Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 110492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
It will be all right, she told herself firmly. Everything is going to be all right.
But honestly, she didn’t see how.
Three
There was more group therapy, then supper—dry meatloaf, gluey mashed potatoes that were obviously instant, limp green beans, and lumpy brown gravy—then an hour of free time. You could journal—which was highly encouraged—read, watch TV in the Patient Lounge, or just take a nap in your room.
It was also one of the few times you were allowed to use the phone.
“Back again, Ms. Morrison?” The head nurse raised her eyebrows as Torri approached the small plastic window at the nurse’s station where meds were dispensed morning and evening. It was also where you asked to use the phone.
“Here I am.” Torri spread her hands. “May I use the phone, please?” she asked politely, ignoring the snickering she could hear coming from the other side of the wall.
“Same number?” the nurse asked blandly, pushing the old-fashioned phone receiver with its long, curly cord through the window to Torri.
“Yes, please.” Torri nodded and heard more giggles.
Her constant attempts to get Chuck on the phone had become something of a joke among the staff but she refused to let them bother her—refused to get upset. Because getting upset made everyone think you were “having an episode”—getting upset made you look crazy.
I am NOT crazy, she told herself. Don’t let the bastards wear you down—keep fighting, Torri!
Despite her feelings of despair and wondering if she would ever get out of here, she tried to keep up the positive self-talk. It helped—sometimes.
The old-fashioned receiver was black plastic. It was heavy and cold against her ear as she listened to it ringing Chuck’s office. Finally, a familiar voice picked up.
“Hello, Director Morrison’s office, how can I assist you?” It was Amanda—Torri could just picture the slender blonde receptionist sitting at her desk on the other end of the phone. Her sleek blonde hair would be perfectly in place and her manicure—which she spent most of the day working on—would be beautiful. Her makeup would be just right.
I haven’t worn make-up in three months, Torri thought resentfully. It was one of those things that weren’t considered necessary here at St. Elizabeth’s. Plus, she hadn’t packed any when she first came, because she’d thought she was only doing an “overnight observation” and going right home in the morning. She missed being able to use make-up and talk on a phone without begging permission first. She missed freedom.
“Hello?” Amanda said again, sounding impatient and Torri realized she was just standing there when she ought to be talking.
“Hello, Amanda, this is Torri,” she said, trying to make her voice sound bright and professional—the way she used to talk to clients when she still had her job at First and Federal Bank. “Is Chuck available?”
“Oh, hi Torri. I’m afraid you just missed him. It’s too bad you didn’t call five minutes sooner. He—”
“Go get him,” Torri interrupted. She was fed up with excuses.
Excuse me?” Amanda sounded offended.
“I said, go get him. Now.” Torri put steel in her voice—a note of command she used to use on underlings at the bank when there was a discipline issue.
“I’ll go see if I can find him but I think he just stepped—”
“Into a meeting. Right—that’s always the excuse. Well, no more excuses. I don’t care if he’s meeting with the President himself, go get my husband and bring him to the phone.” She kept her voice level but stern—she wasn’t going to be put off any longer, damn it! Chuck couldn’t just dump her here and ignore her for the rest of her life.
“Fine,” Amanda snapped huffily. There was a clunk on the other end of the line and the sound of high heels tapping as Amanda walked briskly away.
In half a minute, Chuck’s voice came on the line.
“Hi there, Torri, what’s going on?” He sounded slightly impatient, as though talking to his own wife—the wife he had dumped in a mental institution and apparently forgotten about—was an imposition.
“What’s going on is that I’m still here,” Torri tried to keep her voice firm and cool, tried to take Peace Breaths, but she could feel the anger and fear bubbling up from inside. “It’s been almost three months, Chuck. When are you going to get me out of this damn place?” she demanded.
“Now, Torri—watch your temper. You know Doctor Burrows said—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what he said,” Torri snapped. “I just want out. You don’t know what it’s like in here—it’s fucking horrible!”
She was losing it—she could feel herself losing it, but she couldn’t do anything about it. Even though getting angry made you look crazy suddenly she was so angry she felt like the top of her head was going to explode at any second!
“You made a vow to me when we got married five years ago,” she snarled into the old-fashioned receiver. “You said for richer or poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health! Then the minute I have one little thing go wrong with me, you dump me in here like a dog you don’t want and forget about me! What would you do if I got breast cancer or something like that—take me behind the barn and shoot me?”