BF 2nd edition

by Isabel Curtis

  Hayden would have wanted to curse at him, to tell him that it was not necessary. She had called him because she trusted him and because he was a doctor, otherwise she would have handled the situation by herself. But not even this came out of her mouth. As he helped her up and walked her to the car, which took longer than expected, she tried to tell him that she did not want him to call her brothers, but her ability to speak had apparently been replaced by the only ability to cough.

  They rushed to the hospital but by the time they got there Hayden was hardly breathing, and was basically unconscious. It didn't take long for the doctors to confirm George's theory: pneumonia. "Are you a doctor, kid?" one of the doctors asked George, with an edge, when he tried to tell him about his hypothesis.

  "Medical student," he replied, trying to pretend his tone had not bothered him. "Then please step aside and let me do my job," the doctor told him, closing the pale blue curtains that separated Hayden's bed from the other rooms. That was his cue to leave them alone, and it bothered him. The idea of leaving Hayden in their hands, having to helplessly sit in the waiting room for an indefinite time was just unbearable. But he left, hopeful that she'd get better soon. Pneumonia was not deadly, if treated early. Were they on time?

  Now that he was alone, it was the right moment to inform James.

  ****

  "How is she doing?" James asked as he walked towards George, who had been waiting impatiently for over an hour. His worried look was all over his face. "They won't tell me anything. I'm not a relative," he replied, getting up from his seat. "Did you call the others?"

  "Yeah, they are on their way. Who's the doctor?"

  "I don't know his name, but I saw him like two minutes ago," he said, looking around.

  "There he is!" he said, nodding towards a middle-aged man wearing a white coat who was just walking out from a patient's room.

  "Doc!" James said a bit too loudly, "Excuse me!"

  The doctor halted and turned around, trying to figure out who was the rude person calling out to him with such loud tone.

  "Young man," he said calmly, scrutinizing him, "This is a hospital, please keep your voice low."

  "Right, sorry," he whispered. The image of a tall, built man with a tough look being put in place by a short gray-haired man would have seemed awkward to anyone who didn't know James well: his hard-looking appearance had made him gain an enviable reputation in town, and his fistfights – which he always won - helped his notoriety and respect. But those close to him knew very well that he had a big heart and that he was a good young man.

  "How can I help you?" the doctor asked.

  "I'm James Wilson. Hayden Wilson's brother..." "Right, the girl who got here a while ago with your doctor friend."

  "Yes, with George..." he said, pointing out that his friend had a name. "How is Hayden doing?"

  "She's been diagnosed with acute pneumonia, serious but curable. She'll be fine. We'll keep her here for the night, but there's really nothing to worry about."

  "That's great news!" he exclaimed, visibly relieved. "Although there are other medical conditions I am worried about." James's perplexed look forced the doctor to be more specific. "Hayden is noticeably underweight, and I couldn't help noticing some self-inflicted wounds in her arms. If you don't mind, I think we should talk in my office."

  He did mind, actually. But when the doctor turned around and headed towards his office, he just followed without saying a word. The office was just at the end of the corridor, and it was white and green and smelled like disinfectant. There were books and medical instruments all over the room, but everything was neatly in its place. Too much order made James question someone's priorities in life: if you had time to order your stuff so tidily, it meant you had nothing better to do, according to him. And you can't trust people with too much free time, he believed. "Serial killers have lots of free time," he used to say, "and guess where that takes them." That's probably why he never bugged Hayden or his brothers about the mess they left around the house.

  "Take a seat," the doctor said, sitting at his desk. "Thank you, Dr. Western," James said, reading his name on the golden nameplate on the desk. He took a seat and waited patiently for the doctor to begin his talk.

  "James I know all about your family circumstances so you can understand why Hayden's conditions cannot remain between us. I have to inform whoever is in charge of your sister's case – "

  "You mean the social worker, Mrs Selling."

  "Yes."

  "What 'conditions' are we talking about, exactly?"

  "As I mentioned earlier, she is underweight. I'm not talking anorexia or any sort of eating disorder yet, I don't believe she's at that stage so far; but depression has many side effects and we should not underestimate these signs."

  "Depression?"

  "Don't be so surprised, James. Suffering a trauma like Hayden's can lead to depression, it's actually more common than you can imagine. It's called post-traumatic stress disorder. She's also causing herself some minor injuries, which is a clear indication of self-harm. I don't know how she's doing at school or how the rest of her everyday life is going, but I can tell you from what I'm seeing here that she needs help." James didn't say anything, so the doctor went on.

  "Look, I can understand this is a hard situation and it's a lot to deal with, that's why I'm telling you that you can't do it alone. You can't help her on your own."

  "Calling Mrs Selling would make Hayden's custody even less stable," he confessed. "I'm failing, both as brother and as a guardian."

  "It is not my job to judge your abilities as a guardian, nor as a brother, James," he said, after some hesitation. "But I can understand your position, and I respect your fears. Here's the deal: I want you to think about Hayden, how she was before the accident and after. Has she changed? Have you ever felt, deep in your guts, that she was doing something wrong? Have you ever felt like you wanted to help her, but had no idea what to do? You don't have to answer me. Just think about it. If the answer is no, then I will let you walk out that door and handle this by yourself. Otherwise, you can give me that number and we'll help you, and Hayden."

  James remained there quietly, sitting in a chair that all of a sudden had become extremely uncomfortable. Thoughts crossed his mind in no apparent order, just memories flashing by and feelings flooding at high speed.

  "So what's it going to be?" Dr. Western asked after a few minutes. James looked at him straight in the eye for a second then, without hesitating, he took a pencil and a yellow Post-it that was lying on the corner of the table and wrote down a phone number. Then he got up and left without saying another word.

  FOURTEEN

  James walked out of the doctor's office, sure he had done the right thing by providing Mrs Selling's phone number, yet he was not serene. So many things were happening so fast that it was hard to keep up. Did he really do the right thing?

  When he got back to the waiting room he found his two other brothers.

  "There you are!" Mike said as he saw James.

  "What's going on?" "Pneumonia. She'll be fine," he said tersely. "Where's George?"

  "He went inside to see Hayden."

  "She's awake?"

  "Yeah. Apparently she asked to see him first," said Will, not trying to hide his annoyed tone. James sighed, but didn't say anything else. It was not the right time to take sides.

  "Let's just go see her," Mike said, heading towards Hayden's room. Will and James followed quietly.

  ****

  "Why did you call them?" Hayden's voice was weak and feeble.

  "You thought I was going to keep you hidden in a hospital while you were dying of pneumonia without calling your brothers? Right," George asked, smirking. He was sitting in a chair right next to her bed, holding her hand.

  "They hate me already, now they'll hate me even more," she said, between coughs.

  "No one hates you, Hayden! Let alone your brothers."

  "Am I dy
ing?" she asked, eyelids closed.

  "What? No! I was joking, kid. You're in a good mood today," he said, ironically.

  "I wish I were dying." Her voice was distant, yet firm. "Everyone's just better off without me."

  "Wow, these drugs are really making you delusional."

  "I'm serious, George," she said before falling in a deep sleep. He didn't say another word, not because he didn't want to wake her up but because he didn't know what to say. He turned towards the open door and saw James, Will, and Mike standing there. And from the look on their faces, they had heard every word.

  March 17th

  Dear Diary,

  Have you ever felt so many things at once you feel like you'll implode any minute? I don't think there's even a word to describe my feelings right now.

  I want to start running so fast that my legs collapse and never regain the strength to function. I want to scream until my lungs burn and breathing is not a necessity anymore. I'm losing control.

  I'm having panic attacks and I don't even know what I'm panicking for.

  I still feel his hands, his breath, on me, on my skin. Every second. Every hour. He's still here. I close my eyes hoping that the darkness would invade my memories but it just amplifies them. His voice keeps echoing in my mind, like he's whispering the same thing over and over again, on repeat mode. And there is no “stop” button.

  Is this life really worth living? I'm not so sure anymore. It's ironic how some people have something worth dying for while I don't even have something worth living for. Cruella de Vil is making me go to therapy twice a week, she thinks it will be useful. How can she be so naive? She said that it's important that I make improvements (meaning that I need to stop being depressed, according to them) otherwise they won't consider James a fit guardian. I'll just have to pretend for 120 minutes a week that I'm OK, and then they'll fuck off.

  H.

  PS. my lungs are semi-working again, thankfully. Pneumonia sucks.

  FIFTEEN

  Room 327

  Dr. Philip Derrik

  Psychiatrist

  Hayden read the piece of paper in her hand once again, to make sure she was about to knock on the right door. She looked at her watch to make sure she was on time: three-thirty pm.

  Just sixty minutes of sanity. I can do it. She knocked.

  "Come in!" a warm male voice yelled from the other side of the door. Hayden opened the door slowly, and walked inside. The room was bright and full of books lying everywhere. A tall man was standing near the window, holding an open binder.

  "Hayden, I suppose," he said, greeting his patient. "Please take a seat. I'm Philip Derrik." He put the binder down on the desk and walked towards the nearest armchair.

  Hayden closed the door, and sat on the other armchair facing Dr. Derrik. She couldn't help noticing that he was a very handsome man, probably in his late thirties. Definitely not the kind of doctor she was expecting. He was cheerful, and easygoing. Hayden wondered if he was always like that, or if he was just trying to make her feel at ease.

  "How are you doing today, Hayden?" he asked. "I'm okay," she said, trying to sound completely natural.

  Smile.

  Smiling is always a good improvisation. She glanced at the wall clock that was just in front of her: three thirty-two pm.

  It's gonna be a long hour.

  "What did you do today? Anything fun?" he asked, again a bit too cheerfully.

  "Nope. I just slept in." It was actually a pretty accurate description of her day, since she had woken up just a few hours before.

  "I see," he said, while taking notes on his memo pad. "Do you do that often?"

  "You mean sleeping? Yes, every night. Last time I checked it was mandatory for our biological system to function properly."

  He laughed, then said, "I actually meant if you tend to oversleep too much."

  "Am I here to talk about my circadian rhythm, perhaps? If I had known, I would have brought my biology textbook for support."

  "I'm just trying to get to know you, Hayden. And knowing your habits is the first step."

  "No. You're not trying to get to know me. You're trying to figure out if I'm depressed, and anything I will say will be used against me. If I say I sleep a lot then I'm depressed, 'cause I'm guessing oversleep is a sign of depression, right, doc? Has it ever occurred to you that I might just be tired and in need of sleep? And if you ask me what I ate for lunch and I say 'nothing' then you'll just add that to the list of depression symptoms because, let me give a lucky guess, lack of appetite is a sign of depression, right? Or maybe, just maybe, I was running late and didn't have time to grab something to eat."

  "There's no need to get mad here, Hayden. We are just talking," he said calmly.

  "I'm not mad. I just feel like this is a complete waste of time."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because you doctors are all the same. You think you know what your patients have and focus on getting the diagnosis you want instead of actually looking for the truth!"

  "First of all, we are not in a hospital so there's no need to call me 'doctor' and to define yourself as 'the patient'. I'm just Philip and you're just Hayden. Second, this is not the Spanish Inquisition nor any other court for that matter so nothing you will say will be used against you. Lastly, tell me: what truth should I be looking for?"

  "This conversation has taken an unexpectedly philosophical turn, Dr. Just Philip..." she said, in a mocking tone. "Don't you have an easier question for me?"

  "Fair enough, you want to talk about school?"

  "Not really. There's nothing much to say anyway, school is just school. I'm sure it's the same shitty place everyone's been attending since the education system was invented. You don't seem too old, I'm sure you remember what high school is like."

  "As a matter of fact, I do," he said, smiling. "And I happen to have some good memories of those years."

  "Lucky you," she whispered, yet loud enough for Dr. Philip to hear.

  "You know, Hayden. It's not really a matter of luck. Just because I say high school wasn't that bad doesn't mean that my life was – or even is – perfect. It's just that some people prefer to weigh more the good things than the bad ones. You let only the most positive things matter and leave the rest aside. Hold on to the happy things and forget the rest, don't let anger or grief or sadness drown you. That's how you live a happy life. Come on now, tell me the first happy memory that comes to your mind," he said, still very cheerful.

  "Do we really have to do this? I have a shitty memory...."

  "Just give it a try."

  The clock marked three forty-three pm. Had someone slowed down time?

  "Fine." Staying mute for over forty-five minutes refusing to answer his questions seemed like a too harsh self-inflicting torture, so she played along.

  "March."

  "March?" he asked, puzzled.

  "Yeah. March was a small kitten my brothers and I found wandering around our backyard like 10 years ago. I mean, it's not like he had a name when we found him, I called him that afterwards."

  "Okay. This is a good start. Why is 'March' such a good memory?"

  "I'm not sure. It should actually be a sad one because we only kept him for a day since our father didn't want any pets around the house so we brought him to a shelter the next day, and I cried my eyes out, but those twenty-four hours were just awesome, somehow. I remember my brothers and me playing with this kitten on the front porch, trying to come up with a name and in the end they let me pick because, let's face it, the youngest sibling always wins – " she said with a big smile, it was actually a good memory.

  "We were so close and complicit, trying to figure out a way to convince Dad to let us keep him. And Mom was so hesitant about it! She liked the cat as much as we did, but knew very well that having a pet was just something we could not afford..." She stopped talking all of a sudden, then said, "This is just really stupid."

  "No it isn't, Hayden."
/>
  "Why would talking about a cat named March, which I only had for twenty-four hours, be relevant to our conversation?"

  "I'm trying to prove a point here," he said. "What's that?"

  "Well, first of all, this memory is so important to you because – from what I understand – you were all happy back then and this sort of memory warms your heart up. Those are the kind of memories worth holding on to, Hayden. And second, the fact that the first thing that popped into your mind is a happy moment with your family proves that you are longing to relive those moments again – ."

  "Is this the point where I remind you that my parents are dead?" she interrupted him. "There is no reliving the moment," she said, mimicking him.

  "That doesn't mean they can't keep on living inside your heart."

  "Oh no, please. Don't. Seriously. Don't give me that bullshit speech about how those who die are not really gone but keep on living inside us and blah, blah, blah. Just don't. It's such a cliché."

  "Very well, Hayden. But tell me, how do you think you are coping with their death?"

  "Marvelously," she said too ironically.

  "Can we please drop the irony here for a moment?"

  "Can you please stop asking stupid questions?" she said arrogantly. "Besides, I'm sure that disguising a nervous breakdown with a series of sarcastic answers is another symptom of depression. You should write this down too on your notepad."

  "So you feel like you're having a nervous breakdown?" He seemed impassive to her tone. "

  You're doing that thing again."

  "What thing?" "Where you use what I say against me."

  "Touché," he said, with a smile "But I'd still like to have an answer."

  "No, I don't think I'm having a nervous breakdown nor do I think I'm depressed. Happy?"