each one like they’d never seen them before, like she would like them if she saw they liked them. I don’t know, it was weird. Sad.”
“What’d they look like—the parents?”
“Normal. Like you and me—or like our parents, I mean. You know,” Kristen replies in an insider tone.
Isabel knows exactly what Kristen means. She knows that clubby tone.
“I guess you could look at any of our parents and think they looked normal, though, right?” Kristen says. “My parents look totally cool. My mother’s a whack job but she looks normal.”
Kristen laughs nervously, afraid that she has crossed the line and has shared too much too soon.
Isabel feels a wave of exhaustion that brings the social interaction to a screeching halt. She musters a smile and walks away, knowing Kristen is offended.
On her way past the living room, Isabel sees Keisha nodding her head to the beat of the music funneling into her ears from headphones the size of fluffy earmuffs.
Eight
Isabel and Kristen are sitting next to each other for the evening session. All the patients on the unit are seated in a circle and in the middle is an empty chair.
“What’s the deal with the chair?” Isabel whispers to Kristen, who is still wounded by Isabel’s snub earlier in the day.
“You’ll see,” she answers curtly. “He does this every once in a while.”
Isabel is smart enough to know that someone is going to have to sit in that chair in the middle and, whatever it entails, she does not want it to be her.
“My name is Larry,” a large man says after quietly closing the living room door. If Larry were a state he would be Vermont: earthy, self-sufficient, nonthreatening, easy to overlook. Almost entirely gray, his beard appears to be aging faster than the rest of him. His clothing is eclectic and, Isabel notes, hemp in spirit if not in reality.
“Because I see we have someone new in our evening session I want to start tonight by quickly going around the room. Let’s start to my right, here.”
Isabel’s heart races, knowing she will be second.
“Um, I’m Kristen. I’m here for a lot of reasons. I’m bipolar and I have obsessive-compulsive disorder. Among other things.”
All eyes settle on the newcomer: “I’m Isabel,” she says, her voice an octave higher than usual.
“Why are you here, Isabel?” Larry prompts.
“I don’t know,” she says, feeling her blush deepen. “I mean, I guess I’m here because the doctors thought I should be here.”
“Well, welcome, Isabel,” Larry says. “You’ll get the hang of this pretty easily.”
“I’m Ben.” The giant can’t wait until it’s his turn. “I’m here because the judge ordered me to be here.”
“I’m Melanie. I’m manic. I mean manic-depressive. I mean, I’m bipolar.” She directs this to Isabel. “People aren’t quite used to the whole ‘bipolar’ diagnosis yet so I always start by telling people I’m manic-depressive. Which is really the same thing. People say ‘bipolar’ isn’t a proven diagnosis yet but, you know, it really is. Doctors know that but people, like the general public, I mean, don’t realize that yet. And that’s all I have to say about that.”
“Okay, Melanie,” Larry gently interrupts. “Thanks. Next?”
“I’m Lark.”
“Lark? Do you want to tell Isabel why you’re here?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
Larry politely waits for Sukanya to introduce herself. When it appears she is not going to speak he moves on. Leaning on the empty chair in the middle of the circle, he surveys the group, noting that Keisha is absent. He checks a small notepad and nods to himself.
As she realizes that her facial expression is mirroring her dread, Larry points directly at her.
“Isabel,” Larry begins, “you’re new to the group so let me explain what we do here. The purpose of this meeting is to get more intensive work done. We set aside two hours for the session because we’ve found that extra time allows us the freedom to dig deeper.
“The chair here represents someone or something you would like to address. Maybe it’s someone you’re angry with. Maybe it’s something that has caused you pain or suffering. Only you can know what it means, this chair.”
Larry stops talking. He waits patiently for Isabel to begin.
“Um,” Isabel clears her throat. “I don’t know. I don’t have any anger,” she lies.
“You don’t?” Larry asks with mock incredulity. “No anger? That’s a bit unusual. Not to generalize, but most people wouldn’t exactly be here at Three Breezes if they had not experienced some form of anger. Hmm. Let’s see.” He consults a file that until then had been sitting on the table next to him.
“Isabel, why don’t you begin by telling the group why you took all those pills.”
Isabel feels like her cheeks are on fire. Her stomach is in her throat and her throat is rapidly closing up. She hears a rushing sound in her ears.
Isabel stares at Larry’s Birkenstocks.
“I don’t really feel like talking about that right now,” she manages to say, fighting to keep her voice from cracking as she chokes back her tears.
“When do you think would be an easier time to talk about it, do you think?” Isabel knows Larry is asking a rhetorical question.
“I get your point, okay? I get it,” she says. “It’s just that I don’t really feel angry at the moment and I don’t have much to say.”
“I know it’s tempting to retreat when you first get here, Isabel.” Larry sounds kinder. “It’s just that in the beginning, when everything is still pretty raw, pretty fresh, it’s usually a good time to talk about emotions in general, anger in particular.”
“I don’t feel like talking,” Isabel repeats herself, adding a tone of warning. “Just go on to someone else.” She clenches her jaw.
“Isabel, what are you so angry about?”
“Isabel?”
“Right now I suppose I have anger toward you, Larry.” Isabel tries to mimic the group leader’s controlled tone of voice.
“Why me?” Larry asks, a sardonic look on his face.
“For starters, where do you get off reading something from my personal medical file to this entire group?”
“This is group therapy, Isabel,” Larry soothes. “That’s what we do here. We talk about the tough stuff in front of one another.”
Isabel swallows hard.
