75 days
Dear Julia,
Get this, I’m supposed to be starting a journal about
“my journey.” Please. I can see it now:
I don’t think so.
Anyway, while Dr. Marks (mustache like you wouldn’t believe, long and shaggy and made even worse by the fact that he’s always got crumbs in it) babbles on about how we need a place to share our “experiences,” I’m writing to you.
1
I don’t want you to think everything here has been so useless. I mean, Pinewood is a “teen treatment center,” so there’s, you know, the unpleasantness of just being here, but it hasn’t all sucked. It’s going to follow me around forever, though. “Was in rehab.” Just like all the other
“ ” I carry now.
You know, I always thought I told you everything, but there are some things I should have said and never did. I should have told you about the time I lost your new sun-glasses. I know you really liked them. I should have apologized every time I puked on your shoes and especially the time I ruined your brand-new skirt, the one with the beading. I should have apologized for a lot of stuff.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.
It’s been seventy-four days since I had a drink. I miss it. I miss the way it made me feel, how I didn’t seem so tall and stupid, how everything went soft around the edges.
I’ve even been dreaming about it. I’m told this is normal, though. I’m told I can still leave. I’m “better,” you see, and the world is waiting.
Dr. Marks just asked if I’m okay. He’s such a freak. I don’t know how he ended up in charge of group therapy. You should hear how he talks, you really should.
He can’t say my name like a normal person. Amy. How hard is that to say? But Dr. Marks always calls me 2
Amyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, like y is a letter he doesn’t get to use often enough.
I think about you all the time. I tell everyone in group I picture you swooping in to check up on everything, an angel with kick-ass wings, but I actually wonder if you’re cold or if you get to wear your purple sweater all the time because it’s your favorite and your mom isn’t around to tell you it’s too low-cut.
Right now, I wonder if you’re singing one of those stupid love songs you love so much and if they still make you smile. I wonder if you miss driving across the Millertown bridge while we take turns eating ice cream.
You were always able to smuggle a pint out of the grocery store. If I close my eyes I can see you laughing, spoon in hand. I haven’t eaten ice cream in months.
I’ve cried a lot in Pinewood, and always about you. I know that must seem strange, especially since you know that before I didn’t cry at all. I wanted to, though—you know that too, right? But I couldn’t. I knew if I did I’d never stop.
I suppose I should be happy about getting out of here tomorrow. I guess I am, but the thing is, I keep thinking about who I want to see when I get home and . . . there’s no one. You won’t be there.
I miss you, J.
3
O N E
RELEASE DAY CAME, as promised, and I got my stuff together in the morning. I didn’t have a roommate, and I didn’t really talk to anyone, so I was ready to go pretty quick. (Group therapy was enough conversation for me.) And that was it. Good-bye Pinewood, thanks for all the crap food and “sharing sessions.” Couldn’t say I was going to miss any of it.
Laurie, my shrink, came and walked down with me.
“What are you thinking about?” I don’t think Laurie knows how to not ask questions. Must be the fi rst thing they teach in shrink school. Also seems to be the only thing.
“Nothing.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” she said, and I did that thing with my eyebrows Julia’s mom always called snotty.
4
Laurie didn’t seem to notice. She just said, “Everyone gets scared,” like it was some big profound statement.
“Wow, thanks,” I said.
“Your parents are waiting, Amy,” she said. “They’re right out there and they’re excited about taking you home.”
The sick thing is, I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that Mom and Dad were waiting and actually wanted to see me. I’d thought that part of me, the part that wanted me and Mom and Dad to be a family and not
