And then I think of the kids. It’s not that I have this overwhelming sense that my patients can’t live without me. But for all the talk of adolescent resilience, teenagers are also fragile. What would it do to them if their therapist suddenly vanished? The most elemental difference between my teenage clients and the married couples is this: The adults arrive convinced that nothing I can say will change anything, while the teenagers believe that at any moment I might utter some sort of magical sentence that instantly wipes away the fog.
Take Marcus from my Tuesday group. He’s a sophomore at a magnet school in Marin. Marcus is an instigator, combative, always looking to get things off the rails. At our last meeting he asked me, “What is the purpose of life? Not the meaning—the purpose?” It was a tough spot for me; once he threw down the challenge, I needed to respond. If my answer missed the mark, I would expose myself as a fraud. If I refused to answer, I would look like a poser who was of no use to the group.
“Difficult question,” I replied. “If I answer, will you tell us what you think the purpose of life is?”
He jiggled his right leg. He wasn’t expecting that. “Yes,” he replied reluctantly.
Experience, time, and education have taught me how to read people and situations. I generally have a decent sense of what someone will say or how they will react, even why people do the things they do, and why certain situations lead to certain outcomes. Yet somehow, when I least expect it, I discover a hole in my knowledge. What I don’t know, perhaps what I haven’t even considered, is this: What does it all add up to, what does it mean?
I looked around the circle of teenagers and I gave it my best shot:
“Strive to be all good, but know that you are not,” I said. “Try to enjoy every day, but know that you will not. Try to forgive others and yourself. Forget the bad stuff, remember the good. Eat cookies, but not too many. Challenge yourself to do more, to see more. Make plans, celebrate when they pan out, persevere when they don’t. Laugh when things are good, laugh when things are bad. Love with abandon, love selflessly. Life is simple, life is complex, life is short. Your only real currency is time—use it wisely.”
When I was finished, Marcus and the others were all staring at me, looking stunned. No one spoke. They had no response. Did this mean that I was right, or that I was wrong? Probably both.
As I sit here in the dark SUV with the stranger, I think of those words I offered to the kids. Here I am, in a terrifying situation of which I cannot begin to predict the outcome. I have loved with abandon, but have I truly loved selflessly? How much of this precious currency—time—do I have left? Have I used it wisely?
67
Hours pass, and I try desperately to stay awake. We must be somewhere in the desert. I can taste the dust in my mouth. My tongue is swollen under the gag, my lips painfully cracked, my throat parched. It’s difficult to breathe. I’m dying to swallow, but I can’t work the muscles in my throat.
From the bumps, I can tell we’ve turned off the highway. Drool has run from my mouth, down the straitjacket, and onto my leg. I’m embarrassed. I turn my head painfully to the right. The woman beside me is sleeping. Her cheek is bruised and cut. Whoever doesn’t like me apparently isn’t all that keen on her either.
Suddenly, the partition between the front and back seats lowers. The sun blasts through the windshield and I squeeze my eyes against the blazing light. The woman rustles beside me. I move my head to look at her, hoping to communicate something with my eyes, hoping for some connection. But she is staring straight ahead.
In the distance, I see the facility rise from the desert heat.
At an imposing iron gate, we wait for a uniformed guard to check our papers. I can hear him on the phone in the guardhouse, making a call, announcing our arrival. The gate opens and we drive through. As I hear it roll closed behind us, I calculate whether it is too high for me to climb. And, if I could, how long would it take? What would they do if I tried?
Then I think of the glass hallway I walked through on my first visit to Fernley: the resort on one side, the vast desert on the other. Escaping this place would be like swimming from Alcatraz. Once you’re out, how do you survive? The desert is too remote, too unforgiving. Without water, I’d be dead within hours. What is a better way to die: in a prison, at the mercy of your captors, or alone in the desert?
We drive through a second gate. Eventually, we park exactly where I got off of the plane last time. This time, though, I’m the one standing on the yellow line, looking tired and apprehensive. The woman stands beside me.
A gate buzzes open. A short guy in a black uniform yells, “Move. Walk on the line!” We shuffle up the narrow, fenced-in corridor, both struggling to stay on the yellow line that leads the way. The chains around my ankles dig into my skin, forcing my steps to be short. The woman moves quickly—her ankles must not be shackled—and I struggle to keep up.
At the end of the yellow line, we reach the building entrance. The door swings open and we enter. Two women in uniform take the woman off to the left. Two men flank me on each side, leading me the opposite direction. We go into an empty room, where they unshackle my waist and ankles. Immediately, I feel lighter. When they remove the straitjacket, my arms are numb. Maybe the gag will be next. I hope so. I’m dying to lick my lips, to taste a sip of water.
“Take off your clothes,” one of the guys says.
Soon, I’m standing here completely naked, save for the contraption around my head. My lips are numb, and I feel drool against my chin.
The two guys are staring at me, a little fascinated.
The pain in my mouth is so severe, I don’t even register the proper humiliation. I just want this thing off. I point to my mouth, make a pleading gesture with my hands. I motion that I need to drink.
Eventually, the shorter guy pulls some keys from his belt. He fiddles with a lock at the back of my head. When the gag slips free, I gasp. Tears of relief sting my cheeks. I struggle to close my mouth but cannot.
The tall guy points. “Showers are through there. Take your time. When you’re done, put on the red jumpsuit. Exit to the rear.”
I step through a door. There are five sinks on the left, five showers on the right, a bench in the middle, no doors, no curtains. I go over to the middle shower. Part of me believes that the water won’t turn on, that this is just a cruel psychological prank.
I turn the knob. Miraculously, water pours down. I shiver as the icy water hits my skin. I lift my head and gulp it down, mouthful after mouthful. Abruptly, the water goes from frigid to scalding. I jerk back. Then I piss into the drain and watch the dark yellow swirl through the steaming water and vanish.