Sinful Suspense Box Set (46 page)

Chapter 9

I headed into
the dining room. Sugar was there alone reading a magazine and drinking coffee. I grabbed a plate of eggs and sat next to her. We hadn’t talked since the moment in the hallway the day before. I’d spent the rest of the day and night in my room, thinking, remembering stuff and wondering what Sugar was doing while I wasn’t with her. I wasn’t sure if all the thinking and remembering could be classified as reflection though because I’d spent a good portion of that time thinking that what I really needed was a drink or a hit off something more potent than my Camel smokes. Probably not the best topic for reflection, but that was the way my mind kept going. This place was supposed to make me forget about all that shit, but so far, it seemed I’d end up being one of the twenty-three percent who went back to the same life and the same bad habits once they walked out of here. The Green Willow brochure never mentioned the twenty-three percent, only the supposed seventy-seven percent success rate. After reading the brochure my mom had handed me, and being the constant
glass half-empty
type, my mind had gone straight to calculating the chance I had to fail this whole fucking thing. Math was never my subject, but I knew damn well that seventy-seven percent was less than a hundred.

Sugar was reading an article about raising chickens. She hadn’t talked to me yet, but she hadn’t gotten up and moved away either. I figured I was making progress.

“You thinking of starting a farm?” I asked.

She snapped shut the magazine.

“What? I was serious. Damnit, Sugar, you never even give me a chance. Yeah, I’ve got a chip on my shoulder. Believe me, I’ve heard that phrase more times than I can count. Not even sure how the fuck it got there, but I’m working on it.” I stared at the side of her face. Her profile was one that couldn’t be duplicated, perfect and doll-like. “Just give me some leeway, would ya? I’m trying.”

She finally looked at me. Without warning, she pushed a long strand of hair off my face. I held my breath, and she knew it. She knew that even that small gesture would make the oxygen wall up in my lungs.

She lowered her hand. “I think it would be cool.” She glanced over at the magazine. “Living on a farm, I mean. Out in the country with lots of animals and a cozy house and a vegetable garden.”

“Yeah? I guess it might be nice.” I ate a forkful of eggs. She was talking to me, and my relief went straight to my empty stomach. I was friggin’ hungry. “Have you seen Jules this morning?” More than once during my long night of solitude and reminiscing about getting high, I’d wondered if Sugar had gone to Julian to talk about her group session. She’d made it quite clear that she wasn’t looking to me for comfort. That heartbreaking reality had probably set my mind to thinking about drugs and booze more than anything else.

“I think he’s in session with Kirkendall this morning.”

“Shit, that reminds me.” I looked back at the clock. “I’m seeing her in five minutes.”

“Group sessions? Making it to your appointments with the doctor? Why, Tommy Jameson, you’re becoming a model patient.”

“Just like you, I want to get the hell out of here someday. Decided I better play the game.”

She smiled. “And who knows, maybe you’ll find your way. That’s all I’m hoping to get out of being in here. I just want to find my way.”

I looked at her and wished I was better at knowing what to say, but unfortunately, I had more talent for saying the wrong thing. So I said nothing.

“For the longest time, telling that story was impossible for me,” she said. “It was like a radioactive poison that I had to walk a wide berth around. If I got too close, it would destroy me. But after some pretty intense therapy I was able to talk about it, accept that it had all been a horrible accident. I’d ruined people’s lives with my silly spinning. Megan’s mother was never the same. She used to always walk out to the mailbox in her frilly apron, smiling like one of those women who just couldn’t have been more satisfied with life. But after Megan’s death, I hardly ever saw her. If she came out of the house, she looked really gray and skinny as if she was just sitting inside at her kitchen table wringing her hands and crying for her little girl. We moved about a year later because my mom left Nick, the guy she was married to. I was relieved not to have to watch Megan’s mom get grayer and thinner.” She stared down at her coffee cup and shook her head. “Kate and I never spoke again, but my mom ran into her a few years ago. She was starting medical school that fall.” She smiled weakly. “She had to live through the nightmare of losing a sister and watching her mom fall apart, but she went on to make something of herself. And here I sit in Green Willow Recovery thinking about chickens and vegetable gardens.”

“Hey, but you’re sitting here with Tommy Jameson. Don’t forget that little golden nugget.”

She smiled at me. “That is true. Kate is probably not sitting next to anyone as awesome as Tommy Jameson with his shoulder chip and scorpion tattoo.”

“You like the tattoo, huh?”

“I do. Why a scorpion?”

“Well, as you’ve probably noticed, I’m not exactly the butterfly type.”

She laughed.

A sweet fragrance drifted out from the kitchen. “Did I miss pancakes?”

“No, they’re making cake for tomorrow’s visitor’s day.” She sighed. “Get this, my mom is coming. Or at least I think she is.”

“And your enthusiasm shows.”

“Yep. Shit. How about you? Anyone coming from California to see you?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Nah. My mom asked if she should come. I told her not to bother. She hates flying, so I’m sure she was relieved.”

“Your dad?”

“He won’t come. And I’m glad about it.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek, an occasional chaste peck on her silky cheek was the one small luxury I allowed myself. “I’ve got to go have my chat with Kirkendall.”

I hated to leave Sugar. Could have spent all day just sitting there next to her, talking and laughing over cold cups of coffee.

The new ward assistant, Frank, was replacing a light bulb in the hallway. He looked down from his ladder but didn’t say anything. He watched me walk past as if he worried I might kick the ladder out from under him. Or at least that’s where my imagination took me, pushing that ladder right out from beneath his feet.

I reached for Kirkendall’s door, and it swung open. I leaned back to avoid getting hit. “Jules, whoa, buddy. You almost nailed—” I stopped. His face looked like clean white granite, hard and expressionless. He didn’t even acknowledge me as he pushed past and headed toward his room.

I watched him turn the corner before stepping inside the office. There was a cramped waiting room in front of Kirkendall’s office. It had two blue chairs and always smelled like air freshener. Kirkendall’s door opened. She looked a little stiff herself. Nothing compared to the zombie expression Julian was wearing, but it had obviously been a tough session for both doctor and patient.

“Tommy.” She cleared her throat as if it had been tight. “I’m just going to go get a glass of orange juice. Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks. Is Julian all right?” At first I’d told myself it wasn’t my business, but it was Julian, for fucksake.

I was sure she’d ignore my question. “You’re a good friend to Julian, Tommy. Thank you for that. He needs that friendship, but, of course, I can’t talk about anything that goes on in here.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She stepped out. I slumped back against the chair. She had one of those couches, the psych couch you see in all the movies, but I never used it. Her desk was a scramble of papers and folders. I always found it sort of funny. A disorganized desk didn’t go with her neat little suits. But then she did have that ear, that hint of non-conformity. There was a picture on her desk, but it was always facing her. I picked it up. It was a picture of a girl, about ten. The familiar smile assured me it was Kirkendall. She was standing with a woman in front of a giant redwood tree. The woman had a hippie-like look, with wavy hair, faded jeans and sandals. Not your typical mom type.

Kirkendall walked back in, and I quickly put down the picture. “Sorry, I was just curious. I’m always looking at the back of that frame wondering what’s on the other side.”

“It’s fine, Tommy. I don’t mind, really. That was a picture of a vacation I took with my mom. She died three months after that picture was taken, hit by a car as she was walking across the street to a bus stop.”

“Shit. Sorry to hear.” We sat in there, all of us addicts and dysfunctional people, trying to sort out our troubles, never giving much thought to the people who were trying to help us.

“It was instant, according to the doctor. I’m thankful for that, but I can tell you, I was lost without her. I had to move in with my dad. They’d been divorced since I was two. Hardly knew the man. I had to pack up all my belongings and say good-bye to the small house my mom and I had lived in.”

“That’s brutal. Shit. Your mom looks cool. Like the type of person you could sit down and—”

“Take a bong hit with?” she finished for me. “She was fun, and definitely not like other moms. She was a modern day midwife. She helped women who wanted to have their babies at home instead of in the harsh environment of a hospital. She was good at it too. She loved helping babies into the world.” She sipped her juice, and for a second, she seemed to coast off into a deep thought. She set the glass down. “Thanks for playing in that baseball game, by the way. I’m being told to make sure the residents go outdoors more, but between the heat and the fact that there’s just not that much to do out there, it’s a chore. When people like you and Sugar participate, it helps get others moving.”

“People like Sugar and me?”

“Leaders. Other residents watch you two to see what you are going to do next.”

I laughed at her strange theory. “They definitely pay attention to what Sugar is doing, but I think you stuck me in the wrong category. I’m no leader.”

“Yes, you are. You just don’t realize it. I know it’s not something you do consciously.”

“Pete was pissed when he heard I was playing.”

“That’s because you don’t give him the time of day.”

I sat back. “Yeah, but I still say you’re wrong.”

“You’re twenty-five, right Tommy?”

“Yeah.”

“Where do you see yourself when you’re, say, my age?”

“Your age? You’re not exactly ready for adult diapers and guzzling Ensure yet yourself, Doc.”

“I’m thirty-eight,” she smiled. “And thank you for noticing. Ten years from now, Tommy, where do you see yourself?”

I leaned back. “Hope to hell I’m not sitting in here talking to a forty-eight-year-old Dr. Kirkendall, that’s for damn sure.”

Another glimmer of a smile. “No, let’s get serious, now. I know you like to put up that wall, Tommy, but look over it for awhile. Take the shield down. You’re safe in here. I won’t tell anyone that Tommy Jameson isn’t always a hard ass, that he’s got a heart and soul beneath that tough exterior.”

“Yeah? I don’t know about that. There might be a heart and soul, but they’re probably not much better than the exterior.”

“Bullshit,” she said.

My eyes widened. “Did you just say bullshit?”

“I did.” She leaned forward and reached for her flowery clipboard. “I don’t have to pretend or put up airs around you, Tommy. I like that about you.” She flipped up a page on her clipboard and turned it to me. She’d scribbled the words ‘Tommy’ and ‘empathy’ on it.

“I saw you write something yesterday.” Just the thought of Sugar and that story made my throat thicken.

“See, there it is again,” she said. “I watched you. I watched everyone’s expressions while Sugar was telling her story. I saw horror, shock, even some anger, but your face was different. You were showing empathy, Tommy. It looked as if you were feeling every ounce of Sugar’s despair, as if you would have done anything at that moment to absorb her pain, to protect her from it even though it was too late.”

I dropped my gaze and stared down at the tan carpet below my feet.

She pulled the clipboard back to her side of the desk. While I hadn’t looked at her yet, I knew she was watching me.

“Not everyone has that level of moral reasoning, Tommy. Empathy isn’t intrinsic in everyone. But I saw it in you yesterday. That exterior doesn’t match what’s on the inside at all.”

“That’s because it was Sugar.”

“I know how you feel about Sugar. But it doesn’t make it any less significant. Give yourself some credit for being human, all right?” She sipped some of her orange juice and lowered the glass down. “Some people end up in rehab for one simple reason, they are unhappy. Their lives are a disappointment, or they suffer from clinical depression. For other people, there is something, some event in their life that triggers a need to find comfort in drugs and alcohol.”

“So, you’re looking for my trigger?”

She shrugged. She was wearing a right and proper blouse to go with her long row of earrings. “I don’t know. Do you have one?”

“Think my whole life has been a long series of triggers.”

She opened up the manila folder that apparently had my whole life spelled out on green-lined paper. “You played football in school, right?”

I stared at her. She was digging again. Yeah, she was paid to do it, but it still didn’t make it any easier for me to accept. “I did.”

“From what your dad said, you were really good too. A quarterback with big potential.”

“I guess. Hurt my knee, and it took me out of the game for awhile.”

“You decided not to go back?”

I glanced around her office. She had her diplomas hanging on the wall in thin gold frames and there was a painting of a farmhouse. My mind drifted back to the dining room and sitting with Sugar.

“Tommy?” Kirkendall said.

“I went back for awhile. I just wasn’t that into it. My dad was the one who wanted me to stay, but I didn’t really like the coach. Then I broke my leg. That put an end to football for good.”

She took another sip of juice and rested a forearm on her desk. “I’ll bet the coach was disappointed he’d lost his star quarterback.”

I got up and walked over to the painting. A rooster was strutting around the yard. “Do you think it would be a lot of work to run a farm?”

“I imagine it is, but, Tommy, please focus. How did your coach feel about you leaving the team?”

In the reflection on the glass, I could see her sitting in her chair, watching me. “Pissed, I guess. He liked to call me his sophomore prize, his gift from the football gods. I was the first sophomore to make varsity in ten years.”

“Wow, that’s high praise from a football coach. They aren’t usually that poetic.”

I sat back down. “Yeah, Coach Higgins was a fucking poet. This football topic is boring the hell out of me.”

“If you don’t mind me mentioning it, you seem more irritated than bored.” She smiled. “Like someone is rubbing sandpaper along your skin as you’re talking about it.”