After. Part 5

Bra? Devon fires the woman a look of shock, crosses her arms over her chest.

"It's for your own safety until Mental Health talks to you."

Devon feels her throat tighten, and she closes her eyes. She is so tired, so miserable, so utterly worn down.

"Look." The woman guard clears her throat again. "I don't . . . I won't give details, but bras can be used for dangerous purposes. As can blankets and sheets and even mattresses, the reason I had you leave your bedding outside." She pauses. "So, please. Let's just get this over with. Your bra?"

Wearing bras is dangerous? Devon's mind spins back before she can stop it. His lips on her face, leaving soft kisses on the tip of her nose, across her closed eyes. Her throat. She sighs, throws her head back, and his lips travel down the length of her neck. Tremors sizzle through her spine. His hands move gently down her back. Reaching under her s.h.i.+rt-slowly, cautiously-his fingertips touching her skin, an icy electricity. Unhooking the clasp . . .

Devon shakes her head, pus.h.i.+ng the memory away. No, when bras come off, that's when things get dangerous.

She opens her eyes. The woman guard's hand is out, waiting.

Devon presses her lips together and slowly turns away. Reaching behind her back, Devon shakily works the clasp from the outside through her jumpsuit and the unders.h.i.+rt beneath. Under her collar, she loops a thumb under one strap and shrugs it off her shoulder, then loops and shrugs the other strap before pulling the bra off entirely and out one sleeve. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are heavy and sore and only reluctantly surrender their damp fabric, finally slapping painfully against her chest.

Devon b.a.l.l.s up the bra in her fist.

The tears are building again, so close and ready to roll. She breathes deeply. Keep it down. Don't break now. She grabs her b.r.e.a.s.t.s then because she must; they are hard and hot, that p.r.i.c.kling again. The warmth wets the jumpsuit between her fingers, trickles down her ribs.

Devon turns quickly, thrusts the bra into the woman's hand, not meeting her eyes. "It's wet"-A small sob squeaks from her throat. "It's so gross. I'm . . . sorry." She covers her face with her hands.

"Oh, listen." The woman's voice turns gentle now. "Don't be." She pats Devon softly on the shoulder as Devon sniffs and gasps with her effort to force the tears down. "I'll get it washed in the meantime. Okay? And bring you a clean jumpsuit." The woman pauses, her hand lingering on Devon's shoulder. "Everything's going to be okay. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but eventually it will. I promise."

Devon's resolve is caving with that woman's simple gesture. Her body shudders with the strain of keeping it all contained: the shame, the pain, the watching eyes, the secret whispers, the end the end the very end of everything.

Just go! Devon's mind screams. Please just go and leave me alone!

One last squeeze on the shoulder, then the woman's feet step away, brush across the cement floor.

"Oh." The woman turns back momentarily. "I almost forgot: welcome to Delta."

The door clanks shut.

That sound again.

Heavy. Metallic. Final.

Devon stands with her face in her hands for a long time. Then she curls up on the rubberized mattress, turns toward the wall.

chapter five.

"Devon?"

Devon opens her eyes, squints at who's peering at her from her opened door. The voice belongs to a woman, someone unfamiliar. Light streams from behind this woman and into the dark cell, was.h.i.+ng her out, so all Devon sees is a faceless shadow of a shape.

A dream. Devon closes her eyes, draws herself into a tight ball.

"Devon." The voice again, more persistent. "Devon, my name is Dr. Bacon. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes. Would that be okay?"

Devon's eyes snap open. She's awake and cold. She sits up abruptly, looks around. Her back is slick with sweat, her unders.h.i.+rt sticks to it. A sweat that would fit if she were on a field with a ball, newly clipped gra.s.s under her cleats. But she's not. She's inside a tiny cell with a toilet in the corner and a cement floor. The sweat exists because of the rubberized mattress beneath her and under that, the molded plastic bed.

"Devon?"

Devon finally turns her eyes toward the woman at the door.

The woman steps out of the shadow. Devon can see her face and hair, one long braid that slips down her slender back to brush her waist. "Sorry I had to wake you," the woman says. "I know it's been a long, hard day. You must be exhausted." She twists to kick a jam under the door so it stays open, then carries a folding chair into the room, placing it the perfect distance from Devon-not too close, but not far away either. She rests her hands on the back of the chair and smiles, her eyes intent on Devon's face.

Devon likes the way this woman is dressed. Dark straight skirt that hits her ankles, three-quarter-sleeved tee, sports watch, hemp trail mocs. And that braid. Earthy, yet neat.

The woman is older than she seems; her hair is almost entirely gray.

"May I sit down, Devon?"

Devon scoots backward until her back hits the wall behind her. She pulls her legs into her chest. The front of her jumpsuit is stiff from the dried milk. Always leaking, then drying, and leaking again. She can smell it, too. An organic sort of sourness.

Finally Devon nods, Yes.

The woman sits, her hands folded loosely on her lap, and watches Devon with quiet eyes.

"I'm a doctor who works with the residents at Remann Hall," the woman starts. "A psychiatrist. And I'm here to talk with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions."

Devon stares at her knees.

"Devon, I know what happened. Why you're in Remann Hall." Devon glances sharply at the woman. Her breath comes quick and fast.

"I know, for instance, that you recently had a baby, and that the baby was found in a garbage can behind your apartment."

Devon hugs her legs closer, hides her face in her knees. If these things are true, why is her mind so blank? The pain, yes-she can remember that. But . . . the other . . . IT . . . She's s.h.i.+very and sick to her stomach.

"And I suspect, Devon, that you are not feeling very good about yourself at the moment." She pauses. "That's why I'm here. That's why it's important that you try to talk to me now. About your feelings. About what you're thinking."

The woman waits a moment. Devon can feel her eyes on her, observing the bent head, the rigid shoulders, the long straight hair spread across her s.h.i.+ns like a gauzy fan.

"There are many reasons why people do things like put their babies in garbage cans. The purpose of this visit is not to speculate on why you did that, or to determine your guilt or innocence. I'm not the police."

Devon holds herself very still. If she holds still, barely breathes, maybe the woman will leave.

"I'm simply here today to make sure that you're not going to do something to harm yourself. Do you think you can talk to me about that, Devon?"

Devon and the woman sit in silence. The woman s.h.i.+fts in her seat. The folding chair squeaks. Devon's pulse thumps across her temples.

The woman will not leave.

Devon feels the adrenaline in her chest, the pumping of her heart. It's the feeling of being in the goal when the striker gets a breakaway and is sprinting toward her with the ball. It's just between the two of them-a battle of skill and decision, 1 v 1. The perfect shot or the perfect save. She waits. On her toes, her body loose. Her arms out to the side, her palms facing out and ready, the net open behind her. Still she waits. Patient for that striker's touch. And then she goes, springing out of the box, cutting off the angle, diving for the ball, solid and real between her gloves.

This woman is waiting for Devon now. If Devon doesn't move, then Devon loses. If you don't come out of the goal but stay frozen on the line, the striker almost always scores.

This woman will not leave.

She isn't like the woman who had visited Devon every day at the hospital, the social worker with the scraggly hair and decades-old gla.s.ses who tried in vain to coax information out of Devon. Devon had stared straight ahead at the wall across from her bed, at the happy two-parent African American family depicted in watercolor there-the summer picnic with the lemonade and bright suns.h.i.+ne, the birds in the sky. Then, Devon had said nothing, and the woman went away.

If Devon tries that tactic again and says nothing, Devon suspects that this woman will simply wait her out until she does.

"I think so," Devon whispers at last. "I think I can talk . . . about that."

"Good," the woman says.

Something breaks inside of Devon then; the relief is palpable. "I've never done anything wrong in my life," she says softly into her knees. "I've never ever been in a place like this."

"Yes, I know."

"When"-Devon swallows-"when . . . can I . . . go home?"

The woman doesn't speak right away. "I can't answer that. It may be a long time."

Devon doesn't move.

"Does this scare you, Devon?"

She thinks about the day she's just had: court, the girls outside of her room, the eyes, the hot humiliation, the fear. Days and days, untold days, like this. She takes in a shaky breath. "Yes."

The woman nods. "Does it scare you so much that you'd hurt yourself in order to escape it?"

Devon considers the question. She thinks about the times when she'd been scared, even terrified. She'd known many of those times. But her mom always came home, eventually. Or the shouting in the next room would stop-with a slammed door or tear-filled promises or the boyfriend moving out. Even That Night-the pain, it had finally faded.

Nothing had been as harrowing as That Night. Many thoughts had pa.s.sed through Devon's mind then, but hurting herself was not among them.

"No," Devon answers, her throat so tight she barely gets the words out. "I won't hurt myself."

"I'm glad," the woman says and, leaning forward, gently touches Devon's hand. "I'm so glad to hear that, Devon."

Devon raises her eyes to the woman.

And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself.

Because hurting herself would be so much easier.

Uploaded by Coral

chapter six.

A metallic snap, like the bolt of a gun, locking into place. Devon shoots upright, her feet tangled up in her sheet. Her eyes jerk toward her door, the source of the sound.

Her heart hammers and her body's jittery from being woken up so abruptly. She looks around, takes stock of where she is. Cinder block walls. Cement floor. Stainless steel toilet in the corner. Heavy door, tagged with scratched obscenities and closed.

She's still here. It wasn't a dream.

She can smell herself, an intense combination of greasy hair and BO overlaid with the sick spiciness of soured milk and blood that had seeped through her clothing and dried. She'd never taken a shower last night, even though the psychiatrist had told her she could. At dinnertime, she'd gotten a fresh jumpsuit and unders.h.i.+rt along with her tray, but it hardly mattered now.

She pushes herself to the edge of her plastic bed, kicks off the sheet. Gloomy daylight hovers in the room, leaking through the three window slats over the stainless steel toilet. It could be morning, but she's not sure. Once the staff had given her back the bedding last night and she'd finally fallen asleep, she'd slept hard. Like the dead.

She hears noise coming from outside her room. She stiffens, straining her ears. m.u.f.fled voices. Movement.

The girls. Is she going to have to go out there now? Have them follow her with their eyes and wonder? Hear them whispering about her?

She sits very still, listening. Everything is reduced to her heartbeat and her breath and the indistinct sounds outside. No one is coming for her, she decides. She pushes herself off her bed and creeps toward the door, toward the slim rectangular window there, and peeks out.

The olive cell doors bordering the large room are opening. Girls in orange jumpsuits emerge from them. They slink to divergent corners of the room, like cats. One girl has a mop, another with a bucket joins her, and together they clean the vinyl tile. A black girl Windexes the gla.s.s door leading out to the courtyard. A tiny blonde stands before the control desk and talks to the staff there, but it's not the one from yesterday. This staff is older with dark skin and short dark hair.

Devon stands watching for a long time, careful to remain unseen. Some of the girls congregate around a cardboard box beside the control desk, pulling out large ziplock bags containing toiletries. They carry these bags back to their rooms, then return them to the box sometime later.

Everything appears calm and orderly, and this helps Devon relax. Take away the orange jumpsuits, and this could be a dorm at soccer camp-doing light ch.o.r.es, getting dressed, preparing for a day of scrimmages and skills.

Soon a male staff rolls a cart into the room from the entryway. The girls abandon their activities to line up and in turn retrieve a cafeteria tray from the cart. Each carries her tray, either to one of the two round plastic tables or back to her cell.

Breakfast. Devon's stomach groans as she watches the girls move their plastic sporks between their trays and their mouths. When was the last time she ate? Back in the hospital, she remembers. Scrambled eggs and English m.u.f.fins. A lifetime ago.

She wishes now that she'd eaten the sloppy joes and potato salad the staff had brought her last night. Her stomach had been too jumpy to keep anything down. As the tray sat, the food turned cold and unappetizing, orange grease coagulated on ground beef.

Devon's back aches from standing in one place so long. And her bladder is stretched tight and throbs. She hasn't yet dared to use the toilet in the corner of the room-too gross. But she can't avoid it any longer. Not unless she wants to add urine to her already dreadful stench.

She turns from the door and shuffles the ten or so steps to the toilet on the other side of her room. Her pelvis is still stiff, and the place between her legs feels hollow and sore, and this amazes Devon. Will she ever feel all together again?

Devon pauses to scrutinize the toilet, a look of disgust on her face, which she catches in the tiny mirror at eye level above the toilet. It's very small and scratched, but she stares at it for a long moment.

Her present reflection fades and, in her mind, another materializes. A similar look of disgust on her face, but then the mirror before her was wide and the bathroom s.p.a.cious and bright. And the look was directed at herself.

She had crept away from his bed, leaving him asleep across the jumbled sheets. She'd closed the bathroom door softly behind her. Standing naked before the mirror, she'd stared at the girl she saw there. At the disheveled hair and smeared mascara and lips that he'd kissed. Slowly shaking her head at the image in the mirror, the thought played over and over in her mind like a scratched track on a CD: Why? Why did you do it? Why did you let it happen? Then she'd turned away, covered her face with her hands, and cried. She would never again be the same person. She'd been irreversibly changed.

Devon backs away from the tiny scratched mirror now, rubs at her eyes to clear away the memory. When she drops her hands, she notices the toilet paper roll, stuck into the round cubby on the side of the stainless steel toilet. Her tight bladder reminds her of why she's standing there. She steels herself for the job, then pulls a length of the paper, folding it over, and then pulls another, meticulously covering every inch of the rimless seat. The toilet isn't as filthy as she'd feared; it's pretty clean, actually. But still, Devon won't take the chance of catching something gross, like lice. Or something worse, like an STD. Devon's seen the girls who use these toilets. They'd laughed at her. Yeah, they'd be the kind to have lice and STDs.

She unsnaps her jumpsuit, letting it fall to her ankles, then tugs down her underwear. Her thick maxi pad, badly needing replacement, sticks to her pubic hair, and she winces at the discomfort and the mess. She lowers herself to the seat and waits for the relief to come.

When she's finished, she sinks her forehead into the palms of her hands. That wasn't so bad. With her forearms pressed into her sore and heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she remembers that she's still braless beneath her unders.h.i.+rt.

The door to her room sc.r.a.pes open, and Devon jerks upright.