“Brownies.” She points at me. Rude. “You won’t regret it.” Another fake smile spreads across her face. “Group dish starts in T-minus thirty minutes.” She holds up her phone and shows me the time. “Bring your journal. Schedule is on the bulletin board in the hall. Familiarize yourself with it. You’ll get a copy in your packet during our one-on-one this afternoon.” She pockets her phone and begins jogging in place, salutes, then she’s gone.
Dish? One-on-one? Am I on an episode of reality TV? The carefree terms don’t fool me. I know all about group therapy and private counseling sessions.
This is going to be a long afternoon.
It takes me five minutes to run a brush through my hair, throw on some modest makeup, and head out the door. I’ll bet brownies are code for pills or something. This Mary person probably administers medication.
I’m halfway down the stairs when—shoot—I realize I forgot the journal. I ignore the urge to return for it. What’s the big deal? Jake may think I’ll have some thoughts to write down, some precious gems to take away from a most enlightening encounter with my depressed and suicidal peers. She needs a reality check.
I don’t need a notebook when I have nothing worth saying. Not anymore. To write words that matter, you need something I don’t have. Not even Jake with her tough-chick tattoos or that Hope girl with her fake friendship is going to find what’s not there.
They can try, but one day with me and they’ll see.
Nothing there. Nothing left. Nothing to lose.
All the group therapy in the world—excuse me, dishes—eye roll—can’t bring a person back from nothing.
When I’m alone in the kitchen, all I can think is that this is super weird and not at all what I expected, which makes me even more suspicious than I was before.
Hello, Sunshine. Did you get those curtains from Target? Because they sure are looking rather Joanna Gaines–approved if you ask me.
I take two steps into the space where Betty Crocker was clearly born and bred. Clean but cozy, with appliances on every surface and a trio of old milk-jug tins holding every spatula and wooden spoon the Pioneer Woman ever made. There are, however, no knives. Surprised? I’m not.
“Anyone here?”
No one answers.
I scoot closer to the kitchen island, eye the cake stand displaying a mountain of brownies beneath a glass dome. It calls to me from its place at the center of the granite countertop. No lineup of pills in medicine cups the way you see in movies. No person in scrubs distributing doses or making notes on a clipboard, watching, waiting for you to swallow and checking under your tongue. Just the brownies and the dull scent of something sweet and fruity wafting from a wax warmer by the window.
Weird.
I make a move to retreat when someone brushes past me. Her nearness makes me flinch, but the light touch isn’t enough to warrant going into panic mode.
“Sorry, hon, had to feed the dogs.” A tiny woman shorter than I am scurries into the kitchen, washes her hands, then dries them on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. In one move she swoops her waist-length blond hair into a knot atop her head. Next she ties a half apron over her faded ripped jeans. She’s barefoot. The absolute definition of a hot mess. But there’s still something so . . . together about her. As if the mess is on purpose and she’d rather keep it that way, thank-you-very-much.
A tattoo below the inside of her wrist says one word that seems to encompass her entire persona.
breathe.
Though the word isn’t capitalized and bears a period at the end, it seems profound—once again, a mess on purpose. I open my mouth to ask her about it.
But then she beams at me and I freeze. I’m inclined to resume my backward pace but remember Jake’s insistence that I try a brownie. I’m not sure what will happen if I don’t. And better a brownie than another gross tuna salad sandwich.
So I opt for a lighter, easier topic. One that won’t involve getting to know this woman who will control my food intake for the next however many days.
She mentioned dogs, right? I’ve never had a dog. Still, the question is easy. Small-talkish and surfacey. “What kinds of dogs do you have here?”
Hot Mess brushes a stray hair from her eyes with the back of her wrist and sets to removing bowls and pans from the cupboards, then proceeds to gather ingredients from the walk-in pantry.
“Goldendoodles, of course,” she calls over her shoulder, arms full of baking supplies. “Is there any other kind?” She laughs at her own joke as she takes a carton of eggs from the fridge. Before she closes the door she asks, “Do you want milk with your brownie?” assuming I was planning on having one.
I stare at her far too long for this to be considered an awkward silence. But she just smiles, as if this quiet between us is the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you have almond milk?” The ten bucks Jake bet says they don’t. Because that would be a special request.
“Coming right up.” She reaches so deep into the massive fridge, the image is somewhat laughable. Stretching on her toes to rearrange containers and bottles, jugs and cartons, she looks more like a little kid than the person in charge of the menu.
“Mary?” The name Jake mentioned surfaces. “Your brownies are double-fudge.”
“Yes, they are!” After pulling out a carton of vanilla almond milk—not the off-brand either—she grabs me a glass and fills it halfway. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe.” She pulls the cake stand to the edge of the counter, removes the dome, and sets the biggest brownie on a napkin.
“Oh.” A glance toward the clock with coffee cups for numbers and spoons in place of hands tells me I’m going to be late. Not that I care about Jake’s schedule, but I also don’t want to be the last person to arrive. New introverted girl plus awkward grand entrance do not mix. “Can I take this to-go?”
“Of course!” Mary sets the glass and brownie directly in front of me. “And when you fall head over heels for the chocolaty goodness, which you totally will, FYI, you can come back and get another during downtime.”
I wait for her to say more. To tell me it’s time for my medication. For there to be some kind of hook to her happily-ever-brownie story. But she resumes her hustle and bustle, then asks a little speaker at one corner of the counter to play the ultimate boy band playlist. The speaker responds with the phoniest love song ever. The singer is a guy, apologizing for breaking some girl’s heart.
Classy.
I say nothing as I maneuver around the extra-long dining table and through the rest of the lower floor. Voices carry from a room down the hall. I shove a bite of brownie in my mouth, wishing it didn’t taste so bland, and shuffle toward the noise. A giant sliding barn door waits to be moved. I steal a breath, swallow my bite, and slide the barrier aside.
Ten other girls ranging from Hope’s age to mine chatter within. Three near the overstuffed bookcase, two on the cushioned window bench, and the remainder spaced across two sectional couches. Lamps on several surfaces emit warm light while a glass pitcher of cucumber water calls my name.
Where’s the circle of cold metal chairs? What happened to anxious and stoic expressions? Don’t these girls know this “dish” will be jotted and recorded, and whatever they say can and will be used against them in the court of their assigned therapist? How long did it take for Jake to brainwash them into thinking therapy helps and heals?
And how long before she tries to do the same to me?