Come Back (15 page)

He has us get into small groups on the floor for a “game,” which we do with great relief. We feel like shamed children badly in need of recess.

“Unless you’re willing to take an honest look at what’s not working in your
own
lives, you’re going to have a fixed kid coming home to the same family system they left, which is usually a recipe for disaster.”

He walks around giving each group some puzzle pieces to put together. I raise my hand with questions about the rules. He answers, then says, “It’s been a really long time since you trusted or validated yourself, hasn’t it?”

“Is this a trick question?” I ask nervously.

He laughs and says no, just his experience of me. I don’t know how he “experienced” this out of a few questions about a game, but I’m not about to ask.

As we struggle unsuccessfully to fit the pieces together, he asks us to notice our reactions, our inner conversation—frustration, failure, driven, smug, stupid, blame, perfection. My inner conversation is that I’m dying to snatch the pieces from our designated piece fitter, who is fitting much too slowly.

We, the unfixed, are sent home with a handout. “Ten Ways to Sink Your Child’s Program—or—Ten Ways to Ensure a Repeat Performance.” To name a few:

• 1. Talk about time with your child. Promise them they’ll be home by a certain date. This way they won’t be burdened with the need to make long-term changes. They can focus on just putting in their time.
  
• 2. Create your own special program. This lets your child know they are “special” and above any rules and standards.
  
• 6. Whenever your child has a problem or consequence, rush in and save the day. This will ensure your child knows your love and support is greater than their need for accountability.
  
• 7. Refuse to let go—try to control and protect your child’s experience and progress. This has always worked so well in the past.
  

At least they’ve got a sense of humor, and they may have something there with that last one. On the drive home, I think about what David said. I’m decisive, assertive, hardly the qualities of someone who doesn’t trust herself. It does give one pause, however, to be in the “Reality, you’ve got a kid in a program” circle. I’ve got that restless, snippy feeling I get when criticism hits home and I hate the person delivering it.

Normally, my thoughts would immediately switch tracks to the whizzing street scenery—why isn’t there an Urth Coffee in Santa Monica, hey, Gap mannequins have nipples now, the sky’s so pretty, let’s go to the beach. Today, however, my mind’s busy choo-choo stays right in the station listening to the following announcement: I have a long history of not trusting myself, with disastrous consequences.

Thank you very much, Mr. Gilcrease, the vocabulary word for the week will now be
self-recrimination.
Till now, Mia’s bratty letters have allowed me to feel an infinitely more preferable sense of self-righteousness.

Parents at the meeting encouraged us to join the Link, a bulletin board parents created to share information and support. It will become a lifeline in the coming year. A lot of the Link deals with our own personal growth, a lot of it is hysterical, a lot of it is, well, a lot, period. With several hundred parents on it, there are about thirty posts a day. I learn to cull the good ones quickly—there’s a core of about twenty people worth reading, whether or not it’s relevant to where Mia’s at now.

They’ve just posted their most recent compilation of their popular “One Liners,” excerpts from kids’ first letters home. They’re more than comic relief, they also serve to remind new parents not to take the first letters too seriously.

They fall into predictable categories. There’s the pitiful:

There’s the creative:

Like Mia, they’re all obsessed with their “stuff”:

They beg, threaten, and manipulate in such predictable ways it makes you feel sorry for them. Until you remember what life was like when they were home.

My reflection in a pool of water catches me off guard. With no mirrors, the most you ever see of yourself is a passing glance in a window or glass door.

My skin’s gotten terrible and my hair’s complete frizz. I let Lara pluck my eyebrows yesterday with a rubber band we cut in half. Now, I look permanently surprised, thanks to two skinny commas above my eyes. Fuck it, who’s gonna care here?

I think back to my first day here, how all the girls seemed so strange and dull, how they all looked like matching nerds, and want to laugh. Looking at myself now in these awful clothes, 10 pounds heavier, a hairy upper lip and broomstick hair, I feel fully assimilated into the Morava machine.

Tyna reports by email:

Mia’s letter came a week later, and she did come clean, though she confined it to pharmaceuticals.

Only?
We’re amazed she has enough brain cells left to remember her home address to send the letter to. And she didn’t even mention the heroin.

“At least she’s admitted lying in the first place, that’s a first.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Paul says as he puts his feet up and picks up his glass of wine. “She probably has no problem confessing to all these drugs because she still thinks it’s okay to do them.” Her letters and his nightly glass of wine have become inseparable. He says one makes the other one easier to swallow.

“I disagree. She has too much pride. I really think she’s beginning to change a little. She writes two or three letters a week—there’s even a second one in this envelope. And she’s gone a few weeks now without going back to Level 1. I think it was a good thing she didn’t get the emails I sent. Maybe not hearing from me has gotten her to take her actions more seriously. See, Paul, she misses home, listen—

I read from Mia’s letter,

“Poor thing’s all over the place,” Paul says sympathetically.

I pull out the second letter, written days after this one, reading,

I know my child. This is not manipulation. This is a glimpse of my Mia, and she’s afraid she’s lost her mother. After dinner, I buy some mango-colored stationery, one of her favorite colors. I want a “two-way communication thing” to start, too.

“Trojan, T-R-O-J-A-N, a native or inhabitant of Troy.”

Roxanne passes Katrina the dictionary.

“Lifestyle, L-I-F-E-S-T-Y-L-E, the habits, tastes, economic level, etc., that constitute the mode of living of an individual or group.”

Clearly, the Czech Republic uses different brands of condoms, and the joke goes right over the head of our new staffer, Miss Olga. She has a sweet face and she’s painfully shy, though she knows enough to know we shouldn’t be laughing.

She walks over, smiling in confusion.

“Girls, I think there is no talking, yes?”

Suddenly, Tyna walks in.

“Girls, I have just come from speaking with Glenn. There is to be major change. From now on, you must talk in German only, no more English.”

Are they serious? We take German classes here, but so far I can only say my name and count to ten.

Life in German means head counts have gone from ten seconds to ten minutes. Now, we all rush to line up because numbers under ten are easier to remember and pronounce. Asking for simple things sends girls roaring into laughter—cleanser:
das Reinigungschmittel,
vacuum:
das Staubsauger.
The long rolls we get at every meal have become “das penis brot.”

Thankfully, Miss Zuza’s got a sense of humor about it. Miss Olga, however, has become a drill sergeant. She must have gotten chewed out for being too lenient with us. We watched Sunny’s favorite educational video today—David Attenborough on the sex life of a rare jungle flower—and Miss Olga gave her a breaking silence for squealing, “Aren’t vaginas just fabulous!” Then, when Sunny kept smiling, she consequented her again. For smiling!

When the shift changes, we all complain to Miss Zuza about Miss Olga.

“What do you think made her change, girls?” Miss Zuza asks. “How many of you would be lying if you told me you didn’t try to manipulate her?”

No one responds.

“You girls don’t think about other peoples’ feelings. Being manipulated is, what’s the word, degrading. If you had not taken advantage of her, she wouldn’t have wanted to overcompensate. And you might consider apologizing. It’s not always easy working with you girls!”

I guess she has a point. Miss Zuza is strict but she has our respect. Once you stop trying to manipulate her, she’s actually pretty cool.

A package arrives from Utah with a diary Mia left behind there. I’ve taken it to Kinko’s to make a copy to send to Glenn along with the first letter I’ve written to Mia since she left for Morava.

As I flip the diary open to lay on the copy machine, my eyes fall on something obviously written while she was in Indiana.

The people she was hanging out with there were skinheads.

I look up from her small, cramped writing and stare outside at the world. Heat waves rise off the roof of a black Mercedes with a Nevada license plate. Skinhead. A woman in a taupe chemise hurries across Wilshire Boulevard. Neo-Nazi. A slender Persian businessman grinds a cigarette out under a brown pigskin loafer. Holocaust. A single yellow leaf falls. My mother.

The contents of Kinko’s Dumpster have just increased by one sealed and addressed mango-hued letter.

You’d think the president was coming to visit. The silence seems louder than normal as girls go about their morning chores anxiously, mysterious strangers scurry up and down the halls, and staff takes a sterner tone with us than normal.

Today is some seminar called Discovery, and a guy called David is running it. Just hearing his name terrifies those who went through Discovery with him before and “chose out,” which basically means they got booted. Seminars are strictly confidential, so we know absolutely nothing about them, but when we line up outside the dining room, I have the distinct feeling what awaits us inside isn’t Deepak Chopra and borscht. Suddenly, in one grand, sweeping motion, Miss Zuza and Sasha swing open the doors and usher us in to twinkling music.

The dining room has been transformed. Blackout material hangs over the curtains and two large easels stand in front of about thirty folding chairs. I get my first look at boys in months because seated on one side are about fifteen of them with shaved heads. They wear the same uniforms we do, which is unfortunate because blue jean sweatpants look ten times funnier on guys. Glenn, Steve, Sasha, Miss Zuza, and Mr. Peter sit at a table in back, hands folded, faces solemn.

Out of nowhere a voice booms, “Welcome to Discovery!” An enormous man with dark hair and pale skin walks up the aisle toward the front of the room. He introduces himselfand goes over the ground rules.

“If you feel you cannot agree to any of these, please stand.”

I scan the list. Maintain confidentiality, be seated by the time the music ends, wear your name tag in a visible location, no side talking, sit next to someone new after each break, follow the facilitator’s instructions. They’re straightforward enough, I stay seated and look around. No one stands.

“Well, that’s settled, let’s get down to work.”

He starts going over shit that sounds like what we hear on the tapes. I’m half bored and half relieved. You get 100 points, enough for Level 2, if you graduate, so I pay just enough attention to look interested.

He tells us that we all started out as magical children, unfettered, confident, clean. Then certain events happen that inhibit us and from these events we form self-limiting beliefs, things we choose to believe about ourselves that limit our actions. How profound, I can feel myself changing already.

We turn to a page in our packet with two columns, one that says “I am” and the other that says “I am not.” A list of adjectives is under each one. I scroll down the list, mentally circling a mess, dirty, and lazy under the “I am” column, and thin enough, good looking, and lovable under “I am not.” I feel like that some of the time, but I hate how this place tries to get you to say you hate yourself. Whatever, if they want me to say I’m the scum of the earth, I will, just so I can
tak, tak kakao
and salt.

After a lunch break, we walk back in to the slow intro of the song “Also Sprach Zarathustra” from the movie
2001: A Space Odyssey.
Remembering we have to be seated by the end of the song, we all scramble to find a seat.

“First things first, is there anyone with a broken agreement?” David asks.

When no one stands, he shouts, “I said, does anyone have a broken agreement?”

Lara stands. “I forgot my name tag. If I give myself a consequence, can I stay?”

David looks at her. “If I give myself a consequence, can I stay?” he repeats slowly. “Is that what you tried to do at home? Make a deal? I’ll stay grounded one extra day if I can just go to this one party tonight. Please, Mom, please?”

Lara laughs sheepishly.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY, YOUNG LADY.”

She looks up at him, shocked.

“I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal.”

“Young lady, my experience of you is that you’ll go to any length to get your way. You wanted to make a deal and move on, problem solved. WRONG! Making a deal doesn’t allow you to look at the real problem—why you broke your word in the first place. This will be a more valuable lesson to you than anything I can offer you in this training. Lara, I’m inviting you back to the next Discovery. For your assignment I want one page, front and back, on why I broke my word and what I can do in the future to prevent myself from going unconscious.”

On her way out, Lara’s eye catches mine. There’s no enjoyment in the connection; if anything, she seems almost ashamed. Mr. Peter removes her chair from the group. Jesus, this guy’s a total asshole. I hate how they overanalyze everything here. Next thing you know, forgetting your notebook is actually projecting your subconscious fear of abandonment.

David turns to us, “Who else is just in here to slide by?!” he thunders, pacing back and forth and staring at us.

“Because I do NOT tolerate mediocrity. How you perform in here is a mirror of how you perform IN LIFE. You think it’s just three days, some extra points? How many of you still think everything was just fine back home? I can do drugs, quit school, I’ve got it all under control. Well, how many of you know people that have overdosed, been murdered, how many of you were raped or beaten? Still think it’s a joke? How many of you might be dead if you weren’t in this room right now?”

I flinch when he says raped, but still think he’s being dramatic. He turns to write something on the easel and we all exchange glances. Roxanne puts her finger in her mouth like a gun and Sunny looks too scared to even smile. David turns around, lowers his voice, and addresses us.

“You guys have more hurt than you know how to deal with. I’m here to help you uncover some of that and move on. But you have to be real, you have to be open and committed to becoming your best self. So now, who wants to play a game?”

No one raises their hand. He laughs. “See, even big, mean men like me like to play games.”

He has us play one of those mind fuck games, the kind where the answer seems tricky but it’s actually very simple. A boy named Robbie launches into a complicated answer and halfway through, everyone’s lost. A cute blond kid named Jared patiently tries to explain Robbie’s convoluted theory and keep order. I think he’s their highest-level kid, though obviously not a Level 4 or he’d be back there with Sasha.

I laugh to myself, they’re doing exactly what one of my teachers said cocky people do, go for the hardest answer possible to look smart. I stand up and suggest we think of it more literally, that the answer’s probably simple. They ignore my advice. Halfway through the exercise I figure it out and write it down. Fuck ’em, if they didn’t even want to listen to my advice, they probably won’t believe the answer either.

After another twenty minutes of arguing, David calls time. He calls the
staff team to the front. This can’t be good. They start giving us feedback about how quick we were to turn on each other, to act selfish and pushy. Sunny has acceptance issues, Roxanne’s a control freak and perfectionist, Jared has approval needs. They nail Katrina for flirting with the boys. I did notice that when the boys came over she practically gave herself whiplash trying to flip her hair back. Then Sasha asks me to stand up. Wunderbar.

“Mia, you gave great advice but when they didn’t listen, you gave up immediately and sat back the rest of the game. In my experience, this is typical, leaving if things don’t go your way. Look at how many times you ran away from home.”

Glenn stands. “Mia, I saw you write down the answer. By not sharing it, your group lost. All because you wanted to get back at them for not listening to you. Sound anything like what happened between you and Mom? Knowing things that others don’t makes you feel in control, powerful. You always have to be the one holding all the cards, laughing while others try to guess what’s in your hand.”

I want to say that’s ridiculous, but I’d be lying. Growing up with a mother who exercised her intellect for a living, I accepted the oncoming verbal onslaught before arguments even began. Leading a double life not only allowed me to do what I wanted without hurting my mother, it was also an opportunity to level the playing field—for once, I knew something she didn’t, something she couldn’t argue away from me. I learned to view withholding knowledge as power.

“You think making yourself unapproachable protects you,” Glenn continues. “But it just pushes people away.”

I feel my face flush, being exposed in front of everyone is humiliating. I feel like a fool, and a bitch. I’m sure my team hates me now. And my mom, well, she’s a whole other story.

“She didn’t know who they were, Claire.” Paul’s been trying to calm me down since I got home from Kinko’s and threw Mia’s diary in her room. I’m filled with fury, disgust, shame most of all. My daughter, a Jew.

“I don’t care! I hate her! You take care of her from now on.”

“Claire, you’ve got to forgive her. She’s your daughter. You know you don’t hate her.”

“Oh, yes, I do! I’m done forgiving her, this isn’t forgivable! I hope she runs and never comes back!”

She’s your child, she’s on drugs, she’s so unhappy. He begs on her behalf because we can’t both be in the same place at the same time, it’s always been that way. If I’m mad, he’s gentle with her. If he gets angry, I
plead her case. If one of us cries, the other’s strong. But nothing will balance this, nothing he says, nothing anyone says.

I don’t want my own daughter.

When Sunny’s singing wakes me up, I feel hungover. I was up till one doing homework, journaling about how I ended up here and what my actions cost me.

We line up and when we hear
2001
start to play we perk up, rush to put on our name tags and find a seat, making mad-dash scrambles to switch seats if we sit next to someone we’ve sat next to before.

The group is considerably smaller and I wonder how many of us will make it through today. David begins predictably, with broken agreements. No one stands and, amazingly, Sasha doesn’t have anyone to rat out.

“Samantha!”

We all jump—what the hell did she do? She stands, slumping over twice as much as usual. David walks over to her—and then smiles.

“Samantha, I’d like you to wear a headband the rest of this training to keep your hair out of your eyes. You up to that?”

Samantha looks at him for a second and then a miracle happens. She smiles and shakes her head yes. We give her the same feedback and she chews half her finger off. Go figure.

“Great,” he says to her. He’s actually starting to sound like a normal person. Until he explains the next process—we have to go up to every single person in the room and hear feedback about ourselves, namely what behaviors they notice in us that hold us back. Four miserable hours later, he calls stop and walks up front.

“You’ve all heard some pretty powerful feedback in the last twenty-four hours. There’s a lot that’s not working for you kids. How long has it been like this? Can you remember the last time you felt really happy? Truly carefree? You kids are in so much pain it immobilizes you, it’s so obvious, yet you try so hard to stuff it down, drug it away. When’s the last time you hugged your dad? Or yelled at him, pushed him away?”

As he speaks, the lights dim and a song begins to play. He asks us to sit on the floor, apart from each other. Staff scurries around us in the dark, dropping something beside us.

“Bring to mind a picture of your dad. Picture how he must have looked when he first saw you in the hospital, how it looked during a favorite memory of yours…Now bring to mind a picture of his face in a particularly painful memory. Maybe he looks hurt because he caught you drinking or in a lie, maybe
he looks mad because he’s drunk, maybe he’s about to hit you. Whatever that painful memory is, bring it up.”

I think of the night Paul pinned me to the kitchen floor when I had the screwdriver, that combination of confusion, fury, and pain.

Then I think about my old dad. He’s a blank, a mannequin head with no features. All I can picture is the nightmares, the clown wig, the needles poking. This makes me madder than anything. Mad in a way that I want to cry. Almost. I can always almost cry.

David’s voice is escalating now. “Picture his face during those painful moments, picture how he looked, what he said…Now reach down. There’s a rolled up towel next to you. Sitting cross-legged or on your knees, grab that towel and hit the floor with it, hit it as hard as you feel like hitting it. It’s time to let go of all that pain and anger.”

Some kids have started crying, and before he’s even finished speaking, thuds can be heard across the room. In no time, it grows to loud, thundering thwacks accompanied by yells and cries. He’s talking over them, urging them to let go of it all, of all the anger, all the pain.

I don’t feel the urge to do anything, cry, scream, hit. Numbness has become so familiar that any sort of feeling seems like a virus my body immediately rejects. Back home I did anything to make myself feel alive—fight, use, cut. Nothing ever worked for more than a few hours.

As David keeps coaching, sounds start echoing that don’t even sound human. It reminds me of watching Derek go through withdrawal. I haven’t thought about Derek in so long. I guess when it comes down to it, all men just want sex. Shit, my own father did.

I pick up the towel next to me, kneading it between my palms. What gets me the most about my old dad, even more than the molestation itself, is that he didn’t go to therapy, that he just gave me up. But only a sick fuck would do that, so what does that make me for wishing he had stayed in my life?

After awhile, the energy in the room dies down; everyone’s exhausted themselves. Sensing the change of mood, David softens his voice and a song comes on. People collapse on the floor, some stay on their knees, heads bent over their knees. Looking at them makes me feel sad. That they can feel that intensely and I can’t. That they have a father to cry over and I don’t.