I Wish You Happy: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  “Thanks for taking me. I had no idea that so many people cared about Oscar.”

  “Did you ever consider that it might not be Oscar they care about?” His voice sounds roughened, husky, and maybe he’s the one who needs a dimmer switch, because that full-on intensity is lighting up every nerve cell in my body.

  “That whole Event business, you mean?”

  “It’s not what I mean at all.”

  His gaze is locked with mine. Looking away would be an impossibility. I can’t move, can barely catch my breath. When his head bends down over mine I quiver, a small tree in a big wind.

  But the moment passes, and there is no kiss.

  “Good night, Rae. Get some sleep,” he says in a strangled voice. My stomach follows him when he walks away, as if it’s attached to a rubber band. I feel boneless and limp, relieved and a little lost. Maybe I am too much of a freak for him after all. But no, he wants to go camping with me. If I stand out here much longer staring at the door, he will think I’m a freak for sure, so I turn the key and go inside.

  All of the kittens are meowing. They are not in the carrier. Two of them huddle together in the middle of the floor. Feeding equipment and formula sit out on the counter. One bottle is full of formula; the others are empty and clean, precisely where I put them.

  Kat lies on the couch, eyes closed, apparently asleep. Unless she cleaned everything up and put it exactly where I left it, the kittens haven’t been fed since I left. Their box is soiled.

  I switch on the overhead lights to see better.

  “Kat! Are you sleeping?”

  Her eyelids flicker open, but I’m not sure if she sees me. Her eyes are glassy, dazed. In the bright overhead light she looks washed out and faded.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs, and then her eyelids drift shut again.

  “Where are the rest of the kittens? Have you fed them?”

  “It’s—I can’t . . .”

  Her lips barely move. Maybe she’s drugged. I do a quick mental check. Did I lock up all the medications? Yes. I have a clear memory of that. Just to be sure, I check the lockbox. Still locked. I open it. Everything there and accounted for. On the way I retrieve another kitten, making the count in my head.

  Three.

  When I look at Kat again, I see that her breathing is rapid, not slowed way down like it would be with too many pain pills. “Are you all right? What’s the matter?”

  “Jus’ tired.” She’s slurring as badly as Mason, but there’s no alcohol in the house. Kneeling beside the couch, I reach for her wrist to check her pulse. She pulls it away from me, but her movements are weak, uncoordinated.

  “Rae . . . please . . .”

  I peel back the blanket that covers her and stand there, frozen with shock. The blanket is wet with blood. Her shirt is soaked with crimson. I grab her hand and rotate her arm, staring stupidly at the stain, at my own bloody fingers.

  “What did you do?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I peel back the sleeve.

  Her forearm is swathed in blood-soaked bandages. “It’s nothing,” she croaks. “Just a little cut. Fine.”

  “You’re in shock. How long have you been bleeding?”

  Her eyelids drift shut again, and she doesn’t answer.

  “Kat! Don’t you dare go to sleep.”

  I squeeze her arm, tight; she gasps with the pain and her eyes open. “Don’t be mad, Rae. I just . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear it. You can tell me later.”

  She needs an ambulance, but I don’t want to let go long enough to call one. The kittens are mewling piteously, and three of them are still unaccounted for, and it’s hard to think. If only I’d brought Cole in, if he’d wanted to come in, I’d have an extra pair of hands, an extra brain.

  But he’s not here, and it’s up to me.

  Keeping a tight grip on Kat’s wrist with one hand, elevating it above her heart, I use the other hand to dial 911. When dispatch comes on, I’m surprised to hear my own steady voice giving clear details.

  Severe laceration. Shock. Possible suicide attempt. My address.

  When I end the call, Kat’s eyes are open and looking at me. Tears roll down her cheeks. She turns her face away toward the back of the couch, and we stay there like that, not talking, me squeezing her wrist so hard my hands start to cramp. Still, blood seeps through my fingers and runs down my arm, and hers.

  It’s the accident scene all over again, with the difference that this time I’m not sure she’ll thank me for saving her life.

  The woman on the ambulance crew is the same one who responded when I hit Kat with my car. She shakes her head, sadly, as if reading everything between the lines, and then gets directly to work.

  “Life is good here,” she says to Kat. “Don’t be in such a hurry to move on.”

  Her hands are busy, purposeful. Her actions measured. How many times has she acted her part in scenes just like this one? Her partner gets an IV going and radios in to the hospital, reporting low blood pressure, rapid pulse, shock.

  My role switches from active participant to audience member, hoping the screenwriter believes in happy endings, but with a sick feeling that I’ve become involved in a tragedy and there’s no way to change it.

  “Please,” Kat says as they lift her onto the gurney and wrap her in blankets.

  “Please,” she says again, as they strap her in and wheel her away.

  I’m not sure what she’s asking.

  The door closes behind them, leaving me alone in a room so empty it echoes, despite the pitiful clamor of the kittens. There is blood on the sofa cushions. Blood on the floor. I follow a trail of crimson drops to the bathroom, where I can’t take in the extent of the carnage.

  I’m a nurse, but I don’t work trauma, and I’ve never seen this much blood in one place. This is not Snow White pricking her finger and shedding three perfect drops. This is Game of Thrones and the Red Wedding. Blood on the floor, in the sink, on the mirror. Drops of blood, pools of blood, smears of blood. Blood-soaked towels, a splash of bright color in the corner. I register all of this with my eyes, but my brain refuses to take it in.

  My stomach grasps the reality just fine and rejects it. I make a dive for the toilet as my body rids itself of half-digested hot dog and, seemingly, my toenails. My body shudders and shakes. I can’t bring myself to touch the knobs on the sink, one of which bears a perfect, bloody fingerprint. The soles of my shoes make sucking noises with every step, and I stop at the bathroom door and slip out of them.

  The kitchen sink is pristine, and I run cold water over my hands for a long time before splashing it repeatedly over my face and finally bending down to drink directly from the faucet. Emptying my stomach has cleared my head, and I shift out of shock and into action.

  Jenny is on speed dial. It’s late, but she sleeps with the phone by her bed.

  “Rae? What on earth?”

  “I need you. Here. Now. It’s an emergency.” I don’t wait for her questions. Curiosity will bring her faster.

  I mix up formula and start in with the weakest kitten while hunting for the missing. One is in the kitchen, bumped up in the corner. Another has made it into the bedroom and crawled under the dresser. The tiny gray tabby is still missing.

  Jenny arrives when I’m feeding number three.

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  “Kat cut her wrist. She was on kitten duty, and I don’t know when they were last fed. I need to go to the ER.”

  “Wow,” she says, still stuck in the entryway. “Your couch.”

  “Sit in the chair. Do not go in the bathroom. I’ll clean it up. Can you help? These little guys are starving.”

  The kittens prod her into action.

  “Right. Sure.” Jenny sinks down in the middle of the floor, takes the bottle I hand her, and starts feeding.

  “You’ll need to take them with you.” I look down at my ruined clothing, thinking I can’t keep throwing clothes away every time Kat tries to kill herself. And then
realizing there is something wrong with this line of thought.

  Jenny’s head jerks up like it’s been yanked by a string. “For how long?”

  “Maybe until they’re ready to adopt. Sorry. I can’t do this right now.”

  I’ve been waiting for her to notice the still-missing kitten. It’s taken longer than I would have thought, but all of the blood is a little distracting, I’ll give her that.

  “Did the little one die, then?” she asks. “I was afraid for him, but I thought if anybody could save him . . .”

  “Anybody who wasn’t already trying to save a suicidal human.” My tone is sharper than I mean it to be.

  “If you had too much on your plate, you should have told me. Pick up the phone.”

  I want to scream at her, but she has a point. I should have called her the night she left the kittens. I knew it was too much. Why didn’t I?

  Kat.

  Kat was engaged by them. I thought they might help her, heal her.

  You can’t heal the world with kittens, Rae.

  Or with wishing.

  “They were out when I got here. I don’t know where the little one is. I’ve looked. I can’t find him.” My voice quavers, and I give myself a brisk, mental shake. I don’t have time for a meltdown over kittens. Later. When Kat’s all right.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left them here. I thought—I thought maybe they’d help you get over Oscar. I hadn’t realized what you were up against with that woman.”

  Her tone on the final words is a clue to what she feels about Kat, but she’s a good person, and she still asks, “Will she be okay?”

  “She was in shock, but she should be fine.”

  “You don’t have to go up there. You didn’t have to take her in. I know it’s not my business to tell you, but somebody has to.”

  I let her words sink in.

  She’s right. Probably. Except that I feel responsible. If it hadn’t been for Oscar and me and my car . . . But that line of thinking brings me full circle to tonight. The blood in the bathroom, the untended kittens, the way my careful little world is spinning away from me so fast I can’t even snatch at the wreckage before it is whirled away out of my reach.

  “She has nobody. Nowhere to go.”

  “And maybe there’s a reason for that. I’m sorry. None of my business. I’m going to take the kitties home with me, okay?”

  I just nod, not capable of speech, and start looking for the little missing baby. Jenny cleans out the carrier and loads up the now-sleeping kittens and helps me look. We both know it’s probably too late, that he’s likely crawled into a tight spot somewhere to die. We search the house, not that there’s much to search, and come up empty.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again, and gives me a swift hug.

  My phone rings. Call display tells me it’s the hospital before I even answer. The voice is unfamiliar, the crisis worker on call. Could I please come up to the hospital to answer some questions and help make a safety plan?

  Somehow I’d been expecting Cole, but of course it wouldn’t be. He’s off tonight. He doesn’t even know. This should be an obvious fact, but it makes me feel breathless and frightened. I don’t want to deal with a stranger.

  “Go,” Jenny says. “I’ll look one more time.”

  I just nod, and then give her a hug, hoping all of the things I don’t know how to say will translate through the action. The lost kitten is probably already dead, but I still hate to leave him. Human lives come first, I remind myself, although a tiny voice in the back of my head demands an explanation why.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A nurse directs me to Bay Six.

  Kat lies on the exam table, eyes closed, still far too pale. Her left arm rests on top of a white blanket, neatly bandaged. An IV drips into her right. Her blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen readings display on a screen above her head.

  The woman sitting beside the stretcher is fiftyish and plump and so obviously wakened from sleep, there’s still a faint crease down one cheek.

  Sadness fills the room, a deep, dark lake of misery that will drown me if I fall into it. I stay by the door.

  The woman nods at me but doesn’t smile. “Are you Rae?”

  “That would be me.”

  At the sound of my voice Kat’s eyes open. Neither of us says anything. There are no words big enough to carry what needs to be said. In my memory, in my soul, I hear again the word please.

  Please what? Please save me? Please let me die?

  “Can we talk for a moment?” The strange woman gets to her feet and pushes past me out into the hallway. Out here it’s all bright lights and action. An ambulance crew rolls a stretcher into the trauma room, nurse and doctor in its wake. A call light is on above Bay Two. In Bay Four somebody coughs, then moans.

  Pain and fear snake around my feet, immobilizing me while I try to process, to find that dimmer switch Bernie preaches about. For years I’ve had this emotional sensor switched off, but it’s full-on now.

  Warning. System overload. Crash imminent.

  “I’m Marci,” the woman is saying. “I’m the designated mental health professional on call, and I’m here to evaluate your friend. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounds far away, as if it belongs to some other Rae in some other universe.

  “I’ve already read Katya her rights. She said you would explain everything.”

  I blink. “Everything? That’s a lot of explaining.”

  Marci sighs, as if I’m being deliberately obdurate and stupid. “About her cutting behaviors. She says she’s not really suicidal. That she only meant to cut but accidentally went too deep.”

  Please lie for me. Don’t let them lock me up.

  My lips feel like I’ve been to the dentist, so much so that I reach up to touch them, assure myself I can still feel, that these lips belong to me.

  “I don’t know anything about cutting. We never talked about that. How could she do this? I locked up all the sharps.”

  “Are you sure?” Disappointment and fatigue are written all over the woman’s face. She’s hoping for an easy resolution to this call, that she can wrap things up and go home to bed. In this we have shared desires, but I’m learning that when it comes to Kat, nothing will ever be easy.

  “Lots of women cut,” Marci says, still hopeful. “As a way to dull pain. Or sometimes the opposite, if they’re numb. It’s different than suicide. No intent to die.”

  “Right. And how often do they manage to open an artery in the process?”

  My own words push me over the edge into emotional territory I’ve never entered before. I want to scream. Throw things. Stomp my feet on the floor like a child having a tantrum. Before Marci can answer that, I push past her back into the room. Kat’s eyes are closed as if she’s sleeping, but I know she’s awake. Listening. Waiting.

  “Talk to me.” I’m back in control of my body, full enough of my own emotions to shove back against hers.

  “Don’t be mad, I—”

  “I trusted you. You said you wouldn’t kill yourself. You said you’d be okay home alone. Now you’re here, and one of the kittens is dead, and it could have been all of them. How could you?”

  Marci makes a disapproving clucking sound. “I’m not sure this is helpful. Could we—”

  “Stay out of it. Well, Katya? Answer me.”

  When Kat’s eyes well up with the inevitable tears and she reaches her hand out for mine, it doesn’t move me.

  She sniffles, pitifully, but I refuse to bend.

  Her hand falls back onto the stretcher and she closes her eyes. “It was the kittens,” she says finally. “I let them out of the box, and I was going to feed them, truly I was. Only I was so tired and my hip hurt and I told myself I would lie down, just for a minute. I must have fallen asleep. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. When I woke up they were all starving, and the little one was dead, and I couldn’t . . . I wasn’t trying to kill myself, R
ae. Honest to God. I wouldn’t have done that, not in your house. Not when you’d be the one to come home and find me. What kind of a person would do that?”

  “Maybe the same kind of person who would throw themselves in front of a stranger’s car.”

  My eyes are prickling with tears now, too. My throat feels thick and hot. But I won’t believe her. I can’t. “Where did you get the blade?”

  Her head moves restlessly on the pillow. “The truth?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Hidden in my backpack. You were right about that.”

  “Oh my God! What else did you lie about?”

  “Really.” Marci puts a hand on my shoulder. “This is not the time for this conversation. I was thinking maybe Katya could go home with you with a crisis plan in place, but clearly—”

  “We had a crisis plan. It’s been violated. What reason would there possibly be to make another one?”

  Kat is weeping now, harsh, wrenching sobs, but for some reason they fail to touch me. I can’t remember ever being so angry. It feels good. Strong, powerful. I don’t care that I’m hurting her, I don’t care that I’m inconveniencing this excuse for a crisis worker. Cole would have this situation figured out by now. He’d know Kat was lying. He’d know what has suddenly gone wrong with me.

  Marci is apparently not one to give up. “As I explained,” she says patiently, “cutting is not necessarily a desire to die. She only cut one wrist. She wrapped it and tried to stop the bleeding.” Her voice softens. “I understand. You’re hurt and you’re scared and so you’re angry.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m just angry.” She’s right, though. Part of me knows it, but I shut that part down and refuse to acknowledge it. The anger feels too good. It blocks out Kat’s despair and Marci’s frustration. I have no intention of letting it go. Not yet.

  A doctor comes in, glancing from me, to Marci, to Katya weeping on the bed.

  I know her, slightly. She’s a recent graduate, working ER exclusively for now. Dr. Merrit or Merril or some such. She avoids entanglement in our controversy by crossing the room to check the IV, the monitors. Ignoring the extraneous factors, she talks directly to Kat.