Come Back (14 page)

Miss Suska is frail and proper, and she’s trying hard to keep her composure.

“Okay, staff corrected,” she squeaks.

“And would you also like to self-correct your Cat 2 major disrespect?” Sasha pipes up from across the room.

Sasha is a Level 4, aka junior staff, and, as such, she’s expected to consequent us lower-level peons. She has her own room, can wear makeup and jewelry, and can roam around by herself. I never thought I’d be envious of someone’s ability to go to the bathroom on their own, but that was before I had two minutes to go in a room where every drip and drop echoes for a line of girls to hear.

“Do you ever mind your own business, Sasha?”

“Okay, staff corrected. Come on, I’ll take you up to worksheets.”

I’ve been here about a month and at least two-thirds of it has been spent in worksheets. When you get a Cat 2 or above, you go to a room the size of a matchbox and listen to “educational tapes.” Right, as if listening to shit I read two years ago is educational.

When I get up there, another repeat offender named Lara is listening to
Robinson Crusoe.
Last time we were in here we scraped some paint off the walls and snorted it when staff went to change the tape. I got a very minor buzz, but at least it was something. Some days I miss dope so much I don’t even want to get up.

From the girls’ faces you’d think every Sunday was Christmas. Why, I have no idea. After we shower, we spend FOUR hours cleaning the facility top to bottom. And by clean they mean immaculate, a single dust fleck or stray hair means redoing the whole area. Scrubbing for hours is awful enough, but being on silence on top of it’s overkill so I start making melodies with the scrub brush. Sunny hears me, starts giggling and, thank you very much Zuza, we both get breaking silence, my fifth one of the weekend.

The whole silence thing is unnatural—even an involuntary laugh or burp is considered breaking it. The only times we don’t need permission to speak are during group, cleaning and PE, but it has to be “on task” or they slap you with
a fat Cat 2, bye-bye 50 points you just worked four days to earn. I’ve given up on ever reaching Level 2.

After cleaning we watch a movie, an activity that proves the dangers of taking away all media; girls are excited by
The Sound of Music
and
Mary Poppins.
Then we get two hours of free speech. After a week of silence, it’s like the Tower of Babel erupts out of fourteen conversation-starved girls. It’s weird not to see cliques in a big group of girls. Instead, they group together over various activities—cards, watercolors, games.

One girl, Samantha, usually sits alone in the corner, working intensely on some drawing. She’s a petite, nervous girl with black hair that always hangs over her brown eyes. The girls playing cards wave me over.

“And is our lovely Morava Academy everything you’d hoped for?” Roxanne asks, batting her eyelashes and donning an English accent.

I roll my eyes in response.

“Yeah, it sucks,” Roxanne says, “but once you accept that you aren’t leaving anytime soon, it actually does get better. Except for the pants.”

Lupe gives me an exasperated look and explains, “Her first two weeks here, all we hear outta this one’s mouth is the pants! oh, the pants!”

“I will NEVER get used to these pants.”

After Abercrombie and Bebe, no wonder. I thought she was going to be a real bitch, but she’s not only down to earth, she’s hilarious. Now that I know her I can totally picture her toking up to Sublime, blowing hits in her dog’s face.

Sunny giggles. “Maybe not the pants but you sure as hell got used to the dinner rolls!”

We all crack up—yesterday morning Roxanne gave an elaborate blowjob to the long, skinny rolls they serve at every meal when staffturned their backs.

The door opens and in struts Sasha, perfectly made up and not a hair out of place. She walks up and taps Lupe on the shoulder.

“Want to talk now?”

“Cool, thanks. Here, Mia, take my hand, and don’t fuckin’ lose on me now!”

“Lupe!” Sasha raises her eyebrows.

“Dag! Yeah, sorry, self-correct, I won’t swear in the future.”

They walk off to a corner and we resume our conversation. When I look over a minute later, I don’t believe it. The Lupe that was sprawled out across the table laughing and joking around now has her knees tucked up to her chest as she rocks gently and tears roll down her face. I can’t hear what’s being said
but Sasha’s gesturing and looking at her with a mixture of concern and frustration. I shake my head.

“I’ve never seen people talk about shit as much as you guys.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Sunny says.

“Are you just in here for cutting yourself?” I ask.

“I actually put myself in here.”

“You what?” She seemed normal.

“Yeah, Genius here even saved up to buy the plane ticket over!” Roxanne adds.

“I thought I found this cool boarding school in Europe. I could do some backpacking, stock up on Belgian chocolate…Wrong! By the time I realized what sort of place it was, my mom was all gung-ho on the idea, so here I am.”

“Damn, that sucks. Why’d she think you needed to stay?”

Sunny giggles. “Oh, you know moms! Some pot—”

“LOTS of pot. And hippie drugs,” Roxanne adds.

“Wasn’t doing well in school, self-mutilation,” Sunny adds. “I was sort of anorexic—”

“She weighed a hundred pounds!”

“And I sort of hated myself!” She finishes with a grin.

“What’s her deal?” I ask, looking toward Sasha.

“Oh, Sasha’s a doll. Not sure why she’s in a program, but when they opened Morava last March, they brought her here so there’d be at least one upper level. She makes an excellent shrink.”

Like they need one. It’s weird and annoying how people talk about their “issues” 24/7. It’s like they forgot there are subjects other than themselves. Even during free time, they talk about shit they shared in group a day before. Just getting through a day here is emotionally draining, and it’s not even my shit I’m getting drained over!

Karin comes to stay with us while her boat, which she lives on, is under repair. She knows the effect Mia’s letters have on us. She opens Mia’s letters before we do and takes out the sting.

“…Thanks for emailing me, Paul,” she reads, affecting teenage snottiness. “It’s good to hear from home, though three times in two months isn’t the best track record. It really makes me feel great when all the other girls get long, nice letters from their parents—both of them. I thought you sent me here to work on our relationship…”

“Your ‘relationship’? What relationship would that be, Mia?” Karin
interrupts her reading, then continues, “Items number five and eight on her list of ten things you MUST send…” She bursts out laughing. “Dermalogica face gel and Victoria’s Secret Pear body soap! Hah-hah!” she roars. “She wants to live on the streets with scumbuckets, fuck you Mom and Dad, I hate you! But please send me a bottle of thirty-five-dollar face gel!”

She’s practically rolling on the floor. “Dermalogica, yeah, right!” She’s right, it
is
ludicrous. It’s also pathetic. That Mia can be so smart yet so clueless. She’s been so cruel that sometimes it’s hard to remember that she’s reacting to a cruelty done to her.

Still, it is pretty funny. For the first time in what seems like eternity, I start giggling, then laughing. Pretty soon, I’m laughing so hard no sound’s coming out and I can’t sit up. I even join Paul and Karin in a toast an hour later at a sushi bar.

I can hear my mother already: mayonnaise on your bread, now you’re drinking—you’re starting to act like a shiksa, and what’s to toast, look at your life.

I’m actually looking forward to group today, it means a break from pre-calc. Katrina starts with how hard it is to eat knowing she can’t throw it back up. I feel like I’m back at the psych ward, minus the ass-wiper. Tyna turns to me.

“It’s two weeks you are here now, Mia. Do you want to share with group?”

“No.”

She keeps prying. “Maybe why you are here, how you feel about it?”

“I’m here because my mom’s a paranoid bitch who’s incapable of minding her own business and I hate it here.”

“What makes you say your mom’s paranoid?” Sasha interrupts.

“Because I don’t need to be here, I was doing fine.”

“Were you using drugs?” Sasha asks.

“Yeah.”

“Like…”

“Coke mostly, weed, obviously, nothing serious.”

Tyna interrupts Sasha’s inquisition. “Your mother writes to me that you take heroin. This isn’t serious?”

Bitch!

“I never shot heroin straight, it was always mixed,” I say, borrowing Derek’s line. “Not that it’s any of your business. Or hers. I wasn’t asking for
help. I don’t give a fuck if I shoot dope three times a day and eat shrooms for breakfast, it’s my life.”

The girl that shared about her rape my first day raises her hand. Here we go.

“Look, I felt the same way when I first came in. That what I did was my business and I could control my life. But the bottom line is when you’re doing those kinds of drugs as often as you were, you’re not in control, the drugs are.”

Then Lupe’s hand goes up. What is this shit? I was playing cards with this chick two days ago.

“My experience of you is that you take your mom for granted. You’re lucky you have a parent that loves you that much. Back home, I really took my parents for granted, too, but now that they’re gone, I wish I had been a better daughter.”

A better daughter? What the fuck is this, Lifetime TV?

Sasha’s been quiet during the rest of the attacks but now she walks over. She kneels in front of me and quietly says, “My experience of you is that you underestimate the effect you have on other people because you don’t know your own worth.”

“So, Mia, what is it about giving strange guys blowjobs that you like more than, say…helping your mom with the dishes?”

And so I meet the infamous Glenn. The way the other girls spoke of her, I was expecting someone softer, more motherly. Certainly not a spiky brunette with huge blue eyes and a tongue like a viper.

“I didn’t give strange guys blowjobs.”

“Really? You’ve never given head before?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I slept with them or anything.”

“No, I heard you save that honor for strangers in the snow.”

My face reddens. She’s talking about the night I lost my virginity. She’s obviously done her homework on me. Thanks, Mom, for telling my life story to a complete stranger.

“Mia, I’m a blunt woman and I expect the same honesty from you. Now, without having met you, I know two things. One, your mother loves you more than life, and two, you’re one miserable kid.”

I look up, startled. She sure cut to the chase.

“I know my mom loves me. That was never the problem.”

“Or maybe it was,” Glenn says softly, moving closer. “Maybe you wanted her to love you less. It would certainly make it easier to do the things you were doing, make you feel less guilty.”

Is this woman psychic?

“It’s very noble, using your suffering to shield your mom,” she continues, “but the guilt game stops right here, right now. You can’t use it as an excuse for your behavior anymore, that because you feel guilty, it’s okay to do it anyway. It’s fake redemption. The bottom line is you’re selfish. I understand you have your own dragons to slay, but you don’t do it at the expense of your relationship with your mom. Or yourself. I mean, can you honestly say you were happy?”

“I was before I came here.”

“Well, that’s interesting, because I’d be wretched if I was an addict living in some skinhead’s van.”

“What the hell’s everyone’s problem?” I can feel my voice escalating. “I like drugs, as a matter of fact, I love them and I was fine being on my own, so people should mind their own fucking business.”

“That’s the problem, Mia, I believe you. I believe you like drugs, that’s why I said you’re miserable. No happy person medicates themselves daily with lethal substances—don’t use your BS I-never-shot-heroin-line with me, speedballs are just as bad, if not worse. No happy person needs to numb herself to life.”

I keep thinking about my talk with Glenn. I can see why the girls like her, she doesn’t bullshit like most adults. Her opening comment caught me so off guard, I think I was so open the rest of our talk because I was still in shock. I look over at Lupe, who is reading a book of inspirational sayings.

“Lupe, have you ever talked to Glenn before, one on one?”

She puts down her book and laughs.

“Your talk went well, I take it. I know, she’s very blunt, sometimes to where it seems mean, but Glenn’s seriously one of the coolest people you’ll ever meet. Most people don’t give a shit about you enough to be that honest. My old friends didn’t and I’m guessing neither did yours.”

“Maybe not, but anyway, Glenn said something about the night I lost my virginity and I’ve been thinking about it all day. I always thought of that night as fun, but hearing her talk about it really pissed me off.”

I relay the conversation to Lupe, and briefly recount the night. A friend and I being picked up on the way to a ski lodge, getting high, drunken rides on four wheelers in the snow, and the grand finale, bouncing up and down on a giant red inner-tube.

“You had just met them?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t the brightest idea, but we just wanted to party and they looked fun. You know, it’s funny, when they picked us up I just had this feeling that this would be the night I’d lose my virginity. People make such a big deal out of it, I just wanted to get the damn thing over with. But hearing her say it like that made me feel stupid or dirty. I don’t know…I think sometimes I regret it.”

Lupe looks at me sympathetically.

“Hey, we’ve all done stupid shit. I was the opposite, I wanted to save myself for someone special. So I gave it up to Ricky and he was all romantic, I
love you, I love you, blah, blah, bullshit. Yeah, he loved me right into hospital visits and gang-rapes. Don’t feel bad about how you lost it, that’s done, you can’t change it. But if you’re acknowledging that the way you lost it made you feel bad, that’s good because then you can choose different men and situations in the future.

“Listen, I know a lot of the things we say sound corny. But I’m telling you, some of the shit you learn actually makes sense. You’ll see. Anyway, we have to go to bed now, but you should talk about this in group sometime. A lot of girls have fucked-up stories about their first time; hearing it might make you feel better.”

I have to admit, hearing her talk about it actually did.

As soon as we’re seated in group, Samantha raises her hand. There’s a surprise. She won’t socialize with anyone, yet constantly bitches about how much people hate her.

“I’m just not the sort of person people like.” She stops to gnaw her fingernails and comb her hair in front of her eyes. “I just want to die. I tried it twice back home but someone always caught me.”

I roll my eyes, half-wishing they hadn’t. Tyna sees me. Great, worksheets here I come.

“Mia, what did you just do?”

“I rolled my eyes. Yes, fine, self-correct, in the future I will suppress all facial expressions.”

Tyna laughs. “You’re not in trouble, Mia, I call on you to show something. Why did you roll your eyes?”

“Because she sounds ridiculous and I’ve heard it a thousand times.”

“Tell her, not me,” Tyna coaches. “My experience of you is…”

I look over at Samantha. Christ.

“My experience of you is annoying because if you really wanted to die, you could have, I think you just liked the attention. And people wouldn’t hate you so much if you talked about something besides how weird you think you are and how much life sucks.”

The group all laughs and Tyna smiles. I’m lost, did I say something wrong?

“Samantha, Mia has been here one month. She just give you same feedback you hear since your first day. You don’t trick people, they see you. From now on, you are to be silent in group unless you want share something real, no more drama for attention.”

I’m sort of starting to see the point of feedback. It’s not always an attack, sometimes it could actually help the person if they’d listen to it. Like Samantha. I look over at her, still chewing her fingers. She’s not that bad, she just needs to lay off her bullshit and quit feeling sorry for herself. Still, I’d never share in group, so I have to give her credit for even doing that.

Nothing beats starting out your day by watching flab jiggle to “Jailhouse Rock.” It’s raining outside, so instead of regular fitness, we’re watching Richard Simmons’s “Sweatin’ to the Oldies,” on the covered patio. For once, I’m glad when Sasha calls my name out for laundry. I detest dancing.

When we rejoin the family, they’re in group and Sunny’s sharing about a letter she sent to her mom about cutting herself.

“Oh, yeah, that’s gonna go over well. Hi, Mom, forget everything you’ve taught me about nonviolence and love, I slash myself to shreds with a razor! I tried to explain it but it doesn’t even make sense to me. I don’t know why I did it, I just felt better afterward.”

I used to think I was the weirdest person in the world for cutting. I had no idea other people did it until Colleen told me. I’ve never actually heard someone else talk about it before and it’s kind of reassuring. I want to tell Sunny this but I’m not sure how. I raise my hand and immediately regret it when fourteen heads turn my direction. It occurs to me I’ve never voluntarily spoken in group before.

“Mia,” Tyna calls.

“Um, I used to cut myself, too. I guess I just wanted to thank you for sharing because I’ve never heard anyone else admit to doing it before. I know what you mean, about not knowing why or being able to explain it to others, but just knowing you’ll feel better after. I would just get overwhelmed sometimes and cutting made sense of my emotions, it made the outside match the inside. It’s like, if I can literally see my pain, I’m not so crazy for feeling it.”

Everyone stares at me like I just told them I’m really a vampire.

“Wow,” Sunny gushes. “I never thought about it that way, but it makes so much sense. It totally does that!”

“You oughtta talk more often, Mia,” Katrina adds. “You’re really insightful.”

I suppress a smile, this actually feels kinda good. And then something occurs to me. If I start acting insightful and impress the staff, my mom might think this place is actually working and take me home.

Mia’s right on schedule with the manual’s next phase, Manipulation—

We’re not sure which feels worse, her honest, nasty letters, or these recent weasely missives.

Though we haven’t doubted the choice to send her there, it’s still discomforting to have your kid so far away in a school that’s, let’s face it, rather mysterious. The way it’s organized, how progress is measured, all the categories of offenses I’ve never heard of. I take a few letters to our first parent support meeting to compare notes.

We’re a varied lot: engineers, teachers, lawyers, doctors, a mechanic who’s mortgaged his house to pay for the school. Christians, Jews, a Hindu couple, probably a few Mormons. We’re all carefully made up and impeccably dressed. As if to say, we couldn’t control our own children, but we’re a good family, really, we are.

One couple sits apart with stiff faces that telegraph their shame. The rest of us are excited and grateful to be with others in the same boat. We eagerly exchange war stories, tales of woe that assure us our kid’s not such a freak—and for once, we aren’t either. Boys who came after parents with golf clubs and knives, daughters rescued from prostitution, ex-spouses doing drugs with their kids, suicide attempts, devil worship.

After we’re seated, a tall, attractive woman named Jan introduces herself to us and asks us what the purpose of our family is. Blank stares. Most businesses have a mission statement, she says, we have a purpose for nearly everything we do. How many of you ever took the time to do that for your family? More blank stares.

This woman fairly radiates loving energy, but in two minutes she’s made a group of already fragile people feel even worse than they already did. She whips out a fat marker and I suspect we’re about to learn what those two easels behind her are for.

She lists her family’s Ten C’s for a loving, joyful, supportive family—
the kind we don’t have. Clarity, cooperation, choice, caring, change, ceremony, comedy, communication, commitment, conflict resolution. I glance at Paul and wonder if his list starts with chaos, catastrophe, or crisis.

Jan makes two big circles on the other easel, labels one BELIEFS, then asks, “What are your beliefs about what makes a good parent?”

Well, Miss Ten C’s, obviously none of us are qualified to answer. It’s like pulling teeth but we help her fill the circle. “Good mothers are loving.” “Good fathers are successful.” “Good parents have kids that don’t do drugs.”

She goes to the other circle, writes “REALITY,” faces us, and says, “The reality is that you’ve got a kid in the program. And here’s what bridges the gap between the two.”

She makes a little bridge between them, labeling it G-u-i-l-t.

Now, she’s talking. Guilt we get.

“Now, your reality is obviously out of alignment with your beliefs about being a good parent. Reality isn’t going to change; it is what it is, folks. What needs to change are your
beliefs
. Because I see a roomful of great parents. Who
also
happen to have kids in the program.”

She looks at us sympathetically. “Look, I’ve sat where you’re at. I had great plans for my daughter—she was going to be a doctor! What she became was a druggie with a heroin addict boyfriend. She was sleeping in a cave on the beach, eating from restaurant Dumpsters. She spent nearly a year and a half in the program and has been home over a year. She’s stayed sober, has a job, lives on her own, and truly enjoys life. And while she worked her program in the school, I worked mine, at home. It may not seem like it now, but if you’re open to it, your lives will change so much for the better that you’ll one day thank your child for this.”

We’re all too surprised that an otherwise rational woman would say such a thing to even respond. There is
nothing
to be thankful about, except that our child is still, mercifully, alive.

The man who created the seminars that the schools use, David Gilcrease, introduces himself. He’s about six and a half feet tall, in his mid-fifties.

“You’ve all found the program because you recognize that whatever you were doing wasn’t working; something needed to change. And change is a complex dynamic; it requires education, challenge, and support. While the teens have various mechanisms within their program to support change, the parent program is wholly the seminars. It’s critical as parents that we
examine our roles in the breakdown of the family system. The seminars are structured to provide a safe environment for this self-examination.”