Freedom of Sketch

Reaching for the Real World

***

I approach the nurse's station and nervously tap my fingers on the counter while I wait for Jenny to finish organizing a patient's chart. She glances up at me, smiles. "Whatcha need, Shiloh?"

"Um, can I call my mom?"

"Of course." She points past me. I notice her short rounded fingernails are painted a glossy shade of baby pink that matches her scrubs. "The patient phones are behind you," she says. "Are you calling a local number?"

I nod.

"Okay. Just dial nine to get out, then the whole number, including the area code."

I turn around to see three metal phones mounted on the wall above a row of weighted chairs. Large, curly ferns planted in squat white plastic pots create green tendril curtains between them. I sit in the chair closest to the cafeteria doors, my legs shaking uncontrollably.

Just do it, I scold myself. You have to deal with her eventually. I pick up the receiver and punch in the nine, the area code, and then the rest of my home number. The square metal buttons click under my trembling fingertips.

It rings.

I wait and try to breathe my panicked, shuddering heart back into a calm and even rhythm. The phone rings a second time. Then a third. I count the fringes on one of the fern leaves slithering up the wall. I stir the air with my foot in its fluffy blue hospital sock with the rubber treads on the bottom.

The line crackles. "Hello?" My mother: composed, polite.

"Mom, it's me," I say.

"Oh." She strains more happiness into her voice. "Hi."

"Mom, can you bring me some clothes? Please?" I hate that I sound so much like her when I'm forcing myself to be civil when really I'd rather hiss and spit and curse.

"Yeah," she answers.

"But I can't have anything with chains. Or like a lot of metal, anything sharp."

Silence.

"And nothing like any kind of belt, scarf, strings... no underwire bras, either." I perform a mental sweep of my bedroom, the drawers crammed with handfuls of junk nesting among various items of bizarre clothing, most of it black or gray with random shots of neon. Tons of studded things, shirts with awkward patterns. "I think I have some sports bras, in the top drawer."

"Yeah."

I blather on. "I'd like comfy stuff. We all dress like crap here. So some old jeans, I guess, and pajama bottoms. The plaid ones, definitely. And lots of sweats. Don't worry about the drawstrings, they'll take care of that here. I need underwear, too, lots."

Sigh. "Yeah."

I cringe at the idea of her in my room, sliding her hands through my closet, my forest of treasured junk. Art projects gone wrong, aborted at the last second. Bad poetry that hints at an unquiet mind. The far and foreign corners of my wardrobe heavy with dust and the superficial outfits abandoned at the end of middle school. A graveyard. "Oh... shirts," I say. "Some long-sleeved shirts would be nice; it's pretty cold in here. And t-shirts, like maybe my band shirts or the ones I made myself." More gawky designs, experiments with bleach, fabric markers, acrylics.

"..."

"You still there?" I freeze, ignoring the repetitive droning hospital sounds, and focus on the sounds of my home, my home on the other side of the universe, that safe place I left behind. It seems like forever ago.

"Yeah."

That's all I'm going to get out of her. But I'm okay with that. Because "yeah" is better than, "you always ask me to do stuff for you, but you don't do anything for me, you're a selfish spoiled rotten arrogant criminal no-good bad, bad, bad teenager. You need a job. You need to contribute. You're like your father. His genes. His darkness. His fault, your fault, everyone's fault but mine." I sag into the wall. It touches me with cold hands through my hospital gown. "Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome."

"Oh, wait! Wait, are you still there?"

I think I hear her hair brushing the receiver, maybe an earring clacking against it. "Yeah," she says.

"Flip-flops. Please. You have no idea how gross these showers are, seriously."

"Okay." She won't pack right away, she'll prolong this. Maybe wait a day or two. I'm fine with that. It's not like I'll be going anywhere.

The line scrambles, then goes dead. She's gone. Whatever. I have more people to call, anyway... my people.

***

Daniel picks up after the fourth ring. "Hello?" His voice is scratchy and raw, like he's been yelling.

I swallow. My mouth opens, but all I can do is breathe stupidly into the receiver.

"Hello?" He sounds annoyed.

"It's me!" I blurt out.

"Shiloh!?"

I nod, then realize he can't see me. "The one and only."

The line clicks as he adjusts his grip on the phone. I imagine him sitting bolt upright in his big, lonely bed, blue plaid comforter draped like a tent over his knees. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you? Where are you? I've called and called and all I get is your dumb voicemail!"

"Huh... my phone hasn't died yet?"

"Where are you!?"

I jiggle my leg and dig the stubby remains of my fingernails into my fleshy thigh. "Local madhouse," I say casually.

"Ha,ha. Seriously, though... where are you?"

I count the flecks of color in the floor, hesitating. How do I explain this? What will I say? Hundreds of words swirl around on the back of my tongue, but I can't decide how to bead them together to create logical sentences, a clear-cut explanation. "Well, it's technically a residential treatment facility for whacked-out girls... potheads and cutters and shit."

Daniel scoffs. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No," I say flatly.

"So you're actually calling me from a treatment place? You really are locked up?"

"Yep."

I hear him breathing, contemplating. "Wow." The phone line crackles. "Wow," he sighs again.

I can sense his desire to ask more. "The shrink I had to see admitted me because I guess he thinks I want to hurt myself or something."

He chuckles. "Is it because of your drawing?"

"Wait... you think this is funny?" I demand.

Daniel: "No way. It's just... you draw shit like that all the time, so I'm wondering why they chose to go after one particular drawing."

Me: "Because you told me to give it a face."

Daniel laughs again. "Yeah, a face; not your face."

"Dr. Fox said that me coming here involved more than just the drawing. He talked to my mom alone for a long time, so I feel like they made the decision together."

"Those bitches," he says.

Jenny calls to me from behind the nurse's desk, "Wrap it up, Shiloh! Vitals in five minutes!"

I stick my tongue out at her and she rolls her eyes. "Look," I say to Daniel, "I need to go."

"Wait! What's the name of the place? I want to come see you."

My heart skips a beat and I take a shaky breath. "I don't know if that's such a good idea. I don't really want you to see me like this, in here."

"I have caller ID, loser," he says, a smile warming his voice.

"Ugh, then figure it out for yourself, asshat." Click. I shake my head and wander over to the vitals line, a full, glowing feeling in my chest. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, replaying his voice over and over in my head. When Jenny takes my pulse, my heart rate is soaring.