American Outlaw - Jesse James [144]
“So I take off running into the darkness, my heart racing, scared out of my mind of the dark, afraid that my dad’s going to beat the shit out of me . . . I run, but there’s a low fence, and I trip and land on my arm.”
Tim and Phil enacted the scenario, and I watched them, remembering.
“My arm’s broken for sure, but I still limp over and go find the football. I throw it back to my dad with the arm I didn’t land on,” I said. “Then I come back to the house, and I’m crying bad. But my dad just stands over me and laughs at me.”
You dummy.
“How are you doing, Jesse?” Ben asked. “Is it okay to continue?”
I didn’t say anything. I was lost in remembering.
I remember, it was a greenstick fracture, the kind that happens to kids’ bones. I was so young they gave me only a local anesthetic . . . so they strapped me down to the table and gave me a racquetball to bite down on . . . they bent my hand all the way back, until it touched flesh. Then bam, they set it . . . the pain was so intense, it squeezed tears out of my eyes. But I didn’t cry.
“Jesse? Everything okay?”
I looked up at the group. “Yeah,” I said. My eyes were wet. “Thanks. That was pretty intense. Man, to watch it . . .”
“Is there anything else you want to share?”
I thought for a second. “I was always scared of hospitals after that. I told everyone I hated them. But the truth is, I was totally frightened of being in them. They always reminded me of that night.”
I laughed softly, relieved to speak the truth to a group of people. So many emotions were running over me, from grief to giddiness to this strange sense of solace. They merged and mixed, and somehow, they all felt like something I wanted to let in.
——
As the days wore on, things got better—a little easier. I kept going to my therapy sessions, and even tried some new ones just for the hell of it. EMDR spooked me, but I did it. Equine therapy was a blast—those horses are wise, there’s no way to hide from them. Hell, I even went to AA meetings, even though I had never been into them before. At the end of the day, I felt exhausted and wrung out. But my insides were becoming more spacious. Instead of a bunch of rage and pushed-down feelings, it was like there was suddenly more room for things to circulate.
One day Fay, the older woman who’d greeted me on my first morning at Sierra Tucson, motioned for me to come over to her.
“Jesse,” she whispered. “Let me talk to you for a second.”
“What’s up, Fay?” I asked, smiling. I liked nearly everybody at Sierra Tucson, but she was definitely one of my favorites, partly because I’d met her first, and partly because, looking at her, you could tell that she’d been a real crazy chick when she was younger. She kind of had that strut to her.
“Every morning I listen to Howard Stern on the way to work,” she said softly, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening in on us. “They’re talking about you, every single day!”
I grinned. “Hey, it’s news, I guess. What all does Howard have to say?”
“Oh, they just say that you’re in rehab, I guess for sex addiction.”
“Sounds like Howard,” I said, laughing. For some reason, being safe inside these walls, the idea of my name being batted around on a national scale didn’t bother me at all. It had a tinge of unreality to it even. “We’ll set ’em straight when I get out, I guess.”
“I’ll keep you informed on all breaking news,” Fay said, winking at me. “Hang in there, Jesse, I can tell you’re doing real good.”
Fay wasn’t my only cheerleader. I guess the word had gotten out where I was: maybe those cops really had sold their story, the fuckers. As a result, I started to get mail on an almost daily basis. Receiving letters from friends who pledged their support meant a lot to me, but it was the letters from the random chicks in jail that made me laugh the most.
Hey there, soldier, what’s good with you?
I know you don’t know me but my name is Callie and as you can see I am in penitentiary right now . . . I am 31 years old and I have black hair, brown eyes, I am covered