They added claustrophobia to her growing list of “issues.”
Bipolar. Depression. Suicidal ideations. Antisocial personality disorder. Narcissism. Delusions.
They sat with her in the afternoons with a wide, thick book called a DSM-IV and tried to explain all the things that were wrong with her.
They were the ones who were insane, but Aubrey had to concede one point: she did have a problem with panic. Being tied down, being forced to do what others wanted—she had a major issue with that. And depression, well, shit, who wouldn’t be depressed if they were in her shoes? Her husband was dead. Missing. Dead. Whatever.
Let her out, let her get her own clothes on her back and sleep in her own bed, however grim that might be, and she’d be right as rain.
She hadn’t exactly been trying to kill herself. She didn’t think so, at least. She had been drunk. Rip-roaringly drunk. And she’d fallen, tripped over the dog into the kitchen. The beer bottle she was carrying broke into fifteen or so sharp green pieces, and since she couldn’t stand up, she managed to get herself seated Indian-style on the kitchen floor and, weaving, began picking up the pretty green shards.
She was just drawing, the glass a permanent pencil. Pretty pictures, Christmas on her wrist. She told them that over and over, but they didn’t believe her.
The glass was sharper than she expected, the flesh inside her wrist thinner. The blood that bloomed was so bright and red, contrasting with the dark green glass, a wreath tied in a bloody bow. It was fascinating, so she pushed a little harder to see if she could make the bow bigger.
She wasn’t trying to kill herself.
Not that she hadn’t tried that once before . . . but she was fourteen then. Fourteen and alone in the world and scared and dirty and not realizing what promise life held. Tyler had found her, saved her life. And things had gotten better after that. The kids at the group home had taken her seriously. She’d been mythologized. She was popular. Cool. She had taken a bottle of pills—not aspirin or Tylenol, like the poseurs did, but a bottle of codeine she found in her therapist’s purse. Turned out someone had herself a little pill-popping problem.
And that same someone had realized her drugs were missing and returned to the group home in time to help Tyler get Aubrey to Vanderbilt’s emergency room for a stomach pumping.
She shivered at the memory. The handcuffs, the tube full of charcoal being shoved down her throat, being forced—yes, that was her issue, anything or anyone making her do something against her will. Coming to just long enough to rush out of the bed, trying to make it to the toilet to vomit, the coal-black streams dripping from her mouth and nose, the ER staff screaming at her, grabbing her arms to force her back to the bed, tying her down.
That lovely little incident cured her of ever trying something like that again. No, if Aubrey wanted to kill herself, she’d do it right. She’d have Tyler do it for her, with a needle full to the brim of the highest-grade heroin they could afford.
She hadn’t tried to kill herself with the bottle glass. This had been an accident. A legitimate accident. Just a mistake. A simple, stupid, drunken mistake.
A simple, stupid, drunken mistake that cost her six fucking weeks on the psych ward.
She didn’t think they’d ever let her go. It was day after day after day of pointless bullshit, of crafts and group and personal sessions and life coaching and career development—for fuck’s sake, people, she was a teacher, and a damn good one at that. She developed an aversion to being touched. She started smoking just for an excuse to see the sky. She’d never been a smoker before; it had a certain glamour to it. She pranced around outside during the breaks, puffing away, ignoring the ticklish cough that started after just a few puffs, just so freaking happy to feel the air and sun instead of the screaming buzz of the fluorescent bulbs and the pockmarked white cardboard ceilings.
The last time, when she was fourteen, Tyler had come to visit her, and reamed her ass out good for her stupidity. “It’s never that bad, Aubrey. No matter what, it’s never so bad that you want to end it all. Do you understand me?”
Sage advice from a boy who’d grown into a man with a drug habit so severe he had to live a life of crime to afford his fix. Poor thing.
When she thought about that, she sobered up. Aubrey truly felt sorry for Tyler. He couldn’t come visit her now. He was with the last class up at Brushy Mountain doing a nickel for possession with intent.
A tisket, a tasket, a gray-and-yellow basket.