“Then the house will be really hot or cold,” Dr. Rush answers with a smile, as though his own comfort, and that of the rest of the staff, is so much less important than mine. I should be used to that sort of thing—certainly, Anne and Dad are—but it makes me queasy.
“So tell me, Edward,” Dr. Rush says as the tour concludes in the bedroom. (Frette sheets, he points out. Hastens mattress.) He wears thick-rimmed tortoise-shell glasses with square frames, a white button-down tucked into gray slacks, a sweater vest on top. He looks more like a professor in a movie about some ivy-draped college than a therapist. “What can we do to make your stay more comfortable?”
I almost laugh out loud. I haven’t beencomfortablein months.
“Nothing. This is excellent.” I smile politely. My back teeth ache.
“I’m so glad. Our goal is to make our guests happy.”
Guests.I’m not a guest. I’m a prisoner sent away for my crimes, and Dr. Rush knows it.
Briefly, I wonder why the tiny girl I rode in with—woman, Anne would correct—is here. Heroin, maybe. Would explain why she’s so skinny. Or perhaps depression zapped her appetite; with a name likeBlue, she’s practically predestined for a mood disorder.
“I’m afraid I must ask: Did you bring any drugs, medication, or alcohol with you?”
“To rehab?” I ask, playing dumb. This is all so civilized. No stomach pumped, no pockets frisked. I wonder if they strip search the guests who aren’t members of the landed aristocracy. “Wouldn’t that kind of defeat the point?”
At my joke, Dr. Rush smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Your prescriptions were sent to the local pharmacy,” he assures me. “So there will be no interruption in your pain management.”
I clench my jaw. If there’s a more absurd phrase in the English language thanpain management, I’ve never heard it. As though pain is something to be controlled but not avoided, an unruly child that needs to be taken in hand. Permitted to behere, but notthere. Playtime fromthishour untilthathour. Maybe if the people in charge of managing pain had actual experience with it, they’d see things differently.
“According to the notes your care team back home sent, you don’t need your next pill until morning, yes?”
Fuck off, Doctor,I think.You have no idea what I need.
“Yes,” I agree, ever polite.
“Then I’ll give it to you with your breakfast.” He slides his hands into his pockets, and I wonder if my pill bottles are rattling around with his keys.
In London, it’s the middle of the night. I yawn widely.
“Excuse me,” I murmur apologetically. “Jet lag.”
“You’ve had a long day,” Dr. Rush offers. “I’ll let you sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
“Downstairs?” I echo. The bedroom, living room, and kitchen are on the same floor; I limped up wide wooden steps to the front door.
“Of course,” he explains. “Here at Rush’s Recovery, you’ll never be alone. During your stay, I’m available to you twenty-four seven.”
He says it like it’s a service to me, though of course it’s a service to my sister and father. They don’t want me left unsupervised.
“Good night, Edward.” Dr. Rush slides the enormous barn door to the bedroom closed behind him. I’m surprised he doesn’t lock it and pocket the key.
Four weeks. That’s how long Anne said I had to stay. Actually she said,At least four weeks. After that, we’ll see,which is code forBehave yourself for four weeks and you can go home. Act up, and we’ll add time to your sentence.
I limp across the room and rest my forehead against the cold floor-to-ceiling window. It’s too dark to see the ocean now, but I can hear the waves crashing against the sand below.
When I was ten years old, I broke my thumb playing rugby. At thirteen, a cricket bat to the face made my nose explode with blood. At fifteen, I broke my arm when I fell off the roof of our estate in Scotland. If someone had asked, before last year, I’d have said I had plenty of experience with pain.
I would have been wrong.
I keep one hand on the glass to steady me as I bend down, sticking my fingers into the space between my sock and my boot. I suppose it’s not the most creative hiding place, but it’s proven itself effective.
I pop a pill in my mouth, swallow it dry, and wait for the sweet click; not oblivion but distance, as though my body were happening to someone else.
Pain is my real punishment. This place will end, eventually.
