The Broken

THE BROKEN

By J.E. Hopkins

Copyright 2011 J.E. Hopkins

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Jeff Barnes

Chapter 2 – Carrie

Chapter 3 – The Sessions

Chapter 4 – Aunt Roxy

Chapter 5 – The Mathers Family

Chapter 6 – Healers and Saviors

Chapter 7 – Brooke Jamison

Chapter 8 – Birthdays

Chapter 9 – David Marks

Chapter 10 – Justin Douglas

Chapter 11 – Sarah Crawford

Chapter 12 – Foster Care

Chapter 13 – Prisoner #9846-130

Chapter 14 – Anna Breckenworth

Chapter 15 – Joe’s Gift

Chapter 16 – Confrontation

Chapter 17 – Confession

Chapter 18 – The Road to Redemption

Chapter 1: Dr. Jeff Barnes

I used to have all these dreams and hopes, and now I have nothing. I have lost everything and everyone, and it’s all my fault. Everything good in my life I destroyed, and now it’s all gone. I’m numb. I’m empty. I can’t remember feeling anything else. I don’t want this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to hurt anybody else. I’ve caused too much pain, and now I have to make it right for everyone. Good-bye.

Dr. Jeff Barnes had played and replayed this tape, the voice of a former patient and domestic abuse victim named Sarah Crawford, now dead by her own hand. Now it was another day, another session, and another patient to try to save. Carrie Mathers would enter this office soon. Would she be looking for deliverance? He knew he was.

For almost fifteen years, Dr. Barnes treated hundreds of abused boys and girls, men and women. He had built a reputation as a venturesome and empathetic clinician, undaunted by the direst case.

Dealing with abuse victims requires a special ability to be understanding, compassionate, and strong, all assets he used in his work. He had a special gift for listening and hearing, catching the meaningful word or breath or inflection that might illuminate the rest of what a patient said.

After Sarah, he refused to treat any more abuse victims. Bring me the schizophrenics and the manic depressives, but no more abused kids, he told Dr. Peter Franks, Chief of Psychiatric Medicine of Branton Psychiatric Hospital. Despite the pleas of Dr. Franks, Dr. Barnes intended for Sarah Crawford to be the last abuse victim he treated He did not intend to add more weight, more names, to the burden of failure he already carried.

Abuse victims were such a different challenge. These victims were clinging to the edge of an overhang and hoping someone would pull them to safety. Dr. Barnes had often offered that rescuing hand. Yet Sarah had slipped away before he could grab her—before he realized she was falling. By the time he reached for her, Sarah was gone. And he was left with the guilt and pain of knowing that he had contributed to an abuse victim’s final downfall.

For years, parents and colleagues begged him to treat an array of broken children, but he had refused that dark journey that had ended so ruinously three years ago. Although many of his colleagues tried to convince him that Sarah’s death was not his fault, he did not believe their words—he knew they did not believe them either. His mistake was a topic of many conversations. There seemed to be no way to move beyond this mistake. He could not escape his lingering guilt.

He had also managed to alienate his wife, Tracey, to destroy his marriage, and to sacrifice his sobriety. Drunkenness might have cost him his life and his career as well. Having spent the evening with a bottle of Jack Daniels at O’Neill’s saloon, he lost control of his car and rammed a telephone pole. He was rushed to Jefferson Memorial Hospital. He got off lightly with a mild concussion, a broken wrist, and a broken rib.

The hospital tested his blood alcohol level, which was .16, well above the legal limits. The hospital was prepared to alert the police, but Dr. Franks convinced them to allow him to handle the situation. As Dr. Barnes had not harmed anyone else, and Dr. Franks promised to make sure he got the help he needed, the Chief of Emergency at Jefferson agreed to allow Dr. Franks to take care of this situation.

Dr. Franks demanded that Dr. Barnes seek help. Dr. Barnes reluctantly agreed to take medication for his depression and to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings regularly.

After several months, Dr. Barnes showed signs of improvement, but he was still reluctant to treat abuse victims. Without alcohol as a buffer between him and his memories, he feared that he would never escape his past failures. Then Dr. Franks asked him to review a new file. For no reason he understood, something about this file inspired him.

Carrie Mathers’s file was not unlike those of many abuse patients he had treated throughout the years. Typically he would have rejected her case—yet another girl victimized by a close family member—and passed her file to a colleague. Some impulse compelled him to see her, though. On paper, as he reviewed her file at Saint Peter’s Memorial Hospital in Pleasantville, she seemed both different and familiar.

He first met her in her hospital room. Carrie lay in her bed; she faced the small window overlooking the parking lot. Intravenous sedation probably accounted for her calm expression; restraints prevented the possibility of further self-harm. Thick bandages around her wrists hid the wounds caused by a sharp razor and a strong desire to escape this world.

As he stood in the doorway, watching her and noting the bandages on her wrists, panic hit, and he turned away. Then he knew that she had seen him and turned to meet her eyes—piercing, penetrating eyes.

Able or not, ready or not, he knew he’d be taking her case.

Chapter 2: Carrie

While the medical doctors stabilized his patient, his anticipation rose. He recognized the revival of that driving urge to heal. He actually wanted to get started.

At noon on the day of her first session, Carrie was ushered into his office by one of the hospital attendants. She was dressed in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. The bandages were no longer on her wrists, but she kept her arms close to her body, hiding the evidence of her wounds. The paleness of her skin made her dark hair and ocean-blue eyes even more striking.

You must be Carrie Mathers. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Jeff Barnes.

Carrie did not respond. She barely glanced in his direction. He motioned for the hospital attendant to leave, hoping that would make Carrie more comfortable. After the attendant left, he asked Carrie to sit. She slowly walked over to the black leather couch near the window in his office. He noticed her right hand trembling ever so slightly. He wondered if she might be as afraid of him as he was afraid of the possibility of failing her.

The black leather couch is pretty corny, but it’s comfortable, he said, hoping to ease the inevitable anxiety of their first meeting. Carrie did not utter a word. Her long, dark brown hair curtained her face. Then she tucked it back and fixed her eyes upon him.

I’m not crazy, she said sternly.

I’m not crazy either, although some people might argue that point, he responded. Humor sometimes helped. "Crazy is such an overused term. Depending on how you define it, we are all probably a little crazy. Look, I don’t think you’re crazy." Meanwhile, his body betrayed his tension: his right leg twitched, and his fingers insisted on adjusting his glasses and messing with his hair.

Carrie watched him do those things. Then she asked reasonably, If you don’t think I’m crazy, then why are you so afraid of me? I’m the one who should be scared, not the doctor. Are you new at this or something? Don’t you have to go to school to do this job?

He took a deep breath and faced this young woman. Even if he was not totally convinced about his own abilities, he had to convince her.

I’ve been doing this since you were a baby. The diplomas on the wall demonstrate my professional qualifications. I may seem like a novice—I admit that I’m a little nervous now... There’s no shame in being afraid. When you meet someone for the first time, it’s natural to feel some anxiety. You don’t know quite what to say or what to do. It takes time to feel comfortable around a new person, especially in this type of situation. I need you to trust me and talk to me, and that’s a lot to ask of someone you’ve never met before.

What are you so afraid of? Carrie asked.

Failure. You never know how a patient’s going to respond. Every patient is different. Some yearn for help and are very responsive to it. Others want the doctor to disappear. Some even want to strangle me. I have had that situation on more than one occasion. I don’t get the impression that you want to kill me right now. It usually takes about half an hour with me before my patients want to kill me. Is it fair to say that thus far, you’re not at the point where you feel the need to strangle me?

Not yet, Carrie responded with the slightest hint of a smile.

Well, that’s a relief. I was hoping to make it through a few meetings before you felt the need to strangle me.

Finally fear had subsided, at least for the moment. He assured Carrie that he wanted her to be here and wanted to work with her.

As I started to say before, Carrie I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t think you’re crazy. I want to help you. I’m anxious to help you. I know you have gone through some horrific things, and I want to help you survive them. I want you to be comfortable, and I want you to feel that you can talk to me so I can help you. I have no delusions that this will be easy. It will be hard for both of us, but I believe that we can do this together. I can help you if you let me. The question is, will you let me?

She looked at him for a moment, and then said, "All right, can you help me get out of this place? I don’t belong here. I know I have problems and that I’m not completely okay, but I don’t belong here. Help me get out of here. I’m not a threat to hurt anyone, but I’m locked up in here like a prisoner."

Are you a threat to yourself?

Carrie did not respond.

Look, no one is completely okay. If they say they are, they’re lying, he assured her. You have been doing well in the two weeks you have been here. If you continue to improve, you will be moved to another part of the facility that feels more like a home rather than a hospital. We need to make sure it will be safe for you.

A home? Maybe I’m better off in a hospital. Home has never been safe for me.

At that, he felt a tingle of the old clinical excitement; perhaps the real dialogue was ready to begin. Tell me about your home.

But Carrie did not. She appeared deep in thought. Finally she responded with a direct question.

How long do I have to come here? Carrie asked.

Am I boring you already?

There was almost another hint of a smile, but she suppressed it. "No, I’m not bored. I just don’t need to sit here and tell you my life story. Why bother? What can you do to fix it? It is what it is, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do to change it. I’ve seen other doctors who were ‘anxious’ to help me. Their idea of helping me was dosing me with Prozac, Paxipam, and Effexor. All these drugs cloud my mind and stop me from thinking. I don’t need to be in a drug-induced catatonic state. I need for all of you to allow me to feel what I want to feel. I get that you have a job to do, and my father is paying you handsomely to see that you do it. Look, if I give you the short version, could we end this meeting and all others? That should take care of his bill. You could say you tried, but I was beyond hope—Poor Carrie Mathers is a lost cause. He would certainly believe it. He gave up on me, and that’s why he sent me here."

Carrie, you’re right when you say that I can’t change what has happened to you. I don’t know about the other doctors you’ve seen, but I want to help you reach a point where you can survive despite what you have gone through. This is not about your father or his money. This is about me helping you get to a better place. This is about me being your doctor and you being my patient. You need to get better, and I want to help that happen.

You’re assuming that I want to?

I think you want to, deep down inside. Maybe you’re afraid that you can’t.

Too much, too soon! You’ve spent, what, forty minutes with me? And that makes you an expert on what I’m feeling? Carrie glared at him while he absorbed that. You don’t know the first thing about me, she added. "If you did, you’d know I’m not afraid that I can’t move on. I know I can’t. There is no moving on from this. Then the flare was over, the anger blinked out. I see him every time I close my eyes. He lives in my head, in my dreams. I think he’ll always be there. I think life’s a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I’d settle for sleeping without seeing him. Do you think you can make that happen?"

I’ll try if you will, said Dr. Barnes.

Expressionless, she considered him and his readiness to try. Maybe you really do want to help. I appreciate that, but there’s nothing you can do for me.

He pressed on. Maybe I can help you be less afraid. Talk about your fears. Who’s this person who haunts your dreams and thoughts? The answer was in the file, but he wanted her to tell him, to trust him with it. The next few moments, though, were silent ones. He felt her exhaustion and desolation keenly.

Finally he tried to reroute the session. Why don’t we just start from the beginning? Tell me about yourself. Tell me anything. Just talk to me.

You want my bio? Okay. My mother died in a car accident in Pennsylvania when I was four. My father lived in Florida somewhere, and no one knew how to reach him. I lived with . . . she paused for a moment and then continued. I lived with my Mom’s brother and his wife after Mom died. They were the only ones who wanted me. Well, they really didn’t want me—at least my uncle didn’t want me to live with them. The point is that there was no family left to take me in, so they did. My aunt drank herself to death when I was eight. I’m currently seventeen, and I think our time is up. If it’s okay, I would like to go back to my room.

Dr. Barnes looked at his clock and realized that the hour was gone. She looked grateful; he was disappointed. He offered to talk longer, but she said she was tired and wanted to return to her room.

An orderly was waiting outside to escort Carrie back there.

I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow. He offered Carrie his number and told her she was welcome to contact him at any time. She politely accepted the card, but he was confident she would never call.

Dr. Barnes watched the attendant escort her out of his office. As he watched her leave, he thought about their conversation. She was remarkably bright and intuitive as well as depressed and suicidal, but her scars and the two other suicide attempts recorded in her file made her vulnerability impossible to ignore. She had picked up on his fear. He was, indeed, afraid; afraid he would lose Carrie, the way he lost Sarah.

Chapter 3: The Sessions

How did you sleep last night? he asked her the next day at noon.

I didn’t, she responded. Evidently exhausted, she also seemed more relaxed.

He seized the moment, the possible chance. What happened last night? What kept you awake?

Carrie looked intently at the floor while readying a defensive response.

Do you sleep well every night? she finally retorted. Insomnia is a common problem. It doesn’t mean I’m insane and belong in a mental hospital.

This was the second time she had mentioned being perceived as crazy or insane. I never said you were insane, Dr. Barnes hastened to tell her, and I don’t believe you’re remotely close to that point. I think you’re a very bright young woman. You seem very concerned about being considered crazy. Has someone called you crazy before? Why does it bother you so much?

Would you want to be thought of as crazy? Carrie sighed and looked at her folded hands. Kids at school used to make fun of me all the time. I guess I was a loner. I didn’t have any friends. Kids called me ‘Crazy Carrie.’ I felt like the girl in the movie, but unfortunately, I’m not telekinetic.

Dr. Barnes acknowledged her small joke with a smile.

I guess I probably did seem a bit crazy. My world was certainly crazy, so maybe I was a little crazed as well. But I’m not now. I know what I want, I know how I feel. I just need you and everyone else to leave me alone so I can help myself. I was alone for thirteen years, and now I can’t get you guys to leave me alone when I need it the most. Go save someone else. There are plenty of people who want to be saved. You can’t fix me. My dad can’t fix me. No one can.

What does helping yourself mean? Death?

Not only would Carrie not answer that question, she refused to answer any personal questions for the remainder of the session and for the remainder of that week and the next.

She started asking him questions during their sessions. He answered, hoping she would feel comfortable revealing something.

So, Doc, are you married? Do you have kids?

I was once married, but now I’m divorced. I have a son and a daughter. Conner is eight, and Taylor is five.

Why did you get divorced? You’re probably one of those workaholics who spend every moment working even when their supposed to be spending time with their families. Did you neglect your family? Was work more important than them? It sounds like you had a nice little family. If I had that kind of family, I would hold onto my family with everything I had. I certainly wouldn’t allow any mental patients to come between my family and me.

Dr. Barnes refused to discuss the details of his failed marriage with his seventeen year old patient. He was not ready to discuss the end of his marriage with anyone. We’re not here to talk about my ex-wife or kids. We’re here to talk about your life.

Changing the subject again, Carrie asked, Why did you become a psychiatrist?

I know this will sound clichéd, but helping others makes me feel better about myself. I want to make a difference for others, and I want to help my patients get to a better place.

Sounds pretty selfish to me. You want to help people so that you feel good about yourself?

That’s not what I meant. I don’t help people so that I can feel good about myself. That’s just a benefit of this job. I help people because I can, and I want to, and it feels good to do so.

If you’re so good at helping people and fixing things, then why couldn’t you fix your marriage? Maybe it’s because some things can’t be or aren’t meant to be fixed, just like some people aren’t either, Doctor.

No. I don’t believe that. I have seen people change and recover from situations where some would not bother fighting. I believe everyone can heal if they want to be healed. The problem is, some people are just too afraid to try. Healing is painful, but the end reward is worth the struggle. The peace you feel when the healing is complete is worth all the pain you suffer to get there.

Have you healed from all your pain?

No, but I’m trying. And I’m going to keep trying.

I’m tired of trying. I’ve tried, Doctor, but there is always more pain waiting for me and no sign of peace anywhere. I don’t think I can wait forever to feel okay. I just want to close my eyes, sleep peacefully, and wake up feeling excited about the day. Just one time is all I need. I don’t want to wait until I’m an old lady to feel that way. I can’t wait that long. I don’t want to spend years stuck in the same dark hole with no light shining to help me find my way out.

Maybe I can be your light. Let me help you find your way out.

Like you said, Doctor, some people are just too afraid to try.

Having opened up briefly, Carrie slammed shut. She refocused on Dr. Barnes; she asked him questions. The session started feeling like a job interview, with the good doctor as the candidate. Hoping for another moment of candor, he played the game. He would occasionally slip in a question about her life, but she would say nothing. Carrie, calm and polite and apparently numb, played the game better. Dr. Barnes could imagine her playing this game all these years, polite and tactful, with perfect timing. No doubt she had stayed out of trouble, and few had noticed her or suspected that she concealed desperate secrets.

Finally, after ten such sessions, she opened the door, and Dr. Barnes raced in before she had a chance to shut it again.

It’s been two weeks. I want out of this loony bin. I’m not crazy, and I don’t belong with people who talk to themselves, starve themselves, or cut themselves for the joy of pain, she explained.

He pointed out the obvious: You cut yourself. Before she could argue, Dr. Barnes continued. I can see the scars on your wrists. Does that make you crazy? You’re in a part of this hospital reserved for teenagers who’ve harmed themselves. None of these kids are crazy. They just need help like you do.

This response finally prompted an emotion from Carrie. I didn’t cut myself for the fun of it or because I want to feel pain. Believe me, I hurt enough. I just wanted out, and since it’s my life, I should have the right to end it when and how I want. It’s none of your damn business, she cried. I don’t need your help. I need you to leave me the hell alone. You have already lied to me. You told me I would get out of this hellhole in two weeks. Well, that time is up, and I’m still trapped here like a caged animal. Let me out!

Dr. Barnes proceeded carefully; a mistake might make her raise her shield again, and they would be at their familiar impasse.

The two weeks was conditional upon improvement in your condition. You still won’t talk to me. I’m not sure if you’re better because you won’t tell me anything. I’m not going to send you to home when I have concerns that you’re just as suicidal as you were when I first met you. If you want out, prove to me that you’re better. Talk to me. Don’t ask me questions. Tell me about you and your life. Tell me how you ended up here, and I may be able to help you leave.

Carrie stood up and walked towards the window. She stood there for what felt like hours, but it was more like five minutes. Dr. Barnes did not utter a word. He’d thrown the ball into her court. It was up to her to take the next step. Finally she did.

"So what if I’m suicidal? Is that really such a