The next thing she saw was bright, bright lights and a team of men in white.
“I didn’t try to kill myself,” she screamed, struggling to be free.
One of the orderlies produced a hypodermic needle.
Screaming was the last thing she remembered.
Thirty-Three
Light. Blinding.
Where am I?
I lift my head to look around; it feels heavy. Someone else’s head on my neck. Maybe I’m paralyzed. Someone says a word—detox—in a long, drawn-out kind of way. And then something about meds …
I hear noises that make no sense. I can’t sort them out, isolate them, recognize them.
Bees buzzing. Boots on the ground. Humping in the boonies?
No.
I am not in ’Nam. Where am I?
Screaming.
Is that my voice?
No.
Yes.
It’s too hard to think. My head is pounding. I close my eyes. Whatever’s out there, I don’t want to see.
Darkness.
Quiet.
* * *
“Frankie. Frankie McGrath, can you hear me?”
Frankie heard her name and tried to answer, but her mouth seemed to be stuffed with cotton and she still had a blinding headache.
“Frankie.”
It took forever to open her eyes. Lifting her head was next: All she could see were her own hands. Red marks circled her wrists.
He came into focus slowly. Standing sideways, defying gravity.
Maybe her head was tilted to one side. She was blind in one eye. No. Her hair fell across her face, obscuring her vision. She raised her hand slowly, felt the tremor in it, pushed the hair back from her face.
He stood in front of her.
Henry.
She felt a rush of shame, and then a burst of relief.
“I’m going to get you out of here as soon as I can, okay?”
Frankie couldn’t make her voice rise above a whisper. Thank you was too much. She got out, “Thaaaa.”
He laid his hand on hers.
She looked down, wished she could feel his touch.
* * *
Frankie was having a heart attack. She became aware of the pain all at once, a blinding bolt of it in her chest.
She sat up, breathing hard.
A headache pounded behind her eyes. Tiny white stars danced across her field of sight.
The chest pain turned into a dull, thudding beat in her chest. She was sweating, trembling.
Where was she?
Dorm room, was her first thought.
Single bed, low to the ground, cheap blanket and sheets. A dresser with three drawers. No mirror. A closet.
She swung her legs around, saw her bare, skinny legs and the borrowed socks on her feet.
Headache.
Had they drugged her? She felt sluggish.
She got up and immediately felt dizzy, nauseated. She counted to ten and it passed.
What was she wearing? Cutoff shorts, socks, and an oversized tie-dyed T-shirt. Whose?
She walked to the door, half expecting it to be locked.
Psych ward.
That was where she was. She remembered now: the ocean, the ambulance ride, her father crying. She opened the door. Beyond it lay a hallway that looked like the elementary school she’d gone to: flyers on the wall, linoleum floor, windows that let in so much sunlight she blinked. Construction-paper turkeys and pilgrims decorated the walls.
Moving cautiously forward, she trailed her fingers along the top of the fake wood wainscoting, just for balance. The headache was bad and getting worse.
She passed what looked like a classroom, in which people sat in a circle, talking. “That was rock-bottom,” one of them said.
“Frances McGrath?”
She looked up, saw a young woman coming toward her. A man walked past them, muttering to himself.
“Go back to your room, Cletus,” the woman said.
The woman was beautiful, with doe-like eyes and a waterfall of brown hair. She wore a faded prairie-style dress that fell to her ankles, and brown suede Birkenstocks. Six or seven wooden bead bracelets encircled her fine wrist.
“I’m Jill Landis, one of the counselors here. I run group.” She took Frankie by the hand, led her down the hall, past a series of closed doors and a reception area that boasted a banner that read TODAY IS THE DAY!
“The director has been waiting for you. How do you feel?”
“Headache,” Frankie said. “Weak.”
“Of course.” She stopped, got Frankie two aspirin and a glass of water.
Frankie forgot to say thank you, just took the aspirin and swallowed them with water.
Jill stopped at a closed door, squeezed Frankie’s hand. “I’ll schedule you for group at two. A rap session helps more than you’d think. Especially for vets.”
“Group? Rap? I don’t want—”