Two seats in first class. Not bad for a working-class Jewish girl who didn’t set foot on a plane until she ran away from home at eighteen. I paid for the ticket with money from Mom’s sock drawer. She never acknowledged the fact that I left a note promising to give it back, with interest. Back then, I flew coach.
The lyricism of Joni Mitchell paired with the barbaric yawp of the Sex Pistols.
That’s from theStone’s review of our second album.
Anyhow, the point is, plenty of stars get shipped off for talk therapy and group therapy and arts therapy and even electroshock therapy.
Callie said this wasn’t that kind of place. But Callie doesn’t know that these places are all the same.
These places have given me dozens of labels over the years: alcoholic, addict, borderline, narcissist, bipolar, postpartum.
I put enormous black sunglasses on before exiting the plane. Callie chose the red-eye, thinking a 6:00 a.m. arrival might protect me from thepress, and she was right. The only person waiting for me at baggage claim is a man in a suit who recognizes me on sight.
There was a time when the paps would’ve woken up with dawn to catch a glimpse of me.
“Ms. Bloom?” I can’t remember the last time anyone called me that—so polite, so professional. “I’ll be escorting you to Rush’s Recovery.”
He says it like it’s the name of a five-star hotel, not a mental-health facility. I keep my sunglasses on as he leads the way to the parking lot. He takes my phone from my hand before helping me into the car, then pockets it like he thinks I’m not going to notice that he didn’t give it back.
What the fuck? Callie said I’d be able to keep my phone.
The car is a shiny black Range Rover with windows tinted so dark that I wonder how the driver can see through them. I didn’t even know what a Range Rover was when I was a kid. Like, I’d literally never heard of that kind of car.
I don’t ask the driver his name. I’m not being rude; it’s just that I never know how to act in situations like this. Would it be weird to introduce myself? People who were born with money are probably also born knowing these kinds of things. But no one teaches you the etiquette when you make your own way in the world.
There’s bottled water in the back seat, and that’s inglassbottles, not plastic. Swiss chocolate in a pretty little box tied with a bow and the nameless driver explaining that of course it’s nut-free, like that’s supposed to make me feel safe and sound, well taken care of—pampered instead of put away.
I look out the dim back window as we drive east, watching the sunrise, pretty even over the streets of Queens in the dead of winter. It’s so cold here that the bare branches on the trees lining the roadway are covered in ice.
When Callie told me this place was in the Hamptons, she’d widened her eyes like she thought she could trick me into believing this was all so glamorous. Even I know that no one who’s anyone goes to the Hamptons in fuckingJanuary.
The first time I ran away—money from Mom’s sock drawer, a guitar, and a seat in coach—I wanted to be found.Discovered, like I was a newworld and everyone else was an explorer who didn’t know they were looking for me yet, like Columbus discovering America even though he was looking for India.
It’s been years since all those explorers mined my silver and gold, leaving me spent and hollow. Now, I’m running to Shelter Island to hide.
Do they think I’m seeking shelter or that they’re sheltering the rest of the world from me?
4Florence
Pretty soon I get carsick from the winding roads, followed by a bumpy ferry ride, followed by even more winding roads. The streets here are narrow and crowded with trees, their bare branches touching overhead. I don’t know how many turns we’ve made since we got off the ferry. I think about Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail of crumbs in the forest so they could find their way home.
I lean my head against the cool glass window. Half the houses we pass are fancy mansions behind gates and long driveways, the other half clapboard ranches in various degrees of disrepair, so that one yard after another starts looking like a mismatched set of teeth: one large, one small, one jagged and cracked.
Gentrification,my kid would say, smart like that.
“You’re not supposed to take my phone,” I say to the driver finally. That’s what Callie said.It’s not that kind of place.
“Don’t worry,” the driver assures me. “You can discuss everything with your care manager.”
Care manager?Not therapist, or doctor, or counselor? The wordmanagermakes it sound like this is some kind of business deal.
I check the time on the Range Rover’s console; it’s just after 9:00 a.m. The driver makes a sharp right turn, and I gasp because I think we’re about to run headlong into a wrought iron gate, but it swings open at the last second. Motion sensors, I guess, or maybe there’s some hidden person controlling who gets in and out. The driveway is so long that it seems to go on forever, surrounded by bare hedges that look less like topiaries than twisted chains. I try to roll down my window, but apparently the driver controls it, not me.
The car bounces as the road shifts from asphalt to gravel. In the murky morning light, I make out a series of square-shaped buildings with sharp edges, the sort of modern architecture you’d expect in Malibu. The driver stops in front of one of the glass boxes. A bright white dusting of snow frames the building so perfectly it’s like someone swept it into place with a broom. (Maybe someone did.) I have to wait for the driver to let me out—like the windows, the doors are set with a child lock, trapping me in the back seat. If the car caught fire, would the driver remember to release the locks before jumping out? There’s a reason those locks were designed for parents—only a parent would stop to free their child before saving themselves.
A woman walks out the front door and down a set of broad, shallow steps to the driveway. She’s wearing black wide-leg pants and a crisp white blouse; the only nod to the fact that it’s wintertime is a camel-colored scarf wrapped around her neck. Her ice-blond hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail with a few pieces pulled out artfully around her pale white face, and she wants you to believe she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, but I can tell that she’s got on foundation and blush. She isn’t wearing any rings, no necklace. Tiny little diamond studs in her ears. I don’t have to wonder whether they’re real.
“Good morning, Florence.” She says my name like we’re old friends. “I’m Dr. Evelyn—”
