After Hours (InterMix)(78)

“One of ’em? She go through a bunch?”

My stomach soured with misgiving, but I’d see where this topic took us, since it had him communicating. “Yeah, you could say that.”

After a heavy pause, Lee said, “Mine, too. New dude every f*cking month, it seemed like.”

“It’s not easy, is it?”

“Did . . . Any of your mom’s boyfriends. Did they ever . . . you know. Try to f*ck with you?” Lee murmured. I looked him dead in the eyes, to see if he was fishing for titillation. But his stare didn’t chill my blood—it broke my heart. That stare said, If they did, I understand.

“No,” I told him. “They didn’t.”

“That’s good,” he said, avoiding my gaze.

“Happens to lots of kids, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I hear it does.” His hands were shaking, ever so slightly, lips pursed to a thin, bloodless line.

After a few quiet hands, I took a chance. Knowing Lee might very well blow up at me for what I was about to say, I caught Kelly’s eye across the room, and raised my brows to beam him a warning, just in case. He gave a single nod.

“You know,” I said quietly to Lee, “if there’s ever anything you need to get out of you, any shit that’s weighing you down, you can always talk to Dr. Morris. About any baggage you might have, from your childhood.” I held my breath, every muscle on a hair trigger.

He stared at me a few seconds. “I could talk to you instead, maybe. You’re easy to talk to.”

“I’m not your doctor, though. That’s not really my place. But Dr. Morris, he’s here. And he’s heard everything under the sun, I promise.”

Lee cracked a shy smile. “He’s not pretty like you.”

“I’ll tell him to work on that.”

With no crisis imminent, I beamed Kelly another message when Lee was busy shuffling. It’s cool. As you were.

“How have your voices been?” I asked. “Since you came through the ER?”

“Jesus. I thought we were just playing cards here.”

“We are. But it’s my job to be nosy. How are your voices?”

“They’re fine, since the meds kicked in. And since some of my DIY prescriptions wore off.”

“Good.”

He was about to replace my discards, but froze with the deck between us. “How long d’you think I’m stuck here? Like, for real?”

“It’s too soon to say.”

He released my cards and exchanged a pair of his own. “Figures.”

“But I think you’re one of the most self-aware patients I’ve encountered, so far.” It was the truth, though I didn’t bother telling him exactly how new I was. “If we find you the right meds and you can stick to them, I think you could be headed to an outpatient program sooner than most. But those are big ifs.”

“What’s self-aware mean?”

“It means that at the best of times, you can see your symptoms for what they are. You seem like you’re able to step back from yourself, and examine what you’re feeling, and what your voices might be telling you.”

“And that’s good, for somebody like me?”

I smiled. “That’s good for anybody. That’s the difference between someone who can turn the other cheek and walk away from a pointless fight, and one who’ll lose their shit and wind up hurting someone, or go to jail. Someone who’s circumspect, and can look at their emotions and urges with detachment, not somebody who’s a slave to their impulses.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit. I been in lots of fights. Over real stupid shit.”

I exchanged three cards. “I know you were self-aware enough to seek substance abuse treatment. That means, at least sometimes, your brain knows what’s best for you, and has the strength to shout louder than your addictions or your disorder.”

“I never finished none of those programs, though.”

“Lots of people don’t. Lots of people who aren’t dealing with possibly being medicated for the wrong disorder.”

“That’s just an excuse.”

I shrugged, laying my full house down to trump Lee’s three of a kind, and collected my winnings. “Not an excuse, just a factor.”

“Like I said—too much credit.”

“Until somebody gives me reason to think that encouraging you is detrimental to your treatment, you’ll just have to get used to it.”