Come Back (24 page)

“When this is over you’re going to have a lot more than a headache to worry about.”

Nick hasn’t changed a bit. This time it’s my new lawyer he’s threatening, right in the courthouse. Probably because his letters telling her that her actions on my behalf will haunt her conscience and condemn her to eternal hell didn’t have enough of an effect.

Mia’s glad we’re suing him. She’s told Mike she feels it empowers both of us. And that if she’s being held accountable for everything she’s done, he should be, too.

“I know she’s glad, but I’m sure it’s bringing up a lot of issues for her,” I say.

“Oh, it is,” Mike answers. “But those issues will come up anyway. They will for anyone who’s been sexually abused, only most folks never deal with it. Mia is doing a lot of hard work most adults either never get the chance to do or are afraid to do. You should be very proud of her.”

Only in this sense has Nick paid any price for what he did, and it is a steep one. He’ll never get to be proud of Mia, a punishment of his own choosing.

“How ’bout it?” Mike asks before I can sit down.

“How ’bout what?”

I’m already not liking the way this session’s headed.

“How ’bout we walk over to Unity after this session?”

“What?” Cameron said something about this last time but I thought he was joking!
“
You’re not really going to stick me in a boys’ family—you can’t!”

“Cameron’s already discussed it with me.”

This bites! Unity’s one of the most notorious boys’ families on the facility. Whenever you hear someone radioing for backup, it’s almost always Unity family. He stands up.

“Right now?”

“Right now, kiddo.”

I reluctantly follow him to the Hungry Horse. We walk in and a roomful of boys all turn around to stare at me. I wheel around to walk back out but Mike grabs me by the shoulders and half leads, half drags me over to a tall, tan man in his thirties with a scruffy beard. Mike explains the situation to him, two weeks of joining the family from 7:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m., then two days a week from then on. I stuff my hands in my pockets and stare at the ground.

“Boys, listen up,” Mr. Greg announces. “This is Mia, she’ll be joining our family.”

Their names come in a whirl, Brad, Sean, Jeff, Aaron. They give the same introductions as girls do, name, age, where from, why here. The drugs and dropping out are similar but there’s a lot more gangs and violence.

When I get back, I’m hit with questions: what do their cabins look like, do they have the same rules, what’s fitness like with them? It’s not until I’m about halfway through that it hits me. Brooke, Samantha, and Katrina are all missing.

“Where is everyone?”

“They got Level 4 today.”

“All of them?”

I instinctively seek out Sunny, whose expression and presence tells me she didn’t get voted up. Again.

“Katrina and Samantha I saw coming,” I tell her, “but Brooke’s only been here seven months!”

“Yup, and we shining examples are still Level 3 after a whole year, isn’t that just faaabulous!”

Boys smell. They shower, they shave, they do laundry once a week, but their cabin still stinks of sweat and socks. They’re louder during fitness and quieter during group.

There’s so much snow on the court today, fitness turns into a snowball fight. They tackle one another, rubbing snow in each other’s faces. It looks like fun but they’re so aggressive, I’d probably get massacred.

I walk over to talk to Mr. Greg and ask about his weekend.

“Oh, it was great, I went to the Testicle Festival.”

“The what?”

“Testicle Festival,” he says, as if every town had one.

“Right. And I suppose come fall, there’s the Pussy Parade.”

He laughs. “Bull balls, Mia, not people’s!” He’s practically smacking his lips. “Got down ten of those bad boys this year.”

Only in Montana. I’m grimacing and trying to imagine testicle festivities when Thwack! A snowball slams into the back of my head. I turn to see blond frizz taking off. I ball up a handful of snow and chuck it back at Zeke. It hits him squarely in the back. He turns around and we both start laughing. Before I know it, I’m snowball fighting with Zeke and ducking attacks from the others. Paul was always proud that I could throw a baseball like a boy, and the skill is coming in handy because they aren’t cutting me any slack for being a girl!

Every week I feel less like an outsider. I’ve made a few friends and feel comfortable with the whole group in general.

I’m in the middle of helping Aaron with a math problem when we hear a loud pounding. It’s Sean. A minute ago he was quietly reading a letter but he’s livid now, slamming his fists into the table as he yells, “That bitch!”

Mr. Greg rushes over and grabs his arms. Sean wrestles free and slams his fist into the wall. Mr. Greg grabs him again. “Michael, radio staff central and tell them we need backup here NOW!”

“Fuck you!” Sean screams while trying to punch Mr. Greg. Suddenly, he buries his face in his chest.

“She lied to me, Mr. Greg,” he sobs. He makes one more fist, then drops it.

“She lied, she was never pregnant.”

Sean’s girlfriend was two months pregnant when he came into the program. She was due this month. Or so we thought. Turns out she was worried Sean would leave her and faked the pregnancy. Poor thing, he was so excited to be a dad.

Women don’t have a monopoly on being abused, I think, as I watch Mr. Greg cradle Sean. I’ve listened to guys share about being beaten by drunken dads, cheated on by girlfriends, one was even molested by an aunt, another by an uncle. I’d been so busy seeing the world through my own experiences, I didn’t think to view it through anyone else’s.

“I’m not wearing a dress.”

Mike’s putting me on a challenge by making me wear girl clothes for a week.

“A skirt, then.”

“N-O.”

“Mia, what don’t you like about being a girl?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Hmm, musta been another client who made that long list of all the things wrong with it. Let me think…I believe you said you don’t like walking down the street and being catcalled at, you feel that guys enjoy sex more—that whole fucking versus getting fucked—you don’t like being physically smaller than guys. And, my personal favorite, you can’t pee in the woods standing up.”

“Just because I don’t like being a girl doesn’t mean I want to be a guy.”

“That’s why I think it’s a good idea to get you more comfortable with being a girl, so you can embrace it rather than let it be a source of frustration and pain for you. The rest of this week, you’re going to dress like a girl, and I mean makeup, hair, the works.”

“Even when I’m in the boys’ family?”

“Especially when you’re in the boys’ family.”

It takes three days of walking around in a skirt for me to break down. A new boy came into the family and he’s been eyeing me all day. Then I got so frustrated during PE because I can’t do anything in these stupid clothes, I yelled “fuck” and Mr. Greg made everyone circle up. Of course, as soon as we do, who happens to walk by but Mike.

“I was wondering when this would happen.”

“You wanted this to happen? Everyone’s staring at me like I’m a freak or a piece of ass and I can’t do anything in these stupid clothes!”

“Guys, if you weren’t in the program and you saw Mia walking down the street, how many of you would say, damn, that’s a good-looking woman?”

All their hands go up. I’m on the verge of tears.

“Okay, then what would you have done?” Mike asks me. “Actually, don’t answer that. Mia, I want you to guess who would have responded in which way.”

I look around at the guys. “Micah and Jason definitely would have catcalled, Sean would have waited for me to approach him, Aaron would have come up and been very respectful, Zeke would have said some jackass pickup line.”

“Now go around the circle and tell me what each of these guys’ biggest issues are.”

“Micah was adopted and has big abandonment issues, so does Jason, though
he’s more afraid of rejection. Zeke’s ridiculous pickup line makes sense, he always uses humor to mask being nervous or scared.”

By the time I finish the circle, Mike’s point is obvious. People’s reactions are always about themselves, their own insecurities and fears.

“Mia, if I thought you genuinely hated dressing like a girl, I wouldn’t have done this. But I see how you look at other girls. I know you want to do certain things but don’t because you’re scared of the attention it might bring. This was to help you get more comfortable with that attention, to teach you how to handle it appropriately.”

Micah raises his hand.

“Guys aren’t all just after sex, Mia. I know we talk about it a lot and you’ve had some bad experiences, but half the reason I would have wanted to hit on you is because you’re cool. I’m not saying sex isn’t a factor, but give us some credit.”

“Yeah,” Zeke says, “and how you dress makes a difference too. Sure, if we see some girl with tight-ass pants and a thong showing we’re gonna want to hit it. But if you see a woman who dresses nice, honest to God, sex isn’t the first thing we think of, it’s more like damn, that woman’s beautiful, she’s never gonna go for a dude like me. So we make some retarded pickup line when all we really want to do is just ask you out.”

“Mia, what did we do today?” Mike asks.

“We tortured me.”

“Well, maybe,” he laughs. “We made you face your fears. Now tell me you don’t feel a little bit better?”

I smile reluctantly. The bastard has a point.

Good God, that voice. High, sharp, nasal, and LOUD.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Lou Dozier says of her voice, grinning. “Men who have issues with their mothers just love it.”

She’s a tiny, pixie-faced ball of energy who will be our Duane for Focus. She’s in her mid-forties, agile. Her body speaks as expressively as her voice, her movements are fluid and gestural.

“Focus is about being 100 percent responsible for your life, about opening yourself up to new possibilities. I’d like you to step forward in any order and introduce yourselves.”

A tall young woman steps forward. She says she works for the company and came because she wants to better herself and her marriage. Her voice is familiar.

“You’re Priscilla from Utah! I’m Claire, from Morava!” I blurt emotionally. “You were the only person in the whole company who would talk to us—”

“VICTIM!!” Lou yells.

My jaw drops and it’s like a thousand-watt bulb went off in my brain,
instantly
.

“I said introduce your
selves,
not your stories and drama!” she says. “Next!”

“No, wait! You’re right!” I sputter. “You’re right! That’s exactly what I’m doing! I’m whining like a…I
hate
whiners!”

Lou walks up to me.

“No, you don’t, Claire, because you’ve always gotten something out of it. I get that you’ve been whining and angry and righteous for years—ooh, they did it to me, look what he did to me! Always fighting or blaming some bad guy, aren’t you?”

“Yes! That’s exactly—”

“How’s it been working for you, Claire?” Lou cuts me off. “What were the payoffs?”

“It feels awful, I’m always stressed. The payoffs? I don’t know,” I say, flummoxed.

She addresses the group, “Being a victim gives you an excuse for not being accountable for your own life. Blame is a wedge against feeling powerless. Claire,” she looks at me, “I get that what went on at Morava was tough on everyone. Looking back from a place of accountability, what did you create for yourself there? Resentment? Chaos?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Keep going.”

“Exhaustion, umm, fear…”

“Sympathy, approval, control!” she belts out. “You got to be
right
. A victim always gets to be right. If they’re the bad guys, then you must be the poor good guy. It’s a covert way of controlling. Can you see that?”

It’s true, I could have done the exact same things I did that week with an entirely different attitude. My attitude was, indeed, that what the police, the company, and the press were doing was wrong, which made me, of course, right. My anger upset me, it upset Mia, it added to the anger and hostility already there. It didn’t control people, it further polarized them. As if anger ever really controls anyone’s behavior.

Like your child’s. Another Bing! moment for Ms. Fontaine. The worse Mia got, the angrier I got. On some level, I thought that if I just got mad enough, I’d scare her into line. I just made us both miserable, and she just got better at pretending.

Touching knees with a few people in a tight circle is not my idea of a good time. I like personal space. A member of the service team, Annie, joins my small group, telling us no kid talk, just what’s been working and not working in our own lives since Discovery.

“Transformation will not tolerate mediocrity, it will not tolerate fear,” was what Lou left us with, and Debbie Norum is taking that last one seriously. She’s a pretty, pale blonde in her thirties with the kind of bright blue eyes that look even brighter when they’re shining with tears. Good thing, because I’m going to be seeing a lot of them.

“I am so tired of feeling guilty and angry!” she exclaims, bursting into tears. “My son got his only student of the month award and I was lying in a hospital bed with tubes down my throat because I tried to kill myself, how fucked up was that? But I can’t take it back, I can’t take back the drinking. I’ve done everything I can to make amends, but he can’t get over it—”

“You mean, he
won’t
get over it,” Annie reminds her.

“No, he won’t, and I’m sick of buying into his letters home about what a lousy mom I was! I’m just so sick of being sick of things, mainly of being sick of myself. I don’t want to feel this way anymore!”

I feel like I’m witnessing open-heart surgery, hello group, here’s my heart, eat of it. Her version of sharing is paralyzing, it’s making me sweat and I haven’t said a word.

John Dean’s a big man in his late forties, with dark eyes, intense and intimidating. He’s guarded, says little, and when he does, it’s usually sarcastic, judgmental, or sly. It’s obvious he isn’t going until last, so I start. I talk about losing my dream job when Mia went down the tubes, about my new job, about my ex.

“Lou really nailed me. I want honest feedback if you see me being a victim or overreacting.”

“I get it,” John says dryly, “‘Group, I’ll tell you how I’m going to screw up, so you can be ready for it, and I can be ready with my response,’” John says, mocking me. “There’s certainly no risk in that, Claire F.”

“There was no risk in telling Debbie that all men aren’t jerks, either, John D,” I shoot back.

“Aren’t we a pair?” he grins. “Hey, let’s make this all about Debbie.” We laugh and he feels less intimidating to me.

“How about let’s not,” Debbie suggests. “Claire, you just spent ten minutes on ‘stuff.’ I didn’t get anything about how you feel.”

John pushes up his glasses, sits back in his chair. Defensive position, I think to myself. Debbie intimidates him.

“Open body, John,” Debbie reminds him.

He leans forward and says, “My experience of both of you is of two very sad and worn-out women.”

Around 9 p.m., Lou asks the entire group to come up with a purpose for our weekend. Drafting a new constitution would be easier.

There have been a few men who’ve gone head to head with Lou. Big guys who have issues with women, little Napoleons with authority issues, run-of-the-mill boneheads who have issues with women in authority. One brave man didn’t come back after lunch. Of course, these are the first guys at the easel. I think I’m about to witness grown men fight over a marker.

Not that the rest of the room is much better. We’re all arguing in no time. We’ve even gotten anal about “the,” “it,” and just whose purpose is it, anyway. Tempers flare and pettiness reigns. John sits against the wall, muttering biting but funny remarks. Debbie keeps jumping up, crying, “Why can’t we all just come together as a team, my God, look at us!”

By 1:30 a.m., we finally agree to disagree on: “Our purpose is to create growth and joy in an exciting, caring environment.” So far, only “exciting” applies.

“You took four hours to do this,” a staffer says. “Know how long the kids take?”

“They’re probably here till morning,” our Napoleon-in-chief says smugly.

“Twenty to thirty minutes.”

The word “horseshoe” takes on a whole new meaning in the world of seminars. Especially when it’s got a solitary stool in the middle of it. Today, it’s an opportunity to get a look at the Grand Canyon between how we think we are perceived and how we really are, the latter, at our worst, being called “our number.” We “run our number” when under stress or when we go unconscious about our behavior. We’re being given new names that reflect “our old number.” “Old” because the weekend is about moving past those beliefs and behaviors.

“Morticia?” I practically fall off the stool. “But I’m one of the most cheerful, optimistic people I know!”

“Are you nuts, Claire?” Debbie practically yells, suddenly deciding Lou needs an assistant. “All you wear is black turtlenecks, your face has no color, you don’t let anyone in—you’re like the walking dead!”

“Ditto!” calls out someone else, probably Rebel Without a Clue, who has to stick his two cents in everything.

I don’t get me as Morticia at all, but they do and I guess that’s the point. We have to wear new name tags with our old number names, which I find exceedingly annoying. Debbie didn’t argue when it was her turn, in fact, she came up with her own, DOORMAT—Men, Come Shit All Over Me. Lou coached her that doormat was just the symptom, the belief behind it was Not Good Enough. Which sets Debbie to weeping again as she plasters on her new name tag.

“So, John,” Lou asks when he’s on the stool, “who made you feel so small and weak when you were a kid?”

From the look on his face, she hit the bull’s-eye.

“Fate did,” he says, half-facetiously. “I was a very sick child, I was small and could die at any time.”

“Fate, huh?” Lou says, unconvinced. “You look pretty hearty to me, when did you start looking like that?”

“After I left home, I gained forty-five pounds.”

“Gee, there’s a surprise.”

“What are you gonna do, call me Mama’s Boy?” he says sarcastically.

“Why, do you like that name?”

“Hell, no, it doesn’t—”

“Mama’s Boy!” she calls to the back table. They’re nodding in agreement as one of them scribbles a new name tag.

“Are you open to some feedback, Debbie?” I ask her in this morning’s small group.

“Of course,” she says brightly.

“My experience of you is that you don’t realize how controlling you are.”

“When did that come up for you, Claire?” Annie asks me.

“Suggesting the group work as a team last night is one thing. But crying and judging everyone for not doing it was trying to control the experience of sixty people. And acting victimized when you couldn’t.”

“Oh. Huh,” Debbie says, frowning, “welllll, I’ve got to think about that.”

“Comforting Aging Barbie, I mean Deana, when she got that name, was about controlling someone’s experience, too.” I’m on a roll. “It says
you think she’s too weak to handle it herself; it’s like saying: I think you’re needy and the person you need right now is me. Which made it about you.”

Deana is a sexy little blonde in tight jeans and a high-collar blouse bursting with bosom. She’s super feminine, with bleached blond bangs hanging low on her forehead and a lot of mascara. She says she hates her forehead and obsesses about her weight.

“But, it seemed so mean,” Debbie protests, “I hated to see her cry.”

“The whole point was finding the name that pushed her buttons. Getting old and losing her beauty is her biggest fear in life. Of course, she’s going to cry, what’s the big deal?”

“Caretaking is never about the other person,” Annie adds. “It’s about wanting to feel needed because you’re afraid you’re not wanted. Debbie, can you see the connection between that behavior and the belief that you’re not good enough?”

“Yeah, I need to look at that,” she says thoughtfully.

“Need to?” Anne prompts gently.

“I
want
to look at that,” Debbie corrects herself, then says to me, “Though I sure didn’t expect to hear ‘what’s the big deal’ about crying from you, Miss Stick Up Her Butt.”

“You’re in a rut in your life, just going through the motions,” Lou speaks dreamily into the darkness around us as we lie on the floor. “And you get an opportunity to go on a four-day cruise. The sky is blue and the air is fresh and bracing…”

I see dolphins arc gracefully below me, waiters with trays of lemon tarts, chaises with silk cushions and ample shade…

“The burdens of your life appear and you do something unusual. You request assistance and people respond. They’re excited that you’re there, making a difference just by being who you really are, sans image, pretense, or mask.”

I picture myself at the prow in lotus position, serene and content and the…

BANG!CRASH!BAMBAMBAMBAM!! thunders throughout the room, scaring the living daylights out of me.

“THERE’S AN EXPLOSION IN THE ENGINE ROOM!!” Lou
yells, “THE SHIP’S GOING DOWN FAST! You’re 2,000 miles from shore, the radio’s destroyed and there are sharks in the water! There’s room for only SIX of you on the lifeboat! ONLY SIX OF YOU WILL LIVE, THE REST OF YOU WILL DIE!

It’s dark and the banging and crashing keeps going and I feel genuine panic.

“THE ONLY WAY TO LIVE IS TO BE ON THE LIFEBOAT. YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS TO STATE YOUR NAME AND YOUR INTENTION OF WHETHER OR NOT YOU WILL BE ON THE LIFEBOAT AND WHY! GO!”

This feels so real! The dark room fills with the sound of people shouting for help and drowning. People start popping up right and left, vying to claim their place. There’s desperation and panic in our voices as we try to save our lives in thirty seconds: I have small children! Their father is an addict, I’m all they have!

I hear John Dean call out, “I’m giving my seat to the youngest!”

They go on about the things they want to do, the amends they have to make, and oh, their children their children, as Lou calls TIME!

“My daughter needs me!” I jump up and cry out. “She’s suffered so much already, she can’t lose her mother! My own mother’s lost enough family!”

I don’t even know what else I’m saying when Time! is called and I sit on the floor, sobbing at the thought of never seeing Mia again. When it’s all over, dim lights come up and we’re given six little sticks. We have to go up to each person in the room, look them in the eye and say “You live” to the six we give a stick to and “You die” to the fifty we don’t. It feels so dreadful to tell someone “You die,” some of us are hysterical.

We finish and are asked to line up in order of how many sticks we have—just in case there are some of us who haven’t fully scraped bottom yet. I only have four sticks. And one of them was my own.

The lucky six sit in an area designated as a lifeboat while the rest of us lie around them, sinking into oblivion. None of us can stop crying; the sickening feeling of near loss is still fresh in us.

“It’s too late, you had your chance in life and now it’s all over,” Lou says quietly as she walks between our bodies. “You’re sinking down into
the darkness forever. Your loved ones will never see you smile again, hear your voice again, the world is going on without you. Because you didn’t get on that lifeboat.

“This is not a popularity contest. It’s about your awareness of yourself as a unique contribution. There is no one who can make the difference you can make. Your purpose and vision can only be fulfilled by YOU! And if you’re lying on the bottom of the ocean, if you don’t take a stand for your own life, it ain’t gonna happen.”