The List
Copyright © 2011 G L Mackin
Smashwords Edition
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Published 6 June, 2011 by Sasquatch Publications at Smashwords
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characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Today we write lists. If there is anything I hate more than myself, it’s writing lists.
The blank page rests upon my constantly bouncing leg, awaiting my instruction.
'Alright now, I know everyone hates doing this but I need to know what you are feeling. This is an exercise I'm sure a lot of you are familiar with but if you can try your best it would be really helpful.’ Zara hands the last of the paper out and sits at the top of our circle, resting her pleading voice.
I glance up and see her sitting perfectly poised on a second-hand foldaway chair, ready for objections and excuses. I have no idea how she can stand any of us; something tells me this was not her life plan.
I look around the group; we look like God’s rejects, in limbo. I have no idea what is expected of me nor do I know what I expect of myself, all I know is I hate it here. Looking around the room I can’t forgive the decorator and their bland sense of style; magnolia walls and self help posters, foldaway chairs and dim lighting - this is hardly an inspiring room. This is rehab.
There is nothing more humiliating than sitting in a circle like at nursery school, writing the top five things you hate and top five things you love - it’s ridiculous. I glance around the room; I focus on Mia, a large woman in her late fifties who is always keen to talk about herself and her 'problems', all the while eating the free cake. Picking up my pen I write Mia. Seconds later I cross it out and write cake, for it’s true: I will never look at cake the same way again – it’s etched on my brain as being Mia, the woman that was so drunk she knocked over her child in her driveway. Looking at everyone frantically writing I wonder what I’m missing, why can’t I think of five things! I pick at the scab on my arm, restless, I feel time is running out before Zara picks on us to read our lists. Bubble wrap. It will do. I stare triumphantly at the page. I have made a start.
'Okay, I think that’s enough time. Well done everyone.’ Zara stands up and gives a beauty queen smile, insincere to the point of nausea. Something tells me she would not be saying “well done” if she saw my one and only word, ‘bubble wrap’ nestled on the top of my page.
'Gerald, do you feel you’re ready to do some sharing?' Zara glances over at Gerald, a poor excuse for a man. Gerald stands a little over six foot and is possibly the hairiest man I have ever seen. Imagine a sasquatch. Hair grows over his hands and arms, and flows like a horse’s mane half way down his back. Gerald is a sharer - he loves talking about himself no matter how painful it might be to hear for everyone else. Unfortunately, his story is nothing new; everyone here has a story that for those who have never been to rehab or a ‘meeting’ before, will be shocked at and will mull over for days. For the rest of us who are veterans of rehab or are court appointed, we are immune, like gutter rats attracted to each other and the filth that surrounds us.
‘Vicodin, Vodka, Heroin, E, and the rest of the poisons out there!' Gerald looks around the room awaiting his applause, we all give a half hearted clap. You see Gerald is nothing special, he’s an addict, addicted to drugs and alcohol and is currently here fresh from jail on probation awaiting a better life. He wears a 'Jesus is coming, look busy' t-shirt. This is his fifth rehab. Zara on the other hand is an upper class counsellor who wears Laura Ashley inspired prints which would be more suited to a tea dance or a country picnic than a rehabilitation meeting. She is a soft touch, believes everything we say and she believes we will change or want to change.
'Chocolate, Ice cream, Sunny days, Jesus and my kids', Gerald gets a few admiring glances from the women. I roll my eyes so far back I'm almost choking on them. I hate rehabilitation and Gerald, I now have three things on my list. Gerald is the kind of guy that steals from his kids to buy drugs and then parks in a church parking lot to shoot up, king of rats.
'April... do you want to go?' Zara shoots her ‘rabbit-in-the-headlights’ eyes my way. I quickly scribble down loaded questions. That’s four things. I shake my head.
'April?' she leans forward and patronises me some more, 'we haven’t heard from you in a while.’
I push the seat back, it scrapes along the floor and I gain satisfaction from watching some tense with the noise. Can I add that to my list? No, better leave it.
I have always hated public speaking, ever since David Whittle used to fling the trappings of his nose at me in School when I was standing at the top of the class giving my book report. I wouldn’t put it past any of this lot not to do the same. I stand over them, leaning on my crutch. Mia is silently stuffing another piece in her mouth, Gerald is most likely thinking about his next score and the rest of them are all thinking the same as me, when do we leave? When are we better? When are we fixed?
'Bubble wrap, Rehab….' I pause, shall I say Gerald? Mia? Everyone? Should I really say what I want to say or should I just play the game like the rest of them? I settle on the latter. 'Toasters, soft toys, and coffee machines', for some reason making it up on the spot shows how poor I am at improvising so instead I revert to The Generation Game’s list of prizes. The things I like:
'Washing machines, jet skis, holiday to Salou, clocks, DVDs.’ I sit down and look at their faces. Zara has a frown stretched so long on her face she looks as though she is melting, she knows I was making it up. Gerald is shaking his head in pity I assume at my inability to lie and glancing at Zara again I notice she is writing furiously across the page.
‘I think we will give this exercise a rest for the time being and get some refreshments, does that sound good?' Zara places the offending notebook down and stands to attention; my peripheral vision spots Mia heading to the buffet like a squirrel storing nuts for winter. A few glances catch my eye, it seems I am to blame for the break, and the natives are restless.
Leaning on my crutch I decide to take a leaf out of Mia’s book and head for the buffet. Maybe I should eat something, I can’t even remember the last time I felt hungry. In fact when I think of it, I can’t remember the last time I had a meal or the last time I saw myself, or the last time I heard laughter or saw my family. At that moment like a bolt of lightning it hits me, I really am here, this really is my life, I am real, this is real. Mia, Zara, Gerald and Henry (the man whose drink comes out through his nose), they are all real; we are the same, broken.
'Penny for them?' Scott the counsellor comes over in his louder than loud tropical shirt and breaks my morbid thought in an attempt to prise information from me. He should know better.
'I'm fine,' I say, moving past Scott, his hand touches my shoulder. Human contact. I don’t even remember the last time I was touched.
'April, no one here is fine, talk to me.' Scott's face crumples like a puppet from Sesame Street.
‘You need to talk it through.’ I continue to walk on ignoring his useless pleas; I turn around and see he has already moved on to the next target, Steve.
It’s funny when you read about rehab, you imagine a slightly glamorous affair, I mean why wouldn’t you? Celebrities seem quite happy and overly keen to check themselves in, day in, day out. I remember when my counsellor drove me here he told me a star from a well loved television show had recently been admitted. This turned out to be completely false; the closest I ever got to seeing a celebrity was the woman with multiple personality disorder, who managed to play quite a convincing Liza Minnelli.
‘Quite an interesting list' Zara takes a seat next to me; I turn my head away, playing the child who doesn’t want to play. ‘You’ve been here for quite some time now, and all we ever get from you April is attitude and disobedience, do you think that’s good enough? Don’t you think we’ve passed that stage?' In all honesty, I didn’t think we had passed that stage, not by a long shot. ‘Is this the life your family would have wanted for you?' Again, I feel that familiar pull, tension rises in my neck, my leg starts to dance, I look to see who is listening to our conversation, but it appears they are all busy.
'April, I don’t want to push you, but the time has come that you may have to get care from another facility, a place that understands your needs better, that can give you more one on one time, what do you think?', Zara is clearly not going away; this is not the first time it has been suggested that I should maybe go into a care facility - only to share a room with people that build the set from M*A*S*H in their back garden.
'I'm not moving,’ I say defiantly. Zara looks at me; I catch a sense of uneasiness in her stare. I know what she's thinking - she thinks I'm beyond help, I'll show her. I push back my chair, it scrapes on the vinyl for the second time today. I lean on my crutch holding my balance.
'My name is April Geddes, I am a murderer, my family is dead and I killed them.’ I see the looks of surprise on the group’s faces; Scott has lost his helpful face only to look at me with confusion and wonder, Mia has even lost the will to eat. The room is silent. 'I drove the car that killed my family' my voice wavers slightly, I am not ready to tell, 'I was drink driving' I pause, collecting my thoughts, 'I lost control of the car, it skidded and fell off the embankment.’ I steady myself on my crutch; they are all staring willing me to go on. 'The car burst into flames, I managed to crawl to safety. No one else did', a few gasps fill the room. 'My leg had to be amputated, and I wear a prosthetic.’ I lift my trouser leg to show them what insurance can buy you. 'The burns on my face are a reminder of my actions.’ I notice I am shaking, and sit down as quickly as possible. I look up to see horrified expressions and awkward glances, Zara stands up and glides across the room to the telephone.
‘Hi, this is Zara Morris….... yes........ I see..... urgently. Thank you.' Zara replaces the receiver and grabs Scott, they both come towards me.
‘April, I need you to come with us now, okay?' Scott lightly touches my arm, I attempt to pull away but like an anaconda his grip tightens. Zara grabs her bag, an ugly brown leather shoulder bag. I try again to free myself. Zara's bag falls on the floor and that’s when I see it, the small personal make up mirror pointing up towards my face. My face is clear, no burns, no marks, just me.