“Because Moses is my friend.”
“He doesn’t seem to feel that way.”
The hurt that was now a constant companion grew a size bigger in my chest. I looked at her for a long second. So prim in her little white coat. I bet she liked wearing that coat. It probably made her feel powerful. I wondered if she wanted to hurt me or if she was just the kind of doctor who was comfortable dispensing bad news.
“Georgia?” I guess she wanted me to respond to her statement. I fought the urge to rub my hands on my jeans, my nervous habit. The denim soothed me.
“He never has. He’s always pushed me away. But he doesn’t have anyone else.” My voice didn’t sound very strong, and that seemed to please her.
“He has us. We’re taking very good care of him. He’s making remarkable progress.”
That was good. Remarkable progress was good. The ache in my chest eased a bit. “So what next?” I shrugged. “Where does he go from here?”
“That’s up to Moses now.” How wonderfully vague.
“Can I write him a letter? Could you give him a letter from me? Would that be okay?”
“No, Georgia. He’s been granted phone privileges. He could have called you. He hasn’t, has he?”
I shook my head. No. He hadn’t.
“He is adamant. He doesn’t want to see you or communicate with you. And we honor those wishes when we can. He has control over so little, and this is what he wants.”
I wouldn’t cry in front of this woman. I wouldn’t. I took the letter I’d written Moses out of my purse, slapped it on the table in front of the doctor and stood. She could give it to Moses, throw it away, or read it to her monster babies for their bedtime story. They could all have a good chortle at my pain. Including Moses. Whatever the doctor decided, it was in her hands. I had done all I could do. I headed for the door.
“Georgia?” she called after me.
I slowed but didn’t turn.
“He knows where to find you, doesn’t he?”
I pulled the door open.
“Maybe he’ll come to you. Maybe when he’s released, he’ll come to you.”
But he didn’t come. Not then. Not for a long, long time.
Moses
THEY PUT ME IN A DIFFERENT ROOM without pads, which was nice, because then I didn’t have to draw in the space above them. They told me to stop drawing, but short of tying my hands behind my back, which was apparently frowned upon since I wasn’t “violent,” I wasn’t going to stop. They started bringing me blank paper and letting me draw instead of write, as long as I would talk to them about what I was drawing, and as long as I left the walls alone. I didn’t like interpreting my drawings. But it was better than telling stories that were easier shared in pictures.
Eventually, they let me attend group sessions, and it was at my second or third one that Molly decided to come back. Suddenly she was there, flitting at the edges of my vision, someone I thought was gone. Someone I hadn’t missed. Someone who made me think of Georgia. And it made me even testier than usual. I started looking for a way to get sent back to my room.
The group session was full of vulnerable people who I could terrorize. Adults of all ages, with all sorts of disorders and problems. Their pain and despair was a throbbing, inky black behind my eyes, with no color and light to create hope or escape. I was eighteen, and some eighteen-year-olds were apparently still treated as juveniles, depending on the opinion of the doctors. But when they’d brought me in, I was housed with the adults. Apparently the kids were a floor below. I was grateful I wasn’t housed with them. Kids made it hard to be cruel.
Dr. Noah Andelin, a psychologist with a neatly groomed beard that he most likely wore to make himself look older, was conducting the group session. He stroked his beard when he was thinking, and it gave him a perpetually melancholy air. He was far too young to be a doctor, and way too young to be so serious. And sad. He had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. He made me uncomfortable. He made it hard for me to be cruel too. And I needed to be cruel. To be left alone, I needed to be cruel. I picked on the therapists and techs when I could, and when I couldn’t, I would pick on the patients that picked on everyone else. Sadly, they were usually the ones with the most loss. I usually ended up biting my tongue and pushing their dead away. I was an asshole. But I wasn’t a bully.
I sat there, the bridge wide open, on the look-out for ammo when Molly stopped flitting and danced right in front of my eyes, blonde hair flowing, showing me all the same old things. I almost groaned out loud. This wasn’t what I wanted. But then she started to hover around the edge of the circle, standing between two men across from me and staring back at me expectantly.
“Who knows a girl named Molly?” I blurted out, not thinking.
Dr. Andelin stopped mid-sentence. “Moses? Did you have something you wanted to say?” His voice was gentle. Just like it always was. So gentle and kind. It made me want to pick him up by his lapels and toss him into the wall. I had a feeling there was some fire in him somewhere. He tried to hide his physique beneath ridiculous tweed jackets with patches on the elbows, like a college professor from the 1940s. All he needed was a pipe. But he wasn’t a weakling. I’d sized him up. It was something that came naturally to me. Who can hurt you? Who is a physical threat? And Noah Andelin, with his sad eyes and his neat little beard, could be both, I was convinced of it.
As soon as I spoke, I felt stupid. Molly didn’t belong to anyone here. She was here because I was . . . though I had no idea why.