Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(8)

“You will have two sessions per day with Doctor Chapman. He’s agreed to keep seeing you, despite your attack this morning.”

I nodded. I didn’t like what I’d done. Not the attack on Deacon or Dr. Chapman. It wasn’t me.

“Violence won’t fly a second time. We don’t like to use our solitary rooms, but we will if we think you’re a danger to yourself or others. You’re a compulsory patient, but we can send you to a state facility.”

I looked her in the eye for the first time. Their color was indeterminate, somewhere between light brown and blue and green. She held my gaze.

“Is that what you told my father?” I considered telling her I’d go wherever my father wanted me, and if he wanted me in Westonwood, then that was where I’d stay. You didn’t cross Daddy. Period.

She changed the subject. “There’s a light switch in your room. It doesn’t work after lights out at ten. Most residents go to bed earlier.” Tick. “You will be given medication according to a schedule. You must take it as directed.” Tick.

“I’d like an Advil or something.” I needed a Vicodin, but I knew asking for it would get marked on my paper, and I wanted out, even if it meant getting questioned by the gestapo.

“After we’re done here, I’ll get you something for the headache.” She tapped her pen, asking for attention to her list. “You will not touch any of the patients or staff.” Tick. “Your bedroom door must remain open during the day unless your doctors or staff ask that it be closed.” Tick. “You must get to your sessions on time. We consider punctuality a sign of your commitment to the process here. Two late appearances mean you are not fully committed.” Tick. “And your performance in the bathroom this morning will not be repeated.”

“What performance?”

“Specific to you, there will be no masturbation.”

I laughed. “Are you f*cking with me?”

“Next time we hear you through the door, we’re coming in. We are a private institution. Accredited, yes, but we do get to custom-tailor the Westonwood experience to each patient. In your case, sex is a distraction that is strictly forbidden.”

“Lady, I can make myself come by breathing a certain way, okay? And shame’s not my thing. Privacy isn’t a prerequisite; I’ll come right in front of you. So that rule is a f*cking joke.”

“I assure you, it’s not a joke.” She slid back her chair. “Your meals are scheduled. Mark will take you to the dining hall.”

***

Mark, the orderly, was one of those guys who was trouble outside his job. He had on the same pale blue uniform as the rest of the orderlies, but his goatee was fingered to a point and his hair was shaved over the ears. The top flopped down, but I knew he made it stick up on the weekends. I tried not to look too closely, but I couldn’t help it. He had an empty piercing hole in his nostril. He glanced at me, and I turned away.

I held my tray in the center of the dining room, trying to decide between seats that all looked the same. The room was done up in modern grey and white, same as everything else. Even the Christmas decorations were simple brushed-chrome snowflakes hanging from the windows. The linoleum shined, the paint scuffs were removed nightly, and the chairs were Scandinavian, but it still looked and smelled like a mental ward.

A group of three ate on the patio. It rained on the other side of the overhang. They laughed and smoked cigarettes as if they were at the Wilshire Country Club, not Westonwood. They were my age, more or less, with smooth skin and trim bodies. One girl saw me and waved me over. I stood in the doorway.

“Fiona Drazen,” she said. “Heard you were here.”

They all looked at me. I waved. Their faces seemed familiar. The girl in question had her bare feet curled on the chair and a lit cigarette in the fingers that rested on her knee.

“Hey.” One of the young men, with tight curly hair and a knowing slouch, raised his hand to me. “Good to see you again.”

I didn’t know him. Had I f*cked him? Was I supposed to remember? I couldn’t even remember the last two days.

“Hey.” I nodded at him, then the rest.

The girl’s shirt buckled under her crouch, and I saw the curve of her breast. I remembered her. It had been a weekend in her mother’s time share—two days in an ocean of skin. I barely remembered their three faces from that party. Karen. Karen Hinnley. Her mother was a producer.

“Ojai,” I said. “Fuck, man. What a weekend.”

“It was…” She rolled her eyes as if at a loss for words.

“Beautiful,” I finished for her.

“Damn,” said the guy with the curly hair, “we should do it again.”

“Yeah.” Karen nodded to a boy with blond hair who couldn’t have been a day over fifteen. “You gotta come this time.”

Everyone concurred except me. I couldn’t bear another minute. I didn’t know why.

“Nice and quiet here,” I said.

“Christmas,” Karen said. “Everyone gets sprung for a couple of days. Except I don’t want to go home to look at the buffet. Gross. After New Year’s, there’ll be a line for the tri-tip.”

Too-Young shook his head. Curly Hair laughed. Warren. That was his name. Warren Chilton, son of the actor.