by Rena Mason
Calm—I have to remain composed, or he’ll stop talking, I just know it. Anyway, I’m not sure I heard him right. Cally—my best friend, Cally—tried to commit suicide. It makes about as much sense as me being in here because aliens needed to communicate with me.
I can’t express my shock or dismay. I sense his eyes watching me close for a reaction, even a subtle one like gripping the armrest of the wheelchair. “Why, then? And how?” I keep my voice flat, unaffected. I stare ahead at the tile floors glowing in the fluorescent light. I would like to hear the tones now. But I don’t.
“She took an entire bottle of sleeping pills. I’m so glad I never wrote her a prescription. Remember? She asked me to last year.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Apparently, the second question was easier to answer than the first which makes me a little nervous, and he’s already trying to change the subject. “Why though, Jon? What made her do it?” I try not to sound overanxious, keep my tone steady.
Silence again. Strange, but I can feel his grip tighten on the wheelchair. I’m sure in part, it’s the sound of the silicone covering the handles squeaking in his sweaty palms, but it also seems to be a nervous apprehension he’s emitting. There’s something more serious about this than he’s leading on. But it would have to be serious—tragic even—to make Cally attempt something so awful. Most likely, he knows I’m aware of this, and after thinking about it, he probably concludes he can do nothing but tell me the truth. He starts with a sigh. “Cally found out Bill’s having an affair.”
There’s an acute pain in my chest as if the heart muscle clamped down and decided not to pump anymore. I swallow hard but don’t flinch otherwise. “Anyone we know?” I say with an empty breath. When he first told me I stopped breathing and haven’t been able to breathe since.
Jon’s stomach growls behind me. I picture tense acids churning and burning inside his belly. He has to tell me. He needs to get it out for his own relief. “Gail,” he says. Her name came out of his mouth on an empty breath, and I’m glad. It gave no life to her—traitor.
Like two people knowing and telling the same story, we simultaneously feel free to breathe again. Even the tension in the wheelchair relaxes. I slouch back, get comfortable.
“I see.” My tone reflects no emotion.
“Did you know?”
“No. I didn’t, but maybe in some ways I did. Gail hinted about things, and I think she even tried to tell me, but I put it out of my head. I wanted to be wrong.”
“Me too, I guess. Bill seemed a little off that night we had dinner with them, but I thought maybe he and Cally had an argument before or something.”
“I still want to see her, Jon. I need to talk to Cally.”
“It won’t be easy. She’s already been caught once trying to leave.”
“No. She came to see me. I remember.”
“Uh…no, they found her on the first floor. She was on her way out the door.”
“Please, Jon. It’s urgent.”
“It can’t wait till she gets released?”
“No.” I reach back and place my hand on his. “It can’t.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, and what about Kyle, how is he?”
“That I don’t know. Patrick hasn’t said much, and to be honest, I think it’s one of the reasons he didn’t want to go back to school.”
“Poor kid.”
“Kyle?”
“No, Patrick—having his mom in the hospital and his best friend’s mom, too.”
“He’s fine honey, really. Kids are resilient.”
“You always say that…I wonder if Justin knew and that’s why he was acting out so much. Gail told me she was transferring him. I should have put the pieces together. I should’ve known…”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes down gently. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for any of this shit. Nobody wants to suspect their friends are screwing around with their other friends’ husbands.”
“Nothing like this would ever happen to us, right? You’d tell me if you were unhappy.”
“Are you kidding? You’re the only woman I love. And besides, all your friends are nuts. I’ve always thought so.”
I laugh out loud, hysterically almost, because so am I.
* * *
Off and on throughout the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, people come by to say their goodbyes after they’ve heard the good news about me being cleared to leave tomorrow. It’s mostly been hospital staff and people from the ER I hardly remember. I don’t know what Jon told my friends, but so far Cally has been the only one to come and see me, and they locked her back up for it.
When things quiet down, Jon leaves to make his rounds thanking everyone again. Patrick sits in the corner with his earbuds in, looking out the window.
“Pat.”
He looks up and pulls one of his earbuds out.
“Is Kyle okay?” I say.
He looks a little surprised. “Dad told you?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s okay, I guess.”
“And how about you?”
“It’s all good, Mom. I’m a big boy.”
“You’re not just being silly are you?”
“No. I’m being serious. I don’t know why, but when bad things happen they don’t bother me as much as other people….and especially girls.”
“Ah, so you think girls are more sensitive.”
“Think? I know they are.”
“Yeah maybe, but it’s probably because of hormones. You know your dad always blames everything on hormones.”
“Crazy hormones, maybe.”
Yeah…maybe.
“You sure you’re all right, though? It’s not healthy to be so nonchalant when bad things happen. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, Mom. I’m good, really. It’s not that I don’t feel bad. I do, but then it goes away.”
“Well, okay. But if you change your mind let me know. You haven’t had any more nosebleeds, have you?”
“Nope.” He smirks then stuffs his earbud back in like there’s no chance in hell he wants to discuss anything else with me. He’s a tough one to crack. A lot like me in that regard. It took three whole months of hellish nightmares, hallucinations, and very little sleep until I finally had a breakdown. And still nobody knows why. No family history of it. Unless it’s possible shopping and lunching with friends have become major life stressors. Event planning, holiday parties, and fundraisers aren’t even that much work, but I like to say they are. No. There really isn’t a reason—unless it were all true.
Not long ago, I prayed the tones would stop and go away. Now, I wish I could hear them once more. As if hearing them again would somehow validate my sanity, even though something tells me there’s more to it than that. Maybe I could ask them about Patrick.
Only, they don’t come. And there’s nothing for me to do except wait. Inside, I feel changes on the way. I can’t tell if they’re good or bad. I just know they won’t be stopped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Morning sun beams through the window and overheats me. I’m still asleep but it’s that in-and-out-of-consciousness kind. I kick the blankets down then nuzzle my face deeper into the pillow and smell the scent of sweetness. Behind my eyelids are a multitude of colored shapes against a predominantly red background. I imagine myself there again—with the others—liquid light gliding through luminous vapors.
At last, I get my eyelids to stay open. The sun seems brighter. I squint and stretch out. Then I realize I’m soaked through. The sheets are even wet. I sit up, turn over, and put my nose down into the mattress. It’s definitely not urine, which is a relief. It must be sweat—a fever. I put the back of my hand against my forehead. It feels cool and damp.
This isn’t good. I jump out of bed and take off my gown then lay it on the windowsill to dry. I walk into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is wet, flat, and clinging to my head. Sweat beads trickle from
in between and underneath my breasts, rolling down over my abdomen. I notice Jon’s makeshift Band-Aid and yank the tape off with one swift motion. Not a single pinprick mars my arm. Even I know that’s not normal. Not for as long as I’ve had an IV there. Jon told me they were feeding me something called TPN or PPN through it, too, so I wouldn’t get malnourished when I was in a coma. It’s similar to Gatorade, I guess…liquid food, but it would mean the IV was used often—enough to leave some kind of a mark. Both Patrick and Jon bruise horribly just from getting shots. I’ll have to keep it covered, so he doesn’t get suspicious.
I step into the shower and turn on the water. When it feels tepid against my palm, I stand underneath the spray. Thick plumes of steam rise up from everywhere on my body. I jump back and check the water again to make sure I didn’t misjudge the temperature. It feels lukewarm on my fingertips. I turn my hand over and put it under the spray of water. Steam immediately billows up from my skin. With my other hand, I reach out and touch the arm that’s steaming. “Whoa!” I jerk my hand back. My fingertips feel raw and numb. The arm underneath the shower is frigid like ice, maybe even colder. I don’t get it. Something is very wrong, but this can’t be happening—not now.
I move back underneath the showerhead and let the steam roll up in waves. It quickly fills the stall and then the entire bathroom. Thank God I closed the door, and the vent automatically comes on with the light. The steam is so thick I can barely see my hand in front of my face.
After about ten minutes, the thick white cloud starts to dissipate. There’s a sweet smell all around. Cold, but steaming... Then I remember the lab tech that burned his hand on dry ice. Maybe it’s something similar to that, but I have no intention of bringing it up now that I’m so close to leaving.
When the air is visibly clear, I step out and pull a towel down from a metal rack above the toilet. I pat myself dry. My skin temperature feels normal again. I wrap the towel around my body then step out of the bathroom. I rush over to the bed and look down at the sheets. They’re perfectly dry. The gown I put on the windowsill is, too. Strange—it’s as if the wetness was pure cold. Not enough to freeze into ice, but so extreme it simply evaporates. Something I’m excreting reacts exactly the way dry ice does when it comes in contact with water. I remember the chemical reactions from high school lab experiments. But why am I excreting it? The question gives me chills in the worse sense of the word. I wonder if there’s a trigger. The more I consider it, there’s a possibility all my prior incidents of night sweats revolving around the nightmares were actually cold ones. At least it doesn’t leave any evidence. All those times I got up and changed my nightshirt, it was all for nothing. If I’m right, it has something to do with sleep, but I’ve been wrong about so many things lately. Hopefully, it doesn’t happen again before Jon gets here or even worse, in front of him.
* * *
I’m swallowing my last bit of plastic-flavored coffee when Jon comes into the room. “Morning,” he says. He walks up, leans down, and kisses my cheek. “You look great.”
“Thanks for bringing that bag of clothes and leaving it in the closet.”
“No problem. I figured you’d want the comfortable stuff.”
“Nothing’s more perfect than jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt.”
“I didn’t know it would be this warm out, though. I’m pretty sure I packed a short sleeve shirt in there, too, if you prefer it.”
“No. This is good.”
“Your cheek did feel a little cool. Are you warm enough?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. So—is it time to go?”
“That’s the bad news.”
“Oh Jon, please don’t. What was the good news? You can’t do this now.”
“Don’t worry. It all works out. They’re not done clearing your discharge papers, but I was able to get you in to see Cally.”
“Really? When?”
“You’ll have about thirty minutes after she has lunch until her group therapy session.”
“Poor Cally.”
“Yeah, I really had to do some serious schmoozing with the staff nurses. They told me about some pretty messed up people in there. It’s also a swing wing for addicts overflow.”
“What! She’s in there with drug addicts?”
“When detox is full, they send them to the psych unit ‘cause it’s secured.”
I can’t believe he’s telling me this crap. The walking on pins and needles phase of my recovery must be over. He’s going straight for the jugular. I have to change the subject before I get worked up and show him what it really is to be steaming mad.
“By the way…how are my parents?” I say.
“Typical. Anxious. Still paranoid your mother might come down with something. I love them, but they’ve been killing me. Trying to get you home and keep you here at the same time. In a lot of ways, I think they doubt me now. I didn’t know what was wrong with you. I had no answers, couldn’t fix the problem.”
I move the tray table away then stand up and put my arms around him. “I’m sorry, honey. I love you, and I promise to make it up to you.”
“I’m holding you to that. I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too but soon. Just a few more hours.”
“What do you want to do until then?”
“Well, if you want, you could get me a decent cup of coffee, and I can pack up my stuff while you’re gone, or you can stay here and tell me exactly how it was you schmoozed the nurses into letting me see Cally.”
“I’ll be back in a bit with your coffee.”
* * *
Jon leads me through a long stark hall where the floor tiles and even the handrails are desert tan. Not a single picture hangs on the walls, and there are no high rectangular windows near the ceiling to let natural sunlight in. The illumination is purely fluorescent, which makes the walk more ominous. Barricading the end of the hall is a massive solid door also painted desert tan. A tiny square window—roughly the size of a human face—is centrally positioned in the door at eye level. When we’re up close, I notice a fine wire mesh woven into a pattern in between the glass panes of the window, emphasizing the feeling of no escape.
In the upper right corner of the ceiling, there’s a small black video camera. A neon red dot blinks continuously as the camera lens sweeps slowly back and forth across the hall. There is a loud electronic buzz, and then Jon opens the door.
Standing in the doorway is a middle-aged woman wearing plain blue hospital scrubs. The hall behind her seems to stretch out and go on forever. I step forward then all at once feel unbearably alone. I whip around, and Jon is still standing with the door open on the other side of the hall.
“You’re not coming?” I say.
“No. Just you. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. The staff is all around.” Then the same buzz that opened the door goes off again, but now it sounds more like an alarm. “Oops,” Jon says. He steps back. “Sorry,” he looks at the nurse behind me, then he lets go of the door. I leap forward, but it’s too late, the door is about to close.
“Don’t reach your hand in!” the nurse says.
As soon as the door shuts, a strange sound comes from all around it.
“It locks with a security seal. You could’ve lost your hand or fingers.” She seems perturbed, but all I can think of is how I feel right now—this very minute—in this whole scenario.
This could eventually be my fate. I stare out through the little window at Jon. He has a small smile on his face. He winks then raises his hand and makes an okay sign. I nod my head, take a deep breath then turn around.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the nurse. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“That’s part of the reason why we don’t usually bring visitors in this way, but your husband was very sweet and bought us all lunch. He’s a real charmer that one is.”
“Yes. He is.”
“My name is Ella by the way.” She reaches her hand out and I shake it.
“Stacy.” Then I gasp at what I s
ee next. Directly behind her is an old man sitting in a chair. His hair is long, gray, and tousled this way and that. He has a thick coat of stubble on the lower half of his face that looks like dirty snow.
“And this is Jerry,” Ella says. “Don’t mind him, he’s harmless.” She leans in close to me then whispers, “He likes to sit up near the nurses’ station so he can listen to what’s going on.”
I nod my head and smile. The nurses’ station behind him is a lot like the one on my floor, but it’s completely sealed in by windows with more of the steel mesh between the panes and one solid door in the middle.
“This way,” Ella says. “I’ll take you to Cally.”
Then it all coalesces, and I remember why I came. I’m not here to be left. I’m here to talk to Cally.
As we walk past, I can’t help but stare at Jerry a little more. There’s a blank expression on his face, and his eyes are void of emotion. He’s a very pathetic-looking old man. It saddens me that this is probably someone’s father, brother, husband. Then I notice his wrists strapped down to the arms of the chair with white padded bindings. Geez, this place is fucking tragic. I smile at him then turn my head forward and follow Ella down the hall.
We come to a glass door, and it’s obviously very thick and impenetrable. Shatterproof most likely, maybe bulletproof, too, or even electrified when closed. They try and make everything look normal on this floor, but with a little further inspection, it becomes blatantly apparent nothing is—normal.
Ella punches several numbers into a keypad connected to the door handle, then slides her hospital ID badge through it as if it were one of those credit card scanners. The door buzzes open, and she steps out first. It’s the same landscaped courtyard I saw Cally sitting in the one day I got lost, but now I’m looking from the inside out.
As soon as I step into the courtyard, Ella closes the door behind me and I hear that pneumatic seal sound again. From this side, the door isn’t clear. It blends right into the segmented concrete walls. Incredible, I think it’s faux painted. It mimics the walls right down to the small bits of river rock embedded into the makeshift slabs. Even the keypad virtually disappears. I look across the way to where the windows I stared out at Cally were. From in here, they don’t look like windows at all, more like two-way mirrors reflecting the trees to make the courtyard seem bigger. How awful to have the hospital crazies on display like this without their knowledge of it. Cally would be mortified if she knew. Whoever the idiot is that designed this place should be fired and severely beaten.