The head to my side lifts, and I realise that Taylor is next to me, staring deep into my eyes with an expression I can’t fathom. All of a sudden, a nurse comes in and starts busying herself around me, asking me questions about how I am feeling and taking vitals before letting me know that the doctor will be in shortly.
I am parched and my throat is sore, but I can’t seem to string my words together to ask for some water. I avoid Taylor’s eyes, now certain that he is the one that found me, wishing that this would all just go away. I am not stupid; I have read enough books, watched enough films and TV programmes to know that this is just that start of what is going to be the ‘Let’s get Abby well again’ programme. I am certain my dad will be pitching up any moment now, though I am less sure about my mother, a thought that sends a spear of pain through me.
“Are you uncomfortable, Abby? Do you need some pain meds?” Taylor’s voice is a hoarse whisper, his recognition of my anguish almost bordering on the sixth sense.
“What are you doing here, Taylor?” I manage to murmur, my voice low and devoid of emotion. “Why did you bother to save me?” I stare at the wall to avoid looking into Taylor’s eyes, knowing that if I let him see my soul, I will wish I would have died every day for the rest of my life. I am still not sure I won’t anyway.
“What the fuck, Abby?” Taylor’s voice is full of barely controlled anger, a stark contrast to the calm coolness he showed me in his office.
Before he can say anything else, the doctor walks in and introduces himself as Dr Hendrix. I find myself smirking to myself and wonder if his first name is James. At least I haven’t completely lost my sense of humour.
“Okay, Abby, there are two aspects to deal with here. Physically you are fine. You lost a lot of blood and had to be given a transfusion. We had to keep you sedated for a couple of days. Also, your wrists are going to be very sore for a while as they heal. You are lucky you didn’t slice the tendons, but you did a pretty thorough job otherwise. Physically you will heal.
“Mentally, this is something you are going to have to work on. I understand from my conversations here with Mr Hudson some of what has been happening in your life”—What. The. Fuck?—“but we both believe there must be other stress factors that led to your actions. Our therapist will be in to see you shortly to start discussing a course of treatment, and I will be along this afternoon to check your progress.”
Hooray! Before I can utter a reply, Dr Hendrix sweeps from the room, and I am left alone again with Taylor.
“Your folks will be landing shortly and should be here in the next couple of hours.” Taylor’s voice is low, and I can hear pain lingering in his tone.
I refuse to meet his eyes, and sigh, “Well, nice to know I am important enough to show up, even if they are a couple of days late.”
“They would have been here earlier if they could have, Abby.”
“Yeah right. Because I have always been a priority.” My voice drips with sarcasm, and I close my eyes. “Okay, Taylor, job done. I am alive, so you can go back to the life you were living before I rudely interrupted it and became such an issue.”
“I am not going anywhere, Abby,” Taylor growls. My stomach flips and I take a deep breath, gripping the sheets tightly so Taylor won’t see my hands shaking.
I turn to look at Taylor and speak, “I don’t want you here, Taylor, so just… just fuck off and leave me alone.”
“I am not going anywhere, Abby,” Taylor repeats, his voice low and steady once more.
“I am not some broken thing that you can put together, only to break again when you feel like it.” I am shouting, and my tone catches the attention of the nurse, who walks in briskly before ordering Taylor out the room.
“Miss James needs some rest, so I suggest you come back later,” she says sternly.
“Or never!” I add, my tone harsh. I try to turn away so Taylor won’t see the tears glistening in my eyes, but my wrists make it painful to shift my body and I cry out. In an instant Taylor is there, cradling me. “Please just leave me alone, Taylor,” I whisper as he gently moves me.
“I’ll come back later,” he promises before slipping from the room.
“He hasn’t left your side since you were brought in, you know,” the nurse says kindly, startling me. “The orderlies had to pull him off you so that they could get you into theatre to operate.” I don’t know what to say in response, so I remain quiet, and she places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It is going to be okay, Abby. You’ll see.” A lone tear escapes, and I hastily swipe at it. “Get some rest, hon,” she adds before walking quietly out of the room.
Alone at last, I take in my surroundings, glancing around the room, trying to orientate myself. The furnishings are rich and bright, and if it wasn’t for the smell of antiseptic, I would assume I was in a hotel room. Then it hits me; I am in a private hospital. What the hell? I can’t afford this. I guess I’ll just have to take a loan or something to pay for the treatment I have had so far, but I know I can’t stay here any longer; otherwise, I’ll bankrupt myself.
I struggle to sit up and swing my legs over the side. A wave of dizziness rushes over me, and I have to wait until my head stops swimming. I start pulling off the pads attached to my chest, and I hear the alarm going off on the monitor, and I panic until I figure out what button will silence it. I am just pulling out my drip when several nurses rush into the room.
“Miss James, what on earth are you doing? You need to get back into bed.”
“I can’t stay here!” The panic is evident in my voice. “I can’t afford a private hospital. I’ll just go check at an NHS one. Or something…”
“Miss James, stop!” The voice is firm and brooks no argument. I turn and find myself looking at a stern lady who, in a completely abstract train of thought, I assume must be the matron. “Now get back into bed and let Nurse Sampson here reattach your monitors.” I find myself complying as she continues, “Your job here is to get better, not to worry about anything else. Your bills have been paid, so that is no longer a concern of yours. Now, I don’t want any more of this nonsense, young lady. You need to rest and let my staff do their job.”
I mumble an apology, feeling like I am a child being told off, but when I look into her eyes, I see compassion and understanding. I let the nurses reattach my monitors and reinsert my drip, and then Matron inserts something into my drip. “This will help you rest.” Warmth spreads through my limbs and once again I am in darkness.
.........................
Voices disturb me from my deep slumber, and it takes me a couple of moments to place their familiarity. My mum and dad. I can hear weeping and I keep my eyes closed, not ready to face what I will see.
“It is all my fault, Michael,” I hear my mother saying softly. “I told her I blamed her for Mamma’s death. How could I do that? What kind of a mother am I?” I hear my father shushing her and comforting her, and I can imagine in my mind’s eye that he has his arms wrapped around her, his head on hers, an embrace I have seen so many times growing up.
“Gina, it is going to be fine. Abby has a big heart and I know she will forgive you eventually, but you need to pull yourself together and be strong for her. She needs you! You are her mother, and you need to start acting like it.”
The snuffles slowly subside, and when I think enough time has passed, I slowly open my eyes. “Hey,” I croak.
“Abby!” My mother is on her feet, hugging me fiercely, wiping tears from her eyes. She pulls back and looks me in the eye. “Oh, baby girl, I thought we had lost you.” The lump in my throat expands and the tears threaten. Placing her forehead against mine, she whispers, “I am so sorry, Abigail. You will never know how sorry I am.” I nod my head slightly to acknowledge her apology, knowing that I won’t be able to get the words out yet to forgive her, but in my heart I know I am not one to hold a grudge. And I understand how grief can make you lash out, even at those closest to you.
My dad envelops us both in a hug, and for the first ti
me in my life, I truly feel part of my family, not just someone sitting on the sidelines, watching the Michael and Gina show. “Oh, sweetheart. Now is not the time to go into everything, but just know your mother and I are here for you. You are not alone. We will help you get through this. Together. Okay?” I nod at him, and both he and my mother start disentangling themselves from me.
We are interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. I turn to see a youngish guy standing in the doorway. He looks a little nervous, but he steps forward and introduces himself with confidence. “Hi, Abby. I am David Grohl.”
I can’t help the snigger that erupts from my mouth. “Seriously?” Am I in some kind of weird parallel universe where rock stars have become doctors? What kind of hospital is this?
David laughs and replies, “Yeah seriously, though I can’t play the guitar or drums.” I laugh, and for the first time in a while, I feel like a little sunshine is entering my soul. “Okay Abby, I am here to discuss your therapy plan, so it would be good if we can have some privacy. Unless, of course, you would prefer your parents to be present?” I shake my head, not ready to let them in again quite so soon.
“We’ll go grab some coffee,” my dad says as my parents get to their feet. Before heading out the door, they both give me a hug and my mum whispers, “I love you so much, baby girl.” I smile at her weakly as she heads out the door.
I study David, my eyes narrowing when I take in his appearance of loose-fit jeans, a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal the edge of a tattoo, and battered Converse. “Seriously, you are a therapist?” I question, my voice hoarse from lack of use.
“Yup, fully qualified. I don’t have to deal with gore, so no need for scrubs, and white really isn’t my colour. I know I should have a beard and a jacket with leather elbow patches and smoke a pipe, but that’s not really my style.” His smile is gentle and I find myself giggling softly, glad that he hasn’t gone straight in and pulled the Band-Aid off my wounded psyche.
“So today is not about going into everything, but to set out a plan of how we are going to move forward and get you back on your feet. Okay?” I nod, and David starts explaining about the hospital’s programme and the appointment schedule I will need to stick to, which involves both individual and group therapies, starting tomorrow. He startles me when he brings up the subject of antidepressants.
I guess I always had this idea that only loonies needed them, so finding myself in that category scares me, and I can see from David’s eyes he senses my discomfort. “Antidepressants do not mean you are weak, Abby. They are simply another tool to help you. I will start you on a lowish dosage, and we can see how you get on and adjust accordingly. They are also not forever. When the time is right, we will work together to get you off them. Now, before I write you a script, I just need to confirm that you are not at risk of pregnancy?”
I start to shake my head, and then, as the thunderbolt strikes, the colour drains from my face. “Um, I don’t think so, but there was one time a couple of weeks ago when we didn’t use anything. I meant to get the morning-after pill, but stuff happened…” I trail off, my voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s okay Abby. We’ll do some blood work to check and go from there. Okay?” I nod, and we talk for a couple of more minutes before David heads off and I am left alone with my thoughts.
The one thing you never are in a hospital is alone, and that is especially true if you are there because you tried to kill yourself. All I want is a few precious minutes to myself to think and regroup, but people are constantly in and out of my room, checking vitals, taking blood, bringing food I can’t stomach and generally making sure I haven’t tried anything again. My parents fuss over me in a way that they haven’t since I had the flu when I was five, and I am grateful when a nurse suggests that it is time for me to settle down for the evening. With promises of being back first thing in the morning, they finally leave and I can breathe a sigh of relief.
Despite having been cleaned up, I still seem to have blood in the crevices of my skin, and I am desperate for a shower. The nurse allows me, unwrapping my wrists and telling me that I cannot lock the door. I sigh but don’t argue. I am the one who tried to commit suicide, after all.
The warm water cascades over me and a sense of calm descends. Here, in this moment, I feel a degree of peace in my soul. I don’t stay under the water long as my wrists start to hurt and I begin to feel dizzy, so I dress in some pyjamas that have been left out for me and then let the nurse rebind my wrists.
I climb back into bed, grateful to have some time alone and plug in the earphones of my MP3 player, which someone has thoughtfully left on the counter for me. I close my eyes and lie back and flick the music on. As the first notes sound, I realise with a start that this is not my MP3 player. I continue to listen and get sucked into David Gray’s ‘Please Forgive Me’ as he sings about not wanting to lose his girl.
The next song is Bryan Adams tune I know so well, and I find myself welling up as I sing the lyrics in my mind. I know in my heart that this is Taylor’s version of an apology, the modern version of an ’80s mix tape, song after song calling for forgiveness and speaking of love. When the final song finishes, Bon Jovi’s ‘I’ll Be There for You’, tears are coursing down my face, the line ‘I pray to God you’ll give me one more chance, girl’ reverberating in my mind.
I open my eyes to find Taylor standing next to me, staring into my eyes, his face wet with his own tears. “I thought I was protecting you, Abby…” The pain and anguish in Taylor’s voice chill me. “I thought if I pushed you away, you would be…safe. If I had any idea that this would happen, then...” Taylor trails off, and all I can feel is confusion as I try to take in what Taylor is saying.
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
“At the party, Richard threatened you. He told me that you fascinated him and he wasn’t finished playing games with you. All I could think of was how he destroyed Hannah, and I couldn’t let him do that to you. Ultimately this is about him and me and his control, so I made an agreement to end things with you if he left you alone…” Taylor trails off, and I can see him watching me closely, gauging my reaction.
I am still so angry at Taylor, but hearing his words, I feel comprehension start to dawn. His words ‘…you are mine. Mine. And I will protect you at all costs…’ echo through my memory, and I can understand his motivation. But the way he did it still hurts so much, and even now I am not sure my heart will ever be whole again.
“But why didn’t you talk to me?” I tell him about my own confrontation with Richard at the party, and I can see the tension in his jaw, his hands clenching. “If you had let me know what was going on, we could have dealt with this together…”
“I just thought…thought that I could deal with him and then make it up to you later. I never thought…never imagined that this”—Taylor sweeps his arm over me—“would happen as a result.”
“What’s done is done, Taylor,” I say softly. Taylor reaches across and grasps my hand in his.
“This is all my fault.” His voice is pained.
“Shh,” I comfort, “this was not all about you.” I try to smile weakly but fail miserably. I am so damn tired, and all this emotion has drained me. Sensing this, bossy Taylor takes over, telling me I need to sleep. He pulls up a chair, lacing his fingers through mine, and watches me. I know I should tell him to go, but the selfish part of me needs him beside me, watching over me.
The Twenty-Ninth
I wake to weak sunlight filtering through the blinds. I am on my side in the foetal position, my body curled around Taylor’s head, our fingers still interlaced. He is snoring softly, and I reach up with my free hand to run my fingers through his hair. The whirl of my thoughts brings me back to Hannah, and I realise what I did was just what Taylor always thought happened to her. Guilt washes over me and tears prick my eyes. “I am so sorry for putting you through this, Taylor,” I whisper softly.
Taylor stirs and shifts his body be
fore raising his head to look at me. “Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” I reply. “You must be really uncomfortable on that chair.” I study Taylor’s face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the pallor in his skin and the fact that he is wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“Hmm. Well, it is not going to make my top-ten favourite places in the world to sleep. But I’ll survive.”
“Go home, Taylor. Get some sleep, have a shower and eat something other than hospital food. The nurse told me you have been practically living here.”
Taylor’s eyes darken. “I am not leaving you alone,” he growls.
“Taylor,” I say, exasperation in my voice, “I am not alone. I am in a hospital full of people who are making sure I am not going to do anything I shouldn’t. You need to sleep in a bed. You need a shower ’cause you smell, and you need to put on some clean clothes. I’ll be fine. Please.”
“Okay, but I am going to be back in a few hours, Abby. I am not losing you again.” The pain in his voice ripples through me, and I sigh softly, wondering if we are ever going to be able to get past this. Planting a soft kiss on the top of my head, Taylor heads out of my room and I am left alone.
A nurse with a bright smile bustles in before I have a chance to get too comfortable with my isolation. She sets down some breakfast, which I make an attempt to pick at, while she writes down various notes on my chart.
It is not long before Dr Hendrix makes his rounds and declares that he is happy with how my wrists are healing. “Just some small scarring, I think, Abby.” I smile and offer my thanks and enquire about when I might be able to go home. “That all depends on Dr Grohl. He will decide when you are ready to be discharged depending on what your home care situation is.”
My parents arrive soon after, bringing with them a whole manner of treats. It is like they are suddenly trying to make up for years of lack of attention, which is sweet but ultimately overwhelming, so it comes as a relief when David shows up, declaring that it is time for my first session.
Book One: Thirty Days, Book 1 Page 18