Girl Walks Out of a Bar Read Online Free PDF

boxes in the linen closet? You know, like where I keep Band-Aids and hotel shampoos? Better check those, too.” His expression didn’t change as he nodded slowly, but I swore I could see him start to process the fact that I hid bags of coke between my sweaters and in Band-Aid boxes. “Oh yeah, and there’s some really good pot in the box with the votive candles on my bookshelf,” I said, as if I had left something off a shopping list. “Give it to Jerry.”
    There was nothing but support in my friends’ eyes, but I felt as if I’d just told them I’d been selling crack to sixth graders.

    We took two taxis to Gracie Square. I sat between Russell and Devon, my head resting on Russell’s shoulder. I felt so tired and sick that there was no room left for fear or dread.
    The front of the hospital was like none I’d ever seen. No bright lighting, no circular driveway for drop-offs and pick-ups, no fleet of idling ambulances waiting for their next 911 call. In fact, the building looked like the dreary corporate officesof a company that time had forgotten. Russell, Devon, and I exchanged curious looks but no one spoke.
    Jerry and Mark arrived in their own cab. “Yo, smoke ’em while you got ’em,” Jerry said, handing me a cigarette. “What the fuck is this place? Doesn’t look like a hospital.”
    â€œNo idea. Give me your lighter,” I said, grabbing it with a shaking hand.
    After stomping out my cigarette, I swung open one of the big glass doors and headed toward the receptionist who sat in a booth behind a panel of protective glass. A young, tired-looking security guard in a blue uniform sat at a wooden desk a little farther back in the lobby. Was he armed? We all looked at each other as if to acknowledge that whatever this place was, it was no New York-Presbyterian.
    Devon raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “I don’t like this place,” she said. I shrugged back at her, and she offered, “Why don’t you let me call Silver Hill? It’s a place up in Connecticut and is supposed to be nice. I think Billy Joel went there.”
    Starting over didn’t sound like a good idea at that point. I shut my eyes and said, “Let me just try it here. If it’s terrible, I’ll leave.”
    The receptionist directed us to a large waiting area with hard plastic, burgundy chairs that were linked up in sets. After a few minutes, a tall, middle-aged man in khakis and a faded blue button-down shirt walked into the reception area, looked around, and approached our group. He had thinning brown hair, and he walked with the casual lope of someone unlikely to be surprised by whatever happened next.
    â€œHi. I’m Brad,” he said, clasping his hands together, perhaps an attempt at enthusiasm. “I’m here for Lisa.” I gave him a half wave from where I was slouched in a chair and leaning on Russell.
    â€œHi Lisa. I’m going to get you admitted and up to the detox floor. We need to go to the intake area. Are you folks Lisa’s friends or family?” he asked the group.
    â€œWe’re her friends,” Russell said before anyone else could speak. “We’d like to hear what’s going to happen.” He was using the voice he probably adopted when closing corporate mergers. I nodded at Brad, and he pulled up a chair so that everyone could hear.
    â€œOK, I’m going to explain a few things,” Brad said. “Lisa, I understand that you’re here because you have an alcohol problem and are seeking a medicated detoxification. If you choose to do that here, you need to understand that this is a locked-down psychiatric facility, not a hospital where you can come and go.” I kept my eyes on Brad, afraid to look at anyone else. “If you agree to be treated, you must sign a consent that requires us to keep you here for at least 72 hours. You cannot leave before that, unless a written