Twenty Years to Life Ch. 02

Isabel fell silent. He was right of course. She knew it. But that knowledge didn't alleviate her fears.

"Just think about what I said regarding your . . . friend."

Isabel left his office as he was calling the woman in the nurse's outfit back in. She was trying to think of how to go about encouraging Torrie to get help while trying to bury the advice about confronting her parents in the back of mind.

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That Friday . . .

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Torrie had been sitting in her room anxiously. Heaps of dirty laundry were piled up around her, and a number of books were gathering dust on the nightstand. She hadn't been surfing or even been to the beach in months. She hadn't gotten much exercise and she was beginning to feel a little heavier though she couldn't see it. It didn't matter, as long as Isabel was happy. She was wearing her sluttiest outfit, including tight black spandex butt shorts, fishnet stockings, high heels and a tight leather vest, laced up the front with no bra. She had a pair of sweat pants and a tee-shirt to throw on over until she arrived at Isabel's place. And she had her gift, nicely wrapped and sitting in her hands. The cell phone her mistress had given her was sitting on the bed next to her, and it stubbornly refused to ring. So Torrie had sat there all day, barely eating or moving out of fear something might cause her to miss that all important phone call. It was her mistress's birthday, and she had to be ready. Only the thought of Isabel calling kept her from slipping into that all too familiar mental numbness. She had only seen her mistress once more that week, and the feelings that such encounters imbued her with had already dissipated.

By the time ten o'clock at night rolled around, Torrie was as close to panicking as she was capable of. "Maybe the phone isn't working," she thought. "Maybe she's waiting for me and there's something wrong with the phone." Torrie couldn't wait any more. She grabbed her gift, exchanged her heels for some more sensible shoes and began the hour-long walk to Isabel's apartment.

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At Isabel's apartment . . .

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Isabel Turner was pissed. There were still people at her apartment, despite having partied all day and Isabel's claims that she was tired. Then Isabel told them that she had a headache, but they gave her some medicine but didn't leave, insisting on staying until she felt better. They were being drunk and stupid and maddeningly uncooperative. And she was growing increasingly restless. She hadn't developed the nerve to talk to her parents OR Torrie like she knew she was supposed to, and her lack of activity was weighing heavily on her psyche. Then she heard a knock on the door, and of course none of her acquaintances were paying enough attention to answer it. For Isabel, it was actually a chance to get away from the chaos and try and organize her thoughts. Little did she know that the chaos was just beginning. She opened the door.

"Torrie!" she whispered heatedly. Indeed it was Torrie, who had changed into her "slut" ensemble. "What the fuck are you doing here?" She had enough problems as it was. She couldn't afford to have Torrie seen there. Her "high-class friends" would start to ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.

Torrie flushed crimson and stared at her feet. She instantly knew that Isabel wasn't pleased. "You said you'd call," she whispered, almost in tears. The tears weren't just coming because Isabel was displeased. Rather, they were coming because Torrie was afraid of being sent away and being alone again. "I thought something might be wrong with the phone. I thought . . . I thought you might be waiting for me . . . that you might want me to be here."

Even in her anger, something about Torrie's tone was scaring Isabel. This wasn't the intelligent, smart-assed girl she had first brought into her home. It was a shell of that person, and the shell was crumbling before her eyes. But Isabel was too caught up in protecting her image to deal with it.

"You shouldn't have come," she whispered angrily. "You know that you don't come until I call. You . . ." Isabel was interrupted by the sound of one of her guests approaching. It was Robin Tellbrook, as vapid and empty-headed as they came. But her father was a major real-estate baron who had college ties to Isabel's father.

"Who's the hooker?" Robin slurred. "This is a birthday party, not a bachelor party," the girl continued, snickering at her own cleverness. When Torrie didn't say anything, Robin turned to Isabel. "What's the stripper here doing here?" she asked. "You know her or somethin'?"

Isabel made a decision that it wouldn't take her long to regret. She needed more time. 'Besides,' she thought, 'Torrie brought this on herself.' "No, I don't know her," she said coldly. "She's nobody."

Robin turned to join the party and tell the remaining girls about the weirdo that had shown up. As Isabel started to close the door, she saw something that almost tore her heart out. Torrie's face had gone . . . dead. There was nothing there anymore. Behind her eyes wasn't a love of reading or a need to surf the waves or to argue philosophy. That was all gone, and the blackness that replaced it was vast. Torrie dropped something that she had been holding and walked towards the stairs that led down to the parking lot.

Isabel quickly grabbed the package and raised her hand as if to signal her lover. She suddenly felt worse about herself than she ever had before. Torrie didn't deserve this. She needed help, and Isabel had effectively slapped her in the face. But she didn't know what to do. 'Some dominatrix I am,' she scoffed internally. For some reason, she opened what was obviously meant to be a present. When she got the paper off and the box open, she found a small silver key. For a moment, she just stared at. Then she noticed the note, and she read the few words that were printed there.

"What you hold opens something that has no lock. It is something that belongs to you. All I ask is that you use it well."

Isabel's hands were trembling. 'What kind of fucking bitch am I?' she asked of herself. She had to ask herself, because Torrie had disappeared from view. "Torrie?!?" she shouted. For once, she didn't care if someone heard. Then she heard the squealing of tires as someone slammed on their breaks. With her heart sinking in her chest, she ran to the parking lot and then out to the street.

Torrie was standing in the middle of the crosswalk, wandering aimlessly across the asphalt. She seemed completely unaware of what was going on around her and was staring off into space. There was an SUV not more than three feet away from her, and traffic was beginning to back up. Some drivers were screaming at her, while another had gotten out of his car to check on her. Isabel rushed out to be at her side.

As she arrived, the man was asking her is she was okay. When he got no response, he asked for her name. She looked at him . . . or through him . . . and whispered something.

"I'm nobody."

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An hour later . . .

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Rachel and Jeremy were the last to arrive at the hospital. They had been at a family dinner and had their cell phones off. When Rachel had turned hers back on, she had a message from Frank. He had just heard from Torrie's parents. Apparently, she had tried to kill herself.

After some difficulty, they were able to find Torrie's parents.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jones! What happened?!?" Rachel could scarcely believe that Torrie would try something like suicide. Frank was there also, looking worried. He and his girlfriend exchanged a quick glance, and Rachel knew she would probably need his shoulder at some point.

"I don't know," Torrie's mother said, forcing words through her fear. "We got a call saying she had walked into traffic and was just waiting to get hit. She isn't being allowed visitors right now. They've got her tied to the bed and they won't let me see my baby!"

Rachel looked over to the door that Mrs. Jones was pointed towards. There was a girl there that seemed somehow familiar, like maybe they had gone to school together once upon a time, sitting on a small chair. She was a very pretty girl, and she had apparently been doing a great deal of crying.

Mrs. Jones was struggling to regain her composure. "That young woman came with her in the ambulance. I . . . I haven't had a chance to talk to her. Maybe she knows what's going on."

Just then, a doctor wandered up. "Mr. and Mrs. Jones?"

"Yes," Torrie's father said, his face grim.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Davis. I'm very sorry to keep you waiting this long." Mrs. Jones started to say something, but the doctor held up his hand. "Physically, we haven't found anything wrong with her, but there are still some tests we need to run. We've been waiting for our on-call psychiatrist to arrive. He said he wanted to talk to her before she had visitors, so he could better assess her mental state. He should be here in a few minutes, then you'll be allowed in. He asked that I get some preliminary information from you all first. Was anyone with her when this happened?"

They all looked around except for Mrs. Turner, who looked straight at the stranger by the door. Isabel lifted her head.

"I was there," she whispered.

"Do you know the patient?"

Isabel hated that word . . . patient. "Yes."

"What was your relationship with her?"

Isabel almost choked on the words. "We . . . we were involved. Romantically," she said.

"Bullshit," Rachel said. "If she were dating someone, she would have told me!"

"I asked her not to tell anyone," Isabel said, feeling very ashamed of herself. "I never really came out to anyone, and I wasn't sure I could handle people knowing. So I asked her not to say anything." 'There,' she thought. 'That was at least partially true.'

Rachel was still suspicious, but she let it drop. A secret affair WOULD explain some of her friend's strange behavior as of late.

Isabel started talking again. "She . . . I noticed that she was acting strangely. I meant to get her to get help, but I didn't know how . . ."

"It's okay," the doctor said. "It's a difficult thing to do. First you have to convince them that they need help, and that can be tricky."

"I should have tried harder," Isabel said as she started to cry again. "I should have done something."

However Rachel may have felt before, she was faced with the fact that this familiar-looking girl was genuinely distraught. The doctor started asking them all about Torrie's behavior, all the way back to her change in attitude after high school. As he was talking with them, the psychiatrist showed up, and Isabel's eyes opened as wide as saucers.

She knew that man. She knew his face . . . his arms . . . his eyes . . . his very presence. It was Mr. X! He raised his finger to his lips and went "Shh" very quietly.

"Dr. Smythe," said Dr. Davis, "I have some of those notes you asked for, but these young people weren't quite done . . ."

"Thanks Joe," said "Dr. Smythe." He took the other man's notes and glanced over them, then picked up where his colleague had left off. He noticed that Isabel was still staring at him, but he didn't have time to deal with her. He finished talking with Torrie's parents, as well as with Frank, Rachel and Jeremy. Finally, he had a sidebar with Dr. Davis, then went in to check on Torrie. He was gone for quite a while.

Isabel was trying to shrink into her chair. All of Torrie's friends were staring at her, their mistrust evident for the world to see. Mrs. Jones tried to make small talk, but she was obviously distressed about not being able to see her daughter. She was debating calling Torrie's older siblings when the doctor came out and let them in to see her. Isabel wanted to go in there so badly, but she felt very much out of place. Finally, Dr. Smythe took a seat beside her.

"On pain of death," he said with a slight smile, "you tell no one about this!"

"You're a psychiatrist too?!?"

"Yep. What, can't I have a life outside the club? I told you to take her to see someone," he said. He meant to say it as a tension reliever, but she started to cry again. He sat down and put an arm on her shoulders. He was actually quite capable of kindness when the situation warranted it. "You couldn't have known this would happen," he said gently. "I can't tell you the details without her permission, but this may have been something far beyond your ability to help her." He gave her a brief hug. "If you want, pop your head in there. Let her know how you feel, then go home and get some rest." He stood up and then went inside.

Isabel stood up and gingerly poked her head in the window. Torrie could have easily mistaken for a zombie, as pale as she was. Her eyes looked confused, as if she didn't understand why all those people were surrounding her. Then she saw Isabel standing in the doorway, and her face regained some color for just a moment. Then the color started to fade. Isabel reached into her purse and pulled out the key that Torrie had given her. Torrie looked quizzical. Isabel held the key to her lips and kissed it. Then she held it to her heart. And for just a moment, she swore she saw some hope sparkling behind those dark eyes.

Jeremy and Rachel both noticed that quiet little conversation. Rachel held her friend's hand, but Jeremy got up to follow Isabel as the other girl left.

"Who are you?" he asked when he caught up with her.

Isabel looked him dead in the face. "My name is Isabel Turner, and I'm a lesbian."

Jeremy just stood there with his mouth hanging open as Isabel walked into the elevator. "What the hell was that about?"

Isabel got to her car and headed out. But she didn't go home. Instead, she headed towards her parents' house. It was time for her to do something she felt she should have done years earlier.

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A week later . . .

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For Torrie Jones's friends and family, the first several days of her hospitalization were very uneasy. Dr. Smythe had put on some form of medicine, but he himself had been unavailable for almost a whole week. They were beginning to seriously question the man's competency or dedication, but they were later informed that he was on-call for a number of hospitals and had been running himself ragged.

It was Jeremy who first noticed an improvement in Torrie's condition. When she had been first been brought in, she had been secured to the bed and put on suicide watch by hospital staff. Dr. Smythe had contacted the administration and informed them she wasn't a threat to herself, so the standards were relaxed. Jeremy was in there with her and they were actually making small talk, something she hadn't shown much interest in doing before.

"C'mon," she almost whined, "I just want to go outside for a smoke."

Jeremy rolled his eyes. "For the last time, no. The doctor said no smoking. Something about how nicotine would interact with your medication."

Torrie wasn't going to push the issue too much. She hadn't smoked very much in the last several months anyway. Isabel hadn't approved. She sighed. She was beginning to feel things that she didn't remember feeling for a while. She felt mildly betrayed by Isabel, but she couldn't really bring herself to be too angry. She had known the rules and had broken one. Breaking the rules had meant punishment was in order. She wasn't sure how she was going to handle that aspect of her life, assuming Isabel was even still interested, but she seriously doubted she would be getting an opportunity for much play any time in the near future. "Listen, can you at least go grab me a latte or something? Don't they have a Starbucks in the fuckin' lobby or something?"

Jeremy smiled as Torrie began a tired rant about the state of hospital accommodations. He was happy to hear her bitching. This sounded more like the Torrie he had known in high school. It sounded more like THAT Torrie than the girl he had quietly coveted for many years.

"And there isn't anything worth reading around here," Torrie was grumbling.

"That I might be able to do something about," came a voice from the doorway.

Torrie glanced over and almost instinctively blushed. "Hey," she said as Isabel walked in. She couldn't help but notice that Isabel looked just as physically drained as Torrie herself felt. "Jeremy," she said, "I would really appreciate a coffee or something. Now."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he said with a perfectly straight face.

"Don't make me get out of this bed . . ."

"I'm a goin', I'm a goin'." Jeremy squeezed her hand. "Just remember that the doc is comin' by in a bit, and your folks will be here too." Then he wandered off to the cafeteria.

Isabel pulled a book out of her purse. It was a set of short stories by H. P. Lovecraft. "I thought you might need some light reading."

Torrie snickered and Isabel almost glowed at the sound. She really was beginning to look a lot better. Isabel took a chair right next to the young woman.

Torrie looked at her . . . friend? Lover? Mistress? She didn't know what to call her all of a sudden. But she DID know that Isabel wasn't looking healthy. "Listen," she started, "I . . . I'm not mad at you . . . for what happened."

It was Isabel's turn to take the girl's hand. "I am." It was the first time the two of them had been alone all week, and there were some things Isabel had to tell her. "I should've known . . . I should've gotten you help. Regardless of what we do, I've got no right to pretend you don't exist. Particularly since you're the only person who actually understands me. And I was just so fuckin' selfish . . ." She stopped when she felt Torrie squeezing her hand back. She raised Isabel's hands to her lips and kissed it. "I told them," she uttered, so quietly that Torrie barely heard her. "I told my parents."

Even in her slightly lethargic state, Torrie heard the bells and whistles going off in her head. "Why? You didn't have to . . . not because of me."

"Yeah, I kinda did. Because of you and because of me. I didn't . . . I wasn't sure you'd want to have anything to do with me after what I did and after what I said. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"Isabel . . ." Torrie started.

"Let me finish," the other girl said. "You've . . . come to mean a lot to me. There was some stuff I wanted to talk to you about, but this isn't the time or the place. But I just got tired of hiding it. A wise man recently told me that at some point I was going to have to take control of my own life. And after that day . . ." She paused, not wanting to bring up those painful memories, "I realized he was right. Sometimes I wonder if the reason I've wanted to be . . . so controlling in regards to . . . well, you know . . . is because I'd never had any control over my own life. I've been educated and groomed to take my 'place' in my father's businesses since I was a kid. Someday, I was supposed to take over."

"What do you mean, 'was'? What . . ."

"My father and I aren't . . . speaking to each other right now," Isabel said. "The night after you were brought here . . . was when I told him. I was pretty emotional I guess, but I remember a lot of yelling and cussing." She shook her head. "Dad at one point actually FORBID me from being gay. I couldn't believe the nerve . . ." Isabel stopped and wiped her eyes, then looked around for something.

"Tissues are on the dresser," Torrie said quietly, her eyes wide open. She could scarcely believe what Isabel had been going through.

"Anyway," the other girl said after blowing her nose, "he pretty much threatened to disown me. Said he wasn't paying for anything anymore. My mom was trying to play peacemaker, but . . . I don't think she was all that successful."