Never Touched

by Laney Wylde

  “Cash…” I ran my hand over my face. “I’m sorry.”

  He sat on the bed next to me and ran his hand over my hair. “Sawyer, this isn’t—” He took a shaky breath. “I can’t do this if this is what it’s going to be like.”

  I studied him a while, wondering why he had cleaned up my barf if he was planning to break up with me. “What were you expecting it to be like?”

  “Not this. I dumped out all those bott—”

  “Yeah, and took me to church a few times and brought me home to your family. Was that supposed to transform me into someone who was suddenly worthy of you?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Sawyer—”

  “You can’t save me from whatever you think I need saving from.”

  “I know.”

  “So stop trying.”

  He sighed and swung his gaze out the window. “Your comforter is in the dryer. I’ll drop it off when it’s done,” he said as he stood.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “Try to take care of yourself, okay?”

  I nodded and watched him leave, unsure if he’d ever talk to me again. I was sure, though, that no one wanted me now. I was alone. And I had only myself to blame.

  * * *

  The next morning, Cash was already in the courtroom when I arrived for my hearing.

  I turned to him from my seat at the defense table. “I thought you were going to stop trying.”

  “Annoying, isn’t it?” He tried to smirk.

  I shook my head as tears filled my eyes.

  “I’ll visit you every week, okay?”

  “You don’t have—”

  “I’m going to. Even if you don’t want me there.”

  I laughed, the movement making my tears spill over. He’d be there. I was sure of it.

  After surviving my first full therapy session with Dr. Harper, I shuffled down the long hall to the next in my flip-flops, my silent rebellion against the no-laces rule. I brushed passed the sedated pacers on the way to my room, the last on the right. Still, from the end of the hall, I could see them make their U-turns to start their new laps. It unnerved me when they glanced at me sitting on my bed. This went on for hours each day. I would have shut the door, but Cash was on his way.

  From the foot of my bed, I scanned the stack of books in the cubby across from me to make sure I had read them all. Five library books atop two of my own. Stories, stories, more stories—anything to send me somewhere beyond the doors with the High AWOL Risk signs.

  Those doors opened and shut now, with cheerful greetings dripping in among hushed gossip and the occasional borderline-personality-disorder outburst. That always involved a string of curses at a parent or boyfriend and a stomping out into the hall. Oh, and booty juice when they threw stuff, apparently.

  “You attacked a patient?” Cash asked. He stood outside my door with four books cradled in his bare forearm, the long sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows.

  “Let’s not be dramatic. I missed.”

  “Oh.” He glared at me, sarcastically adding, “That’s better then.”

  “He called me Delilah.”

  Cash cringed.

  “Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll aim better.”

  “Next time? Where is he?”

  “They moved him to another wing.” I straightened up from my bed, reaching to take the books he brought to replenish my supply. He jerked them away.

  “Are you taking your meds?”

  I narrowed my eyes and smiled. “How do I take you off my ‘extended treatment team’?”

  “So, that’s a no.” He pulled the books behind him again. “Sawyer, can you at least pretend to try?”

  “Oh! Speaking of bullshitting,” I said as I dug through my patient assignment folder. “I need a ‘loved one’ to write me a letter about the stuff they love and appreciate about me, blah, blah, blah. Interested in making up some good qualities about me?”

  Cash’s face softened playfully, and he snatched the paper from my hand. “Happy to.” He added, “As long as you stop picking fights.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  17

  FEBRUARY 2018

  My pillow was covered in sweat when I woke to screaming. It took me a full two seconds to realize it was coming from my lungs. My heavily sedated roommate didn’t flinch, but Nurse Trevor was at my side by the time my throat was hoarse.

  Full disclosure, I had a girlish crush on Nurse Trevor. He had a gentle demeanor and phone-book-tearing arms. I was a sucker for that kind of thing. The night-shift nurses were in amazing shape. And tan. Apparently, that was what happened when they worked only three to four shifts a week and had the sun and gym all to themselves during business hours. Even so, the last thing I wanted to see was someone with a penis. I grunted I was fine and pushed past him to the bathroom.

  I stripped off my cheer tee shirt and slouched to sit on the linoleum with my dewy back against the chilled wall, the only barrier between it and my skin being my soggy sports bra. The darkness made the tiny room feel unending. I flicked the light on to try to stay awake and off Third Street. To say I was fucking tired of that Third Street dream was a disgusting understatement. I’d even broken my own rule and tried to take medication to sleep the other night. The trazodone just made the colors brighter, Simone’s cries higher, and escape impossible—like I was paralyzed but awake while undergoing some kind of gruesome surgery.

  So, I played a game in the bathroom to stay awake: what in here could be used to kill myself? It was an exceptional challenge and against our contracts as patients. Yes, I actually had to sign a contract to stay alive. The way they violence-proofed this place, my word clearly meant nothing. It did, however, make this game extra fun.

  I started with the shower curtain, wondering if someone had ever tried to hang themselves from it. It was suspended from flimsy metal clips that wouldn’t hold any significant amount of weight, so I figured anyone who attempted was unsuccessful. If the clips could be unfastened, they could be sharpened. Even so, I doubted they could do much damage. The cutters would have some ideas. They were the most creative here. And resourceful. One girl actually used her teeth and fingernails on herself.

  There was no shampoo or body wash in the shower or toothpaste by the sink. They rationed these to us in travel-size containers each day. My bet was that someone swallowed too much once.

  Hygienic blades were out. Dark hairs still clung to the shower from yesterday. That was the first time I shaved since I was admitted. A CNA handed me a cheap razor and watched the entire time I used it. It was why I’d waited until my legs and armpits were covered in soft fur to shave. Eh, it was February, not exactly shorts weather. Besides that CNA and the nurses who did the strip search, excuse me, skin check, on my first day, no one saw me naked.

  I bet my navel ring could have done something if I had been able to sharpen it, but the nurses made me pull it out during the nude inspection. It was currently in safekeeping with Cash.

  The underwire in my bras would have provided a warm, easy death, if the staff hadn’t taken those away at the door. “I can remove the metal if you want to have them here,” the orderly said while holding my favorite violet, black-laced push-up. The horrific image of her with a murderous grin as she sliced away at my lingerie made my stomach flip. I ripped it from her hand as if she had threatened to cut open my child. Then I frantically dug through my bag for the rest of them, as if the hospital staff had plans to slowly torture all my expensive bras. Cash had those stashed away for me, too.

  I ran out of trouble to look for. Congrats, hospital designers. You did a thorough job. I woke up with my cheek pressed against the linoleum, opening my eyes to my roommate peeing in front of me.

  “Good morning!” Tori smiled as she wadded toilet paper around her hand. After living with this crazy-eyed middle-aged woman for five weeks, I still didn’t know what she was in for. All she said in group was, “I didn’t refill my medication. I guess that was important.�
�� I propped myself up on my hand, feeling the rippling aches over my ribs and hips as I rolled upright. Tori flushed the toilet, and then did a cursory rinse of her hands without soap. Gross. “See you in group?” she asked before drying off on my paper-thin towel.

  Really?

  I nodded.

  18

  MARCH 2018

  I wish I had an eating disorder.

  Off the common area, there were two locked pantries: one for us addicts, maniacs, and the generally crazy to have a post-dinner snack and one labeled “E.D. Pantry.” I wanted to know what was in there so bad! Did they have Swiss Rolls? Or Fruit Rollups—not just the cheap red kind, but the multi-flavored ones? If they had dark chocolate-covered pretzels, I’d purge loud and clear whenever my roommate got her daily butt shot so the nurses would overhear. I’d get my diagnosis. Then the snacks would be mine.

  “Are you eating?” With my ear pressed to the patient pay phone, I could hear Cash crunching over the line.

  “Chick-fil-A,” he confirmed before slurping back what had to be sweet tea.

  “I’d kill three people for sweet tea and a chicken sandwich.”

  “Three?”

  “No fewer. You having fun at home?” Cash was on spring break back in Atlanta. He made sure to bring me a dozen books and a stack of impossible math problems to keep me out of trouble until he could see me next.

  “Yeah. Sue asked about you.”

  I sucked in my breath. “What’d you tell her?”

  “That you were home, sick.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I said ‘hi’ to Jackson for you, but not Carter.”

  “Did it piss Carter off?”

  “And made Jackson blush.”

  “Love it.”

  “Oh.” Crunch, crunch, swallow. “June’s pregnant.”

  “What? Already? How?”

  “Well, when a mommy and daddy—”

  “Yeah, I think I know about that.” Better than he did, that was for sure. “Your family mates like bunnies.”

  “Right?”

  “Not that I know from experience.”

  He sighed, letting us both hang in silence. “I never said never.”

  I laughed. “Sometimes I really hate you.”

  “I brought you something,” Cash announced as he tucked my hair behind my ear. We sat facing each other on a blanket on the non-smoker lawn of the hospital, feeling the cool Los Angeles breeze that carried the tobacco stink from one building away out of our courtyard.

  I felt my eyes brighten with false hope. “Did you sneak Chick-fil-A past them somehow?”

  “Sorry.” He scrunched his nose in contrition before handing me a thick white envelope. “I finished your letter.”

  I felt the weight of it in my hands. It had to have been as heavy as some of the novels he brought me. Seriously, what had he written? “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “You gonna read it?” His accent was thicker today. It always was when he was tired. I wondered if he stayed up late last night writing this. But, no, I didn’t want to read it. If it was kind and thoughtful like Cash, it would break the last intact piece of me.

  “I’d rather not cry in front of you.”

  His hands trailed down to mine. “That’s right.” He suppressed a smile. “You don’t like crying.”

  * * *

  I slept in Cash’s sweatshirt that night at the hospital. His letter was tucked under my arm, the letter I couldn’t bring myself to read. I held it like a kid held a blankie. I’d keep it safe; it’d keep me safe. And when I dreamt of Third Street, it would be there when I woke up. It would be my proof that the dream wasn’t real. Well, that it wasn’t real anymore.

  It was three AM when my eyes shot open to the dark hospital room. My clammy hands left damp marks on the envelope, smearing my name on the front. I took it and a pillow into the bathroom, then flipped the lights on bright. I pulled the letter out and started.

  Dear Sawyer…

  19

  APRIL 2018

  Was it possible to go through withdrawal from a person? I couldn’t believe I just said that. Not only because it was cheesy, but because it wasn’t fair to the people going through actual withdrawal. The recovering addicts here looked equally like they were going to die and kill anyone watching them die. So, I shouldn’t have said I was going through withdrawal. Because, technically, I didn’t feel like I was dying.

  I just wanted to die.

  Maybe I had more in common with the addicts than I gave myself credit for. I was in pain all over, and I had tried to kill someone—no offense to the nonviolent junkies. Maybe I’d been going through withdrawal since May. Maybe this was how my body responded to the absence of Jake.

  I flexed and extended my feet in my seat in group to keep the cramping at bay. Then I tucked my foot under the opposite thigh, letting my foot swing like a pendulum, ticking away the seconds I had to be stuck here listening to other people’s problems.

  It was no surprise I wasn’t a fan of group processing, except for the kindergarten elements like the play dough and caramel apple pops. The first time our peppy Jamaican therapist, Mae, added those lollipops to the candy box, I slipped two up each sleeve and then worked them down into the abdomen pocket of Cash’s hoodie while my recovering addict friend, Sam, was processing. I paid extra special attention to what she said in case I got caught. I still remember she talked about how her mother claimed to be emotionally triggered by Sam’s Seroquel-induced weight gain. What a bitch. And moms wondered why their daughters ended up in places like this. Not my mom, of course. I was dead for all she knew.

  Five of us sat in that circle with our shared therapist for an hour every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Emotional check-in was mandatory. We passed around a laminated Feelings Wheel with synonyms for angry, scared, joyful, and a few dozen others spinning out from the center of the circle like a pinwheel of DSM symptoms. Then we decided if we wanted to process. After we all checked in, we volunteered to talk one at a time.

  My check-in always went something like this: “I feel tired,” the most benign emotion on the wheel, “and I do not want to process.” Then I got to suck on my caramel apple pop, testing the sour and sweet on different parts of my tongue. I couldn’t tell the difference between the tip, which supposedly tasted sweet, and the sides that were allegedly sensitive to salty and sour. I was pretty sure that diagram they showed us in grade school was crap.

  But this Tuesday, I stared at the feelings wheel when Sam handed it to me. I blurted out, “I feel lonely. And confused. And like drinking and lying in bed all day. I don’t see that on the wheel.” I turned the paper circle around. “That really should be on the wheel. Anyway, I should probably process.” I popped the sucker back in my mouth and passed the wheel left. There was a pause as everyone’s gaze lingered on me.

  April made me think about Jake. No, made me crave him. Made me ache and feel so hollow in his absence I thought I’d cave in. Collapse. Total structural failure. Maybe that was what I hungered for now. Feeling nothing so I couldn’t feel him gone.

  Everyone was quiet after the last patient checked-in, apparently waiting for me to start. They did this usually when someone who never talked finally grew a pair. It was my turn to lose Talk Chicken. I didn’t have some planned fragment to process so I just started talking about Jake, listing off memories as if they could be conjured up and relived, as if talking about him could bring him back.

  I signaled I was done talking by unwrapping a second caramel apple sucker and popping it in my mouth. This one I unabashedly pulled from Cash’s sweatshirt pocket. The strength sufficient to hide my klepto tendencies escaped me today.

  “He sounds like a great guy,” Sam said.

  “What happened to him? Are you guys still together?” a newer addition to our circle chimed in. Her name was Elisa, or maybe Alicia. She had only been here two weeks.

  I felt my skin flush from scalp to the soles of my feet. My eyes burned, and my throat was so full I coul
d hardly speak. I whispered to keep my voice from breaking. “Could I use the bathroom?” I asked Mae like a seven-year-old in school.

  “Of course.” She smiled sympathetically.

  I dashed out the door, down one long hall to the next, feeling the tears fall past my cheeks to Cash’s sweatshirt as I raced to my room. I still ached as I crawled in bed. Burying my face under the thin covers, I wept.

  I stayed in bed for the next three days, getting up only to use the bathroom, grab the occasional bland bite, or get a new book to read. I ditched therapy, group and individual, and class. I had a “cold.” Cough, cough. See, you don’t want this. I better stay in bed. You know how fast germs spread in a hospital.

  Friday arrived as it always did, and with it came Cash. I only knew it was Friday because I heard a knock on my open door when I was curled under the covers. “Come in,” I groaned. Okay, I still didn’t realize it was Friday until I felt the mattress dip under me and that familiar hand in my matted hair.

  “You know I’m not supposed to be in here.” I could hear a smile in Cash’s words. I rolled over to look at him. “I hear you’re ‘sick.’” He put air quotes around sick. Jerk.

  “I am sick.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me that you were immune to all the diseases in North America from working in a strip club?

  “What am I? An epidemiologist?”

  “And didn’t you also say if you ever did get an infection, you fought it with alcohol, the ultimate germ killer?”

  “Well, there’s no hooch here. So I got sick.”

  He shot me a doubtful look.

  “I don’t need to prove anything to you.” I rolled back over.

  “Come on. Let’s get you some fresh air.” He rested his hand palm up on my hip.