I think. I want to mark my release date on a calendar and count down the days with big red
X
s. But I can’t say that to her. I have to be smart.

“Well, my probation is six months, so . . .” I trail off, but she doesn’t fill in the blanks. I continue, “And I’ve been here nearly three months already, which means I must be about halfway through. I just want to make sure we have enough time to complete it—my program, that is.”

She tilts her head and studies me. “We don’t put time
limits on our residents’ therapeutic programs. Six months is just a guideline, as I told your father already. We’ll have plenty of time to complete your program.”

This is crap,
I think, and catch myself before I say it aloud. “That’s great,” I say. “I wouldn’t want to rush it.”

“Neither would I,” she says with a smile. “Now, if you’re ready, I’d like to play a game with you. It’s called Yes or No.”

Before I can respond, she gets up and moves to stand across the room.

“Is this comfortable?” she says.

“Yes?”

She takes a step closer. “Is this comfortable?”

“Yes.”

She continues asking me and I continue to say yes, until she’s standing just in front of me, so close I can see the pattern of the threads in her linen pants.

“Is this comfortable?” she says.

“No.”

She backs away, and the game begins again. I respond,
Yes. Yes. Yes. No.

We play the game in a variety of ways, with me standing, sitting, and lying down. With her behind me and to my side, in front of me and above me. At the end of the session she tells me she’d like to play the same game next week with someone else.

“Who?” I ask her.

“Who would you feel most comfortable with?”

I think of Margo and how much fun we could have with this one, re-enacting it later on. I miss her so much sometimes—her little quirks and her sense of humor, her enthusiasm.

“Charlotte,” I say to Dr. Deb, and I’m not sure why. I haven’t said much to her lately, but I remember how we first met. Charlotte is someone who respects boundaries.

The following week Charlotte and I play the game together, taking turns at being the one to say yes or no. When I’m able to move, I actually have less power. I’m also nervous about invading her space, but Charlotte never raises her voice against me, not like before. She seems calmer now. Maybe she’s actually getting better in this place, or maybe it’s me who’s gotten worse.

That same week in school, Charlotte stops me in the hallway.

“Here,” she says nervously, and pushes something at me. “This is for you.”

I glance down at what she’s given me—a coloring book, My Little Pony.

“These too,” she says, and hands me a pack of twistable crayons, like the kind Margo gave her my first day here. “These are the good kind.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks, Charlotte.”

“Sure,” she says, then gives me a tiny smile and hurries away.

That afternoon, after I’ve done so many math problems I think my head might explode, I get stuck on Unit 3: Word Problems. I can’t figure them out—any of them—and the more time I spend on them, the more I come to realize that I will never be able to catch up on all this schoolwork. And even if I completed every math problem, aced every chemistry test, and answered all of Dr. Deb’s questions, there’s no guarantee that even that would be enough. What if it’s all for nothing? My release date isn’t three months from now or even six months from now; it’s seventeen months from now, the day I turn eighteen. I’ll be in here as long as Margo. Even A.J. will be released before me.

I scold myself for even thinking about him. I set my algebra book aside and dig around in my backpack for more scratch paper. My fingers grab hold of the coloring book Charlotte gave me, and I pull it out. When I open it to the first page, I find she’s already colored it in—a purple Pegasus. But even better than that is her message to me in the corner:

To: Taylor

From: Charlotte

My heart expands just a bit.

I browse through the pinups of coquettish ponies until I find one who looks just a little bit defiant. I color her red with a fiery orange mane. I draw in a devilish smirk on her muzzle. By the time I’m done with her, she’s a warrior pony.

And I feel better.

I go back to my word problems and tell myself that I’m going to kill them. A couple of hours later I’ve completed every one. I turn the page and go on to Unit 4.

February brings with
it a kind of cold I’ve never experienced before. An actual winter. Where I’m from we have cold spells where people turn on their heat because it’s there, but the afternoons are usually warm still. Here there are stretches of days with freezing temperatures. No snow, though, just an icy cold drizzle, like there’s a huge snow cone in the sky dripping down on our heads.

The girls on the second floor are crabbier than usual too. When they’re not whining and complaining about one another, they’re fighting over what programs to watch in the common room. I’ve got schoolwork to keep me busy, but I find myself longing for the days of the Chain Gang, working outdoors and feeling my muscles in action. I guess I’m the
kind of person who doesn’t appreciate the sunshine until it’s gone.

“I’ve added a new component to your therapy,” Dr. Deb says to me one afternoon toward the end of February. I knew this day was coming, when we’d run out of therapy games to play and the real talking would have to begin, and I’ve dreaded it.

“What is it?” I ask her cautiously.

“Why don’t we go take a look? Grab your jacket.”

I have several jackets that I pile on top of one another. I use my socks for mittens, even though my dad bought me a pair of gloves—I can never seem to find them. He also sent me a faux fur–lined hat with earflaps that I wear whenever I’m outdoors. In Dr. Deb’s office I pile on my ragtag winter gear and follow her outside. It’s bitterly cold, but by the time we’ve crossed the lawn, I’m starting to warm up. And truthfully, I’d rather be outside in the frozen tundra than inside the mind factory with the cinder-block walls and wheezing heater. I follow Dr. Deb past the school building and down the hill, heading toward the maintenance shed, though I’m not sure why. I notice a guy on the lawn, shoveling dirt, then stop because I recognize him—it’s A.J.

“What’s he doing here?”

“We’re introducing a new therapy at Sunny Meadows,” Dr. Deb says, “and we’ve chosen two residents to be part of our pilot program. We’re calling it ‘garden therapy.’”

I glance over at A.J. and realize she means the two of us.
Oh no
. I can be cooperative up to a point, but not this. Not him.

“I don’t know anything about gardening,” I say. It’s the truth. My grandmother once had a garden, but I was little then. I can’t remember the first thing to do.

Dr. Deb doesn’t answer me but continues on with her spiel. “By agreeing to participate in our pilot program with A.J., you’ll have to forgo one of your therapy sessions per week and two of your group activities.”

In any other circumstance I’d be jumping for joy. But not in this case. “I can’t even keep a houseplant alive,” I say, but I don’t think she’s listening.

“Your rehabilitative team has agreed to reward you with a special privilege for your participation.”

“What privilege is that?” I ask. I’ve gotten so used to living without privileges, I doubt they’ll be able to sway me.

Dr. Deb pulls something out of her pocket. My MP3 player. I almost don’t recognize it, it’s been so long. But more than my music, that player represents the real me. The person I know and understand.

“Of course, you can’t listen to it at school or in therapy,” she says, “but any other time . . .”

I glance over at A.J., who can’t hear us but is watching nonetheless. He sees the prize in Dr. Deb’s hand. He knows
I’m being bribed. Maybe he’s been bribed as well. I don’t see how he’d agree to it otherwise.

If I say no to this therapy, my efforts will count for nothing. My team will know I’m still the old Taylor—defiant and stubborn. And my release date—if it even exists—will be pushed back further.

But if I agree to it, then they can’t help but document it as progress. I’m cooperating and participating, as long as I can get along with A.J.

“Okay,” I say at last.

“Great,” Dr. Deb says. “A safety will be making rounds to check up on you two. For now, good luck.”

She turns to go.

“Wait, where are you going?” With her around, at least I know things won’t get too personal. Part of therapy is the therapist, right?

“Oh, that’s the best part of this program,” Dr. Deb says with a smile. “It’s resident-led.”

She walks away, and I know that this has all been one big setup. That must be what rehabilitative teams do—get together and think of the worst possible situations they can and then make it part of your “program.”

I turn back to A.J., who’s resumed digging, and see that he’s scraping up the top layer of brown sod, in foot-long strips, and depositing it nearby.

“What are you doing?” I ask, because I have no idea where to begin.

“Making rows for the beds,” he says without looking over.

Maybe I should be doing the same thing. I don’t need to ask him where the shovels are. I planted enough trees over winter break to know my way around the maintenance shed. I walk in there and grab myself a shovel. Under normal circumstances, they probably wouldn’t let us around this kind of equipment, but the Chain Gang was going in and out of the shed all the time and no one got decapitated, so I guess in that way we earned their trust. Maybe that’s part of why they chose us for this pilot program. Not that I believe that’s what this is. Not at all.