MERCY

by KC Decker

  Chapter 6

  Sutton’s words have been working their way under my skin for the last few days. A big part of me wanted to laugh in his face when he talked about me leaving some garbage behind. My whole life is garbage, if I don’t take it with me, what do I have left? Another part of me was angry he called me out about my sadness. I challenge anyone to go through what I’ve gone through and not have a little residual sadness.

  However, the little part of me that wanted to crumble into a sniveling puddle of tears has been the one echoing in my head. That part’s the one with the loudest voice outside of my psychosis.

  What would that be like to walk away from some of the pain of my past? Try to forget all the people that promised to love me only to discard me. Try to forget that I have the devil inside me. The devil that screams in my face and cauterizes my body with hellfire. Try to forget that childhood is supposed to be carefree and not so fucking heavy to carry around.

  “What do you think about that, Mercy?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “That Dr. Sutton was all psychoanalyzing Tracy—Wait, did you hear anything we were talking about?” Lyla asks with raised eyebrows and a quirk to her smile.

  “Uhhhh, maybe some of it…?” I answer. It’s a lie, but whatever.

  “Sutton said Tracy sings as a way to escape and comfort herself because of sexual abuse,” Matty explains.

  “No he did not!” Lyla jumps in, scandalized. She is looking at Tracy trying to gauge how much damage Matty just did, while also holding the heart in her chest with one hand.

  “I was paraphrasing,” Matty says with a shrug.

  “He didn’t say anything about sexual abuse, Matty. You better stop, that’s how rumors get started.” Only now does Lyla allow her eyes to pan the group.

  “He did say I sing to retreat into my mind, and more importantly, to comfort myself. Do you think he might be right?” Tracy asks me.

  “I don’t know—are you comforted?” I ask, more aggressively than I meant to. Why does everyone think Sutton is such a genius? They all act like he’s going to swoop in and save the world. They think he has the key that unlocks everyone's issues.

  Plus, Matty and I already suspected Tracy was sexually abused as a child, her tiny voice speaks to that, never mind her singing—we haven’t determined what the heck that’s all about yet.

  “Sometimes, it soothes me to sing myself to sleep.”

  “Ok then, it’s soothing. Problem solved.”

  “Damn, Mercy. Why are you so crabby anyway?” Matty asks. I don’t answer because I don’t know. I think it has something to do with Sutton, though.

  ***

  Midway through late afternoon yoga, which is actually one of the forced activities that I enjoy—I shouldn’t say forced, they don’t actually force us to do the activities, but they hover over you if you don’t, so, let’s say it’s aggressively encouraged. Anyway, I like centering myself, and it’s one time that I don’t mind being in my head. And Sutton ruins it.

  “Mercy? I’d like to see you in my office, please.”

  “Great, I’ll be right with you,” I say as I shift poses, with absolutely no intention of being swept away mid-class. After a few minutes go by with Sutton still standing there, arms crossed over his chest like some kind of haughty mercenary, the yoga instructor pipes in.

  “Go ahead, Mercy.”

  “No, that’s ok. I’m good.” I have a feeling resistance is futile, but I’m not going without fighting it a little bit.

  “That’s not how this works, Mercy. I’ll see you next time,” the instructor says, as though I’m trying her yogi patience.

  Great, it’s not even Monday, and here I go—off to my headshrinker. I don’t like how he stood there with so much damn authority. He was basking in the fact that everyone was conscious of his stupid Abercrombie presence.

  Sig never wore jeans to work, he was a professional. This guy, who is supposed to outrank us all in the maturity department, is wearing trendy brown ankle boots—all loosely laced, and a V-neck t-shirt! If his hipster style doesn’t scream millennial adulting, I don’t know what does. The whole staff has taken note of his ill-fitting shirt too, except instead of thinking he shrunk it in the dryer, which is probably what happened, they are all twitterpated about how it accentuates his chest and arm muscles.

  He closes the door behind himself, having gallantly waved me in first, but I’m the first to speak.

  “How do you expect me to take you seriously in that get-up?” I ask with a snotty raise to my eyebrows.

  “Mercy, let’s be honest here,” he says as he takes out two water bottles from his over-indulgent office refrigerator, “You are not going to take me seriously no matter what I wear… Should I have gone with the flannel shirt tho?”

  “Don’t you have any Vans?”

  “Good call. Tomorrow, Vans and flannel.”

  “Sig wore a tie every single day of his life.”

  “I don’t aspire to be like Sig,” he says assertively, before continuing, “Do you know that only about six patients here even address me as Doctor Sutton? You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “What do you expect? It looks like you just put down the X-Box remote.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “I wasn’t joking!”

  “Well, as long as my game is paused, can we get started?” He’s not asking, by the way, so I don’t bother answering, I just sit on the couch and accept my fate. Sutton twists off the top of one of the water bottles and then hands it to me before going behind his desk and opening a drawer.

  The next thing he does surprises me. He closes the drawer, comes back around, sits down on the opposite end of the couch, and hands me a bag of cinnamon candies. I don’t know what to do because Sig always sat behind his desk, and I had to dig through all the nasty butterscotch and peppermint candy to fish out the cinnamon ones.

  “You can buy them separately, you know,” he says with a disarming smile. I really don’t want to take the bag…but my brain is conditioned to want these little things while I’m in here. Me and Pavlov’s fucking dog.

  “So, is it ok if we back way up?”

  “To my parents abandoning me at St. Vincent’s, you mean?”

  “Before that.”

  I don’t want to answer him because not only is it hard to admit that I wasn’t worth keeping, but I also have to acknowledge that my parents thought I was possessed by the devil. I sigh and pop a cinnamon candy in my mouth. Here goes nothing.

  “I’ve been having hallucinations since I can remember. Because of that, my parents believed the devil was inside of me. They…they were afraid of me.” The statement is hard to get out, and horrific to dignify with words.

  “Would you say you’d had those hallucinations for years before going to St. Vincent’s?”

  “Oh, yeah. For many years before that.”

  “I’m just—” he shifts himself on the couch, so his arm is draped over the back of it, and he can face me better. The change in position doesn’t help him look any more professional, but I guess I’ll have to let that go. “It’s just that… that early of onset is highly unusual.”

  “I guess I’m just lucky.”

  “Have the hallucinations always been like the ones you told me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, your parents thought you were possessed because you were a child that was scared of the horrifying hallucinations you were experiencing? Did I get that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry you were saddled with such imbeciles as parents,” he says, as though we were old friends at happy hour instead of in a psychiatric session.

  “Me too.”

  “Did they ever take you to a doctor? I don’t have any records before St. Vincent’s.”

  “No.”

  “They did not take you to a doctor to rule out any other diagnoses?” he asks incredulously.

  “No.”

  “It couldn’t
possibly have been a folate deficiency or a systemic illness, it must have been a case of demonic possession. I’m disappointed they ever drew breath.” He runs his fingers through his hair, also highly unprofessional, then his gaze lands on mine. “And here?”

  “And here, what?”

  “Did anyone run a single test on you to rule out the countless other things that could have been affecting your childhood mind? Or did everyone just jump to the six-year-old having paranoid schizophrenia?” Sutton is angry right now, also kinda unprofessional, but I like his righteous stance on my dubious upbringing.

  “In their defense, it doesn’t sound all that plausible that a folate deficiency would be screaming in my face and burning my skin.”

  “Mercy, I am ordering a full battery of tests. And yes, it could be as simple as a folate deficiency. It could also indicate thyroid disfunction, a brain lesion, anemia, renal impairment, an electrolyte imbalance…I could go on all day—”

  “No, it’s fine. But to be honest, I have no doubt about my diagnosis—I’ve seen a lot of it in here.”

  “You might be right, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least start at the beginning.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “One more official question, then I’d like to move on to something else.”

  “Officially, fourteen.” When I answer his unasked question, he raises his brows and cocks his head a fraction as though confused. “Foster homes.”

  “Although that adds to the degradation of my faith in humanity, that’s not what I was going to ask you.” Now I’m cocking my head in puzzlement.

  “I was going to ask if you are ready for Dr. Sigmu—for Sig’s letter. I’ll hang on to it forever if you want me to, but I think you are ready for it. You don’t have to read it, but at least hang on to it. If you pitch the letter now, you take away your choice down the line. And I promise you, someday you’ll wish you had read it.”

  I think about what he said for a few laborious minutes, then decide to take it. I’m not going to read it, maybe ever, but I don’t want Sutton to ever talk to me about Sig’s abandonment ever again. I need to remove this from his arsenal.

  “Ok,” I say, dismissively. I think he was expecting some push back, but there is no reason he needs to be a part of this equation. And that should do it for official business, I wonder if he will let me keep the rest of these cinnamon candies? I’ve sucked my way through half the bag but—

  “What are your plans when you leave here?”

  “You mean, when I’m released from the system?” I question. He laughs and then nods. His strength is that he’s unassuming, and it keeps catching me off guard. I find myself discussing things with him that I never intended to—like this.

  “I’m going to live with my friends, get a dog, and continue doing freelance graphic design work.” He smiles at me again, what’s this guy so happy about? Maybe he is surprised one of my degrees is in graphic design—but someone needs to utilize the Photoshop program on the old, Humpty Dumpty, antiquated laptop computer that was donated specifically for my educational needs.

  “What kind of dog?”

  “A haggard one. One that nobody wants. It’ll be like my spirit animal.”

  “I admire you, Mercy. You have been chewed up and spit out, but each time you come back fighting, and you still want to contribute kindness to the world.”

  My reply gets jammed in my throat. It’s probably not worth explaining that it’s not the world I have a problem with, it’s people. There are a few people that I want to keep forever, Lyla, Matty, and Veronica for sure, and maybe to a lesser extent, Tracy. She’s growing on me, or my tolerance for her singing is growing, one of the two. The rest of the people in the world can vanish to Stephen King’s Langoliers, and I’d be happy.

  “What about inane stuff like cooking and laundry and bank accounts with automatic bill pay?”

  “I’m pretty sure I can cook. I watch a lot of cooking shows. Laundry doesn’t really require a Harvard scholar—I’m sure I’ll pick it up. And I’ve had a bank account for years—gotta establish good credit, you know?”

  “You’re amazing, you know that? What about a driver’s license?”

  “Yeah, that will take me a minute because I don’t know how to drive…or own a car.”

  “These are all things I can help you with. Let me make some phone calls, and together we will make sure you are ready to conquer the world when you leave here.”

  Despite the fact that my face might crack and turn to dust, should I ever display even a note of joy, I smile. Sutton might be growing on me too. At least he wants to help launch my ass right out of here.

  ***

  Sig’s letter is burning an envelope-sized brand into my hip, where I have it shoved into the elastic of my sweatpants. I am not sure if I want to read it because the sooner I forget about Sig, the better off I will be.

  I know as soon as I rip it open, I can no longer deny and ignore what happened. The thing above all else that I want to avoid is his pity. I cannot handle pity when it’s directed at me, it only fuels my rage. I would, a thousand times over, choose the powerful emotion of anger than the weak emotion of feeling pitied.

  I decide to read it, but the first indication of anything other than the most sincere, heartfelt apology he can deliver on paper, and I will shred the letter. Fuck him. However, I can promise you that I will not be reading or shredding it in front of the staff and other patients.

  I stop at the nurse's station and plead for some Ibuprofen and five minutes to rest in the dark of my room—you know, to get a handle on the debilitating, non-existent migraine that’s currently rocking my world. Funny enough, if I ask for twenty minutes, they’ll give me five. If I ask for five, they’ll give me twenty.

  They are going to check on me every two seconds, but this isn’t my first rodeo. I will have a damp washcloth ready to cover my crying eyes, and I’ll have my hand primed and ready for a thumbs-up when they pop in my room.

  I swallow 400 mg of Ibuprofen, hand the paper med-cup back to the nurse, then turn on my heal. I will only have a few minutes to read the damn letter, then the rest of the time I’ve carved out for myself will be to process whatever I’ve read.

  I don’t have time to hesitate, so I cut my hemming and hawing short and rip it open. Funny enough, this is the first letter I have ever received. I used to eagerly wait every time they passed out mail, hoping a foster parent would have second thoughts and alert me to their imminent rescue, but I haven’t been that kid with those lofty ideas for a long time.

  Mercy, my girl:

  Please know that this is not my doing and that, for once, I have no control over the situation. I am not allowed to visit nor contact any of my former patients. This stipulation has been adequately stressed and profusely reiterated. In time, I hope you will come to understand my position.

  Do not worry for me, as I know you endlessly do. I will spend my retirement at my cabin, whittling my days away fishing under the sun and relaxing beneath the lazy stars.

  I wish you well, Little One, because it’s time you learn to show yourself something that no one ever has before. Your namesake, Dear, learn to show yourself some mercy.

  You are the light of my life, and I will miss you forever.

  Fondly,

  Dr. Chester Sigmund

  ‘Sig’

  I have enough sense to shove the letter under my mattress before my spine dissolves, and I crumple to the floor. I’m wracked with violent, heaving sobs, and I am desperate for the nothingness soon to be delivered by the code team.

  I have seen patients in a hysterical state before—often, in fact. Usually upon admittance, and always when the truth of their situation dawns on them. It’s partly due to their loss of control over the situation, and partly due to the intense hopelessness that wraps you in its grip and holds on for as long as it can.

  Me? I just want to disappear. Fate, that fickle bitch, seems to extract joy from my suffering. Above all else,
the unfairness of it all is what has me gasping for air. I’ve never been the light of anyone’s life—not ever. Now, the one person who sees me as such has been ripped away from me forever.

  “Mercy! Girl, what’s wrong?” Colleen has swooped in like the angel she is and is holding me. We are both on the floor, and her Haitian arms are wrapped tightly around me—they are the only thing holding me together right now.

  “Mercy, Mercy, everything is going to be ok—I promise you that, just tell mama what’s wrong.”

  “It hurts so bad!” I have lost control of my wailing, my tears, my snot, my self.

  “Yes, baby, I know it hurts.” She has no idea, but she’s in the trenches with me, and I love her for that. She glances up at the dozen eyes on the threshold of my room, all filled with horror.

  “Someone go get Dr. Sutton,” her voice is as controlled as ever, and her calm demeanor is all the more terrifying to the spectators. Matty breaks through the feeble barricade and tries to scoop me from Colleen’s arms. His eyes are wide with panic, and I’m irrationally struck by the fact that he is wearing eyeliner.

  “Give her to me!” he demands. “Colleen! They are going to take her! Give her to me!”

  “It’s ok, Matty. She will be fine.”

  “Colleen! They’re coming!” Matty screams, it cuts through my wailing and precedes the code team by mere seconds. Then he is swept away with the others, but I can still hear his strained objections from down the hall.

  “Shhhh, shhhhh,” Colleen coos as she rocks me in her arms while the sedative is readied.

  “Stop! I will handle this, do NOT put that in her arm!” Sutton’s sharp and commanding voice seems like it’s all that’s left in the room. It might be, because even my empty shell wants to evaporate into the ether. Nothing is left in here but his voice.

  Sutton dismisses the code team, even amongst the keening that is radiating from somewhere inside of my body. Then he and Colleen help me onto my bed, where I clamp my body together and try to dissolve into the sheets. They speak, but I can’t make out what they say. Soon, Colleen is gone as well.