Bounded by the Bond

Chapter One The faint sound of beeping wakes me. Trying to open my eyes, I suddenly feel as if each of my eyelids weighs ten pounds. Struggling to push them open, I feel dizzy and nauseous as the room seems to spin. I hear my breath against a plastic mask covering my face that appears to be in sync with my heartbeat. I’m panic-stricken as I overhear a police officer on the phone in the near distance: “Mrs. Johnson, this is officer Russo of the NYPD. We have your daughter…” he is immediately cut off by the intercom “Doctor Chin, Ext 102”. I manage to open my eyes just enough to see the IV in my arm. I’m in a hospital, I know that much, and I am moving fast. I can barely move my head as I try to focus my eyes on my surroundings. A nurse is at the foot of my stretcher, pushing me with urgency. She is head to toe in blue scrubs, a paper mask, and plastic goggles, but for a quick second, we make eye contact, and her eyes scream fear. “Relax,” I hear the nurse behind me, who must be dragging the stretcher, say to me a little over a whisper to be heard. Another nurse rushes to open the door to a room as a stretcher is pushed in. Mine follows behind. I should be in pain; however, I suspect whatever is being fed into my arm must be considerably strong, which is most likely adding to my state of sedation. The first stretcher is placed under the window, and mine is laid parallel to it. I manage to tilt my head to the left as the patient next to me in a similar state tilt hers to the right, and the last thing I see is her emerald, green eyes staring back at me with sympathy before everything fades to black. ***I stared out the window, taking in the view. It seemed like some sort of commercial for an island getaway; a DJ was playing music, and fit, tan good-looking people were sunbathing and frolicking in the pool. If you were an outsider looking in, you’d think it was some sort of exclusive resort for the rich and famous. Well, it sort of was. I mean, that’s what we were. Rich and famous, and well, it was exclusive. A private island off the coast, completely off the radar. I had been flown in on a private jet. “Calista?” I hear again, this time with annoyance in his voice. My attention shifted from the pool to his office now. A much different view. A sizeable L-shaped mahogany desk took up most of the room, with diplomas and PHDs hanging in fancy frames on the walls. Pictures of his family filled his desk and a leather sofa with matching seats. I looked him up and down. He had a very “doctor” look to him. Tall and lean, slightly graying, dark rimmed glasses. Dressed in kakis and a polo shirt. “What do you remember about the accident?” he asked again, I’d say pretty calmly, considering it was probably the third time he asked. “Not much,” I finally answered and returned my attention out the window. He folded his hands in his lap. “Okay, what were you doing before the accident?” I looked back over at him and let out a sigh. “Dr. Michaels, you got the toxicology report. With all due respect, you know exactly what I was doing before the accident. I already had my day in court, so why are we having this conversation?” He grinned and clenched his jaw. “With all due respect? Look out that window. You should be in jail. You could have killed someone. As a matter of fact, you almost did. Instead, you are in a fancy rehab for spoiled, entitled rich assholes and ‘court ordered’ to talk to someone about ‘why’ you do drugs, and you can’t even do that much? Are you kidding me right now?” He was being very dramatic with his hand gestures, using a lot of air quotations to emphasize his words. I was taken back by his tone but impressed at the same time. No one spoke to me like that. But he was right, and I should have been in jail. I sat back in the chair and crossed my legs. “I was in San Diego for an autograph signing. I went out that night with my friend Colleen. We met some guys, and I got a little carried away with the partying and got behind the wheel. I don’t remember the accident at all. That’s the truth.” He flipped through some notes on his pad. “Tell me about your mother,” his next subject. My heart sank, and I stared at him dumfounded. “What does my mother have to do with this?” I asked. There was one piece of the story I left out, did he see through me? Did he somehow know? I mean, I am an actress after all, you’d think I would be able to successfully tell a story leaving one small piece of information out. “Maybe nothing,” he said. “But when someone abuses drugs and has a history like yours, we try to get to the deeper issues, the root of the problem….” He was saying I was crazy. “I don’t want to talk about my mother,” I ground out angrily. “I see this is upsetting you. I’m not trying to upset you, Calista. I am simply trying to understand….” “Understand what exactly? Do you think I did a bunch of cocaine and drove a car at 27 years old because my mother was a selfish b***h and killed herself when I was 5? That’s kinda reaching, don’t you think?” “That’s interesting,” he simply said. “What’s interesting?” He straightened himself out and leaned in towards me, putting the back of his pen in his mouth. “That you think she was selfish and not sick.” “What have you been talking to, my sister? If she was so ‘sick,’ she could have got help. f**k, I have to see a therapist, right? No, instead, she left a 5-year-old and a 7-year- old to be shuffled around from foster home to foster homes our entire lives. Sorry Doc, I don’t care how sick you claim she was. And as much as I hate her, I can’t blame the accident on her- that was all me. Are we done here?” He put his pen down and rested his chin in his hands. “Calista, I didn’t mean to upset you.” “Upset? I’m not upset. I’m tired, and I want to go lie down.” He nodded his head. “Okay, go lie down.”