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

moaning and shrieking around the room. The patients’ ages appeared to range from young adult to very old. It definitely smelled better here than in detox and people seemed to be clean and groomed. I was thankful the three other patients at my table were more interested in their eggs than in me.
    A tall metal cart with rows of plastic trays was wheeled into the dining area with each tray labeled for an individual patient. I wasn’t sure if this reflected dietary concerns or just quality of insurance coverage. It couldn’t have been the latter because my insurance was great and my breakfast sucked.
    My plate featured a pile of gray, soggy eggs that at best had been reconstituted from some sort of powder and at worstwere real but weeks old. Pass. Orange juice sounded like a good idea because that’s what normal people drink in the morning and my mouth felt like it was wrapped in sandpaper. I peeled back the tin foil on the top of the squat, clear plastic container and took a gulp. It could have used some vodka. Vodka. How wonderful it would be right now to be standing naked in front of my freezer drinking vodka out of the bottle! I shuddered as if someone were holding that frosty bottle against the back of my neck. I would have paid just about anything for that vodka.
    As I picked at the top of a mini blueberry muffin, I watched the nurses trying to cajole other patients who weren’t even pretending to eat. These patients found more compelling uses for cooked eggs, like finger painting and having conversations with them.
    Before long, Jane came looking for me. I wasn’t hard to spot. “Lisa, Dr. Landry is ready to see you. First we need to look at you,” she said.
    Happy to have mealtime cut short, I followed her into a small room off the dining area, where she took my blood pressure, temperature, and weight. This once-over seemed meant to confirm that I was the same person who had been left in the room the night before.
    Reviewing my file, Jane asked, “Why didn’t you give blood or take medicine last night? Don’t you want to get better?” Was this the conclusion she drew just because I didn’t want to risk physical assault on the detox floor? I felt too sick to talk about it, so I shrugged, grateful to be allowed to return to my room and collapse onto the cot.
    A short while later, the doctor appeared. He looked just like an uptown psychiatrist, from his carefully trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and beard to his corduroy pants and sensible, brown walking shoes. “Hi Lisa, I’m Dr. Landry.” He was lookingat papers in a manila folder, presumably my file. “I understand there was quite a commotion here last night,” he said, taking off his glasses as he finally looked at me.
    I tried to sit up, but my head felt like a bowling ball on a lollipop stick neck. Get up, I told myself. Get up or he won’t let you out of here. He’s the only one who can.
    I grabbed the side of the metal cot, the heel of my hand digging into the thin mattress. I pushed up from there, and my body slouched into a letter “C.” “Yes, I need to be discharged right away,” I said, my voice cracking.
    He sat on the wooden chair at the end of my bed. “Mmm. Your file says you checked yourself in last night on a 72-hour psych hold on account of alcohol abuse. Is that correct?”
    â€œYes. But I made a mistake. I want to leave.” My voice sounded so small. He didn’t respond and continued to flip the papers. “Did they tell you about that man threatening to fuck me up on the detox floor?” I asked.
    â€œThey did,” he said. “Let’s talk a little about your drinking. Signing yourself into a locked down detox is pretty serious business. I find it hard to believe you would do that if you don’t need help.” I was quiet. “How much do you drink? How often?”
    I had to lie or he wouldn’t let me out. With a shaking