Glass Girl (A Young Adult Novel) (20 page)

“How long?” I repeated.

“The retreat center we’re taking her to has a six-month program for grief recovery.”

“What are we telling her?”

David cleared his throat. “That’s the thing. We tell her nothing tonight. Tomorrow, your dad tells her that he’s taking her to a new doctor who will help her, then he and I put her in the car and we go. No looking back. No second thoughts. We use our brains, not our hearts.”

“That’s cruel. You’ll break what’s left of her.”

David took a slow breath. “She’s going to fight. You shouldn’t be there for that because you’d have a memory of a woman who’s not behaving like Adele Kavanagh. You’d never forget it. Your dad wants you to come to our house and stay with Catherine.”

My free hand clenched over and over on my thigh. I watched it turn white and then red. White and then red.

“Nope,” I said. “You’re doing that to my mom…I’m going to be there.”

Dear Wyatt,

Uncle David told me once that our thoughts are just whiffs of chemicals that combine in a miraculous way to form feelings and emotions—seems like a dangerous accident waiting to happen. A certain combination will create arousal. Another combination, just infinitesimally different, will create disgust. One combination and you’ve got a hero. Another and you’re looking at a school on lockdown.

Right now, my chemicals are playing home movies. Remember when I shaved my legs for the first time? I took mom’s razor and locked myself in the bathroom.

I filled my tub with warm water, got in, and got busy with the razor, a cheap white and orange disposable. I’m sure if Mom had known I was ready, she would have bought me a nice, safe razor and spent an hour teaching me how to soften my skin first and how to shave the delicate underneath places. Instead, two seconds in, I sliced sideways through the tender skin under my knee.

Remember how long that cut was? A good inch! The water in the tub turned a deep shade of red and I couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. The thought crossed my mind that maybe I was a hemophiliac. The sight of it, and the fear that now I was going to get busted in the worst way, made me sick. I stumbled out of the tub and held a towel to my leg, put on my robe and opened the bathroom door. You were there
…
doing push-ups outside your bedroom door.

You took one look at my face and said, “What’s wrong?” I cried and made you promise not to tell Mom and then showed you the cut and the bloody towel. You pushed up to stand in one graceful movement and strolled down the hall calmly to get towels and bandages. You fixed my leg and then used another razor on your chin to show me how to shave properly.

You never told anyone and I loved you even more for that.

I need you here now.

Meg

D
ad pushed my door open at seven. He looked like he’d walked through a hurricane—his hair swirled up high on one side and laid flat on the other and his clothes weren’t right. I was awake, but lying in bed, listening for Mom.

“Anything weird happen after we talked?” he said, slightly out of breath. This stress could actually push him into some serious health problems.

“Not unless you count a phone call from David telling me you’re committing Mom.”

He nodded once, not surprised by that answer. “When David gets here, I want you to take his car back to Catherine’s and stay there.”

“I’m going with you,” I said. “She’ll need me.”

Dad leaned into the doorframe, pressing his forehead into the grooves. He groaned. “Meg, I’m so out of my mind right now, I can’t remember if all the experts say I should allow you to be there or force you to leave against your will.”

“You should only force one person against her will at a time.” I stood and walked toward him, regretting my sarcasm. “It doesn’t matter what the experts say, Dad. It only matters what we say. We’re not typical. I’m going with you, but I’ll wait in David’s car and follow you to the place if that makes you feel better.”

He raised his head and looked toward my window, blinking quickly. “I think that would be okay.” I walked into his open arms and smelled the ocean.

The front door opened and David called quietly up to us, “I’m here.” It was more of a
let’s get this done
I’m here than a
we’re finally all together
I’m here.

I put on my sweatshirt, ran a brush through my hair and brushed my teeth. Downstairs, David handed out fancy coffee and gooey rolls to fortify us, and then placed a stack of papers in front of Dad.

“I had the intake coordinator at the retreat center email these this morning,” he said. “Best to get some of them taken care of now.”

I read through the
Welcome
letter on top—
Thank you for choosing Copper River Retreat, a highly ranked haven for recovery in a park-like setting. Our interdisciplinary approach brings together leading medical experts and mental health professionals to ensure successful outcomes for our patients.

Dad watched me. “What do you think?”

“They have a fine marketing budget.”

He rolled his eyes. “David’s friend from medical school runs the place and I’ve heard it’s one of the best. It’s not a celebrity rehab scam, Meg.”

“How are we paying for it?” I half expected him to say that we’d be using their retirement savings. I didn’t expect what came out of his mouth next.

“Wyatt’s college fund.” He stared at me, waiting for a reaction, but I didn’t even flinch. He took a pen from his pocket and signed his name twenty or thirty times, not stopping to read anything first.

David stood to throw away our breakfast trash, trying to stay out of the conversation, I’m sure. “Do you really think this will work, Uncle David?”

He stilled and crossed his arms. His body language screamed, “I’m the doctor and you’re not.” “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

We all looked up at the sound of the floor creaking above our heads. Mom was up. Dad nodded his head and said, “Give me some time with her.” He put together a tray of food and coffee and disappeared upstairs.

David and I waited and listened. We knew the moment he told her—either the truth or the untruth. It didn’t matter which. She didn’t react violently. No, it was much worse. She wailed like she had when she’d been asked to identify Wyatt. A sound so private I covered my ears.

David reached for my hand, placing his key fob there and nodding toward the front door. “I programmed the GPS for you. Go, wait for us there. We’ll take her through a patient intake door in the back where nurses will be waiting. You go through the front door and wait in the lobby.”

I stood, but my legs were jelly and I grabbed the table to keep from going down. David’s arms were around me immediately and he helped me get to his car, somehow trusting that I had enough wits about me to drive his sixty-thousand-dollar Mercedes.

***

The Copper River Retreat looked, from the outside, like a resort where I might like to vacation. At the security gate, I gave the guard my mom’s name and he let me drive through to a shady parking lot filled with expensive cars. I was still positive that, once I got inside, I’d find drooling patients wearing robes, slippers, and blank stares.

But, once inside, I really felt like I’d entered a spa. There were waterfalls everywhere with chairs arranged around them. The receptionist’s desk looked more like a hotel check-in area, and the employees wore expensive-looking pants and shirts.

A man played a piano in the foyer while families sat around on leather couches and at round mahogany tables. People didn’t look so grim. Most were smiling. Could it have been the amount of lithium they were handing out? Or were they piping happy gas through the air ducts?

I sat on a couch in a lonely corner, waiting for signs that my parents had arrived. A fresh-faced girl who looked like a college student—probably a psychology major working on a study of the way families of crazy people reacted to committing their loved ones—approached me.

“Hi,” she said with a brilliant smile. “Are you with Adele Kavanagh?”

“I’m her daughter, Meg. Are they here?”

“Not quite. I’m her intake coordinator, Miranda, and I just wanted to let you know what will happen next.”

Miranda sat next to me, close enough that our legs touched. Normally I would’ve scooted over, but at that moment, human contact felt right. “I know this is very difficult for you, watching your mom go through this.”

I nodded.

“First of all, you should know you’re not alone. We see hundreds of families a year who are going through crises like this.” She touched my hand that rested on my knees. “People get better here. I work here because they helped my sister a few years ago.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. “That’s good to know.”

She lowered her voice. “They’re pulling up now to a private door where two of our best nurses are waiting. They’ll take your mom and dad up to her room, which is on the third floor. That’s the floor reserved for people who need the treatment your mom needs. She’ll stay on that floor for everything—therapy, meals, social activities.”

“Okay.” I rubbed my temples, trying to fend off a headache from lack of sleep.

“After we get her settled, your dad and I will meet to go over all the details, like how often you can call her.”

“There are rules about that?”

She smiled. “Yes, but it’s okay. All the rules are in place to help her recover in a safe place. I think once you see her room and where she’ll spend her time, you’ll feel more comfortable.”

She squeezed my hand again. “She’ll be able to call you once a week for a few minutes. You can send her as many letters as you like. She won’t have access to the Internet, so no email or Facebook. And—the hardest part—no visitors for a while.”

“Why?”

Miranda shrugged. “Part of our program here will be teaching her new coping skills and we do that by helping her get to know her strengths again without relying on others. After the first month or so, her team will probably allow short visits periodically. Your mom will fill out a visit request.”

“Will it really take six months?”

She looked down at the file in her hand, reading through some handwritten notes. “She’s enrolled in our
Proof of Life
program—it’s a six-month program because these patients are working through issues that are entrenched.” She waited patiently for that to sink in. “I know that sounds like forever, Meg, but it’s a good program. They work with people who really struggle with grief and depression and they make them well.”

“It does sound like forever.” I looked around. The place was beautiful. It felt
almost
like a privilege to know someone staying here, and there were probably etiquette rules one should follow.

Dear Madam Etiquette, I’ve just committed my mother to the Copper River Retreat, and I’m wondering about the proper way to say goodbye. Should I write a note on lavender-scented stationary and leave it on her bed or would a phone call several days later suffice? Are gifts expected in these situations? Maybe some shapeless lounging pajamas?

After telling me she’d find me when it was time to say goodbye to Mom, Miranda left. I sat quietly with my information overload, trying to process things. When my phone buzzed, I jumped. It was a text from Tennyson.

What do you call a blonde with half a brain?

I texted my response—
?

Tennyson replied—
Gifted!! Ha ha!

I wasn’t really in the mood for her jokes, so I didn’t respond. My phone buzzed again quickly.

Are any of Henry’s sisters blonde?

I’d seen family pictures and they were all definite brunettes, so I responded—

No
…

Uh oh. Hey, I’m kinda hurt you didn’t tell me.

Intrigued, I texted—
Tell you what?

About your brother.

I
’d always heard people talk about having vision anomalies when they were under pressure. Me, I’d made it through a crap ton of pressure and never had any weird eyesight issues. Until that line from Tennyson—one she probably thumbed and sent in less than one nanosecond. My vision blurred—it literally went fuzzy around the edges and it swam.

I leaned forward and closed my eyes against the nausea. Opening them after a second to test what I saw. Closing them again when nothing had improved. Another text from Tennyson buzzed. It was a screenshot from someone’s computer of an article about Wyatt. I remember this article as being one of the kindest. The picture they’d used was one I took of him on the beach—he looked like a god, all tan and sculpted and grinning, holding a volleyball.

Well? I thought we were close. I’m so sorry that happened. Where are you?

I couldn’t have made my fingers work the keyboard if I’d wanted to. I powered off my phone. Someone slid onto the couch next to me and I opened my eyes.

“You ready to see her?” David said, his voice strangely soft.

I nodded and swallowed hard, rising to my feet and following him to an open elevator where he punched the 3. He handed me a visitor name badge and told me to wear it while we were on the floor.

“She’s going to be okay,” he said. “They’ve sedated her a bit to make this goodbye easier for everyone.”

“Is she awake?”

He chuckled. “She is now because her nurse is chattering like a happy little bird.”

The elevator opened and we stepped out into a warmly lit hallway with wood floors. A custodian stepped aside and smiled. She probably wondered if I was the patient, given how crazy I must have looked. I trembled. I was on the verge of hyperventilating. And I couldn’t unclench my jaw.

David stopped beside a closed door. “This is it,” he said. “They’ve asked that you not linger. Just a quick goodbye and a reassurance that you love her, okay?” Then he took a deep breath and pushed the door open for me.

Mom’s room looked really cozy because there were no overhead lights, and the walls were painted a comforting butter yellow. Small table lamps gave the room a soft glow and Mom lay in a bed made up with clean, white sheets. She watched me come in the room and shook her head. It was just a tiny movement, but it told me what this was costing her in pride.