The Right Treatment

by Tara Finnegan

  “I just can’t keep feeling responsible for her if she won’t cop on. She could have died. The lease expires here in one month, after that, she’s on her own.”

  Matt knocked tentatively on Aoife’s door, not quite sure if she had enough time to be comfortable. When she gave him the green light, he just popped his head through a small gap.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Much better, my cramps are gone,” Aoife replied.

  “You’ll need a repeat tomorrow…”

  “Oh, God, no. Please. You can’t,” Aoife interrupted, her face horror-stricken.

  “No, not me. I think it’s best if I hand you over to someone independent. I’ve left a letter in an envelope on the mantelpiece. Bring it to the hospital and your new doctor will take care of you. Sleep well, Aoife.”

  “Matt, wait,” Aoife said urgently as he backed out the door. He froze. He really wasn’t sure how to handle everything right now. “Are you still mad with me?” He saw her lovely hazel eyes plead with him.

  “It’s not so much that I’m angry, Aoife. But I do think you would be better passed into someone else’s care. Someone less involved. You’re lying to Fiona and you’re lying to me. Every word in your journal is a fabrication. You need to see someone you respect, not the person you think of as the timid boy next door, someone you can twist around your little finger. And what’s more, I have no desire to be treated like that person anymore. We are not a good fit as doctor/patient.”

  When Matt shut the front door behind him, it was with mixed emotions. He knew Aoife thought she could manipulate him too easily. But he would not let that happen. It would do neither of them any justice. And yet, it was so hard to hand her over to someone else’s care. Someone who didn’t care for her like he did. His head pounded with the conflicting thoughts that hammered inside his brain. In spite of everything, she was still his Aoife.

  Chapter Four

  Aoife was delighted when Fiona said she and Pete were going out for the night, it was like winning a real-life, get out of jail free card. She waited for an hour before going out herself for fear Fiona would come back to check on her.

  When she was sure the coast was clear, Aoife walked to the off-license at the end of the road and bought two cans of beer. Although Fiona accused Aoife of drinking too much, that wasn’t true. Aoife seldom permitted herself more than two or absolute max three drinks. Aoife knew alcohol was a downer, and she needed uppers. There was too much crap in her past for her to want to be a maudlin drunk. Sometimes it was an E, sometimes it was pot. It all depended on the mood, occasion, and availability.

  Tonight, she would settle for a bit of pot along with her beer. She was still scared of the E’s even though almost a month had passed. She would have to eat the hash though, because if Fiona smelled it when she got home, nothing surer than she would beg Doctor Dread to have her locked up in some residential detox hellhole.

  It had been a few weeks since Matt had walked out on her and she hadn’t been sleeping properly since he left. Even though he had been back in her life such a short time, he had felt like some sort of talisman, a sign of things getting better, and his leaving spelled doom. When he walked out, so too did her hope. She knew Fiona still spoke to him frequently. That thought bugged the shit out of her. He should be Aoife’s friend, not Fiona’s. Aoife knew him first. She knew how immature and petty that attitude was, but she didn’t give a damn, that was how she felt about it. Aoife couldn’t help wonder if Fiona was having a secret fling with him. Jealousy ate her up.

  Pete, Fiona’s boyfriend, was still on the scene, but Fiona wouldn’t be the first person in the world to have two men going at once. Pete had been staying with Fiona nearly every night since Aoife had been in hospital; the story was his housemates had guests over and he was making space for them, but Aoife knew it was because Fiona couldn’t bear when it was just the two of them. Pete was the ideal co-watchman, he did nothing except play football, and that was only at the weekends, so his continual presence was really beginning to piss Aoife off. Not to mention how bloody boring she found him. Getting rid of him for the night was almost as good as getting rid of Jailer Fiona. And to add to her resentment of him, Fiona told her Pete was moving in when the lease was up, and Aoife was no longer welcome there.

  The two cans of beer slipped down her throat like nectar to the gods. She could feel relaxation course through her; it seemed to start in her feet, working its way up her body until her brain hit that relaxed, comfortable state. For the first time in a month, Aoife felt normal. She ate half of her pot stash. No effect. She ate more. Still nothing. Where was the high she was waiting for? Finally she ate the last of it. What she hadn’t anticipated was the delayed reaction of eating grass compared with smoking it. When it eventually hit her, it hit hard. First the giggles kicked in; everything was hysterically funny. She popped Mrs. Brown’s Boys in the DVD player. Normally she found it crass, but tonight it was hilarious. Until her feet disappeared.

  Aoife could see her legs, but there were no feet at the bottom of them. The legs just stopped dead, at the ankles, but even her shins were fading in and out. Someone had stolen her feet. Oh, boy, did that make her mad! How dare someone steal her feet? She needed them. How was she going to get to bed with no feet?

  Mrs. Brown on the TV show had taken them—she must have, as there was no one else in the room. Aoife looked under, over, and behind the TV. Wait a minute… how stupid. How could a TV character steal her feet? Someone had to have sneaked into the house. They were probably still hiding there, the bastards, laughing at her struggling. Half giggling, half shouting, she admonished the thief.

  “Hey, you! I know you’re there. Unhand my feet this minute!” she shouted. Then she started giggling, “Unhand my feet, how silly, sounds like something out of a Harry Potter film. But even if I had hands, I could walk on them. Unhand my feet. Oh, my god, that’s nuts.”

  She crawled along the floor, looking for her feet or the thief under the table, in the cupboards, under the sofa, in the bathroom, even as far as her bedroom. Surely her feet couldn’t just disappear? Someone had to take them. But where would they leave them?

  “Okay, you’ve had your laugh. You can give me back my feet now,” she shouted, starting to get worried that she might never get them back. And still, upset as she was at their loss, Aoife couldn’t get over what a great joke it was that someone thought of stealing her feet. Who needed ugly feet with curly toes? When the thief saw the state of them, Aoife would have the last laugh. There would be no painted toenails in high-heeled peep-toes for that robber; that was for sure. They would soon give those ugly appendages back. She was caught between laughing at their disappointment and crying at her loss, and then wondering where those strange sounds were coming from, thinking it was probably the thief.

  She was overtired—that had to be it. Aoife decided the best place for her at that moment was bed. For a footless woman, Aoife did a great job of finding where Fiona had hidden the sleeping pills, climbing on a kitchen chair to retrieve them from the top of the kitchen cupboards. She swallowed two down, and decided that might not be enough because of her missing feet, so she brought another one into the bedroom in case she needed it later. Aoife dropped it on her nightstand and somehow managed to get out of her clothes as she both giggled and mourned the loss of her precious feet.

  She reached for a drink of water and wondered why there were pills on her nightstand. Fiona must have left them for her. She had better take them before Fiona got home, or she would be in trouble with the big, scary, sexy, meanie doctor. He had actually threatened to smack her bum. How silly. And kinda sexy. Who woulda known all those years ago that the weirdy boy next door was going to turn into one of those sexy bossy men? Aoife giggled hysterically at the trouble she could find herself in as she washed down the pills. She figured it would nearly be worth it, just to feel those big sexy hands on her. She drifted off to sleep with the thoughts of meanie Matt showing her just how bossy he could be.


  * * *

  For the second time in a month, Aoife woke up in ICU. At first she didn’t believe it was real. She blamed the pot for giving her nightmares and closed her eyes again to sleep it off. (Stupid dope; that was the last time she was going to eat it.) Her hallucinations seemed and felt so real. She even imagined the drip was back in her arm and started clawing it away. And why the hell had she a tube in her mouth? Aoife started coughing and gagging. When the vomit forced its way up her throat, she knew it was no drug-induced stupor.

  “What the hell are you doing to me?” she screamed. Or at least she meant to. All that came out was ‘aargh huch huch’ as she retched the contents of her stomach.

  Six hours later, Aoife woke up properly to see two very pale, grim faces sitting beside the bed. Fiona and Matt. And one looked as angry as the other. Once she woke, Matt pressed the call button by her bed, then he and Fiona left her as soon as the nurse arrived. Neither waited to tell her what was going on. Aoife couldn’t even ask the nurse as her throat was red raw. She was still attached to a drip and catheter as they continued to flush fluids through her body, attempting to detoxify it. Her hand, throat, and urethra hurt. The only blessed relief was that she spent the whole day drifting in and out of sleep.

  The next morning she had a visit from that psychiatrist, Dr. Smith. He was harping on about a suicide attempt. Aoife seriously thought he was the one in need of a shrink. All she had done was take her tablets like she was supposed to. Her voice was still very weak and she couldn’t seem to make him understand he was wrong; she was only being a good girl and doing what she was told. She was so damn glad when he finally left her.

  It took five days for her to convince them she wasn’t trying to kill herself. Until then, she was incarcerated in the psychiatric ward. (God, that was a gloomy place.) Everywhere Aoife looked there were vacant eyes looking back at her. She wasn’t one of them. She was nothing like them. She was sane; they were crackpots.

  Twice a day she had to go through the ritual of seeing Dr. Smith. For five full days she wasn’t allowed to see Fiona or Matt. Apparently visits had to be earned by cooperation. Finally she was permitted to see Matt—a reward for eating three meals in the previous twenty-four hours and accepting a nurse bathing her without a fuss for the first time. It galled her that she wasn’t even allowed to bathe in privacy.

  She wished she hadn’t earned the visit. Matt acted like such a prat. He stayed only for ten minutes, all the while accusing her of taking seven sleeping tablets on top of alcohol and banned substances. She hadn’t. She just took the tablets Fiona had left out for her. Aoife was adamant about that. He left with a look of disgust, telling the nurse that she should consider calling Aoife’s family.

  Memories started to come back: looking for her feet, giggling hysterically, taking the tablets in the bathroom, then in the bedroom. Oh, sweet Jesus. What the hell had she done? Aoife went into meltdown, breaking into crazy, hysterical sobbing. She finally realised she was out of control. She was so hysterical that the nurses paged Dr. Smith. When he failed to get any answers, in desperation he called Matt.

  “I d-didn’t m-mean i-it, I swear,” Aoife sobbed. “It was an accident. You have to believe me.”

  “What was an accident, Aoife?” he asked.

  “I got confused, I thought I had to take them, but I didn’t take five, I’m sure I didn’t.” she explained before spilling as much of the sorry tale out as she could remember. Somehow, she was in Matt’s arms, and he held her tight, letting her sob her heart out as she buried her face in his blue scrubs. She felt them becoming wet and slimy, a mix of tears and nasal secretions, but she was too damn upset to care. She needed the comfort of being held.

  “Help me, Matt. I’m losing it. Please! I can’t go home. You know what my parents are like. They’ll drive me even crazier.”

  “What do you expect me to do, Aoife?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the bloody doctor, think of something,” she cried.

  * * *

  Think of something. That was easy for her to say. He was a doctor, not a miracle worker. As far as he could see, the only solution would be to lock her up until she was no longer a danger to herself, but she was a grown woman, no relation to him and not his responsibility. He couldn’t go about locking her up, could he? And yet it was clear to him that Fiona was no match for Aoife’s conniving. If he let her go back home, she’d be back in within another few weeks. They couldn’t force her to stay in the psychiatric unit—she was free to walk out any time. (Of course Aoife didn’t realise that yet as she was still woozy and confused, but Matt knew it would only be a matter of time.) He couldn’t but wish his fantasy boot camp for drug users was real. He’d sign Aoife in for sure. On top of everything, Fiona had been to see him. She was officially kicking Aoife out; she was not welcome back home after her release from hospital.

  “I can’t have her death, either by accident or by suicide, on my conscience, Matt,” she’d said tearfully. He didn’t blame her for trying to create a safe distance; that was pretty much what he had been trying to do by refusing to call to the house over the last few weeks. But although Matt had created a physical distance, he hadn’t been so good at creating an emotional one and had been calling Fiona daily for updates.

  He hadn’t been on duty when Aoife came in, but Fiona had insisted that the hospital call him. He was so scared because they hadn’t known what she had taken. She could end up with serious kidney or liver damage. Fiona had the foresight to bring the bottle of sleeping pills and there had only been three left out of a two-week supply while there should have been ten. It seemed she had taken seven extra pills and the assumption was it was a suicide bid. No one had any idea what time she had taken them at, or to what extent she had absorbed them. They immediately pumped her stomach out and it was panic stations while they waited the results of blood tests. But the blood tests seemed not to show as high a concentration as expected, so the doctors were hopeful not a lot had been absorbed. It was only when Aoife remembered what had happened that anyone realised she had in fact only taken four extra pills; while not wise, it was not likely to have been critical. (And in fact it was only a little higher than the dosage they gave her for her first couple of nights during her first hospital visit, albeit without the alcohol and pot.) The other missing pills Aoife had taken over three consecutive days when one pill wasn’t sending her off to sleep, and Fiona hadn’t missed them from the bottle. Matt was raging with Aoife about that. She had been warned about taking medication without approval more than once, and look at the mess it had created. Both he and Fiona had wasted days feeling responsible for Aoife’s overdose: he felt culpable as he could so easily have been there while Fiona had her night out, and Fiona felt responsible for not having hidden the bottle better. Aoife, it seemed, was the only person who felt totally blameless. He could have willingly choked her. Even when she begged for his help, Matt wasn’t entirely sure she realised how serious it had been.

  Matt had the whole night on the emergency ward to think about how he could help. It was a terrible night, non-stop drunken or doped-up lunatics in to be patched up after fights or accidents. At one stage a road accident came in, someone who had been high while driving had killed himself and injured four others. That clinched it for him. There was no way in hell that Matt was letting Aoife go the same way. Once his shift was over he jotted it all down, to make sure there would be no misunderstandings; he would help only if Aoife agreed to give him total and utter control for the period of her treatment. A boot camp it was. Boot camp for one, with Matt as the sergeant major.

  Chapter Five

  “Okay, I’ll help,” Matt said when he called on Aoife the next morning. He handed her two pages of almost illegible doctor’s scrawl. “These are my conditions. Just so as we’re clear, you live with me, you do exactly as I say, how and when I say it. No exceptions. If you break the rules, you’ll be punished. If you push it too far, I call your parents to come and get you. After that, you’re
on your own.”

  “What do you mean, I live with you? And you don’t expect me to give you favours, surely?” Aoife asked.

  He felt his face flush. Much and all as he had once wanted to get into Aoife Devine’s knickers (and maybe still did), he had no desire to have a sexual relationship with someone under duress, especially someone who probably had more men than the French Foreign Legion and was on the edge of all-out neurosis. No, that was not his intention at all. But fond memories of his teenage crush and her kindness to him when everyone else had ridiculed him, made him take a risk. He would do anything to see a reappearance of the beautiful, promising young girl that she once was. Not for sex, but for old times’ sake.

  “You’ll have the guest bedroom. I will be your caregiver, disciplinarian, and doctor. Nothing more. Besides, you have little option; you know Fiona doesn’t want you back in the apartment.”

  Obviously raging as she was at his reminder of her homelessness, Aoife readily agreed before she had even read through his conditions. Matt snatched the pen from her hand, glaring at her.

  “Rule one! You never agree to anything without knowing the conditions. This is for starters: one hour of exercise, another hour of research on the effect of drugs, and a further hour of study of some subject of your choice. One hour of journal entry and writing up what you studied. Three hours of voluntary work at a rehab centre,” he cited, reading from the sheet.

  “Are you fucking crazy? For starters, what rehab centre would want me near the place? Second, what about my job?” Aoife interrupted.