"Chess".

“Hi!” said the gorgeous young lady from behind the front counter. She was smiling and exuded a gentle warmth and genuine kindness.

“Welcome to Nathan’s Wellness Retreat. You must be Annabella”.

I mumbled “ah, yeah, well, Annie”, looking firmly at the floor so that this well-meaning stranger wouldn’t see my eyes welling up with tears of humiliation and shame.

I had been driving on the night almost ten years before when I had killed my boyfriend Harry. Despite us only being 17, he was the love of my life but he liked to party and was drinking more and dabbling in drugs and that night was no different. I just wanted to get us both safely home and even though I didn’t have a license or much experience on the road, I was a pretty good driver and at least sober. The lady in the oncoming convertible came around the bend and I forgot to dip my headlights. The high beams must have blinded her and she ploughed head-on into us. My love, my world, my Harry died on impact, the lady (Corrine) had a few broken bones and endured years of rehabilitation.

I was the only one who walked away relatively unscathed – just a fractured arm and a few bruises. I felt like a cheat. If I could have switched places with Harry and let him live, I would have done so in a second. I probably still would if I had the chance, as every day is an agony I can barely endure. At least Harry was spared the awful existence I made myself live through every day. I deserved that, not him, but that was little consolation.

This is why I could not meet the nice lady’s eyes – I neither wanted nor deserved her smile or warmth. I had killed my best friend, changed a complete stranger’s life forever and made a complete mess of my life since. I was drunk at Harry’s funeral and apart from knowing I went I don’t remember much – my parents were there with me and were able to act as impromptu minders to stop me from causing a drunken scene, but I was hardly the epitome of dignity.

From then on only drinking and drugs numbed the pain. When they wore off and I had hangovers and withdrawals, I got to experience the pain I deserved, until I simply had to use again. I did some pretty awful things to finance this whirlpool of misery, including theft, dealing drugs, and selling my under-fed and over-used body, which felt as squalid and soiled as the places I would find to sleep during the day.

The cycle went on and I became more and more belligerent and angry at what had happened to me and at what I had done. Eventually after a bar fight over a cheap drug deal, I had a court-ordered blood test. The results revealed that I had done a lot of damage to my young body whilst ravaging it with drugs, alcohol and malnutrition.  

It also revealed that I was 8 weeks pregnant.

I don’t know to this day if the father was a customer, a one-night stand or just some random guy who “got lucky” enough to find an unconscious woman in an alley and raped her. I just knew that I suddenly felt that I had the most important mission I could ever be chosen for – to see this baby born to a healthy mother who would care for her, raise her well and allow her to have a happy life. In a good world, he or she would have been Harry’s and mine, and I planned to treat this beautiful little life as such.

I visited my mum and dad to ell them about the baby. They were so excited about the little one and that I wanted to get clean and raise this baby right. I guess long ago, before I became what I had become, I was THEIR baby and they still cared despite me constantly distancing from them and destroying myself, only stopping by for a sleep, some food or some money.

They had kept me on the family health insurance plan and so I qualified for private inpatient rehab in the next town. They produced the relevant pamphlet in record time from the hallway desk. God knows how long it had been sitting in there waiting for its chance to make a difference to my parent’s wayward daughter.

The pamphlet made me wonder if I could follow all the non-negotiable rules they listed. These included:

1.      No alcohol, tobacco or marijuana products (including vapes and alcohol containing mouthwash etc). Nicotine replacement therapy will be provided on request.

2.      No medications are to be taken except those prescribed by the doctor.

3.      All prescribed medications must be taken at the allocated medication times.

4.      All meals to be eaten in the communal dining room. Menu changes are only accepted if there is proof of special dietary needs from your referring doctor.

5.      Family/approved friends may visit for two hours on weekend days.

6.      Patients are to keep their rooms clean with weekly linen changes – no posters allowed.

7.      Breathalysers, drug tests and room inspections will be carried out randomly.

8.      All group and psychology/psychiatry appointments are mandatory.

9.      Wake up is at 6 am, with lights out at 10pm.

10.  No locks are permitted on patient room or bathroom doors.

11.  Patients are not allowed in other patient’s rooms.

12.  The hallways, grounds and patient’s rooms (not bathrooms) are covered by CCTV.

13.  Sexual relationships or close touching between patients are strictly forbidden.

14.  No tweezers, scissors, nail clippers, or objects containing glass eg photo frames are permitted.

On the plus side, the place did look like a holiday resort – happy healthy vibrant people having lunch on the deck, swimming in the pool, exercising in the gym and having one-on-one sessions with doctors and nurses who all carried clipboards and looked like they came straight out of a modelling agency portfolio.

Despite my reservations I felt I owed this to Harry and this little baby, whose life was so much more than my waste of a soul had added up to thus far. This didn’t stop me from wanting to jump out of the car door numerous times on the way there and just go back to the destructive life that was the easy way out, rather than put myself through hell getting sober.

After the lovely lady led me into the room for a clinical exam by the center’s GP, I was suddenly acutely aware of the damage I had done to my body. Blood tests were one thing – they were just numbers – but a scrawny body covered in bruises from abuse from men/clients/other hookers/dope dealers and needles made me so ashamed. The GP was sure to judge my terrible life choices and think I would be an unfit mother. I guess I couldn’t blame her for that but if he only knew how much I wanted this little baby…………they couldn’t take it away from me could they? I mean they can’t force an abortion but what if this is like a modern day Lebensborn and they took my baby away from me as soon as it was born for its own good? What if they didn’t even let me see it?

I needn’t have worried. The doctor was kind and although I could see the sadness in her face she showed no judgment and gave no lectures. She said that I had clearly suffered a lot and that I would begin my body healing with her and plenty of good food and rest. The counselors, psychologists and psychiatrists would help me heal my mind.

She started me on sedatives to ease our (the baby and I) withdrawals and the hope she instilled in me I’m sure helped just as much.

The food was OK, especially for someone not used to getting 3 squares a day, but the dining hall was like junior high and a prison combined. It took a few weeks to familiarise myself with the different cliques and learn where I could and could not sit without being antagonised. These people weren’t mean, they were just like me – used to self-reliance, trusting no one and struggling, fighting and being humiliated for every thing they managed to obtain. Everyone was at different stages of treatment and so some of us were like me – scared, shy, distrustful. Others were almost at the end of the program and were annoyingly happy and full of joy and the solid friendships they had made.

Groups were almost as intimidating, with everybody at different stages of progress and some more confident to share. For someone with low self-esteem like me, the idea of talking out loud about my addictions was terrifying. I did not mention Harry as I did not want him to be thought of as just another number. Many casualties, manslaughters and murders had been perpetrated by these people amid their addictions. I wanted to keep my Harry a secret as if I could keep him close to my heart and he not be spoken or thought about by these people. I felt I could keep him safe.

The first session with a psychologist was with my parents present, to discuss my first week’s progress and suitability for the ongoing program. My overall “report card” was not bad, including:

1.      No breaches of the alcohol and drugs rule

2.      Attendance at nearly all of the group sessions but a hesitance to speak or share

3.      I ate my meals slowly with a lot of moving food around the plate between bites but was improving

4.      I had shown interest in career aptitude tests to help plan a new life for me and the baby.

She spoke about how she was planning to get me clean and sober and able to care for a baby, but then pointed out that chances of relapses were real. She suggested that I live with my parents to help out with the baby to take some pressure off me and at worst, to act as guardians in case I relapsed. My parents were over the moon and left happily chatting about how they could turn the spare rooms into a room for me and a nursery.

I developed two sources of solace in the center. One was an old black and white cat who ignored almost everyone but seemed content enough living alone in the gardens. Harry had a black and white cat called “Chess” (thinking himself hilarious for the name) with similar markings. I dubbed this cat “Chess” and he approved of his new nickname by snuggling up to me when I sat in the garden reading during free time. The other was my psychiatrist, Dr Harold. As with the GP, I had expected a lecture on how I could have treated my body like that and potentially hurt my unborn child even before I knew I was pregnant.

Instead, in our first private session I was warmly greeted and asked to call him Nathan. He believed that he could help me with my addictions and set me up to be a functional and loving parent. He believed that no one WANTS to be an addict, especially to the point of destitution - instead, they are chasing things (brain chemicals, happiness, love, acceptance – you name it) that they are desperately missing and cannot figure out how to get in more acceptable ways.

He believed in Gabor Maté’s philosophy of “don’t ask why the addiction, but why the pain”. Oh God, this sounded too much like if I was going to trust this man to help me it was going to be all (Harry and Corinne and those damn high-beam lights), or nothing. Harry was the only person I had ever trusted. My parents hadn’t given me a reason not to trust them. My childhood had been fairly easy until the accident and since Harry died I had never let them in close enough to test their trust. Something deep down made me feel I could trust Nathan. There was something familiar about his kind smile (and the crinkles around his mouth and eyes that showed he smiled a lot), and the way he would try and stifle a laugh but then throw his head back and guffaw. He actually reminded me a bit of Harry and I guess I saw this as an omen that here was a man I could trust. He seemed so familiar – like an old family friend - that I asked him if we had met before and he assured me (which was the truth) that we had not.

I felt so calm and safe after meeting Nathan. With Nathan’s help the thought of being clean and having a little person to care for and love and give me a reason for living sparked a little burst of excitement deep in my ever-expanding belly. I had decided to name him or her “Harry” no matter the sex, as he or she really should have been his baby and I had always hated the name “Harriet” for a girl.

The appointment to discuss “the pain” came all too quickly and I was sick at the mere thought of admitting to this lovely man what had happened. I calmed myself by saying that lots of patients had done far worse things and when he asked me to start from the beginning I told him everything. I told him about Harry and how we had loved each other immediately. I told him that we had decided to wed and have babies only after we had both gone to college. I told him that I had been worried about Harry’s drinking but as he was never violent or belligerent it hadn’t bothered me much. We usually went by bus or caught lifts with friends so driving was never an issue before that night. He gave me his keys willingly unlike some guys who would act all manly (as in stupidly insisting on driving) in that situation.

I told him about the accident, that as an unlicensed driver I had left on my high beams and caused a crash that resulted in severe injuries to the other driver and the death of my beloved Harry. I described being caught upside-down in my seat belt and only being able to see Harry’s beautiful face crushed, his limbs at odd angles and the lack of any movement or breathing. He just ceased to be alive. I admit to being drunk at his funeral as I had started self medicating with alcohol the night it happened. Luckily my parents came for support and stopped me behaving outlandishly. I described the agonising guilt and my inability to see any value in my own life for many years until little “Harry” made his or her presence known. I admitted that I pretended it was Harry’s baby, so that my love for him or her would never be marred by wondering who the biological father was.

Nathan listened carefully and gravely. He took a notebook out of his desk that looked like one of those old-fashioned scrapbooks filled with photos and newspaper clippings. He asked me the date of the accident and of the funeral but I only remembered the first. A strange look crossed over Nathan’s face and tears sprung to his eyes.

He told me he could no longer be my psychiatrist but he wished me well and would find the best replacement he could. He simply said “Harry didn’t die that night, Nathan did” and there on the front page of the scrapbook was my Harry in his school photo as handsome and alive as ever.

“He went by Harry as he had thought it was a cooler name ever since he was a toddler and we just went along with it”.

I burst into tears and could not stop sobbing how sorry I was. Nathan said they had not met me officially but knew the situation with the unlicensed driving and high beam lights. He said “you made some errors of judgement and inexperience that night but you did NOT kill Harry”. If he was behind the wheel it is highly likely that all three people involved in the crash could be dead, or even more. It was an accident – a series of unfortunate events that have come close to ruining our marriage and our lives. My wife and I have never thought of you as the culprit. In fact we saw you and your parents at the funeral and so deeply wanted to console you but it was not the time or place”.

“We were getting increasingly worried about his drinking and suspected he was dabbling into marijuana… With the way his life ended, we have only this beautiful place to honour him with. We plan to save as many young people from going down the same path and giving a stepup to those who were already faltering.

As for you and your little baby, we have worried about how you would have taken things, and I love that you are considering this little one Harry’s baby. I would have to speak to my wife of course but I think between you, your parents, and my wife and I as grandparents, this little Harry could have every opportunity for a beautiful life.

Oh and thanks for keeping “Chess” company. He’s missed Harry terribly and I’ve never seen him so excited to meet a new patient. I suspect he remembers you or senses you were Harry’s. Chess was his first birthday present!