Rehab Oatmeal Sucks

“Valerie Banks?” A worker called out, snagging my attention. I saw her dull, expressionless face. I had gotten used to Abby’s mask. The same one she always wore so she didn’t get attached to the patients. It was easier that way, I knew it. I had been admitted here a few times. This was the only time that I nearly went to the morgue instead.

Standing up, I shoved my hands into the cream colored sweats they gave all the patients. No ties, and nothing with strings. No easy access to any chemical or food, either. The thin socks with rubber grips along the bottom were the only form of shoes we were allowed here. “Yes, Abby?”

She handed me a slip of paper, a familiar robin's egg blue the indicator of what it was. “Go get your things. You’re getting out today.” Had it really been six weeks already?

My heart lurched as I nodded, following Abbey down the too-fucking-sterile-white hallway to my room. She swiped her keycard, putting in a pin code before the door unlocked, letting us out of the day room.

I tried focusing on the sound of our footsteps and not the wailing or screaming or vomiting coming from the other patients' rooms. Sounds like they’re on day three, maybe four, of detox. The nurses and staff can’t give us anything to help until whatever we were on is fully out of our system.

“By the way, your parents are here.” Abbey spoke over her shoulder, glancing at me with those slightly less dull honey brown eyes. I had been here too long and too many times for her to keep up her monotone and distanced facade.

Anxiety and shame flooded my system. I felt bad enough about being here, I hated that my parents were the ones to pick me up. Why couldn’t the clinic just let me walk out or something like the last few times? Was it because this time I almost left this world entirely? I was getting better, I knew it. I barely wanted to see my dealer anymore. Just barely. Not even a lot. Only a smidgen. A teeny, tiny, amount of want.

What I really wanted, more than anything, was for my life to go back to what it was when I was a kid. To not have taken that first hit, shot, puff, or needle. To be sitting at the dinner table with one of my comfort foods mom made from scratch. Sitting there with my mother, father, sister, and brother. To hear Tori and Brady fighting over something stupid. Watch mom and dad shake their heads, smile playing on their lips and the twins’ near constant bickering.

Maybe what I even missed more than all of that was the love and connectivity about it all. I longed for it again. I wish I had never done those stupid drugs to begin with. I was foolish to think I could take it just once and never do it again.

Abby stopped at the off white door, paint chipping near the familiar odd shaped handle. It looked almost like a butterfly, I had decided after my third time in that room. All the doors here had down curved handles that were impossible to hurt yourself on. Everything in here was beyond baby proof. It was teenager-having-withdrawls-and-might-commit-suicide-or-hurt-others proof. And I had been no exception.

Abby unlocked my temporary residence door, ushering me inside. “They’re waiting in the lobby. I told them it wouldn’t take you very long for you to pack.” Her voice was softer, lighter.

I nodded again, fighting the embarrassment as I remembered the first time I was admitted here, nearly giving several staff members a black eye during my withdrawals. Abby was the first one to body slam me onto the floor to administer the sedative that knocked me out for a day. I only needed to be controlled like that a few times. Usually the first two days were the worst for me.

“Thank you. I’ll be out soon.” I attempted a small smile, brushing short brown hair away from my face, wondering if I still looked half dead.

She closed the door, not bothering to lock it this time. I knew she was standing on the other side in case I tried to make a run for it.

Taking in my room, slowly gathering my few belongings, I found the letter Tori had written to me. This time, I had missed her and Brady’s first day in ninth grade. I remember how nervous I was for my first day of high school three years ago.

Brady also wrote a small note to me at the end of her letter. Where Tori’s was sweet, kind, and full of “missing you” memories and “get better” sentiments, his was angry. He was so, so angry with me for having to be put into rehab again. I think he was more hurt by it than anything, and it manifested in anger.

In his version, he chided me on how I had taken away so much joy from our family. He detailed the stress and the fights my addiction had caused with mom and dad. How he had to comfort Tori and try to make sure mom actually ate dinner most nights of the week. Dragging her from bed in the morning on others. How he knew to hide dad’s keys if he opened a fourth beer in case he went out driving again. Or to make sure dad had a grocery list of food to get for the week because mom wouldn’t leave the house and neither of them could drive yet.

Putting away the guilt ridden reminder, I packed up the lavender sweater mom had knitted for me last Christmas. It was one of my most prized possessions now. They had let me keep it once they made sure I wasn’t a risk for trying to suffocate myself with it or something else.

Looking at the mirror, the thin, crumply plastic that passed for one anyway, I saw that my face had a little more color in it. The paleness had evened out, making me look less like a corpse. My cheeks had also gained weight, hazel eyes not seated so far back into their sockets. The freckles on my nose, around my eyes, and over my forehead looked just like what they were instead of dark marks portraying my disease.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door for Abby to open. It always took me a few days to get out of that habit. “I’m ready.”

***

The walk to my parents in the lobby was one of the most stressful and nerve wracking moments of my life. Would they be upset with me? Would they make some comment about me coming back here? Would my father send me off to another state to live with those distant Amish relatives he kept threatening me with?

Abby paused before repeating the process of unlocking the last door of my confinement. “I’m really proud of you, Valerie. I know it hasn’t been easy, but you’ve made a lot of progress,” she gave me a wide smile. The same one I’ve seen only a few times.

My reply was whispered. “What if they still hate me?”

Her honey brown eyes went sad, placing a hand on my shoulder. “They never hated you. They hated the pain you were going through. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope to never see you again.”

Her comment got a chuckle from me. That’s probably exactly why she made the joke. “I hope to never see you again, either.” I meant it. I think I’m finally done. Finally over this whole routine and ready to get on with my life. Right now, that smidgen of need to call my dealer was quickly dying.

“What are you looking forward to most?” Abby asked me, still not unlocking that last door. This was a common question asked around here, but you never gave the answer of “drugs” to the staff. This time, I didn’t lie. “My mom’s food. The oatmeal here sucks.”

She snickered, swiping that plastic card before typing in the code. Pulling the door open, she motioned for us to finally leave my six week prison.

I found my parents’ figures almost instantly. My mother, God bless her, was wearing a matching lavender knit sweater to the one in my plastic bag. The light green buttons matched her eyes, darker wavy hair pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Brady was right, she did look thinner then when I last saw her. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. Nervousness incarnate.

My father, God bless him, too, was also nervous. It was much more hidden, the constant shifting of his feet in those light blue farmer Carrharts spoke volumes about his anxiety. His right arm was at mom’s back, the motion indicating he was rubbing soothing circles. Maybe to calm them both. The wide-rimmed glasses he wore slightly hid the redness of his hazel eyes. The same shade as mine.

Taking another deep breath, I moved towards them.

They saw me then, their expressions twisting into something my heart ached to call relief or some form of long awaited solace. My brain was too scared to call it that. Too sacred to let myself feel hope that they might be happy to see me.

My mother took quick steps away from dad, wrapping her arms around me before I had time to process her actions. Her arms squeezed tighter, her body beginning to tremble as she held me. My own crying started then as I placed my arms around her. A third set of limbs wrapped around me from the back. I knew by the coarse dark fabric and the cedar smell it was my father.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to them, meaning every gut wrenching word. This last relapse I had tried my old dosage. It nearly killed me.

Dad shushed me, the rumble of his voice against my head. “We’re just glad you’re alive.”

“Come,” Mom started. “Let’s go home. Your siblings missed you so much. We all did.”

Putting on some sandals she brought me, we walked through the doors of the rehab center and never looked back.

***

Sitting at the dinner table wearing an oversized sweater did nothing to comfort me. Tori had finally stopped crying since I returned home four hours ago. Brady hugged me, but I could sense his anger still. With the way he warily watched mom as she cooked, humming to herself, I could tell he was waiting for her to retreat back into herself. And I had caused this.

Dad was reading a book nearby, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked better than earlier, happier. Everyone did. Everyone except Brady.

“Is it going to stay this time?” He asked me in a hushed tone, eyes shooting back to mom and dad, making sure they didn't hear. His darker hair shook with the movement, catching the low light ever so slightly.

I gulped, feeling that burning shame start to devour me again. “Yes. I-I think so. I’m done with this, Brady. I’m so sorry for everything you went through.”

Those light green eyes took me in, staring at me like he was trying to read my soul. “She can’t handle it again.”

His words felt like a hit to the stomach. “I know. I am so, so sorry for all of it. And I’m sorry for everything you felt you needed to do. I’m sorry for not being a better sister.”

The resolve in his face would haunt me for years. Everything I’ve done to them would.

Brady let out a shuddering breath. “I missed you so much, Val. I just want my sister back.”

Reaching my hand across the table, I grasped his. I would make this up to him. All of them. I would heal myself and make it up to everyone.

“Dinner is ready!” Mom’s voice sounded so much lighter than earlier.

The rest of the family sat at the table, mom bringing the food over.

My mouth watered at the smell. “What did you make?” I asked, fighting the lump in my throat.

She placed the red ceramic dishes in the center of the table, the smell wafting into the air. “I wanted something familiar and comforting.”

I took in the sight of her homemade potato chicken soup. Fresh, steaming bread was next to the bowl. She had made this dish as a comfort food for any of us growing up.

Suddenly all that food I had eaten at the rehab center was a distant memory. All the highs I felt from those drugs meant nothing. This was everything. Family, food, comfort, warmth.

Mom looked to me again, tears mirroring my own eyes. “Everyone dig in.”

With a smile, I began to eat her soup, feeling my heart heal in the process.