We Weren't Looking to Be Found, page 13
Maybe it was something else.
When they’re finished, I’m allowed to go back in, and they remind me that I can’t leave the room or go anywhere but the bathroom without permission.
“Whatever,” I say because I’m exhausted and I can’t stop thinking about the anger in Camila’s eyes when I saw her in the hall earlier. No one likes a snitch, and no good deed goes unpunished. I don’t blame her. But I also think I was right to tell her doctor what I knew. Seeing her like that, with all that blood…
I shudder, then rush to the window. When I finally spot Yolanda and Dr. Roberts walking back across the courtyard, I pull the pill bottle from my pocket. Invasive procedures aside, no one bothered to search my clothes, which is laughable. Pouring them out into my cupped palm, I count quickly. Thirty. I’ve got thirty Vicodin, and believe me when I say the urge is strong to take one. But I don’t. I’ll need to be clear-headed when Camila returns or else she’ll snitch on me as revenge.
But this gives me an idea. After returning the pills to the bottle and securing the lid, I head to the closet, which has a built-in plastic clothes rod and a handful of plastic hangers attached to it that can’t be removed without taking off the whole rod. The whole thing’s flimsy and cheap-looking, but I guess the idea is to let us have clothes but also not let us have any items we could hurt ourselves with. Anyway, the point is that the plastic rod itself is hollow, and with a little light force, I’m able to pry it away from the wall on one side and slide the pills right in. Then I shove the rod back and feel a surge of pride at my accomplishment.
Hell, forget necessity. Around here, paranoia’s the mother of invention.
THE WORST THING about all of this is that I’m forced to talk to my parents on the phone. It’s not clear if they insisted or if the staff at Peach Tree Hills did, but the fact of the matter is that no one bothered to ask what I want.
Dr. Roberts sits with me during the call.
“Hello,” I say.
“Camila! Sweetie, are you okay?” It’s my mother, her voice as familiar and warm as ever. Something in me feels physically sick hearing it and suddenly wanting so badly to be close to her. But this is how nostalgia and memory work, how they team up to manipulate my emotions and get me to surrender in times when strength is called for.
“I’m fine,” I say stiffly. “I know what I did was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
“We’re not worried about that, baby,” my father jumps in. “We just want to know if you’re okay. If you’re getting the help you need. We love you, Cams. More than anything. And we know this isn’t an easy time for you, especially considering…”
“I’m fine,” I say again.
“Is it true you cut yourself?” my mother asks.
“It’s nothing bad. Just a scratch. I didn’t even need stitches.”
“Why’d you do it? Why would you do that?”
“It’s not the first time, Mama. You know that.”
“But you said you’d stopped. You promised.”
“Well, what did you think I’d say?” I snap. “Did you think I’d tell you the truth just so you could make me feel worse about it?”
Of course, she starts crying after this, and of course, it’s impossible not hate myself. I didn’t have to respond like that or use that tone, but I’m tired of having to hide who I really am. I’m tired of everything, really.
My dad takes the phone. “They told us you ran away.”
“We didn’t run away. We just left for a little while. We always meant to come back.”
“You left without telling anyone.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Lying’s a big deal, Cams. You know that.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say because it’s not like he’s honest about his problems. His own dark moods and brittle sorrow.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
His voice lowers. “No matter what happens to us in this life, our integrity is all we’ve got. Don’t let anyone take that from you, sweetie. You’ve always been true to yourself. It’s what I love about you and what makes you special. I don’t know who this roommate of yours is, but don’t let her change you.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s no chance of that happening, Daddy. Trust me. I’ll probably be in lockdown for the rest of the time. Solitary confinement or something.”
“I just want you to remember who you are.”
“I’m not the one who’s forgotten.”
“We should talk about Fieldbrook,” he says.
“No.”
“Your mother and I, we both wished we could’ve talked with you beforehand. We discussed that with Dr. Sánchez, but with the deadline coming up and the messages we were getting…”
“I don’t want to talk about that. Not now. Or ever. There’s no point. Just forget it.”
“I know you’re upset with us, but you have to understand that we made this decision with your best interest in mind. We can’t stand to see you hurt yourself. And now with you cutting again, well, we really can’t take any chances—”
I hang up the phone. There are some things I can’t do, either.
Dr. Roberts looks at me. “How’d it go?”
I glare at her. “Awful.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t make me talk to them ever again.”
“IT’S NOT FAIR,” I tell Dr. Allegheny when I see him the following morning. “None of it was my idea. Camila’s the one who wanted to leave, and I just went with her. And then I’m the one who got us back safely, but now she’s being treated like some special princess and I keep getting yelled at and having to take drug tests.”
“Is that really how you understand what’s happened?” he asks.
“You see it differently?”
“Your roommate and her concerns aside, you willingly left the property without letting anyone know where you were going. You drank alcohol and smoked weed. You attended a party with people you don’t know. Your poor judgment and impulsiveness don’t reflect a lot of progress on your part.”
But that’s the point, I want to say. Instead I go with: “How’d you know about the party?”
“The cops reported it.”
“Oh, well, that was some other bullshit, by the way.” I sit up straight. “I called here for help, and you people sent cops to come and get us? Two brown girls in a rich Georgia suburb? Come on. You have to know that’s a bad idea. It’s lucky we didn’t end up dead. My mom would’ve sued this place out of existence if anything had happened.”
“I share your concern about that,” he says. “I do, and it wasn’t my call. It’s also something I’ve brought up with the administration.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, in the state of Georgia, if an individual is deemed a danger to themselves and in need of hospitalization, transport must be done by law enforcement. Once it was reported that your roommate had cut herself, they had to be sent out, and we have a good relationship with the Leeds police department. They have better training than most when it comes to mental health. But”—he holds a hand up to keep me from jumping in—“but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been handled differently, and I do apologize for that.”
“Thank you,” I tell him grudgingly. “I appreciate it.”
“Can we get back to talking about you? It sounds like you’re pretty angry with your roommate for putting you in such a challenging position.”
I slouch down in my chair. “I’m not really mad at her. I’m more worried than anything. She was really weird, though, the whole time. The way she was acting.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about things. I thought she was having a good time.… We were just getting out for a couple of hours. I really had every intention of coming back. But it’s fun to break the rules every now and then. There’s no harm in that. It just feels good, you know?”
“How is it fun to break rules?” he asks.
“How else do you know you’re alive? Unless, you know, you’re the one making the rules.”
He nods. “I see.”
“And yeah, I drank a little. Smoked a little. It wasn’t anything out of control, though. Just some partying.”
“What was your roommate doing while you were partying?”
I tilt my head. “She doesn’t drink, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t know what she was doing. Talking to people, I guess? Hanging out. Being normal?”
“You saw this?”
“No. I’m not her babysitter. She’s a big girl. She was the one who wanted to go out and have an adventure in the first place, and that’s what we did.”
“How much did you drink?”
“Couple of shots.”
“A couple?”
“Four or five. And I took a couple hits off a joint.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how likely do you think it would be that, if given the same opportunity, you’d drink again?”
“Ten being the most likely?”
“That’s right?”
I think about this. “Eight, probably.”
“And if you were not here, but instead, say, back at home, how often would such an opportunity arise in your normal life?”
“I mean, I could find a party every day if I wanted to.”
“Would you want to?”
“No. That’s too much.”
“So in an ideal but average week, how many parties would you seek out?”
“Maybe one to two tops. I’ve got other things going on that I’m involved in. Model UN. This public art advocacy program. The lit mag. I’m pretty ambitious, you know.”
“So, again, on a scale of one to ten, how important is it to you to fulfill your other commitments, like Model UN, the art advocacy project, and other activities that you enjoy?”
“Ten,” I say.
He writes something down. “That’s helpful to know. I do hear what you’re saying about wanting to break the rules in order to feel in control of your life. But it also sounds as if you have a lot of other passions and interests that you find fulfilling and that you’re committed to pursuing.”
“Is that so notable? Isn’t that what everyone’s like?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I had no idea.”
Dr. Allegheny smiles.
“Is this where you tell me how I have to get sober or else I’ll die in a gutter?”
“No,” he says. “However, I would like to discuss your aunt’s visit yesterday, but we’re out of time at the moment. Let’s pick up there tomorrow.”
“So I’m not in trouble?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that. But not with me.”
“Figures.” I sigh. “Camila and I are meeting with Dr. Sánchez at eleven. She stayed in the infirmary last night, though, so I haven’t even seen her.”
“I know about the meeting,” he says.
“She’s mad at me. Did you know that, too? I try and help the girl, get in trouble for my effort, and now she won’t even talk to me!”
Dr. Allegheny lifts an eyebrow. “How do you understand her anger?”
“She’s probably mad that I snitched on her for cutting. Which I get. But I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing, Danielle.”
“Says you. Anyway, I should probably be the one that’s angry. I think the whole reason she wanted to leave yesterday was to… you know, do what she did.”
“Hurt herself?”
I nod. “That was hard to see. It was bad.”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think so. I’ve always been good in a crisis. Even when I’m fucked-up. I don’t know why that is.”
“You did the right thing,” he says again.
“I know. But like I said, she doesn’t see it that way.”
“Do you think there might be other reasons for her anger?”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like maybe the two of you aren’t so different after all.”
The meeting takes places in one of the big conference rooms—the one where I was supposed to do that worthless drug assessment, which feels like forever ago.
Today, when I step inside the room, I’m filled with apprehension. Dread, too. Seated around the table are Dr. Sánchez, Dr. Roberts, Yolanda, and a counselor I don’t recognize. Camila’s there, too, obviously, looking fragile and precious with her tiny arm bandaged up and a glass of orange juice in front of her. Nobody passes me any juice, and the truth couldn’t be more evident: Camila’s going to get to be the victim today.
I’ve been cast as the villain.
“First things first,” Dr. Sánchez says in that stern voice of hers, and I can’t help but stare at her makeup. Her eyebrows are so sharp and perfectly shaped, it’s almost as if she isn’t real. “What happened yesterday was unacceptable. From a safety standpoint. From a personal responsibility standpoint. And possibly a legal one.”
“Legal?”
“You’re minors,” she snaps. “And you’re under our care and representing our facility. Do you think the town of Leeds is thrilled over this incident? Or your parents?”
“You think I care about the town of Leeds?”
“We’re sorry,” Camila says from the opposite side of the table. “Well, I am, at least.”
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Dr. Sánchez sighs. “Thank you, Camila. But an apology doesn’t change the fact that you chose to leave this property and that you both broke numerous rules that you were well aware of when you broke them. If you are to remain in our care, you’re going to need to abide by additional security restrictions to ensure your ongoing safety and the safety of our other guests.”
“Are you going to make us wear ankle bracelets?” I ask tartly.
The looks she gives me is not a friendly one. “I don’t think you appreciate our position here. You are in our care. This is a medical setting, to a certain extent, and there is a great deal of responsibility that your parents have entrusted us with, as well as the surrounding communities. Peach Tree Hills was developed as a transitional housing opportunity for girls who could benefit from our clinical services but who were currently stable and otherwise not in imminent danger and able to engage in therapy and school and community building. We’ve never had to worry about significant security breaches because no one’s ever broken our trust in this way.”
I stare at the table. “Look, I get it.”
“Do you?”
“I just said I did. And I am sorry. I know we did something shitty.”
The woman I spoke with on the phone—Dr. Roberts—jumps in. “First of all, you should know that we’ve been in touch with your parents to inform them about what’s happened.”
I roll my eyes at this. “Okay. What did they say?”
“They stated a desire for you to stay here and to continue your work toward recovery. I expressed my gratitude that they’re able to see the bigger picture.”
“I think you mean the empty nest,” I quip.
Camila’s lips twitch in response, but Yolanda is unamused. “From now on, you will be under our highest level of supervision. No more free time on the property, and you’ll have an aide accompanying you between activities.
“Additionally, because we believe in restorative justice—not punishment—you two will be working with me over the next two weeks and finding ways to enhance our community through collaboration and positive action.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Good question, Dani. Well, today you’re going to spend the afternoon cleaning out our lost and found. In addition to a big clean, the whole space needs organizing and the shelves require new labels and storage containers. The rest is TBD, but I’m open to suggestions.”
I scowl. “Sounds like punishment to me.”
“It’s not.”
Camila squirms in her chair. “Lost and found? You mean you want us to go through other people’s stuff?”
“That’s right.”
“Can’t I do something else?” Camila pleads. “I’ll work in the garden. I don’t like dust.”
“We have masks you can wear.”
“Does that mean it’s a health hazard?”
“No.”
“What about the garden?” she insists.
“It’s not an option,” Yolanda snaps.
“Well, I don’t want to work with her.” Camila jerks her head in my direction. “I don’t want to live with her anymore, either.”
“Poor you,” I say.
“Ladies,” Dr. Sánchez cuts in. “None of this is negotiable, and you certainly haven’t earned the right to compromise. Personally, I thought you should’ve both been dismissed from our program. Rules are rules. But other people thought… differently. So here we are. You can take this offer, or we can make arrangements for your return home.”
“This is doing a lot for my recovery.” Camila holds up her bandaged arm.
“The real punishment is working with her, right?” I ask.
Yolanda appears ready to throttle us both. “I’ll meet you this afternoon at two in the courtyard. I’ll have the key and any supplies you might you need.”
“Fine,” I mutter.
“What if I don’t feel safe?” Camila asks.
“What’re you talking about?”
“She’s not trustworthy.”
“That’s really not the point of this task, Camila.”
“Then what is the point?”
This I can answer.
“Don’t you see?” I tell her. “The point is for us to feel bad.”
I SQUEEZE MY EYES SHUT, tight as I can, and will my body elsewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere.
