12. growing pains

12

GROWING PAINS

DAY 10

I purposefully sleep through my standing appointment with Chastain. I'm honestly not ready to face him.

Embarrassed? Check . Ashamed? Check .

I'm also weirded out by his starring role in my dream last night. It's making me question things I'd rather not question. Like, what if the dream means I do, in fact, trust him? What do I do about my attraction to him? And the biggest mind-fuck of the bunch: am I actually attracted to him, or have I manufactured my obsession in order to place distance between us?

Groaning, I roll out of bed and stumble into the shower. The hot water is delicious; I imagine it rinsing off the taint of last night's mortification. I wash my hair three times.

After toweling off and dressing, I give my wan reflection a stare. The woman in the mirror doesn't look young. Sure, her skin isn't wrinkled, and the spattering of prematurely white strands of hair are camouflaged by varying shades of blond, but her eyes are dark and haunted .

Hunted.

I'm being stalked by an unnamed beast. Ghosts and memories, both those accessible and those hiding beneath the fog of forgetting.

When I leave my cabin around noon, I almost trip over Tiffany, who's sitting cross-legged on my stoop. Her black hair is pulled up into a stump of a ponytail. Strands cling with sweat to her neck and around her pale ears.

She doesn't turn around when I close the door behind me. "Uhh, hello?"

"I ate a whole pizza once," she says in a flat tone.

I blink. "Say what?"

"A whole pizza, a pint of ice cream, and a super-sized bag of potato chips."

Oh Lord.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out which end it all came out. She must be here for an eating disorder. A girl I went to high school with suffered from anorexia; she was hospitalized multiple times and nearly died. I briefly wonder what happened to her. If she made it past twenty-five.

My limbs strangely heavy, I walk slowly around Tiffany to see her face. It's streaked with tears, mascara streaks fanning from her lower lashes.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, forcing the accusation from my tone.

I'm not heartless.

She sniffs. "I don't know. I heard you last night—I'm right next door to Kinsey and you were"—a watery smile appears—"really loud. I heard how you put yourself on the line for her. To defend her."

I shake my head. "I was an idiot. It wasn't what I thought it was."

"I know. I've seen Dr. Chastain and Nora go in a bunch of times." She glanced up at me. "I don't sleep well. I go for night walks sometimes. Don't tell anyone."

"I won't," I say before I can even process the secret. The impulse to use it as a weapon is nowhere to be felt.

She shrugs. "So, anyway, I guess I just wanted to, you know, talk to you."

I sit down, leaving a foot or so of space between us, and squint at the labyrinth. "Is that Kinsey?" I ask in stupefaction.

Tiffany snorts. "She's been doing it for an hour. Walking in and out, in and out. Maybe she thinks it's a magic portal back to Teacup."

I bite my lips on a laugh. Tiffany studies me from red-rimmed hazel eyes, her lips teasing up at the corners.

"So everyone thinks you and Dr. C. have a thing."

My ears ring and I tense. "We don't. Not even a little bit."

"Why'd you jump into the pool?"

"Because I could. What is this, twenty questions?"

Tiffany pushes a few stray hairs from her forehead, her eyes steady on mine. Searching. Hoping. "Mia? Will you tell me the truth?"

I look away. "About what?"

"For starters, the pool. "

This conversation is going downhill fast without brakes. I can feel the cliff coming. The jumping off point.

Do I trust Tiffany? Hell with a capital No.

But does it matter?

"He scares me. So I wanted to scare him back."

I don't filter the words. Don't think about them. I just let them free from the lockbox of my head.

"Dr. C.? Why?"

She sounds truly surprised. And I suppose she would be—everyone loves Chastain, after all. He's a goddamn wizard.

I feel the muscles in my neck and back quivering with tension, and I know I'm not capable of sharing more. Not with Tiffany. Not with Chastain.

Barely with myself.

He sees me.

Rather than give a bullshit answer, I say, "I can't tell you right now."

Tiffany puts a small, delicate hand on my knee. "It's okay, I understand."

Beating back a reflex to hurt her takes so much effort I feel lightheaded. "Thanks," I choke out. "Can we, uh, pick this up later?"

Tiffany nods, all sympathy and camaraderie. Like I give a shit.

Do I give a shit?

"I need some coffee," I tell her as I stand, "then I have to take a lashing from Chastain for not showing this morning."

"He's not here. "

I freeze. "What do you mean, he's not here ?"

Tiffany stands, too, lifting her arms and sniffing her armpits. The Crazy House dissolves polite boundaries like that.

"My session is at seven thirty, so I'm the first every day. There was a note on the door that said he'd be back tomorrow, but he'd be watching the group session remotely. Basically, don't fuck up."

"Huh," is all I can manage.

Tiffany jumps off the stoop and heads toward her cabin.

"Tiffany?" I call out and wait for her to turn around. "Why were you crying?"

I can't see her eyes, which are shaded by her hand, but I can see the small lift of her mouth.

"I'm six months without a relapse. I was feeling emotional about it, but after talking to you I feel better." She waves and saunters off.

Greaaat . In my experience, there's only one surefire way a person feels instantly better about their problems—talking to someone who they think has bigger ones.

With a sour feeling in my belly, I head toward the Fish Tank. As I bypass the labyrinth, Kinsey waves at me.

"Hey, Mia! Charlene wants to see you." She glances at her Rolex. "Right now. Better hurry! That bitch is mean."

It takes my brain a minute to remember why I knew this was coming.

The pool incident.

Kinsey walks on, a bounce in her step I've never seen until now .

"Seems like everyone's getting better," I grumble and head inside to face the music.

Charlene doesn't bother disguising her satisfaction at having me on the wrong end of a disciplinary hearing. She, Frank, and the third group moderator, Ruben, sit behind a long table, while I face them in an unbalanced plastic chair that squeaks threateningly every time I shift my weight. It's a petty tactic, but I have to admit it's working.

I'm literally and figuratively on edge.

"… not what you did, but that you involved another patient. Inciting rebellion is a serious offense." Charlene glares at me with righteous indignation.

Frank and Ruben exchange a glance. At least I'm not the only one who thinks this is ridiculous.

I swallow back what I really want to say to her. "You're right. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Apparently an apology wasn't the right move. Charlene's face darkens with an angry flush. I kind of wish my father were here. Dodging accountability is his specialty.

Frank speaks up, "Thank you for apologizing, Mia. That's a great first step."

Ruben nods in agreement.

Charlene smiles. Not a good sign.

"Unfortunately, actions have more power than words. To make restitution for your offense, you'll mop the Fish Tank and adjacent hallways tonight."

I merely smile. "Sure. Sounds fair. "

Charlene is seconds from a meltdown, which gives me immense satisfaction. She expected me to throw a fit. She thinks I should be horrified at the prospect of doing menial chores. That mopping a floor is beneath me.

Oh, she thinks she knows me.

How fun.