Haley finished writing her ninth poem of the day and flopped down on her bed. She stared through the barred windows and sighed. Then she hid her pencil under her pillow. On the Adolescent floor of Crane Hospital, patients weren’t allowed to have pens or pencils in their rooms. The ever-creative patients might use them to hurt themselves. Haley knew this rule. She had broken this same rule at all the hospitals she’d been in. She was a pro at breaking rules and getting away with it.
This hospital was hospital number twenty-two for fifteen-year-old Haley. She knew she was at the end of the line. Now she was in DCF custody. No foster home would take her. She would be forced to live in a residential treatment center for mentally and emotionally disturbed kids.
Residential treatment was like a horror story spoken about in hushed voices with chills running down your back to kids in psych units. It was the end of the line and the last place she wanted to go. Every time Haley got out of the hospital, she would promise herself that this was the last one. But then the hallucinations would start winding her up and reality would start to crumble.
“Oh?” asked Dr. Fowler as if Haley had just told him she made toast for breakfast.
Haley drew her knees up to her chest and dropped her head into her lap.
“Who did you kill?” asked Dr. Fowler, even though he’d already read her records and knew she’d been involved in a fatal car accident and that her mother had been killed on the scene. He knew exactly who Haley thought she’d murdered. However, he also knew that his young patient had to express herself and get it off her chest. The only way for him to help her see the accident was no more than an accident was to verbally and emotionally process it.
Haley had started crying again and her whole body shook with each sob.
“I don’t understand,” Dr. Fowler repeated, “Who did you kill?”
swung my Disney Princess sneakers back and forth hard in Joanne’s waiting room. Blinkie, my stuffed lamb who goes everywhere with me, bounced violently on my lap.
My mom put a calming hand on my shoulder as she used the flashlight on her phone to look into my eyes.
“Are you having a focal seizure?” she asked me. “Do you need Valium?”
A horrifying mental image of my mom gloving up, yanking down my pants and underwear, and sticking a gel pill up my butt in the middle of the waiting room flashed through my head repeatedly, like someone had pressed the “replay button” on my brain’s TV.
“No just nervous, got a lot going on in my head,” I told her.
“I know,” she smiled at me sadly. “You’re always filled with anxiety. It must be like grand central station between those two curly red pigtails.”
“It is,” I told her, thinking about how she didn’t even know the half of it.
Haley finished writing her ninth poem of the day and flopped down on her bed. She stared through the heavy mesh covered windows and sighed. Then she hid her pencil under her pillow. On the Adolescent floor of Crane Hospital, patients weren’t allowed to have pens or pencils in their rooms. The ever-creative patients might use them to hurt themselves. Haley knew this rule. She had broken this same rule at all the hospitals she’d been in. She was a pro at breaking rules and getting away with it.
This hospital was hospital number twenty-two for fifteen-year-old Haley. She knew she was at the end of the line. Now she was in DCF custody. No foster home would take her, she was too “disturbed” and “mentally unbalanced” She would be forced to live in a residential treatment center for mentally and emotionally disturbed kids.
Residential treatment was like a horror story spoken about in hushed voices with chills running down your back to kids in psych units. It was the end of the line and the last place she wanted to go. Every time Haley got out of the hospital, she would promise herself that this was the last one. But then the hallucinations would start winding her up and reality would start to crumble.
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