Her friend’s pep talk was actually working — Jordan could feel herself bucking up. She managed a tight smile, unusual for her without humor to prompt it. “Thanks, honey.”
“You know who’s got your back, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And once you get your shit together, outside? There’s one more thing you need to do.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
“Bust my ass out of this hellhole,” Kara said.
Jordan laughed, nodded, said, “Gonna happen,” and the two girls bumped knuckles.
That was about as close as Jordan liked to get to touching another human. For these two, that simple gesture was the equivalent of a long embrace between dear friends who hadn’t seen each other for years.
“First off,” Jordan said, “I’ll round up some Dimpna Dust and sprinkle it all over you.”
Kara grinned at that, but sadness was in it.
Dimpna Dust was the mythical magic powder Kara had invented, to sprinkle on the air on those rare occasions when someone got released.
Jordan had gotten her dust — Kara was still waiting for hers.
After walking Kara back to the dayroom, Jordan retreated down the stairs to the ground floor. For the last decade, Jordan had seen only the top floor of the three-story facility. Having the freedom to leave that floor behind was both exhilarating and — as she had admitted to Kara — terrifying. As the stairwell door clicked shut behind her, the real reason for her return to Dimpna’s hit her like a practical joker’s bucket of cold water dumped from overhead.
All she had to do was go to the damned meeting, sit there for an hour, and keep her mouth shut. God knows, she had remained mute for a decade with no real problem. Now, just sitting in a room with people who were, presumably, in the same boat as her scared the living hell out of her.
Why?
She had no idea.
The corridor before her stretched endlessly, doors on either side, and if she just kept going, down to the far end, she could walk right out. No one stopping her. But she couldn’t allow herself that luxury. And it was more than just that she’d promised Dr. Hurst — this was a condition of her release.
Ignore it, and she could be back inside with Kara, not visiting.
Two people, a man and a woman, both middle-aged, came through the door at the far end of the hall and hustled toward her, or at least that’s what it seemed like. She was wondering why the hell they would do that when the pair veered through an open door to her left.
From within the room, she heard the man’s slightly echoing voice say, “Sorry — we didn’t mean to be late.”
Jordan heard Dr. Hurst’s rather loud but friendly reply: “That’s all right — we’re just getting ready to start.”
If group had already begun, it would be rude for her to interrupt. She would just slip by. Maybe next week. That should be fine. She couldn’t avoid the Victims of Violent Crime Support Group meetings forever, but skipping just one meeting couldn’t hurt...
Picking up speed, Jordan sneaked a glance as she reached the closing door. She smiled to herself. She’d ducked the bullet.
Then standing right there, just inside the room, her hand on the knob, was Dr. Hurst, smiling out at her. “Well, Jordan. Hello.”
“Hi.”
“I was hoping you’d make it today. You’re just in time. Come on in, come in.”
Busted.
Forcing a thin smile, Jordan said, “Lost track, visiting Kara. Sorry.”
The doctor’s smile never wavered. “No problem. Come find a chair. How is Kara?”
Don’t you know? You’re her doctor.
“Fine,” Jordan said.
The room was the size of a high-school classroom, but instead of desks, fifteen folding chairs were arranged in a circle.
Across the room, a dozen or so people mingled around a small table with a coffee urn and three plates of cookies. The room had the aroma of coffee mixed with disinfectant and floor wax.
Yum.
“Help yourself,” Dr. Hurst said, pulling the door shut.
“No thanks. Watching the sugar and caffeine.”
“Not a bad plan.” Dr. Hurst moved toward the circle of chairs. Again she spoke loudly. “Okay — shall we get started?”
Slowly, the attendees began taking seats, chairs scraping. Most seemed older than her, but two young women were close to her age. As the group took seats, Jordan managed to snag the only chair with an empty space on either side.
She waited anxiously as the last few stragglers left the coffee table and joined the circle. The last thing she needed was somebody plopping down beside her, bringing along the sort of vapid small talk she so wanted to avoid.
Finally, the man she’d seen rush in sat down across from her, and she let out a little sigh of relief.
“All right,” Dr. Hurst said. “First off, we have a new member today.”
The psychiatrist turned to Jordan with a nod, making her wish for invisibility as all eyes swung her way.
“This is Jordan,” Dr. Hurst said.
Most group members said, “Hi, Jordan,” in a mix of mumbles and confidence and everything in between. What was this, a kindergarten class welcoming a new student? A few just nodded in her direction, and Jordan summoned up a nod for all of them.
“Now,” the doctor said, her expression pleasant yet businesslike, “who would like to start today?”
Jordan sensed the doctor turning to her, the others following that example; but she sat stoically, eyes cast downward, as if the only acquaintance she hoped to meet was the polished tile floor.
As the silence asserted itself, Jordan felt her cheeks flush, yet still could not bring herself to speak. This was in part a remnant of her silent decade, but there was more to it than that. Part of her wanted to talk. But she simply had no idea how to explain why she was here to a roomful of strangers.
Because that would mean acknowledging, even sharing what had happened to her and her family in the only home she had ever known. St. Dimpna’s hadn’t been her home — it was just a stopover, like an airport between flights.
Eyes pressed down on her.
So did her own muteness, a burden she not only endured but embraced. Still, a part of her ached to let it out, all of it. But the promise she had made herself ten years ago was stronger than she was. Giving in, something inside her said, telling these people, means the intruder has finally won.
So she would not tell his story. She would never tell his story. Her pulse slowed as she retreated to that place where she had spent the last ten years. The weight lifted, the silence sheltering now, not oppressive. Her parents’ house had been home. But now, this place within herself — this was home and here she could remain... as safe as in her mother’s womb.
As her eyes came up to meet Dr. Hurst’s, the door flew open and Jordan nearly leapt from her chair into a combat stance.
Everyone had turned from her to the sound, and she too stared at the dark-haired young man in the doorway, about her age, bangs brushing his eyes. Tall, skinny, wearing jeans and a faded Foo Fighters T-shirt, he reminded her slightly of her brother. Of course, Jimmy wouldn’t have been caught dead in the holey Chuck Taylors that the young man wore.
Caught dead...
“Sorry I’m late,” the latecomer said, shutting the door and turning to the group. “Stupid damn car croaked again. Had to get it jumped. Kindness of strangers kinda thing.”
Dr. Hurst said, “That’s all right, Levi. Stuff happens.”
“Doc, stuff doesn’t happen. Shit happens.”