Life on the Level (3 page)

Helen purses her lips, but doesn’t comment further.

“As you can see, there are many things you can do here at HCRC. There are daily group meetings, and weekly individual sessions with an assigned counselor. Besides that, we like to keep active. Equine therapy is our specialty, though we do offer outdoor excursions like hiking and weeklong camping trips. During the winter there’s skiing and ice fishing.”

“You’re not afraid someone’s going to get lost in the wilderness?” I joke.

She laughs. I decide I like her laugh. It’s not fake or motherly. She’s more like a friend who has lots of responsibility and is in charge. She doesn’t wear a ring, and her clothes are comfortable, but professional. I bet she’s single, perhaps divorced once and trying to focus on her career this time around.

I lick my canine as I study her some more. She’s got deep laugh lines, but this is the first time I’ve heard her laugh since I arrived. She holds her pen the way longtime smokers hold their cigarettes. I spot the start of a tattoo on her forearm, but the long sleeves of her shirt cover it. A name, perhaps. Her ex-husband, or maybe her mother. No, definitely her ex.

“Today you’ll start off easy,” she says. “Explore the grounds; talk to the others. Dinner is at six thirty, and once the kitchen’s closed for the night, there isn’t any going back for seconds. Do you have any food restrictions?”

I shake my head.

“Is there a—commissary? I don’t know the right word.”

There’s that laugh again. “Goodness, River. You’re not in prison. I hope you’re here because you
don’t
want to go to prison.”

I can feel my cheeks turn red. “It’s my first time trying.”

“It’s very brave of you. And no, you’re allowed to have your own money. Meals are included in your fees, but things like cigarettes and junk food you can get at the concession stand.”

I nod, digging my hands so far into my pockets I’m afraid I’ll rip the seams. Helen places a hand on my shoulder and pats me like I’m a child in need of comforting. Everyone here is in some need of comforting. That’s why they’re here in the first place. Too much taking comfort in bad things. Too much instant gratification.

“Look,” she says. “We don’t get many people who admit themselves. Most of the time it’s a parent or family member, or the rare good friend. Too often it’s the law giving someone an ultimatum. You’re here of your own free will, and that takes a whole lot of courage.”

I don’t say anything. I guess the right thing to say is “thank you.” But I don’t think that I’m brave at all. Bravery would have been doing this sooner, or sticking around to right my wrongs. Brave is not something I am.

“Now,” she says, leading me down another corridor decked in more Montana taxidermy and freshly waxed pine floors. “We’ll go get the rest of your things and finish check-in, and then I’ll show you to your room.”

• • •

“Is this necessary?” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.

The ranch’s hand, Taylor Patrick, inspects my car. He chews gum as he looks me up and down. His eyes linger on my legs a little bit too long.

“It’s standard,” Helen tells me from the other side of the car. “Everyone submits themselves to inspection. You’re coming into a facility where people are trying to recover. We have to make sure nothing gets in. Now, is there any alcohol or contraband in your possession or vehicle?”

I gnaw on the inside of my lip. I’m liking Helen a little bit less at the moment. I duck to tie my shoe, just as two cars pull into the driveway. They go around back to park, which means they’re employees. I sigh, deflating like a balloon.
Fresh start, River
, I tell myself.

“We’re not going to arrest you,” Helen reassures me. “We want you to have a clean slate.”

“There’s a flask under the passenger seat and a makeup bag with my prescription drugs. All legit.”

I wasn’t going to bring it in with me. It’s just a backup, you know. It’s not like I was going to share.

Helen takes the bottle of Xanax and Vicodin, along with my flask, the one with an R engraved at the center. It’s full of Tullamore Dew, my daddy’s favorite whiskey. She puts it all in a large white ziplock bag.

“That’s it,” I say.

But that’s not it. I have a baggie of percs in the lining of the bra I’m wearing. I can feel sweat beads protrude on my forehead, but I blame the noonday sun.

I follow Helen and Taylor past the front desk and into the main office. Taylor sets down my bags and Helen puts on latex gloves. They unzip it and go through the contents. I swallow. My mouth is dry.

Taylor laughs. “Guess it’s true. People do wear a lot of black in New York City.”

I give him a pained smile.

They search my wallet. I’ve got a hundred in change, a photo of my dad from when he was in the Navy, and another of my girls and me from the beach this past summer. I’m annoyed that I have to tug it out of Taylor’s hand, like he’s trying to be cute.

They take my nail clippers, eyelash curler, and my self-defense keychain that looks like a golden cat, leaving my clothes, books, and overpriced hair products. They ask for my cell phone, but let me send all the texts I need to first.

Sky: I know you’re busy getting tan with your sexy roofer. I can’t decide if this place is a cult or not. I’ve been stripped down and had everything confiscated like a criminal. I’ll have access to e-mail (I hope). Love, Me. E-mail: [email protected]

Leti: I had the best sex of my life last night. And I didn’t even know his name. BOOM. Commencing ninety-day lock down: [email protected]

Lucky: Thanks again for hooking me up with that bar in Missoula.

Pepe: I’m sorry again. I’m at the rehab center. It’s weird. Love you.

Dad: I miss you.

I get a sender error back from that last one and I swallow the lump in my throat. I want to laugh. Hi, I’m River Thomas, and sometimes I text my dead father, who was also a gambling addict, among other things. That should be my opening statement at group tomorrow.

As Helen moves to pry my phone out of my hands, a new text comes in.

“Just one more, please.”

“What is it with this generation and texting?” she mutters.

The text sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a New York number. 917.
Heard u skipped town. U don’t think I’ll find u?

I press the power button, then slide it off.

“No one turns these on, right?” I ask.

“It’s all locked up until you check out. Is everything okay?”

I look around the office. There are tons of little cages where they lock up patients’ belongings. The phone in the lobby rings its shrill ring. Taylor walks by, helping an old man with his bags as he’s leaving the building.

“River,” Helen asks, sounding out my name in that way that doctors have, like they’re trying to call you back to earth, like they’re trying to get you to focus on the sound of their voice and not on the spinning thoughts in your head. “River. Something upset you.”

“It’s just—” I shake my head. I cough a laugh. “It’s just what you said. My generation and all that. It’s all the contact I have with my friends. It’s hard letting go.”

I feel like she can see through my lie. “There’s a computer room. One of our patients is working on her young adult novel. You’ll have access to basic e-mail and there’s a mailroom for the ancient art of letter writing. There are these artifacts we have called pens and pencils.”

“You’re funny,” I say.

“Don’t sound so surprised. Just because we’re in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about life. You name it, and I’ve probably done it. Twice.”

“Good to know. Well, now that you know my bra size,” I say, “can you show me to my room? I’m beat.”

As we head up the polished wooden steps, she says, “We’re not trying to invade your privacy. We have an open-door policy. Removing possibly harmful things so that everyone here is safe.”

“Objects themselves aren’t harmful,” I say. “People are the ones who are harmful, doc.”

She stops at a door marked 3A. Three was my dad’s lucky number. Mine is four.

“The left wing is where all the female patients stay, the right wing is for male patients, and when staff spends the night it’s downstairs. You stay out of the men’s wing, and they stay out of yours. All of you stay out of staff quarters.”

“The staff stays here, too? Don’t they go nuts?”

Helen laughs dryly. “Not any more than when they started. Because we’re so rural, it’s easier for some of them than driving four hours each way. But they’re free to come and go as they please.”

“I take it we don’t have the same liberty?”

“Not unless you want to pack up and go for good. We have lots of group excursions. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to get out with the others. I doubt you’ll feel claustrophobic in Big Sky country.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I’m already starting to feel claustrophobic. “Anything else?”

“There is to be no sexual conduct between patients and patients, or patients and staff members. It would result in immediate expulsion, and incompletion of your trial. Here’s our introductory pamphlet with a list of further rules. Your counselor will go over them again at your session tomorrow.

“Tonight’s dinner is turkey meatloaf, and quinoa chili if you’re a vegetarian.”

“I’m just really tired.” Suddenly all of my traveling and sleepless nights hit me like a sledgehammer.

She appraises me, the same way I was looking at her before. I change my mind. She isn’t divorced. I bet it was a love affair gone wrong. Perhaps he was already married and wouldn’t leave his wife.

“I hope we can help you find what you’re looking for here, River.”

When she’s gone, I want to lock myself into my room, except there isn’t a lock. Right, for our safety. The windows don’t lock either, but I’m on the second story. No chance of a hasty escape unless I want to break my neck.

I don’t know why I’m checking every inch of the room or what I’m hoping to find. Paranoia? My past hiding under the bed? Preparing to run away before I’ve even started? I remind myself to breathe.

I go to the bathroom. My hands are shaking. I look at myself in the mirror. The light is so bright, I look almost translucent. A whole summer tan gone to waste. My blue eyes are clear, and there are bags under my eyes.

I think of the last text I got. That was
him
. I don’t have to bet; I already know the text was from Kiernan, the guy whose face I scarred. The guy I called my boyfriend after my daddy died. After I threw myself into a downward spiral.

I grab onto the bathroom sink for support. Remind myself I’m here to get better. The other benefit of Sun Valley, Montana is that it’s so far there’s no way he can find me. No matter what he thinks.

I let the water run and fill a paper cup. I fish the little bag from my bra. Six pills. That’s all I have left. They help me sleep and quiet the busy thoughts in my head. But the whole point is to be clean. Though they’re technically prescribed, they’re not exactly prescribed to me.

Don’t do this, River,
I tell myself.

If I take one, just to help me forget my problems for a little bit, it means that I’ve failed before I ever really started.

I take a deep breath, turn the baggie upside down, and watch the pills swirl down the drain. Then I grab my wallet, reaching for my cellphone out of habit. It’s like a digital ghost limb. I guess it’ll be good to unplug for a while.

I go in search of the next best thing to drugs: chocolate.

The first time my daddy went to rehab was just before I was born. He said it was his first attempt at getting clean. It didn’t work so well, because after Mom left he fell right back into the same old habits—gambling, booze, and women that wanted me to call them “Mom.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to have me. Out of my two parents, he was the one that stayed to raise his six-year-old daughter. He was the one that didn’t run away when things got hard.

I lie in my bed, staring at the purple ceiling. I was expecting white walls, but I think white walls would have made me go insane. The purple feels like a deliberate choice. I wonder what color the guys’ rooms are. I wonder if they’re the same lavender, or if they have the same distressed blue bedsheets. I doubt my dad’s rehab centers were this nice. This warm. I almost feel like I’m cheating. This isn’t even hard.

Granted, it’s my first day, and I’ve been awake all of half an hour. I reach for my phone, then remember it’s in a nice little locker with the rest of my belongings. What am I supposed to do without being connected to something?

I go brush the fuzzy morning breath off my teeth. After tossing and turning for eight hours, I’m rocking the biggest dark circles. I wonder how long I’d have to sleep before I felt bright-faced and fresh. Ten? A solid hundred years, like Rip Van Winkle?

I grab one of the books I brought with me, though I remember passing by a library no one was using, and head down for breakfast.

I can’t help but feel like I’m repeating my freshman year of high school. Everyone stares at me. Some surreptitiously from behind upside down newspapers, some not even trying to be discreet.

An older woman tells me to put some clothes on. I look down at my denim shorts, frayed at the bottom like a cat got a good playtime with them, and a black tank top with a (surprise) black cardigan over that. I roll my eyes, yawning loudly as I pass her. Nothing can bother me. I am made of steel. I am made of stone.

I grab a croissant, packets of butter, and a mug. My heart drops. There’s a large container for coffee. One.

“You okay?” a small girl with brown pigtails asks me. She’s got a red, red nose, like she has a cold, and dark, beady little eyes.

“Where’s the coffee?”

When she smiles, her whole face moves to the left. For some reason it makes me think of my mother telling me, “Fix your face, River, or it’ll get stuck like that.”

“Sorry,” the girl says. “We only have decaf. This must be your first time.”

My cheeks go red. Right, caffeine. Mood-altering drug of addicts everywhere. How could I possibly not know that?

“I used to drink about a gallon a day,” she tells me. “My heart used to race like a hummingbird’s.”