when th ey f i n d e a ch oth er ,
theyf indthemselves .On the edge of the Chicago medical district, the Harrison School forExceptionalYouthlookslikeacastleinasnowglobe.Janinahasbeentheresinceshewastenyearsold,andnowshe'sfourteen.Shefeelssosafeinsideitswallsthatshe'safraidtoleave.Devante'sparentsbringhimthereafteratragedy leaveshimdepressedandsuicidal. Eventhoughhe's inadifferentplace,hecan'tescapethememoriesthatcomefloodingbackwhenhe leastexpectsthem.Dr.GailThomascomestoworkthereafterquittinghermedicalresidency.Frustratedandonthevergeofgivinguponherdreams,sheseesbecomingacounselorasherlastchancetoputherskillstothetest.Whenhefoundedtheschool,Dr.Lutkindesigneditsuniqueenvironmenttobeaplacethatwouldchangethestudents'lives.Heworkshardasthekeeperofotherpeople's secrets, though he never shares any of his own. But everythingchangeslateinthewinterof1994whenthesefourcharacters'livesintersectinunexpectedways.Noneofthemwilleverbethesame.
"Agrippingnarrativesetinaworldofmultigenerationalcharactersfightingfortruth,integrityandwholeness."—KalishaBuckhanonKalishaBuckhanon,authorofUpstateandwinneroftheALEXAward
"Inthissmart,layeredstoryaboutlifeinaschoolfortroubledteens,thecharacterslearntoembracerecoveryandultimately,oneanother."—CalArmisteadCalArmistead,authorofBeingHenryDavid
Tiffany GholarTiffany Gholar is a lifelongresident of Chicago, Illinois. Sheis the author of three art books:Post-Consumerism, ImperfectThings, and The Doll Project. ABitter Pill to Swallow is her firstnovel, which started out as ashort story shewrote during thesummer of 1993 when she wasabouttobeginherfreshmanyearof high school. She studied art,creative writing and film at theUniversity of Chicago, whereadapting her story into ascreenplaywasherthesisproject.InadditiontotakingclassesinanMFAprograminfictionwritingatColumbia College, she alsostudied interior design atHarrington College of Design,and has a Masters Degree inpainting from Governors StateUniversity.Sheisanartist,writer,interior designer, and Jeopardy!champion.w w w . a b i t t e r p i l l 2 s w a l l o w . c o m
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t i f f a n y g h o l a r 1
C h a p t e r 1A R e a s o n t o D i eA R e a s o n t o D i e
Devanteknewhecouldn't tellherthetruthwhenhismotherasked,"Areyousureyou'regoingtobeokay?"
This was it. They had Jnally arrived at hisschool. They were parked in front of the mainentrance, just like so many times before, just likenothing had changed. Sleepy-looking teenagersstreamed in from every direction. They were gettingoutoftheirparents'carsorcrossingtheoverpassandcoming from the 'L' train station, bright kids drawnfrom all corners of Chicago to this magnet school
conveniently located near a major expressway. Somecarried backpacks weighed down with complicatedtextbooks, some carried lunches, some struggledwithcumbersome science or art projects, others luggedmusical instruments. Some wore headphones so theycould listen to music, others were talking to thefriendstheywalkedwith.AfewworeROTCuniforms.Someothersevenworebusinesssuits.
a b i t t e r p i l l t o s w a l l o w2
Who are they again? Future BusinessExecutives of America or something? He tried toremember. His school had lots of clubs like that forfuture leaders, future soldiers, future doctors, futurelawyers...
Devantenolongerbelievedinthefuture.Across the street from the high school, the
cadets at the police academy—future cops—werelining up in the parking lot, preparing for theirmorning run. For all of them, thesehopeful studentslookingtothefuture,itwasjustanotherdayatschool.JustanotherFridaymorning.Itwasamazingthatthelivesofthosearoundhimcontinuedtogoon,whilefor
Devantetimeseemedtostandstill."Lookatme,"hismotherurgedhim.Shewas insistent, but shedidn't soundangry.
Just worried. In the past few weeks, it had becomehard for him tomake eye contactwith anyone, evenhisownre_ection.
"Lookatme," she saidagainas shecuppedhischininherhandandturnedhisfacetowardher.
Hiseyelidsseemedtoweighaton.Itwasasifall the tearshe refused to cryhad collected in them.Still, he couldn't let hismother know howmuch theeventsofthepastmonthhada*ectedhim.
"I'mJne,Ma.Really.Iam."Hegrabbedhisbagquicklyandhopedhecouldgetoutofthedoorbeforehis mother realized that everything he had just saidwasalie.He_ungtheheavydooropenandrushedoutofthecarsofast,thecoldMarchairscarcelyhadtime
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tocomein.Heslammedthedoorshutandwasstartledbythesound.
With slow, measured steps he approached hisschool,theplacehe'dbeentryingtoavoidforthepastthree weeks. He turned around and saw his mother
pulling away. She had driven him here herself thismorning because she wanted to make sure he wentback.Andhehadgonebecausehethoughthewouldbeabletopretendhewasokay.
I can do this, he thought as he reached theentrance. Swarms of kids were beginning to Jll thehalls. He could see them through the large frontwindows.Hopefully theywouldn't noticehim.Maybe
they would avoid him, just as they had after thefuneral. So far he was in luck. He didn't see anyfamiliar faces...until he noticed a big poster on aneaseloutsidetheprincipal'soPce.
ItwasaportraitofMonica.Itwasthephototheyshowedonthenewsand
inthepapers, theonetheyhadused intheprogramsatthefuneralhome.Hereyesandsmilewereforever
frozen,lookingoutathimintragicstillness.Andnowhewasalsostill,standingbythefrontdoor,realizingthat the numbness he'd felt the past few weeks waswearingo*.
Hewaswrong.Hecouldn'tgoin.He saw a couple walk by, holding hands as if
theywerethelasttwopeopleleftonearth,orthelastonesleftatWhitneyParkHighSchool.Theywerethekind of couple that would have showed up at
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homecominginmatchingrayonshirtsfromMerry-Go-Round.Theirsmilesmockedhismisery.HeandMonicahadbeenlikethemonce,saunteringthroughthehalls,sharing headphones, cocooned in a private world ofmusic. Seeing that couplewas a harsh reminder that
hecouldneverreturntothatworld.Hestayedontheoutside, looking in, alone, and realized he was nolongerliketheotherstudents.
Howcouldhepretendhewasstilloneofthem?How could he smile or laugh when nothing seemedfunny anymore?How couldhe act like anything stillmattered?Howcouldheandhisparentsmeetwiththeschoolcounselors thisafternoon?Whatgoodwould it
donowthateverythinghadpermanentlychanged?Hedidn'thaveareasontogotohisclasses.Hedidn'thaveareasontostudy.Hedidn'thaveareasontograduate.Allhehadwasareasontodie.
He stood frozen for amoment, as though thefrigid air that crept through his baggy jeans hadsti*ened his legs completely. Then he slowly backedaway, turned around, and ran in the opposite
direction.Justgo,hetoldhimself,rushingforwardonthe
sidewalk.Don'tlookback.Don'tevensaygoodbye.The wintry world around him seemed like it
wasalreadydead:graysky,browngrass,skeletaltrees.Hestoppedatthecurb,rightacrossthestreetfromtheoverpass that bridged the expressway. If he jumpedoverthesideoftheoverpass,wouldhedie?Ifhefell,would anyone notice? If he died, would everything
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stop? Not waiting for the traPc lights to change, heranacrossthestreetandskiddedtoastopontheotherside.
Nowtheoverpassstretchedoutinfrontofhim.Before, hehad only seen it as away to get to Burger
KingduringJfthperiod lunch, butnow ithad takenonanewmeaning.Itwasthebridgebetweenlifeanddeath.Theonlythingthatstoppedhimwasthechain-link fence above the guardrails. He hurled his heavybookbagtothegroundandbegantoclimb.
Ijustwanteverythingtostop.Ijustwantallofittobeover,hethought.Todie.Tosleepnomore.Hevaguely remembered the words from a play he had
read last semester in freshmanEnglish.HewonderedifHamlethadnightmarestoo.
As he stood on the guardrail, a part of himhesitated.Part ofhimwanted someone tonoticehimup there. Part of him wanted someone to show himthathestillhadareasontolive.Buthehadtoignorethosepartsofhimselfnow.
Theweightofthemetalankhpendantaround
his neck, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life, feltironic. Themetal links of the fencewere cold in hishands.HelookeddownatthetraPcbelow,wonderingwhichwouldkillhim: the fall or a car.Whichever itwas, he hoped it would be quick. What good washoping,though?Itwouldn'tbringMonicaback.Therewas nothing he could do to make things right. Theonlythinghecoulddowasjump.
"Heykid!"
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Heturnedtoseeamanandawomanfromthepolice academy running toward him from across thestreet.
They're just toy cops anyway. They can't doanything.Heturnedbacktofacetheexpressway.
"Get down from there!" one of the toy copsyelled.
What'reyougonnado?Arrestmefortakingmylife?Was that just one of the lessons they taught toycops, how to arrest a Black guy for no reason? Whyweren'ttheyeveraroundwhentheycouldbeuseful?
Theywereonhissideofthestreetnow,buthestillwouldn'tmove.Heheldontothechain-linkfence
andstareddownatthesluggishriverofmorningrushhour traPc below. He couldn't go back to school. Hecouldn't go back home. He had nowhere to go butdown.
"Wewanttohelpyou,"oneofthemsaid."Leavemealone!"They were breaking his concentration. How
couldhejumpwiththemwatching?
"Comeon,kid.You're tooyoungto throwyourlifeaway."
Whatdoesheknowaboutmylife?"Justleavemehereandletmedie!"But the toy cops rescued him in spite of
himself.He hadn't asked to be saved. He didn't want
this.Onceagainhefoundhimselfsomewherebetweenlifeanddeath.Therewerenowordsforwhathefelt.
t i f f a n y g h o l a r 7
When the real cops got involved, they askedhimforhisname.HeshowedthemhisschoolIDcard.He had no reason to speak. He refused to say hisparents' names. Instead, he wrote them down on asheet of paper, along with their pager numbers. It
wasn'tlongbeforehewasrushedfromthesquadroomwhere he'd sat with a policewomanwhowouldn't lethim out of her sight to the emergency room of theclosesthospital.
There were a lot of hospitals in this part oftown, justacross theexpresswayfromhisschool.Thedoctorwhohadcomeintotalktohishealthclasswasfrom this hospital, and had told them they were
welcometostopbyanytimeforfreecondoms.Buttheplacewherehewastakenwasnotnearlyaswelcomingas the doctor had promised. There were bars on thewindows and every door locked behind him. And bythe time his parents Jnally got there, he had lockedhisvoiceawayaswell.
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C h a p t e r 2Q u i e t S t o r mQ u i e t S t o r m
This ismyveryownbookandI'mgonnawriteanythingI
wanttoinhere,justlikeIdidinmyotherjournals.Allthe
crazythoughtsthatrunthroughmymindwillfallintoplace
onthesepages. That's right,I'mcrazyandIknow it, so
nobodyhastotellmethat.AndIkindalikelivinginthis
mentalinstitution,eventhoughDr.LutkinhatesitwhenI
callitthat.Butthat'swhatitis.
Sure, we go on field trips, andI have to go to
classeseveryday,butthenthere'sallthetherapyIhave
after class and on weekends. I mean, there's group
therapy, drug therapy, drama therapy, pet therapy,
recreationaltherapy,occupationaltherapy,dancetherapy,
andmusictherapy.Butmyfavoriteisstillarttherapy.
Evenwriting in this journal is therapy. That's why
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myparentsgivemeanewoneformybirthdayeveryyear.
ButDr.LutkinsaysthatI'vereachedaplateau.Hesays
Ineedtointeractmorewiththeotherkids.AndIwould,
except other than being crazy, we really don't have that
much in common. Alejandra hates me most of the time,
especially when she's manic. They switched her to a
differentpsychiatristlastyearandsheblamesmeforit.
She says I stole Dr. Lutkin from her. Ed avoids me
because he thinks my thrift store clothes may have once
belongedtodeadpeople.IdotalktoMarcia,thoughI'm
not sure how much she understands since she believes The
BradyBunch is her real family.Joey andKathleen don't
talkmuchtoanyone.
Allofthemhavebeenherethelongest.Thenthere
are the kids who don't have to stay that long, the
sojourners.It's cool tomeet new people, but then they're
goneassoonasyougettoknowthem.
It would be nice to have a good friend. Or a
boyfriend. I'm not sure when I'll get to go home, but
honestly,I'mkindascaredtoleave.Peopleouttheredon't
likeme.Butthingsweren'tsobadatthethriftstorethe
otherday.Meredithtooksomeofusthereonafieldtrip.
Marcia justhastohaveher70sclothes.Shecan't live in
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1994with the rest of us.WhileIwas there,Ifound a
really fly red kimono. It's short, but it has long, long
sleeves that will just get in the way, soI'm gonna trim
themthe next timewe can do some sewingwithLibby in
occupationaltherapy.Iwanttowearitwithjeans.After
we leftthethrift store,Igot some bootsatthearmy
surplus store. They're not Doc Martens, but I really like
them.Thepeopleatthethriftstoreandthearmysurplus
storewereallreallynicetous.Theytreateduslikenormal
customers. Then again, everyone else shopping there had
rainbow-coloredhairandpiercings intheirfaces, somaybe
welookedprettynormalcomparedtothem.
Keepasecretforme:Whilewewereonourway
back,Zacktoldmetheshadowsunderthe'L'tracksreveal
asecretmessageinaspecialcodeonlyhecanunderstand.
He made me promise not to tell anyone else about it.
Weird,right?Justanotherdayinthelifeofacrazygirl.
Anyway, besides this journal, I got two other
birthday presents from my parents: a new Cross Colours
outfit and a dress that's beautiful beyond the speed of
light.Ofcourse it's still too coldtowear ityet.Ican't
waitforittowarmupsoIcanfinallyputiton.Maybe
withmy new combat boots.I'm so happyIdon't haveto
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wearauniformanymore likeIdidbeforeIcamehere.
Whowouldhavethoughtthatamentalhospital—excuseme,
a special school for crazy kids—would be less strict thana
regularprivateschool?Iactuallyfeelmorefreeinhere
thanIeverdidoutthere.
Janina stopped writing in her journal andcloseditsoshecouldadmireitscover.Itwasdecoratedwith a smiling yellow sun and bright daisies. It wasthekindofretrothingMarciawouldlove.Thebrightcolors,sheknew,wereakindoftherapyinthemselves.Theyweresupposedtobrightenhermoodandlifther
out of her depression. That was the basic idea theschoolwasdesignedaround,itseemed.Andsometimesthat worked for her. Other times, it seemed like allthat brightness just created deeper shadows. Becausedespite all the cheerful colors, the sadness of herfellowstudentsfeltalmostcontagiousattimes.
Shecouldhearthewinterwindwailandmoanas it whipped around her little corner room. It
remindedherofsomeonecrying,likeAlejandrawhenshegotreallydepressed.Butnow,exceptforthewind,thingswerequiet.Itwasprobablyalmosttimeforbed,but maybe there was enough time to work on hergraphicnovel.
Shegothersketchbookfromthetopofthepileof books beside her bed. She was always readingsomething.Thereweresomanydi*erentsubjects she
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t i f f a n y g h o l a r 13
was interested in, and Dr. Lutkin sometimes loanedher psychology books he said would help herunderstand herself better. Reading helped herunderstand the other kids better, too.When she waseleven,shesawherclassmateCourtneyhaveaseizure
aftertakinghermedication.Afterthat,Janinarefusedto takeherpills for fear that itmighthappen toher.Though everyone told her that she had nothing toworry about because what she'd seen was caused byCourtney'smedicalcondition,Janinawasn'tconvinceduntil her teacher had herwrite a report on epilepsy.And that had led to her learning about the nervoussystemandthepartsofthebrain.
Still,sheoftenimaginedwhatitwouldbelikeifthepillstheytookhadstrangesidee*ects.Orwhatif themedicationmade them turn intomutants likethe X-Men or the Ninja Turtles, and gave themsuperpowers? What if it was all part of some weirdexperiment?Eventually she startedwritingdownherideas and drawing pictures of her characters.Combining her love of words and pictures led to her
graphic novel. Her main character was Ste*anie, abraveandbeautiful girlwhosedepressionmedicationmadeherhaveseizures.Butshediscoveredthatwhenshehadseizures,shehadout-of-bodyexperiencesandcouldgoanywhereshewantedto.Theotherkidsinthemental hospital with her also had psychic powersbecause of their medication. And because they haddi*erent illnesses, theyhaddi*erentpowers.AtJrstJanina was going to call her story "Crazy Pill
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a b i t t e r p i l l t o s w a l l o w14
Syndrome",butafterreadingabookaboutpeoplewithpsychicpowers,shechangedthetitleto"Psindrome".
The"psi"wasforthespecialpsychicpowersthekids had in her story. She grabbed a pen and starteddrawing and writing about Ste*anie's latest
predicament.
Why am I here? Why are they rolling me into this
elevator? Why am I in the basement now? Where are
they takingme?Who are they?Steffanie asked herself
thesequestionsthrougheverystepofherstrangejourney.
And with each question, she felt more and more awake.
Her mounting fear and uncertainty would not allow her
wearyeyestoclose.
At last they reached a familiar corridor. The masked
doctorstook her intoa roomacross the hallfromthe lab
whereSparkyusedtolive.
"Youcangetupnow."
"What are you going to do to me?" Steffanie
demanded.
One of the doctors approached her. "Don't worry,
Steffanie.We'renotgoingtohurtyou.We'rejustgoingto
doafewtests."
"Whatkindsoftests?"
"It'sreallyquitesimple.We'regoingtostudyyour
brain."
ThatwaswhenSteffanie remembered the dream
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she had once told Dr.Weaver about. Was he trying to
makeitreal?
"No!Iwon'tletyou!"
Janinawonderedwhat she shouldwrite next.Sometimesinherroom,whennoonewaslooking,shewouldusetheBarbiesandKensshestillhadtoactoutscenesfromherstory.Itwaslikemakingaminiaturemovie.ShekepttheminaplasticCaboodlesboxunderherbed.TheSkipperdollplayingthepartofSte*anielaidinabedinJanina'shospitalplayset.
SheheldaKendollinawhitecoatmenacinglyover Ste*anie. "All we're going to do is use the
equipmentwehave.We'llstudyyourbrainwavesandlaterwe'llusetheMRImachinetoscanimagesofyourbrain."
Shepickedupherpentosketchthesceneshe'djust set up. And then there was a soft knock at thedoor.ShesawMeredith,oneofthecounselors,peekinginthroughthewindowatthetop.
"Lights out," Meredith stuck her head in the
doorandsaid."Okay." Janina sighed, putting down her
sketchbookandpen.As usual she had lost track of timewhile she
wasworkingonherstory.Shewishedshecouldstayupalittlebitlater,butshehadtofollowtherules.
"Good night." Meredith smiled before turningoutthelightandclosingthedoor.
a b i t t e r p i l l t o s w a l l o w16
Janina would have to Jgure out Ste*anie'sdaringescapefromtheevilpsychiatriststomorrow.Itmightevencometoherinadream.Itwasagoodthingshe had at least remembered to change into herpajamasbeforeshestartedwritinginhernewjournal.
Maybeshewasn'tacompletespacecadetafterall.Allshehadtodonowwaswrapherhairforthenightinthe colorful silk scarf hermother gave her. She tookhertwolongbraidsandwoundthemaroundherhead,foldedthebigsquarescarf intoatriangle,andtieditup. She wanted to make it look like one of theheadwraps the Africanwomen in one of her favoriteoldpicturebookswore,butshecouldnevergetit just
right,andcouldnevergetthescarftostayonherheadwhilesheslept.
ShepickedupherSnugglebear.Hewasjustassoft and cuddly as the one that came to life on thefabric softener commercials, thoughworn from yearsofsqueezing.Whenshefoundoutshe'dbegoingtotheHarrisonSchoolwhen shewas tenyears old, Snugglewas the Jrst thing she packed in her suitcase. She'd
movedtohersingleroomfromtheoneshehadsharedwith three other girls when she was twelve, andSnugglehadbeensittinginfrontofherpillowallthistime.
Shetookhimintoherarmsandheldhim,butimaginedwhat itwould be like if hewere a boy andnot a teddy bear. She closed her eyes and kissed hismouth. Then she reached inside an undone seam inSnuggle'sstitchingandpulledoutherheadphones.She
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t i f f a n y g h o l a r 17
wasn'tsupposedtohaveheadphones.Shehadboughtacheappair atWoolworth'swhen the counselorswho'dbroughtthemthereonaJeldtripweren'tlooking.Dr.Lutkin didn't allow headphones because he said theywere too isolating, and had explained to her the
di*erencebetweenprivacyandisolation.Butthatwasone rule she didn't see the point of following. Sheplugged her headphones into the radio on thenightstand beside her bed. She had it tuned to herfavoriteR&B station, somethingherparentswouldn'tlike since their church didn't want its memberslisteningtoanythingbutGospelmusic.Thestationwasplayingslowjamsnow.
"Upnext onQuiet Storm, it's 'AloneWithYou'byTevinCampbell,"croonedanannouncerwithadeepvoiceassmoothasvelvet.Janinaletthemusicenvelopheranddriftedo*tosleep.
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C h a p t e r 3B e t t e r T h a n N o t h i n gB e t t e r T h a n N o t h i n g
DearShawn,
It'salwaysbeenhardformetopictureDr.
Hoffmanactuallyworkingasapsychiatrist.Asan
auditorfortheIRS,sure.Orasabillcollector,
oradrillsergeant,orevenasastandupcomedienne
whospecializesininsulthumor.Whenshewasmy
professor,shealwayshadasneakywayofgetting
intoourheadsandmakingusquestionthethings
we thought we knew. A lot of times she would
answer our questions with questions of her own.
Sheputmethroughalotwhenshetaughtme.I
thoughtwhenIgraduatedfrommedschoolIhad
seenthe lastofher,butIwassowrong.Guess
whogotpromoted?Guesswhoisnowinchargeof
supervising all the future psychiatrists at the
university's inpatient child and adolescent ward?
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That's right, little brother: Dr. Hoffman, the one
andonly.
I can picture her marching through the
corridors,aflockofwhite-coated internstrailing
her like littleducklingswhoknownobetterthan
to follow the first leader they see. (That's called
imprinting, by theway.) Now, as if things aren't
bad enough, Dr. Hoffman was the one I had to
talktotoday.Myworstprofessorisnowmyonly
hope.
Herfirstquestion:"Whatwasyourreason
forleavingyourresidencyatHavenHouse?"
If Dr. Hoffman had seen Haven House,
she'dunderstand.SoItriedtopaintapicturefor
her.Itoldherit'samiserableplacefullofcold
white walls and miserable kids. It's clinical and
unadorned, like an operating room. No, not
unadorned; deliberately stripped of anything
resembling character, making it a place thatwas
no place at all. Sure, it has a nice lobby to
impresstheparentswhentheycometo visit,but
the rest of it looks like the kind of mental
institution you see in movies. When I worked
there, I realized for the first time just how
differentthestandardofcarewasforkidswhose
illnesseswerementalandnotphysical.Ifchildren
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with cancer or AIDS had been treated as my
patientshad,youwouldhearaboutitonthenews.
ButtothestaffatHavenHouse,andmaybetothe
rest of the world, the patients were nothing but
problemchildren.
I even told Dr. Hoffman about the first
time I saw the patients getting what the chief
resident called "chair therapy." In a long
corridor,kidssatintheirchairs,facingthewall.
Theyweren'tallowedtospeaktoeachotherorthe
staff, or evengive anyone eyecontact.More than
anything I wanted to reach out to them, to be
thereforthem,tolistentowhattheyhadtosay.
Ithought thatwaswhatIwassupposed todo.
When I worked in the other hospital last year,
theoneforadults,thatwaswhatIhaddone.But
when I tried that at Haven House, I got in
trouble.Justas theyweren't allowed tospeak to
me,Iwasn'tallowedtospeaktothem!
Shawn, when I say these were kids, I
don't mean they were all teenagers like you. One
boylookedlikehewasonlytenyearsold,andhe
wascrying.Anywhereelse,anyotherdoctorwould
gotalktohimtomakesurehewasokay.Ithink
of all the times you were scared going to the
dentist or getting a shot at the doctor's office.
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Theynever just leftyoutherecrying.Butthings
are different at Haven House. At Haven House,
silentlyfacingawallforhoursonendisjustpart
ofthe"behaviormodificationprogram."
Itwasfrightening to think thiswashow
they did things there, at one of the most
expensivementalhospitalsforkidsinthenorthern
suburbs.Iwonderediftheparentswhosenttheir
children there had any idea. It wasn't a place
wheresickkidscouldgetbetter.Itwasaplace
where rich kids were basically held hostage. If
that place was supposed to be one of the best,
what did that mean for the specialty I had
chosen?
Of course somehow, the patients were
always miraculously "cured" the day their
insurance ran out. It didn't matter if the kids
werebetter–justthattheirbillswerebeingpaid.
Theworstwasaboybeingsenthometoosoon.He
wasstilldepressed–anyonecouldseethat.Iwas
worried about him. His first day out, he
deliberately crashed his car into a tree and
shatteredbothhislegs.He'llprobablyneedseveral
operationsbeforehecanwalkagain,ifhecanever
walkatall.NobodyatHavenHouseevenseemedto
careexceptforme.ThatwaswhenIknewIhad
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toleave.
AfterI told Dr.Hoffman all of this, she
askedmeifHavenHousewasafor-profithospital.
Itoldheryes,andthatthey'reownedbyPHEA.
Dr.Hoffmanwasn'tsurprised.PHEAhasgottenin
a lot oftrouble lately, thoughmanyoftheother
companiesthatranmentalhospitalsandwereinit
for the money got in so much trouble that they
had to go to a big hearing inWashington before
Congress about a year ago. Most of those
companies are going out of business now.Icould
tell by the look on Dr. Hoffman's face that she
hatesPHEAjustasmuchasIdo.Ifeltrelieved
thatwehadanenemyincommon.Ihopeditmeant
shewouldunderstandwhyIquitmyresidencyso
suddenly.
I also explained to her that Haven House
hadn'tbeenmyfirstchoice.ItoldherI'dwanted
to work at the hospital she's in charge of now,
but I didn't get matched. Then she told me she
wastheonewhorejectedmefromtheprogram!
She said, "Frankly, I found your
credentials lacking. Youdidn'tmajor in psychology
as an undergraduate, you took a leave of absence
after your first year ofmedical school, and you
changed specialties shortly after you returned.
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a b i t t e r p i l l t o s w a l l o w24
Andyoureallystruggled inmyclass. Therewere
toomanyredflags.Ihadtorejectyou."
Iwasstunned.AllthistimeIthoughtI
had been randomly matched to Haven House by a
computer, not turned down for the program I
wanted towork for by an old teacherwhodidn't
like me. But knowing that, I couldn't let Dr.
Hoffman's opinionsaboutmekeepmefromgetting
agoodopportunity.
SoIdidmybesttoexplainmyself.Itold
her I knew what she meant about red flags
because I saw them at Haven House from the
firstdayIworkedthere,butdecidednottopay
anyattentiontothem.EventhoughIknewthings
weren'tright,Itriedmybesttomakeitwork.I
ignored my own instincts until I couldn't ignore
them anymore. I told her that even though I
didn't major in psychology in college, I learned a
lot about human nature from all the stories and
poemsIreadasanEnglishmajor.Iexplainedthat
now,tomakeupforall thethingsIdidn't learn
in college, I'm reading as many psychology books
asIcan.
Ididn'tgointoallthedetailsofmyleave
of absence. YouknowwhyIcouldn't.I just told
her that something happened to someone I cared
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t i f f a n y g h o l a r 25
aboutanditmademeseethevalueofpsychiatry.
WhatI've learnedhasn'tcomefromtakingall the
right classes at all the right times. It's come
fromhavingmylifeturnedupsidedown.
ThenI askedherwho a troubledkid can
relate to more, someone who has always had it
easy,orsomeonewhoknowshowtoughlifecanbe
and didn't have to read about it in a textbook?
After all, isn't that what our profession is all
about,helpingpeoplecopewithwhatlifethrowsat
them?
ItriedtosoundconfidenteventhoughI
wassonervousandsoscaredthatshewouldtell
meno.IthinkIwastryingtoconvincemyselfas
muchasDr.HoffmanthatIreallywantedtojob.
Because honestly—and I know I've never told you
this—Istartedhavingmydoubtsaboutpsychiatry
from my very first day at Haven House. I've
alwaysbeenworriedI'mnotgoodenoughandmight
end up making a terrible mistake. Sometimes I
still wonder if I should have made the switch
fromradiology.It'ssomucheasiertolookatthe
pictures we can take with MRI machines or x-
rays and understand what's wrong with people. I
like feeling certain. But I told you why I
switched.IpromisedyouIwouldseeitthrough.
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a b i t t e r p i l l t o s w a l l o w26
Iwanttobeagoodsisterandkeepmypromise.
I think I got through to Dr. Hoffman.
After I stated my case, she said she needs to
know she can rely onme and trustme to finish
what I've started. She's not hiring any new
residents until July, but wants me to prove I'm
serious.Shehasanoldfriendwhohelpedstarta
small boarding school for kids with emotional
problems.Shesaidshewouldcallhimtoseeifhe
wouldhireme as one ofhis counselors, and that
ifthingsgowell,she'llconsiderme.
Thewholethingmakesmeuneasy.What if
thereare no openingsforcounselors?What ifDr.
Hoffman'sfriendisjustashardtopleaseasshe
is?What if things don't work out at the school?
What can I do, go back home to California? You
know I still can't. There are too many ghosts
there,toomanywrongsthatcanneverberighted.
So Dr. Hoffman's offer is better than
nothing.Shepromisedtocallassoonasshehears
from her old friend. So much depends on that
phone call. What if I've come to the end of my
career before it even begins? After all I went
throughtoapplytomedicalschoolandthenfinish,
could all of my time have been wasted? I have
workedsohardandwantedsomuch,andnowhere
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t i f f a n y g h o l a r 27
IamsoclosetofinishingwhatIstarted,yetso
close to losing it all.Idon'tdealwellwithsuch
uncertainty.
OnmywayoutofDr.Hoffman's office,I
saw someone I knew from medical school. I told
youaboutOmarbefore.He'sseventeennow,andis
about to start his internship. I don't know him
verywell,butIalwaysmakesureIspeaktohim
so he won't feel out of place. It must be tough
beingateenagerinmedicalschool.Omarwantsto
beabrainsurgeon,sohereallyhashisworkcut
outforhim.Butatleastheknowswhathewants
todo.
"You'llprobablybeboard-certifiedbeforeI
am,"Ijoked.
WhenOmarsmiledatme,Isuddenlyknew
that I still want to work with teenagers more
thananythingelse.
Fornow,Iwait.Ialreadyhadachanceto
getthingsorganizedaroundhereandbeabetter
roommatetoAnjali.Ievenfiguredoutwhattodo
with some of my old things from med school.
Beetlejuicethemodelskeletoniswearingmywhite
coat.
If wanting to put my medical training to
usewasn'tagoodenoughreasontomakemewant
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a b i t t e r p i l l t o s w a l l o w28
togooutintotheworldanddosomethinguseful,
daytime television certainly is. With Anjali out
delivering babies, the TV has been my only
companionsinceIquitmyresidency.YouknowI
always liked talk shows better than soap operas,
but there are only so many times I can watch
people on Oprah, Jenny Jones, Ricki Lake, and
SallyJessyRaphaelmaketheirprivatelivespublic.
Then there are the ads for The Psychic Friends
Network, vague commercials for a new
antidepressant ("Denoxamine - ask your doctor"),
andtheworstoffender:"Ifyoudon'tgethelpfor
yourtroubledteenatHavenHouse,pleasegethelp
somewhere." Reruns of 'Quincy' are all that have
sustained me. Watching him go on a crusade to
find the truth behind the medical mysteries he
solves reminds me of whyIwanted to become a
doctorinthefirstplace.Hopefullysoonthephone
will ring andIwill have another chance to prove
myself.
when th ey f i n d e a ch oth er ,
theyf indthemselves .On the edge of the Chicago medical district, the Harrison School forExceptionalYouthlookslikeacastleinasnowglobe.Janinahasbeentheresinceshewastenyearsold,andnowshe'sfourteen.Shefeelssosafeinsideitswallsthatshe'safraidtoleave.Devante'sparentsbringhimthereafteratragedy leaveshimdepressedandsuicidal. Eventhoughhe's inadifferentplace,hecan'tescapethememoriesthatcomefloodingbackwhenhe leastexpectsthem.Dr.GailThomascomestoworkthereafterquittinghermedicalresidency.Frustratedandonthevergeofgivinguponherdreams,sheseesbecomingacounselorasherlastchancetoputherskillstothetest.Whenhefoundedtheschool,Dr.Lutkindesigneditsuniqueenvironmenttobeaplacethatwouldchangethestudents'lives.Heworkshardasthekeeperofotherpeople's secrets, though he never shares any of his own. But everythingchangeslateinthewinterof1994whenthesefourcharacters'livesintersectinunexpectedways.Noneofthemwilleverbethesame.
"Agrippingnarrativesetinaworldofmultigenerationalcharactersfightingfortruth,integrityandwholeness."—KalishaBuckhanonKalishaBuckhanon,authorofUpstateandwinneroftheALEXAward
"Inthissmart,layeredstoryaboutlifeinaschoolfortroubledteens,thecharacterslearntoembracerecoveryandultimately,oneanother."—CalArmisteadCalArmistead,authorofBeingHenryDavid
Tiffany GholarTiffany Gholar is a lifelongresident of Chicago, Illinois. Sheis the author of three art books:Post-Consumerism, ImperfectThings, and The Doll Project. ABitter Pill to Swallow is her firstnovel, which started out as ashort story shewrote during thesummer of 1993 when she wasabouttobeginherfreshmanyearof high school. She studied art,creative writing and film at theUniversity of Chicago, whereadapting her story into ascreenplaywasherthesisproject.InadditiontotakingclassesinanMFAprograminfictionwritingatColumbia College, she alsostudied interior design atHarrington College of Design,and has a Masters Degree inpainting from Governors StateUniversity.Sheisanartist,writer,interior designer, and Jeopardy!champion.w w w . a b i t t e r p i l l 2 s w a l l o w . c o m
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