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Chapter 4

Four

Ezra

“ M r. Masters, you’re going to have to stop resisting. Do you know where you are?”

I’m not resisting. I’m crying .

My arms… Oh God.

“Get this shit off!”

I’m trying to rip it all off. Then I’m getting sick. There’s people all around me, wiping, whispering, holding my shoulders.

Someone’s handing me a small cup of ice. My arm’s out. How did my arm get out of the strap?

“I want to go home.” My voice is a moan. Embarrassing.

“It’s okay,” one of the nurses tells me. “It’s okay if you’re emotional. It’s just the treatment.”

“Where’s my mom?” I rasp out.

“She’s been delayed, unfortunately. She called to let us know she’s had car trouble.”

I wipe my face. “Can I have my other arm please?” It’s a whimper.

“Yeah. I think that should be okay.” She sounds chipper. “We gave you some Valium, so you’re calmer now. We had to put you in restraints.”

I look at my arm—at the black word at the inside of my elbow. “Why is that there?”

“The writing? I don’t know.” She looks thoughtful. “You seem to come in with it every time.”

“What does it mean?” My throat’s sore, and so it hurts to ask that. But it seems important to find out the answer.

“I don’t know. You’ve asked before.”

“Oh fuck.” I’m getting sick again. Someone is holding a small trash bag. Someone says, “We’re pushing a bit of Zofran as a top off dose.”

The needle stings. My eyes are wet. I can’t stop shaking.

“Let’s get you a warm blanket.”

I cover my face with my arm, the marker-scrawled MILLER at the inside of my elbow pressed to my mouth.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

My throat stings so bad. My eyes won’t stop leaking.

Katz and the anesthesiologist come talk to me. They’re all nice. Wet rag on my head. Somebody gives me Chapstick. I can’t put it on because my hands are shaky.

“You’re doing a good job,” says the nurse as she swipes it over my cracked lips. “You’ll feel better.”

“My head hurts.”

I drink water out of a paper cup and take something for the headache.

“I want to go home.” I sound like I’m whimpering again, but my chest feels tight. I feel weird. “I want to go home. I don’t like being in here.”

One of the nurses helps me sit up. Another one joins her, and they help me into a wheelchair. “We know you don’t like small spaces. How about I push you to the waiting room?” one of them asks.

The waiting room is bright and sunny. There’s a door that leads to the steps outside. The door is shiny wood, with lots of little windows all down the sides. I look out the windows. My body aches like I just played a football game.

Could I get out of the chair? Would my legs hold me?

I look at my arm and tears sting my eyes.

Why do I feel so miserable? Like… agonized .

I check in my pocket. Wallet. I rub at the marker on my inner arm.

Where is my mom?

Why am I here?

Who…or what is MILLER?

I look at the check-in desk. Nobody back there.

I look at the door to the tile stairs that lead to outside—its windows streaming slats of sunlight over the rug.

I stand up. Hold onto the chair. A woman in a pink shirt, reading Women’s Day magazine, blinks up at me.

I look at the check-in again. Then I walk out the door and down the stairs and start into the field beside the building.

Ezra

January 4, 2019

I’m in the laundry room when I feel someone move behind me. “You got the hang of these things?”

I flinch, but it’s just Amelia—the short, slim, gray-haired lady who runs this place. She moves closer to me but gives me my space, resting her palm atop one of the ancient washing machines.

“Sometimes they stick,” she says, touching the coin insert slot on one of them.

I nod, trying to look capable. “I’ve got it. ”

I move my clothes from the washer into the dryer, and I think she takes a small step back, probably not wanting to crowd me.

“Just checking in on ya. You have any needs today? The on-call doctor will be here in about an hour. There’s a sign-up in the common room.”

She doesn’t push about it, and I’m glad.

“I think I’m good. Thank you.”

“This is your fourth day with us, is that right?” she asks.

I nod, forcing myself to meet her kind blue eyes.

“You’ve been clean as far as I know,” she says. “But you’re not using prescription medications to assist with cravings. Is that what you want?”

I nod, inhaling slowly as my eyes drop to the floor. I tug them back up to meet hers. “I don’t need them.”

“There’s no harm in taking things. To make it comfortable.”

“I know. Thank you.”

She gives me a smile. Almost grandmotherly. “Okay, Miller. We’ll see you at dinner. It’s spaghetti night. Ronald makes the most delicious garlic bread.”

She’s gone fast enough, but her voice hangs in my head. Amelia, the founder of this place, is a doctor from Canada. So she has this accent.

Four days later, and I still can’t fucking believe my luck with this place. I think about it as I walk the short hall to my room—a private room. It’s large enough to hold a twin bed, a small dresser, a nightstand, and a flatscreen TV. There’s a plant in one corner, a slightly dated laptop on the dresser, and one curtained window that’s not made of plastic.

I lie on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, trying to remember Monday. I’m pretty out of it after an ECT session. Sometimes Mom told me in the past that I would cry or get sick. Shit like that. I have lots of hazy memories of being pushed through hallways in those fucking wheelchairs. So I don’t really know how I managed to break free. I’m not even totally sure why I did it.

It had something to do with the name marked on my arm. With my tattoo. Gerald, this guy who’d just checked out of Mach House—the place where I am right now—saw me sitting underneath a tree in a park and looking fucked-up, I guess.

He came over, asked if I had anywhere to go, and when I said I didn’t, he asked did I want to be taken to a rehab-oriented shelter. Rehab had me saying “no,” but he said it’s completely voluntary. No drugs pushed on you, no one making you stay or anything. By that time, I’d seen a cop or two, and I figured Sheppard Pratt and Dr. Katz had put out some kind of lost person warning.

Gerald had a truck and offered to drive me down to Federal Hill. I was so scared, I rode in the back of his truck, lying down on my back, watching the clouds smear by.

As soon as we got here—it’s a big, two-story Victorian house on a residential street with a long row of stately brick townhomes—Amelia came out and talked to me. She could probably tell I was a little out of my head, but I got good vibes from her. There was a rainbow flag on the porch, which made me feel comfortable. When I saw the open room, the regular glass window, I felt grateful for the hookup. Gerald is a good guy. Even came to check on me the second day.

I’ve talked to one of the counselors that comes here every other day, because that’s mandatory. Letting them know what we need. I told the counselor woman I left my mom’s house, and I’m gay. That I’ve been using benzos—a more believable and generic tale than detoxing from half a dozen psych meds—but I can detox from them fast, because I’ve done it before. There’s a kitchen with a bunch of vitamins and supplements, a “medicine lady” named Krystal, a piano room, two common rooms, and a screened-in back porch that’s got a pool table and foosball. Once a week, on Saturdays, a local artist comes and leads a workshop in the fenced-in back yard, under the big oak trees. Sundays, everyone is encouraged to meditate.

The only catch to staying here is that you have to sign a paper promising you’ll reach out if you relapse and need help, and you have to agree to an hour of counseling per week.

I put my hand over the tattoo on my chest and say my new name in my head: Miller .

It’s a clean name. Sounds good. Like a good person who wants to have a good life. It sounds like a fresh start.

I get the laptop and fire the thing up, for the second time since I got here. I emailed my mom from a new email address to her work email the first night I arrived here, telling her that I’m not coming back home. I warned her if she decided to try to arm-twist me into anything—coming back to her house, doing more ECT—by telling the cops what happened at Alton, I’ll tell my side of the story. I could fucking wreck her if I wanted to. I could wreck them all.

I don’t want to, though.

I just want to move on.

I stare at the email that’s been sitting in my new inbox for a day and a half. The one from the University of Alabama. I reached out the other day to recruitment, letting them know my old email address was outdated and giving them this new one. Within five hours, I got an email asking me to commit to their program. I look over it again. The benefits are sick. Nice place to live, free everything. Complimentary laptop, clothes, shoes, even a fucking travel budget.

I look at the campus pictures. Lots of big trees. I look at the gay shit the place has. Check. It’s got more students than its rival, Auburn. If there’s more students, that means there’s more gays. Yeah, it’s in the same state that my bigot father lives in, but it’s also the Crimson Fucking Tide. If it’s a big, state school—which it is—maybe I could get lost there with…nobody I know.

But I’m trying to stop thinking fucking negative. Even though I felt like shit the last few days—dizzy, cold sweats, lots of good old-fashioned detox anxiety—I’m not going to stop trying.

I’ve wanted to play college ball my whole life. I might not remember anything from the last six months, but I did something right in Fairplay. I made one of the best college football programs in the country want me. I know there’s Ohio. Stanford. Notre Dame. My mom mentioned them. Even Auburn. But I think it’s the Crimson Tide I want.

I email back—and commit. It’s a big moment, but I can’t enjoy it. I linger online, trying to hack into my Facebook account with no success. Can’t do that without my OG email password. Which I don’t have.

I type my dad’s name into the search bar and then quickly shut the window.

No distractions.

There’s a yoga class in the backyard in five minutes. I force myself to eat an apple. Then I grab a mat and go out. There’s two other residents out here—an older girl named Lara and a guy who looks my age named Yancy. I try to ignore them and just focus on the instructor. Yoga is weird. It hurts my back. I think I still like it. I like breathing.

I get my clothes out of the dryer. There’s a whole room here of clothes, so I got a few shirts and pants out of there and washed them for myself. After folding the clothes, I take them to my room. I check my email again.

UA has already replied. The guy seems happy, wants to do a phone call ASAP. Now it’s time to drop the bomb. I email back, telling him I assume he knows I had to pull out of school due to a death in the family. I let him know I’m taking the GED in early summer and ask him to look back over my high school transcripts. I don’t have a fucking clue about this past year, but I’m good in school. I took the SAT and ACT when I was living at Mom’s house; it was one of the first things I did after getting out of SP the first time. And anyway, I aced them both.

I’m pretty relieved when the guy replies right back and CCs an academic counselor. He says he knows my grades are good. That they’re not worried. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing deep for just a minute.

You got this. It’s gonna be okay.

I shut the computer…lie on the bed face-down with an arm around my pillow.

I know I forgot stuff. I can feel it.

I got this feeling, back at Mom's house, right after whatever happened with the ECT. It was like...this falling feeling. Like being scared, like falling. Grasping for something.But I can’t reach it.

But now it's sorta shifted. Now it's like something is scratching my brain from the inside. I can't explain it. It almost hurts. It's like this…pain. Still makes my chest tight.

I don't let myself dwell on it too much. I could always die if it gets too bad. It's weird, because I remember when I wanted to. And, okay. I still sort of want to.I would like to be done. I'm 19, and I feel 79. So much shit has happened to me. Things that I can't ever fix. I can't undo.

You know what you need to stay alive? I figured this out. You need someone. It can even just be one person. That makes you feel...tethered to life. Like you're not alone and drifting with no meaning. Like you're not the only alien on the planet.

After Alton, coming home to my mom...with her being how she was. It made me feel like there was nothing I could do but end it. Stop the torture. Get off the ride.

But I'm trying to tell myself that I don't need a whole-ass tether. I just need one rung at a time. I need something to grip onto for a second. Maybe not someone. Just football. Maybe someone. Amelia. She's got a smile that makes me feel like things could be okay.

I'm not going to keep on living with my arms by my sides anymore. If I keep doing that, I know I'll die. I'm holding onto football. Holding onto little weird shit. Like the way this detergent here smells. Like having soft sheets. And tomorrow, when we all go out—we can go out with or without a chaperone—I can go to a bookstore.

My wallet had four twenties in it, two fives, and three ones. I'm going to buy some books. And read them. I've gotta figure out a way to see myself differently. Be different. Not like a victim.

But it's not happening tonight. I wake up at 1:02, sobbing so hard I can't breathe. My whole body's shaking, amped up on adrenaline and all this other fuckshit. I sit up in bed and lean my back against the headboard.

No one's coming in , I tell myself—just reassuring. Every night this happens, I get a handle on it fast, and no one comes in.

I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Try to feel the bed under me.

You're okay. You're not at Alton, angel .

I put a hand over my chest. Re-play my own words in my head. I hug the pillow to my chest and shut my eyes.Angel. Where did I hear that? I can’t help a puzzled smile. I feel almost okay. The feeling is such a surprise, that more tears come.

You’re okay. You’re not at Alton, angel.

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