by Liv Bennett
I work on feeling my fingers, but no success. Must be the cuts on my wrists. Then I start with my toes, imagining a feather tickling them. When was the last time someone tickled me? Jack liked tickling me until tears covered my face. Torture by laughter. But my toes don’t respond to me. Maybe they’re too far from my brain.
I should try something closer. My eyes. Aren’t they the most mysterious organs ever? They help us perceive not only the world around us, but also each other’s souls—now that I have a firsthand experience of feeling my own soul, I should talk about it, right? I must open my eyes and see everything through them. Like waking up from a deep sleep or pulling up the blindfolds covering them while waiting for a surprise. I must be able to open my eyes so that I can welcome life’s surprises with open arms.
Please. Open up to a new life. Don’t let this day be my last. I promise I’ll hang on to life so tightly that I’ll not pout or pass a day without hearty laughter.
Please, please. Open!
And then it happens. My eyes fly open, and the first thing I see is a pair of eyes staring down at me. I wish they were Jack’s, but I’m not disappointed when I realize they’re Adam’s. He’s looking at me just like Jack used to do, as if I’m some kind of miracle he’s witnessing. Maybe the intention and insinuation in Adam’s eyes are the reason why I could come back.
“Taylor,” the hazel eyes speak to me. “Thank God, you’re alive.” Warm fingertips stroke my cheek, leaving trails of goosebumps and tickles along the way. Haven’t I just been thinking about tickling? “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I’ve never planned to leave you; I haven’t sent any petition to resign my job. I just wanted to show you how your life would be without me. Instead you showed me how deserted and lost I’d be without you.”
The last hours before I intended to take my life come crashing in my mind. Adam’s pleas for a chance with him remind me my own pleas for life. And, I remember the painful itching on my wrists. Whatever he did or intended to do, he didn’t force a gun into my hand; it was me who chopped my own wrists. I’m the one who owes an apology to him, to myself, and to Jack. But I can’t move my lips. I might have control over my eyes, but my mouth seems to be a whole different story.
“I lost my mother; I lost Jack. But this was worse. Do you hear me?” Adam cups my chin. “The fact that you came so close to death because of me makes me want to take my own life.”
“No.” My lips finally move, but my voice is too low. I’m not even sure whether Adam heard me. It takes an enormous effort to cough to clear my throat. The blood that left my body must have taken with it all the energy I had. Dizziness howls around me, making my eyes lose focus, and all of a sudden, darkness replaces those beautiful hazel eyes.
***
The morning after my suicide attempt, a nurse in her late thirties with black hair and olive skin sits in the chair beside my bed and starts shooting me question after question about the suicide; whether I had planned it, left any notes, spoke to someone about my intentions, had any previous attempts, how long I’ve had this feeling, and so on.
I sit up and work hard take notice of the seriousness in her voice, while giving my best and honest answers, though carefully filtering everything about Adam and the blackmailing and focusing mainly on the stress of the job and the alcohol overdose. Does she honestly expect me to explain all the details of my life in front of her, with all the exhaustion and frustration I’m fighting against right now? I doubt anyone who has gone through a suicide attempt lays everything out there like an open book. Maybe that’s what makes us suicidal, but anyway.
I’d rather talk to a professional therapist about my problems than an emergency nurse, who might use my words against me, like putting me into a psychiatric ward. With real crazy and dangerous patients. Can they do that against my will? Maybe not based on this nurse’s judgment, but she sure might exaggerate my symptoms and influence the psychiatrist’s decision about my sanity. I give her the contact information of the therapist I see regularly and who, I’m sure, will confirm that I have no suicidal tendencies—well, did not, at least, have until now.
My body feels drained of its life reserves by the end of the brief interrogation, which in fact, feels like a second round of wrist slitting.
When she’s at the door, she looks at me one last time with a distrustful look on her face, as though she’s saying she’s seen through my manipulation. I may have to call my attorney to prove I haven’t lost it all.
Adam and Bree come in together with the food server who brings in my lunch. The sight of the food makes my stomach growl. A remarkable sign of life, though embarrassing.
With his face gloomy and colorless, Adam sits in the chair the nurse was sitting on and starts feeding me my lunch as if I’m a baby. My hands are useless at this point, and I wonder for how much longer I’ll depend on others for my basic needs.
Bree sits at the foot of my bed, her face conveying every concern and sympathy she must be having for me. “I’m tired of seeing you guys ruining your lives like this. How many times more will I have to visit you at hospitals?” Her voice carries contempt for me, for my terrible mistake. I can feel it, and I feel ashamed for what I did to myself and to those who actually love me, Bree being one of the few.
Adam gives his head a little shake, maybe as a sign for Bree to stop, and offers me more soup. Hungrily, I swallow several spoons of it, before I can gather some energy to speak.
“There aren’t enough words in the world to describe my regret for what I did. And the worst thing is that I didn’t see it coming, or I’d seek help. I don’t remember why I did it or how I did it.” My eyes dart between Bree and Adam, two people who haven’t abandoned me even when I was grumpy and mean to them for a very long time. “Now, I have not just one, but two people I owe gratitude for saving my life. Bree, if you haven’t been the best employee ever and come to my home last night… I don’t know what I can do to show you my gratitude. You can’t imagine how thankful I am for the second chance I’ve received.” A sudden gush of tears blurs my eyes.
“You can thank me by using your second chance wisely. Don’t take life for granted and don’t take our love for you for granted.” She looks toward Adam, and I know what she means with every word.
“Bree, enough,” Adam cuts her off. “You don’t know what she was going through the last few days.”
“No, please don’t argue over me. No amount of troubles can excuse my behavior.” I gaze down at my bandaged wrists, trying to imagine how the cuts must look like underneath all that fabric. I could barely make out the cuts through the darkness last night, but the sordid way they itched inside the warm water was something I hope I’ll never have to feel again. “I really don’t know what came over me. I don’t have any memories of it. In one second, I was leaving the taxi, the next, I find myself sitting in the bathtub, my wrists slashed. It’s like I had a multiple personality or something.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said the last part, because they look at each other with raised eyebrows. Oh, shit. They’ll talk to the nurse about it, and that’s it for me and getting discharged from the hospital. “It was alcohol,” I add anxiously. “I drank way too much. I drank some in the office, and some more at a bar with Valerie. She’s going through some tough patches herself and needed me to share her pain. I lost count of how much I drank.”
“If alcohol is your problem, you can easily look for counseling or join an AA group,” Bree points out, calmly.
“Yes, I’ll do that. Will definitely do that.” I hope I sound every bit as convinced as I feel. I finish everything on the food tray, much to my surprise and their content.
“I’ve got something to tell you.” Bree moves a little toward me. “I’ll totally understand, if you want to fire me for it.”
“What is it?” Adam asks.
Bree bites her lower lip, drifting her eyes between Adam’s and mine. “I forged your signature on the change order request to be able to send it in time. If they hadn’t received it by today we w
ouldn’t be able to get the approval for the extra cost of the new equipment. That’s why I came over to your place last night, you know. But, because you couldn’t, I had to do it. I checked the numbers carefully by the way. Everything seemed fine.”
Adam turns to me as if I carry more information about Bree’s confession. I inhale a long breath and smile. “I’m glad you did it, considering the circumstances. But don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise. Cross my heart.” She draws a cross over her heart with her finger. “If you don’t need me for anything else I’ll leave you guys alone. But, call me anytime you want, okay?” She stands up, smiling, and leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek. It’s the first time she’s shown physical affection to me, and I’m both moved and astounded by her intimacy. She waves at us when she leaves.
Adam leaves the tray on the little table by the door and comes back. “I’ll never forgive myself for causing this.” He sits back on the chair, glancing at my hands and frowning. I’m afraid he’ll start crying any second.
“Adam, please.”
“Don’t you dare forgive me. Everyday for the rest of my life, I should be reminded of the fact that you were about to die because of my stupid pride. Still, that won’t even cover one tenth of the punishment I deserve for what I did.”
“Adam, it wasn’t you.” I shake my head although it makes me dizzy. “I was feeling guilty for taking advantage of you. I was convinced that I couldn’t reciprocate your feelings for me and that I should leave you. That was eating at me more than anything else.”
“How about now? Are you still convinced about that?”
I avert my eyes, unable to give him an answer, much less a ‘no.’
“You don’t have to answer now. You must still be in shock. Take your time. I’ll wait for you, until I give my last breath.”
He’s making it impossible for me to ignore him. Maybe, that’s his purpose. And why do I try to ignore him in the first place? I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Obviously, the life I thought was sufficient for me turns out to be so depressing that I find solace in suicide attempts. I sentenced myself to a life of solitude, without caring about my need to have someone at my side, someone who’d love me unconditionally. Apparently, loneliness isn’t something my inner self, or subconscious, or whatever it was that pushed me to suicide, actually wants.
I gather the courage to look into his eyes, which are begging for love even more, and realize that among all the men who made a move on me, Adam is the only one with unconditional love. Aside from Jack, of course. Adam is willing to take me even in my current state, with ‘crazy’ officially engraved on my forehead with neon letters. Men run away from crazy women, don’t they? And, I don’t give a crap about his feeling of debt toward Jack being the reason for his love to me. The fact that he’d left Pat during the heat of my love for Jack says a lot about his real feelings toward me.
Adam doesn’t leave me for a second during the following days of my hospital stay. He sleeps in the chair by my side, his finger linked in mine. It’s clearly an uncomfortable position for him to sleep, instead of resting comfortably on his own cozy bed at his home, and it doesn’t take a doctor to know he’ll have a list of aches for sleeping in the wrong position. Nonetheless, he doesn’t pull his hand away. He remains at my side no matter what.
If he’s not the man I should dedicate the rest of my life to, then who else?
CHAPTER 17 - ADAM
As luck, or in this case bad luck, would have it, the first time in years I put my phone on silent before going to bed, I wake up to find seventeen incoming calls, five texts, three voice mails.
“What the fuck,” I curse, rubbing the sleep away from my eyes, and read the first text.
It’s from Bree. “Taylor tried to commit suicide. We’re at the hospital.”
The time I take from my bed to the drivers’ seat of my car, including putting on a t-shirt, pants, and shoes, is a record for my life. I don’t even remember whether I locked the door, and I couldn’t care less. When I arrive at the hospital and finally find my way into Taylor’s room, I beg the nurse attending her to let me in even for a few minutes. She looks up at me for an unnervingly long time, with her lips pursed in a thin line and her thick brows furrowed, studying me, probably assessing me for my effect on Taylor in such a tender condition, and finally lets me in.
“Two minutes,” she says, holding up her hands with fingers spread for effect. I nod and tiptoe into Taylor’s room. My heart sinks, like a rock hitting the depths of the ocean, at the sight of her chalk-white face covered with an oxygen mask and her bandaged wrists, and I drop to my knees. She must have slashed those beautiful wrists of hers. A shuddering image of her soaked in her own blood hits my brain, paralyzing me for a moment. I swallow hard and force myself back on my feet.
I’m no stranger to hospitals. I’ve had my fair share of time in them; more than an average citizen would have because of my mother’s illness. But, I’m most definitely not desensitized to what it represents; sorrow. Everyone’s face, from the doctors’ to the visitors of the sick, is tensed with stress and long with sadness. The only people who can laugh are those who’re discharged.
But this? No amount of hospital visits could have prepared me for the sight of Taylor walking the fine line between life and death, because the sole reason for Taylor’s hospital stay is me, my stupid stubbornness in pursuing her. She told me numerous times and tried to show that she couldn’t be with me. I neither listened to her words, nor took into account the violent pukes she had right after having sex with me. Hell, I even wanted to knock her up, without first discussing it with her.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I broke her so much that she couldn’t take it anymore. Even Jack’s death couldn’t accomplish what my stubbornness did.
I ruined the two women I love. First Pat, now Taylor.
***
On Taylor’s last day at the hospital, the nurse enters the room with the discharge papers in her hands. She’s been kind to me, calming me down with soothing words about Taylor’s condition when I was too freaked out to be able to function, explaining many details related to patients with suicide attempts, all of which I’m sure was beyond her job duties.
She makes me sign a document while giving instructing about Taylor’s care. “The stitches are dissolvable, but she’ll still have to come in to be checked to see, if they get infected. I already set up an appointment for her for the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll make sure she’ll make her appointments. Thanks for everything.” I shake her hand and walk her out of the room, then go back to help Taylor put on her jacket. I’m more than happy to be her caretaker, but it breaks my heart that she can’t do some very basic things without help, like eating, putting on clothes, and showering. Fortunately, it’s only temporary; the cuts on her wrists didn’t damage any nerves.
She flashes me a tired smile, which I can only imagine must take a lot of effort from her. “I can’t wait to be home.”
“You’ll have to wait a little longer for that because I’m not taking you to your condo. You’ll stay at my place until you’re back to your full strength.” I squeeze her shoulders, though very gently, not to hurt her.
Fear is eating at me that she won’t accept my offer and claim that she’ll hire a nurse to take care of her. I’m all for her getting the best care, but even the best of the best nurses won’t be able to watch her every move as I’m capable of. Although she said her suicide attempt had been just because of drinking too much alcohol and that she won’t try it again, I still have my doubts. Never in any of my countless experiences with alcohol intoxication have I considered killing myself. Even during my lowest days, when I thought I couldn’t breathe without Taylor, I held onto life. Who knows if she won’t try it again, and in her state of weakness, she’d succeed easily. Just ripping off those bandages and let her stitches bleed for ten, fifteen minutes would be enough.
She said her fat
her killed himself, so it probably runs in the family.
Who the fuck am I kidding? She could be coming from perfectly happy and healthy family with stellar DNA and still going through the same shitty road, because it was me who forced my fucking cock into her at every damn chance I could get, and demeaned her and her pure love for Jack ruthlessly. That she hadn’t pulled this shit when Jack had died—which, by the way, would have been a respectable, even admirable reason—and had held it together for three fucking years tells a lot.
If my punishment is being on a suicide watch for 24/7 for the rest of my life, so be it.
She’ll back off; maybe she’s already mapped out a way to finish what she started with her wrists. Shit, she may even do it the first minute she’s alone at her home.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes gazing at mine for an unusually long time.
Really? She’s not already googling for private nurses on her phone, to prove to me she doesn’t need me, and instead she’s thanking me? Thanking the motherfucker who put her in this mother-fucking hospital and caused her to be labeled as suicidal?
“That’s the least I can do for what I—” caused you to do. My eyes fall to her hands, which are now safely gripped in mine.
“Please stop. You have no fault in this. And if you bring this up again, I’m going back to my home.” The tiredness is stamped on her; in her hands, in her posture, even in her voice. Although she couldn’t be further from the truth, I can’t argue with her and cause her to lose more energy.
My eyes reach hers, and I see more tiredness. She frees her hands from mine and slips them around my body. I’m more anxious of the bandages around her wrists than the touch of her hands. In the darkest of her days, she’s showing me mercy.