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Amelie’s mother flew her back home to Texas where she had agreed to spend thirty days in an inpatient mental health program. Thirty days that quickly turned into sixty, and then into ninety. The inpatient facility felt more like a hospital than anything, and to say that Amelie despised being there would be an understatement. Her days were spent going from therapy to group therapy and back to her room again. Every day was the same, and they blended together until she found that she had to check the calendar on her therapist’s desk in order to know which it was at all.
Sunday’s were her favorite because Sunday was visiting day, and that was when her mother would come to see her. Amelie looked forward to those visits more than anything else. One cannot know how it feels to be cut off from the outside world, from everything you know, until suddenly you are. Nothing is familiar, and everything is empty. Mostly, though, she looked forward to her mother’s visits, because that was when she would receive her mail. Her mother brought her letters sent from friends back at school in France and as well as from her grandparents. But it was always the letter that didn’t come that she’d looked forward to most. As the weeks passed, and no word came from Jack, Amelie’s mood grew darker and darker. She knew she really couldn’t blame him though—after all, the last words she’d spoken to him were to tell him that she didn’t feel the same way about him as he did her. She also knew he was probably angry about her leaving the way she did. Aside from all of that, she realized she had put him through a lot. Her letter had probably been too little, too late. In the following weeks, Amelie wrote two more letters, which her mother promised to send. After six weeks had passed with no response, she along with her therapist decided that it was probably in her best interest to let it go. They decided, in the interest of her recovery and release from the program, it was imperative she make progress. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy for her to move forward as they’d all hoped— which is how thirty days ended up turning into ninety.
On day one, Amelie refused to take any form of medication, so it was given to her via injection, against her will. As time went on though, she learned to play the game. She observed that there was a system and that her only job was not to upset it. Once she learned to blend in, life there became more tolerable. Someday, she would upset the system, she told herself, but that day would not be today. Defiance had a time and place, she knew. Her one and only purpose at the time was to get out of there. By day fifteen, her medication had been transferred to pill form. Pills, which the nurses administered, watched her swallow and checked her mouth for afterward. It took her until day forty-two to master the art of the “hide and spit.” This worked by using her tongue to push the pills up between her top teeth and cheek. She hid them there and then flushed them as soon as she was able. On the days when it didn’t work, she forced herself to vomit the pills back up as soon as she could get to a restroom. It wasn’t just that she hated the medication and the way it made her feel. Amelie knew she wasn’t ‘sick.’ She refused to believe the diagnosis or the labels that she was given.
Around day sixty or so, the funk began to subside a little, and she found herself passing the days by getting to know her fellow ‘inmates’ as she liked to call them. She took photographs and wrote Jack letters she knew she would never send. And although she had gotten past thinking anything would ever be different between them—he was still the reason behind everything she did. She made him her reason for getting better. Her reason for getting out of there.
On day ninety, Amelie was cleared for release having exceeded every expectation her team of therapists had for her. She had managed to not only win over the physicians, but most her fellow patients, as well—serving as a mentor, a friend, and much later, a voice for those who often had none.
FIFTEEN
Amelie tossed and turned in her sleep. She thrashed about entangling herself in her covers before finally waking with a start, cold sweat pooled around her. Panicked, she shot up and rubbed at her eyes, and in a quick attempt to discern her surroundings, she began patting at whatever was within reach. Finally realizing where she was, which was back at home in her own bed, she slowly caught her breath, laid back down and tried to recall her dream and just what it was that had caused her heart to race, her head to swim.
“Tell me about your father,” the male voice demanded.
The voice sounded an awful lot like her dad, only angrier, Amelie considered.
“What do you want to know?” she asked anxiously.
In the dream, she’d been back in the hospital lying on the couch in a doctor’s office that resembled the room where she spent her days in therapy—only it wasn’t.
“What was he like?” the voice insisted.
She raised her hand to speak only to find that she couldn’t. Her arms were tied down. She struggled to get free.
“I’m waiting,” the voice persisted.
“Take these off!” she pleaded as she inspected her wrists. “And I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know.”
The booming voice laughed. “I’m afraid that’s not how this sort of thing works, my darling.”
Something, or more specifically, someone began stroking her head then, smoothing her hair. She’d attempted to shift upward in the direction of the voice in order to get a look at who might be touching her, but her head was too heavy for her to move. She swallowed back her fear and spoke quietly. “My father died. In a car accident. When I was seven.”
The man’s voice was rough when he spoke. “Ok. Tell me about him.”
“I don’t remember. Now, please take these off! I haven’t done anything…
I don’t understand why I’m being restrained.” Amelie cried.
“Surely you can recall something…” She felt the hand move down the side of her face and slide toward her shoulder. She did her best to move away, scooting a little, only it seemed there was nowhere to go. Her vision, and more importantly, her head felt too foggy to really give an escape much effort.
The hand moved further downward. “How does this feel?” the voice purred.
“STOP!” she screamed. “I don’t like it!”
“My darling, don’t you see? We’re playing a little game here. The sooner you tell me what you remember, the sooner our session will be over.”
Amelie spoke hurriedly. “He left for work one day… on a trip… he had a trip… and he never came back.”
“Ok. What else?”
She thought hard, trying to recall something, anything that might make the voice happy. She hated the man with the booming voice, but she knew, despite the fog clouding her thoughts, that she had to get out of this room. “He… he used to tuck me in at night. I… I was the apple of his eye. His everything. That’s what he used to tell me. He’d read me his poetry every night before bedtime… I think… whatever it was he was working on at the time. He told me about his travels. About where they were sending him next. I remember that whoever ‘they’ were… I knew I didn’t like them because they kept sending him away.”
“Go on,” the man urged.
“When he was home, I was happy. My mom was nicer. Every night was the same. He would read to me, and then he’d kiss my forehead and whisper my name. Amelie Rose, he’d say, and then he would smile. I remember that I have his smile. He’d say that my name was his greatest poetry. That I was the best thing he had ever done. That my heart was made of his and that it was better than gold.”
“Anything else…”
