by Tom Lally
“Can you not tell anybody about this?” I asked.
Leighton continued to stare at me, but her face grew concerned and empathetic.
“I won’t, Drew,” she said.
Her hand touched my arm and I felt tremors running through it causing hers to shake as well.
“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” she said.
I paused for a moment, but I continued to stare down at the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’m always kind of nervous,” I said.
“You don’t trust many people, do you?” she asked.
I waited and thought about my answer. I wished I could have said she was mistaken, but she wasn’t. I shook my head. Leighton leaned down and peered into my sullen eyes.
“I would never hurt you. I promise,” she said.
Chapter 15
A few days later, I walked into the visiting center to meet Riley. I saw her sitting at the same table she’d sat at during her previous visits. She wore a white sweater and a pair of tight jeans. Her hair was neatly done with a few waves layered throughout.
Riley stood up once she saw me. We hugged as we normally did before sitting down across from each other.
“Pierce would kill you if he saw you wearing that,” she said, pointing at the Notre Dame logo on my T-shirt.
“I know,” I said. “I think that’s why I like it.”
I beamed while Leighton looked at me with a tragic smile.
“Has he visited you in here yet?” Riley asked.
“No. Why?” I asked.
“I left him a message telling him to come, but he never got back to me,” she said, “I don’t know when he turned into Dad, but he did.”
“I don’t mind not seeing him and he probably knows that,” I said. “It doesn’t matter to me what he thinks. In his view, I’m tainted and there is no changing that, so where the chips fall is where they’re gonna lie and if he can’t accept that, well then, that’s that.”
I didn’t fully believe those words as I spoke them. It was an easy answer to shield Riley from the painful reality, but I felt it’d be better than telling her that my dismissal from my own family burned deeply.
“Yeah, I guess. I just wish he wasn’t such an asshole about it. Anyway, what’s going with you? How’re you holding up?” she asked.
“I’m good. Got my bandages off and the stitches taken out,” I said and held up my wrists.
“I knew something looked different,” she said.
The stitches had been taken out the day before and only the scars remained. I turned my wrists over so she could see my cicatrices. Red, discolored skin that looked like poorly re-sewn bed sheets ran down each of my wrists. Riley glided her hand over them.
“How does it feel?” she asked.
“Not bad. They’re still a little sore, but it could be worse,” I said.
“Better than before,” she said.
“Absolutely,” I said.
We sat in agreement for a few moments while I touched my blemishes. I could feel Riley looking at me.
“You know, Drew, I’m really proud of you,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No, I really mean it. I never had to deal with any of this. I can only imagine what hell you were going through, but I’m really happy to see you’re getting better,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said.
I grinned at her and chuckled. It was good to see her ease back into a certain normalcy. No longer was she looking around the hospital walls with those same eyes I initially had, fearful and disbelieving.
Riley took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Please don’t cry,” I said.
“No, I’m good,” she said.
“You sure?” I asked again.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said with a smile. “So how many days do you have left?”
“I think I have eight more,” I said.
“That’s nice,” she said.
“Yeah, but I have no idea what I’m going to do then,” I said.
“Well, me and Brock have an extra bedroom. You’re gonna stay with us,” she said.
“Thanks, but I want to know something,” I said.
“What?” Riley asked.
“Is Dad forcing you to do this?” I asked.
“No. Not one bit,” she said. “Brock and I are here for you.”
“But what about work? Won’t I interfere?” I asked.
“No. You come first,” she said, “I might have to go away for a few weeks here and there, but most of it is in the city anyway. And Brock will be around.”
“I can probably rent a room in Queens or something,” I said.
“With what money?” my sister asked sardonically.
“I saved a lot. I might have to find a job so I can pay for school, but I think I’ll have enough for a one bedroom unless…” I said.
“Drew, Drew,” she interrupted me and put her hand on mine. She clenched tightly and interlocked our fingers as we rested our hands on the table.
“Stop. You don’t need to worry about this. Everything will be fine,” she said.
“I don’t want to bother anyone,” I said.
“Drew, you’re not a bother. You’re my brother,” she said.
I looked at her and nodded which was my feeble attempt at telling her I understood, but I didn’t fully buy into that idea. Living with my sister seemed like a solution, but I wondered how everyone I’d meet would react when I went to shake their hands.
“I’m gonna have to explain this to everyone from now on, aren’t I?” I asked.
“Fuck everybody else,” Riley said. “You don’t have to explain it to anyone if you don’t want to.”
Whenever Riley cursed, I knew she was being serious. Our family tendency to swear hadn’t afflicted her, but when she slipped into blasphemy, her words were more potent than normal.
“I guess not,” I said.
“Drew, no one needs to know unless you want them to. If you’re worried about the scars, say you fell or went to push open a glass door and the glass broke,” she said.
I snickered with a toothless smile.
“I think I might use that actually,” I said to her amusement.
“Me and Brock have a surprise for you when you get out of here,” she said.
“Not so much of a surprise anymore,” I said.
“Just wait. I think you’ll still be surprised,” she said.
***
I thought about her surprise through the night. I couldn’t even guess what it was. Knowing Riley, it could have been a set of car keys for when I got my license. She didn’t care if her bank account ran dry or if her career stalled due to my mental state. Her empathy forced me to make a choice about my future and I decided that when I got out of this place, I would not return.
The next morning, the alarm rang and we were told to meet in the common room. Helen and Natalie had herded us like bulls angrily waiting to be fed. A fold-up table had been set up in the common room with utensils and liters of juice. Dr. Phillips came out of her office in her white coat and black suit. Her stockings made her legs look darker than the skin on her arms or it could have been the black heels that made it seem that way. She walked into the common room and wiped the hair from her face, exposing light bags that had formed beneath her eyes.
“Today, we have a special breakfast planned. It is Otis’s final day with us,” she said and turned to Otis who was standing at the head of the group. We all clapped and a few high-pitched whistles sounded from the back of the room.
“So, we brought out a special breakfast for everyone. Today is also Otis’s birthday, so I’d thought we’d celebrate it here to start the day before he leaves and we…” she said and gesticulated with her arms partially raised, signaling us to finish her sentence.
“Never see him ever again,” the group said.
I remained silent, but I grinned as Dougie and Lucky brought out a birthday cake.
“Happy birthday to you,” they sang as they set his cake down on the table. We joined in.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to Otis. Happy birthday to you.”
Otis awkwardly walked up to the cake. As we finished the final note, he blew out the candles. Then he turned to us and smiled. His teeth were still showered with coffee stain colors. His loose jeans covered the tops of his lace-less construction boots, but his New York Knicks T-shirt looked brand new.
The wrinkles extending down the long sleeves created a perfect crest as if they’d been folded and left in a package for a while. Dr. Phillips handed him a dull knife. He cut through the vanilla cake, exposing the chocolate center and laid the piece on a paper plate. The rest of us formed a line and waited for Natalie or Helen to cut pieces for us. Dougie had gone into the nurses’ station and brought back two more liters of apple juice and plastic cups, which he put on the table next to the cake. Jared came walking out of the bathroom zipping up his jeans.
He saw us congregated around the cake.
“What’s all this?” he asked no one in particular.
“We’re celebrating Otis’s birthday and his last day,” Dougie said.
“How come I ain’t never got cake on my birthday?” Jared asked loudly.
“Because your birthday hasn’t happened yet,” Dougie said.
“Why does he get it?” Jared asked loudly again.
“I told you already,” Dougie said.
“Fuckin’ stupid. It’s just a goddamn birthday,” Jared told everyone.
He turned around from everybody and walked back to his room, stomping loudly in his boots so everyone could hear him. I turned to see Dougie shaking his head as he watched Jared turn into his room. I then saw Otis sitting on the couch with a vacant seat next to him and went over.
“Mind if I sit?” I asked.
Otis tried to answer with his mouth full, but instead decided to smile and quickly dropped his hand, gesturing me to take a seat.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bigger bite than I thought.”
I laughed as he sucked down the rest with the help from his apple juice. I took a bite and swallowed quickly before turning to him.
“I didn’t know you were done,” I said.
“Yeah, me neither. I found out yesterday,” he said.
“No treatment clinic?” I asked.
Otis shook his head at me, his dreadlocks swinging with every turn of his neck.
“I wasn’t on a treatment program. They told me they felt I was ready to leave and I agreed. So, here I go,” he said. I was glad to see his rotten smile. His skinny frame looked healthier as opposed to the skin-covered bones I met when I first got here.
“No more hallucinations?” I asked.
“Here and there. I haven’t seen that scary dude in a while,” he said.
“That’s good. What about Molly?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t seen here either, but I’ve always known they’re not real, thank God,” he said.
“Congrats,” I said. “So what’s next? Heading back to the Upper East Side?”
Otis scoffed and smiled at me.
“Nah, man, fuck that. I’m heading down to New Orleans, actually. My cousin has a construction gig lined up down there,” he said.
I envied his rebuttal to his upbringing. I was too scared to ever stray far from home, but Otis seemed like the type that could go anywhere without doubting his ability to adapt.
“What about you? You only got a week left, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, man. I’m moving in with my sister in the city,” I said.
“Where in the city?” he asked.
“71st between 2nd and 3rd,” I said.
“Nice, you should check out Oscar’s on 60th and Lexington. It’s a nice bar with good food. Check it out,” he said.
“Will do,” I said.
Otis finished the rest of his cake and swallowed the final gulp of juice in his cup. He put his trash on the ottoman before Lucky appeared behind the couch.
“Hey, Otis, it’s time. Your cousin is downstairs,” Lucky said.
“Looks like that’s my cue,” Otis said.
We stood up and I extended my hand to him. His grabbed it and pulled me in tightly.
“It’s been fun,” he said.
“It was great knowing you,” I said.
“You too, Drew,” he said.
We let each other go and Otis picked up his trash, discarding it in the garbage can. Dr. Phillips then started to speak.
“Everyone, please say goodbye to Otis,” she said.
“Goodbye, Otis,” everyone said in unison. We all waved our hands at him. He smiled back.
“Goodbye, everybody,” he said.
Otis then turned around and joined Lucky as they walked down the hall on his way to exile. I watched as he smiled with Lucky and laughed so his head tilted back. Happiness had grown within him, despite the needle scars on his arms and his teeth that were the same color as dried leaves. Leighton came over and touched my shoulder.
“What’re you thinking about?” she asked.
“Seven more days,” I said. “Seven more days.”
Chapter 16
Three days later, I sat in the common room, talking with Leighton about her drawings and new ideas that she would sketch in her sketchbook.
I was eager for our daily commitment to sharing each other’s work. Hours upon hours, we spent talking about our hobbies that one day would, hopefully, manifest themselves as careers. I’d let her read something I’d written the night before while she’d give me a sketch she was working on. Women swinging sledgehammers into private golf clubs with a sign reading ‘Men Only’, the legs of a woman wearing high heels and the legs of a child wearing dirty sneakers as they stand next to each other in a deli line. The glass counter display held dishes of food with markers showing the names of each. Tuna Salad next to Greek Salad next to Tossed Green Salad and so forth.
I picked her brain on her influences and listened while she detailed the Realism movement in France following the revolution in 1848. I felt her superiority as she talked to me about Pat Conroy, from his cookbooks to his lesser known works like My Losing Season, and J.D. Salinger all the while avoiding The Catcher in the Rye.
Her knowledge overwhelmed me. I didn’t know whether to ask questions or simply wait for her to speak since it always seemed she could read my mind. Her hair danced across her eyes and her laugh triggered an answering smile from me.
I’d never met someone like her before and I felt the strange new pull of attraction that I’d always tried to avoid. Attraction brought me new worries and a painful reminder that someone could grow closer and possibly hurt me, but meeting someone in a psychiatric ward was slightly different.
This place, navigated by people who either felt worthy of being placed here or those of us who were deemed necessary to be here, were all connected by our presence in the same building. It was like war veterans reuniting when their hair turns white and their tattoos have morphed into wrinkled green skin or ex-ballplayers who appear at the All-Star game to commemorate the era they played in. It was a certain bond that existed, whether you wanted to be a part of it or not.
Protection and a mutual safety were structured around sharing in group therapy which shackled us together like an emotional chain gang. While none of us knew everything about each other, the recognition of being a psychiatric ward patient was something that was collective. We couldn’t judge each other based on the scars we’d inflicted on ourselves or the pills we had to take. I knew Leighton felt it when she willingly cried into my arms. It didn’t matter if my face was sheared open by a pair of scissors. We were connected regardless.
“How many days do you have left? Only a couple, right?” I asked Leighton as she stuck her pencil in the spine of her sketchbook.
“Yeah, I’m out of here tomorrow morning,” she said.
“How’re you feeling about it?” I asked.
“Good. I�
�m excited to get back to the city,” she said.
“I’m moving there too,” I said.
“Really?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m moving in with my sister,” I said.
“I thought you lived out here,” she said.
“I do, well, I did, but now I’m moving in with my sister,” I said.
“How come?” she asked.
“It’s a very long and boring story,” I said.
“Got a long time before tomorrow,” she said.
“It’s not something worth telling. I don’t want to throw my shit on top of it, especially if you’re getting out of here tomorrow,” I said.
“How about you tell me when you’re out of here?” she asked.
“How so?” I asked.
“Call me,” she said.
“I don’t have your number,” I said.
“I left it in your notebook. The same page as the first poem I read,” she said.
“You sure you want to put up with someone like me when you’re in the real world?” I asked.
“We’ve been here, Drew. The real world sounds like a piece of cake,” she said.
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
“How about we find out after we get out of here?” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
***
My mind wandered towards the day when I would be released. I paced around my room, back and forth for hours that night as I worried about everything that could go wrong.
I sat up in bed when I got tired of walking, but I could barely sleep, waking after a few hours clothed in sweat. My shirt stuck to my body while the hair on my legs felt cold and wet. I rushed to grab a towel and take a shower. I wanted to clean up before Leighton left. I felt the patchy beard on my face. It made me look older and more cynical, but I liked that image. Once I was in the bathroom, I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror.
“Since when do you care what you look like?” I asked myself.
I’d never cared in the past. All of the clothes I owned fit in a small gym bag. I’d always had stubble on my face. My hair was usually a wreck since my philosophy was similar to golf’s rule, ‘play it where it lies’. I hadn’t used a comb since my elementary school graduation. I continued staring at myself, begging to understand why I was so nervous about this even though I knew why. I heard the shuffling of footsteps coming down the hall and turned my head quickly, waiting for the door to open, but it didn’t and I returned my gaze back to the mirror.