Girl Walks Out of a Bar by Lisa F. Smith Read Free Book Online

But tough? It must have been Vivian’s way of psyching me up for what was going to happen the next morning.
    â€œI’m not going to be staying. I already submitted my request to leave. As soon as I see the psychiatrist tomorrow, I’m going.”
    As she pumped the little rubber bulb, I hoped that my hysteria and anxiety had catapulted my blood pressure to a level that would get me transferred to the cardiac unit at Lenox Hill. There I could relax, safe among bankers, lawyers, and other overachievers who had worked their way into a cardiac vacation. It didn’t happen.
    She unwrapped the band from my arm, looped the thick, black cord around it, and raised her eyebrows. “Right,” she said. “You should think about staying.” Then she rolled her machine out of the room.
    I sat on the bed looking around and feeling twitchy. Trembling and sweating, I badly needed a stiff drink and a cigarette. I pulled the stuffed tiger out of my bag and slid under the crappy sheet and blanket. The light stayed on and my eyes sat wide open until they finally dropped shut from exhaustion.

    It was unclear when morning arrived because no sunlight streamed through the wire-covered window. When the morning nurse, Jane, stormed into my room, she barked, “Eight o’clock! Everybody up for breakfast right now . Time to eat!” Her urgency seemed unnecessary. It wasn’t as if anyone here had to rush off to work.
    As I lifted my head from the pillow, a more intense, disorienting sickness than I had ever felt came over me. It was as if I had been taken to the rooftop of a skyscraper, turned upside down, and shaken by my feet. I would have sworn that I was throbbing from my bones outward. My head felt split, my palms were thick with sweat, and my gut convulsed as if I were vomiting again.
    Remembering that there was no wine next to me to slug and calm everything down, I tried to sit up anyway. It was a bad idea. Oh, shit, I thought. This is withdrawal.
    I slid back down and closed my eyes. The morning routine was underway and I could hear people scurrying around. Maybe it was finally safe to get some sleep. I pulled the sheet over my head.
    â€œCome on, Lisa. Rise and shine. Time to eat breakfast!” Jane said.
    â€œYou know what?” I said, working hard to form the words. “I really didn’t sleep last night and I’m not hungry. I think I’m just going to stay in bed until the psychiatrist comes to see me.” Facing the wall, I curled up into the fetal position.
    â€œNo, Lisa. Time to get up. Everybody has to get up and eat breakfast. That means you, too. Let’s go.” She wasn’t kidding, and she wasn’t leaving. Fuck. I managed to pull myself back up and lower my feet to the floor. There was a good chance I’dthrow up, so I dropped my head between my knees. My hair swept the floor. Jane stood silently next to the sink.
    â€œOK, OK,” I muttered. I bent into a crouch and then stood up slowly. Jane stepped aside as I approached the sink. I brushed my teeth with my right hand and gripped the sink with my left. At that point, washing my face or changing my clothes seemed as feasible as mountain climbing, so I just slipped my feet into my sneakers, still holding the sink. Then I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and looked dully at Jane. She chirped, “Let’s go!”
    As I followed her down the hall, I realized that I was about to eat breakfast in a room full of mental patients. My eyes didn’t focus well, and it felt as if there were little needles behind them trying to poke their way out. Every inch of me ached. Maybe I could eat in my room? I knew the answer.
    When we arrived for breakfast, the other patients were already seated and eating. About twenty faces looked up at me, as if to say, “What’s with the white girl?” Jane hustled me to a free seat at one of the round tables. There were mumbles mixing in with the sporadic