when they find each other, they find themselves....when they find each other, they find themselves. On the edge of the Chicago medical district, the Harrison School for Exceptional

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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mannerwhatsoeverwithouttheexpress

writtenpermissionofthepublisherexcept

forbriefquotationsinabookreview.

"Howl"byAlanGinsbergappearswith

permissionfromHarperCollins

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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

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA


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



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



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!"


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.


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.



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

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA


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




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




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



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



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




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.


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



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.



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?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA


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




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.




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




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.




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




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.




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




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




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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when they find each other, they find themselves....when they find each other, they find themselves. On the edge of the Chicago medical district, the Harrison School for Exceptional