BABY ROYAL

by Bella Grant

  “I’ll speak to the doctor about this,” I muttered, wanting to be treated with respect and not like a child.

  “And I’ll have a talk with the doctor about your attitude if you don't stop talking back,” she retorted and pulled the needle out, along with my blood. She made some notes, and before she left, she turned to face me. “The procedure was to check your blood levels before we put you on medication. The staff doctor will make his rounds around nine this morning.” She twirled back around and shut the door behind her, leaving me alone yet again.

  I looked at my surroundings as I rubbed my arm where the band aid was. The walls were bare, just white bricks to stare at and not even a TV to watch. The only TV in this place was in the common room, apparently. My room contained two beds, a curtain between them, and a wooden dresser for each occupant. An en-suite bathroom was the one place that had color—brownish pink tiles and a floor to match.

  I sat up and instinctively pulled my knees to my chest. I had been admitted late last night after Dr. Sullivan had repeatedly assured me I would be fine. I didn’t feel fine, though. Nor was I able to sleep or stop my brain from playing over last night and what I remembered of it. From the pill bottle laying heavily in my hand to suddenly waking up in the emergency room with Lisa, tear-stained, next to me. Then to meeting who I decided right away was the most attractive doctor I had ever laid eyes on.

  That was enough to sway my dislike for doctors, even if he did have gorgeous, light-blue eyes and dark-brown, tousled hair I yearned to feel. He was tall, too, with a smile that probably made every patient blush. I decided he was one of the guys who didn’t realize he was doing it too–making the girls around him all warm and fuzzy inside. He seemed on the younger side and familiar—like I had seen those sharp eyes somewhere before. If I was home and had access to the internet, I would have looked him up and known everything I could about him by now.

  Because of him, I was trapped in the hospital with nothing more than a hospital gown and the watch from my dad. The orderlies tried to take it away along with my clothes, my shoes, and my dignity. I held the watch tightly in my grasp and away from their bored expressions. My pleading eyes landed on Dr. Sullivan, who read my mind.

  “Guys, leave the watch. I’ll make a note for the staff to know she can keep it on.” He threw a gentle smirk my way, and I had mouthed “thank you” to him before he left and I was sent on my merry way.

  My mood grew worse when I was assigned an empty room with stiff hospital beds and stiffer crisp white sheets. The smell of bleach alone made me want to vomit, but I eventually sulked over to the nearest bed and fell onto it. All the thoughts and the feelings from the day hit me square in the chest. The consequences of my actions caught up to me, and my tears spilled out uncontrollably with no end in sight.

  By early morning, I had no more tears to cry, only regrets. I staggered to the shower where I was surprisingly met with strong pressure and hot water beating down my back. Washing away yesterday’s problems to make space for new ones today. I tried not think about my afternoon appointment with Dr. Sullivan when I would apparently begin as what he liked to call ‘the healing process.’ As if I hadn’t tried to heal for the last year.

  Yet it never occurred to me until my shower that maybe I really hadn’t tried at all. I gave up long ago on trying to close the open wound in my heart. Besides, it was easier to grieve than to face reality. The water was cold by the time I realized I must have been in there far too long. Begrudgingly, I wrapped the flimsy white towel around my body. I stood in front of the mirror next, where I wiped away the blurry steam and gasped at the reflection staring back at me.

  I hadn’t looked at myself properly in a long time and hadn’t realized how bad I looked until I was put under fluorescent lights which created shadows on my body that had never been there before. I opened my towel and studied my frame. I knew I had lost weight since my jeans sagged around my hips a few months back, but this… this was a sharp smack in the face. I winced at how my ribs poked out and my collarbone jutted more than before. I turned to get a glimpse of my spine that also revealed far too much bone and nothing else. Dark circles surrounded my blue eyes, and my cheekbones were more prominent than ever. If I was completely honest with myself, I looked like shit. Would I ever be able to look at myself without wincing? Or be the face of my own charity for hungry children when I looked malnourished myself? What about men? How would I have a healthy dating life if I looked like I didn’t take care of myself?

  When the tears found their way down my cheeks, I knew I needed to pull myself together before breakfast. Now that I was more aware of how badly I’d let myself go, I made the self-declaration to force myself to eat. To get better, be healthier, and fill out the shadows of my self-image.

  Breakfast in the common room added to my terrible mood, though. Everyone around me actually held normal conversations, some even laughing and having a good time as if I was the only one who really acknowledged where I was and why I was here. I seemed to be the only one freaked about it. I felt lost, like I had missed the introduction speech or something. I stood abruptly from my seat and picked up my tray to eat my breakfast in my room, away from all the happy faces around me, but was stopped at the door by an orderly.

  “Why not?” I demanded when I was told I couldn’t eat in my room.

  “Safety policy,” the pretty woman stated like it was a sufficient enough answer for me.

  “Really? What on earth could I do with my food in there that I can’t do in here, besides trying to puke it back up? I’m not bulimic, ma’am,” I retorted.

  She pointed to the plastic utensils on my tray. “Those are why. We had an incident involving a plastic fork and an attempted suicide in a patient’s room. Ever since, it’s been banned. Sorry, honey, you’ll have to eat here under our supervision.”

  I stifled my snort. I tried to kill myself once. Not going to try it again, I wanted to yell in her pretty little scrunched-up face. Definitely not with a plastic utensil. That sounded horribly painful. Still, she wouldn’t budge and I was stubborn, so I stomped back to my room with nothing more than a banana in my stomach and drew my knees up on my bed.

  A small part of me hoped the doctor making the morning rounds would be Dr. Sullivan. My hopes soured when a bald, stocky man who went by the name of Dr. Allen showed up at my door instead, and I found myself being coddled and disappointed. He tiptoed around me and treated me like a bomb waiting to go off, which irritated the hell out me. The backlash bubbled up when anyone tried to speak to me after his visit.

  I’d had just about enough when I finally received the clothes Lisa had dropped off. I was sad to learn I couldn’t see her since visitor’s day was every Sunday with no exceptions. Later, I would find out from her that they’d spent a good hour making sure she didn’t hide anything suspicious in the bag.

  “Apparently, shoelaces are considered an accomplice to suicide,” she would tell me the following visitor’s day as she chomped her gum.

  I’d never even considered the idea until they told me they couldn’t release my tennis shoes she had brought for me. Some people were desperate, I supposed.

  The clock struck 3 p.m. and my door swung open to reveal a stocky, dark-skinned orderly standing in the doorway. He looked like he would be better off on a football team rather than in a psych ward with his bulky arms and square-shaped head.

  “Ms. Fiona Sims?” His voice was lighter than I imagined.

  “Yes,” I answered timidly. I stood up to wiggle my toes in my grippy hospital socks. I felt more comfortable in jeans and a purple hoodie instead of that damn itchy hospital gown.

  “I’m Blaine. I’ll escort you to your appointments with Dr. Sullivan. If you’d do me the honor?” He gestured his thick hands towards the hall, and for once, I listened with no back talk. Despite his size, he didn’t intimidate or coddle me, simply led me through the halls and into the elevator, small talk forming between us.

  A few moments later, Blaine had me take a s
eat in the empty doctor’s office. “Dr. Sullivan will be here any minute. If you need anything, his secretary Vickie is right here.” He motioned towards the brunette on the phone behind a desk outside the office. My nod was his cue to leave, the door left open, but with Vickie’s back turned, I was able to explore the office at my leisure.

  It was a typical doctor’s office—bookcases filled with medical books and walls covered with large poster boards—the kind with motivational quotes running along the bottom of a picture of an eagle or a man on a mountain. A coat hanger with multiple lab coats stood tall in the corner and a flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall. A large wooden desk was softened by a single picture frame. I frowned and oddly hoped it wasn’t a picture of his wife or girlfriend. I don’t remember seeing a ring on his hand last night. I checked the door before I stood up to walk around his desk, my hand gliding across it, my eyes glancing at the stack of manila folders before they rested on the picture that demanded my attention.

  My face softened at the sight of two young, twin girls captured laughing in the picture. They had matching pigtails and frilly pink tutus with toothy grins on their little faces. They resembled Dr. Sullivan vaguely, like they were not his but related, maybe nieces or cousins. I smiled when I noticed it was the only personal picture he had in his entire office. He must have been quite attached for them to make the cut. I held up the photo to get a better look when the door opened wider and I met familiar, tired blue eyes.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Fiona,” Dr. Sullivan greeted me, unfazed by me standing at his desk. He glanced at the pile of closed manila folders before going over and shucking his white lab coat, draping it over the others on the coat rack. I stared at a long, lean torso and a nice, firm butt hidden beneath his frumpy coat. I set the picture frame back down and in a few short steps was at the couch. I focused on my hands so I wouldn’t focus on admiring him. I was not here to admire him. Why was I suddenly having such heated thoughts?

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Sullivan. What a lovely picture,” I said, needing to say something about why I was snooping around since he didn’t. And so I could stop thinking about his cute butt.

  He slumped down at his desk and leaned back, smiling fondly at the photograph. “Ah, yes. It’s a picture of my beautiful nieces, Ella and Emma, on their sixth birthday. And to think my own sister had a hand in how they’re turning out,” he answered with a soft chuckle in his voice. “How’d you sleep on your first night?” he asked as he shifted his papers around to find a pen and a pad of paper to write on. The pile of folders made him look organized, but he clearly was not. Is he really a renowned psychiatrist like he said he was?

  “Like shit,” I spat, and he snorted in response.

  “Yeah, it’s not the penthouse, I guess, but it’s still a clean, warm place to sleep. Even the homeless try to admit themselves here for a place to crash for the night,” he explained and finally found a paper pad. He picked up the top folder of the pile and flipped it open.

  “Am I supposed to feel bad about that?” I raised my eyebrow. He sighed and ran a hand through his tousled hair. It should be a crime for a doctor to have such good hair.

  “No,” he said. His eyes met mine as he offered me half a smile. “No, I was just trying to help you relax. I’m not sure why I ask my patients how they sleep on the first night. Nobody sleeps well on their first night in a foreign place. Period. Please, let’s start over. How was your morning?”

  I laughed because my morning had been as shitty as my night, and I knew he could tell without me saying a word. The dark circles and red blotches on my face after my cry fest were still visible. He took my laughter as a hint and laughed himself, flipped through the folder, and clicked his pen.

  “Never mind, let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we? You ready to get down to the nitty gritty, Fiona?”

  I swallowed hard, looked at him, and nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter 5

  The first two sessions went as well as they could have, given the circumstances. When she initially walked into my office, I was happy to hear she was ready, but I knew better than to believe it. Most patients were never ready to open up at first, not even to a shrink. Which was ironic, since we were getting paid to listen without interrupting. Patients were human, though and humans rarely put their heart on their sleeves. Certainly not when it came to their own issues or even admitting they had issues.

  This was Fiona’s problem. She was so concerned about admitting out loud she had a problem to begin with. She barely realized what she had done was an issue, which made my job of digging to get to the core a challenge, a challenge I was willing to take because not only was she a young woman, she was also a gorgeous one who had a future she had begun building the foundation for.

  So even when she said she was ready, I was prepared for the opposite—an awkward silence, avoiding eye contact, and playing with the loose button of the arm of the couch that all my patients seemed fascinated by. Then there were the bouncing questions. One for them. One for me. Though usually, it was answering a question with another question.

  “Do you have any hobbies?” I enquired to ease her into productive conversation.

  “Not anymore. Do you?” she asked, and we were back to square one.

  It wasn’t easy getting someone to confide in me, especially women, but I had my eye on the prize when it came to Fiona. Since hobbies weren’t doing it, I asked about her schooling, about her work, about her friends—anything to make her face light up, to get her to acknowledge me. To not be afraid of me, the first step to trusting me.

  Every straw I grasped at was broken. Her responses were downcast, sad, and mumbling, unfinished answers. Answers which consisted of how she had dropped her last semester due to the accident. How she’d had a hard time making it to her part-time retail job. Then there was the problem of her overflowing inbox with unopened email, the subject lines asking about what happened at the charity gala—the one she had rushed out of that fateful night.

  “I don’t know how to even open them so I just delete them,” she shrugged and her eyes darted anywhere but on me.

  I tried to steer away from the topic, knowing it was too soon to examine the details of the night her parents died, though I knew it was the core we needed to get to eventually, when she could say it out loud to me in order to move on. Unfortunately for me, every damn subject I brought up led us right off the cliff neither of us was ready for. It definitely didn’t help me get any closer, nor did it get her any closer to trusting me.

  After the second session with her, which got us exactly nowhere, I reluctantly dismissed her early, my own frustrations growing.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked with sad, puppy dog eyes as she stood shakily from the couch. I had not expected her reaction and tried to retrace my steps back.

  “No, Fiona, I just…” I had never been good at coming up with poor excuses on the spot. The way she looked at me—like I had just kicked her in the ribs—didn’t help either. I put my hands up in the air, trying a playful approach, and pulled out Wii U controllers from my top drawer and held them up. “I just thought maybe we could give it a rest today and play some video games to ease the tension,” I suggested, knowing she might call my bluff and a scrambled response already cued in my head.

  Instead, she raised an eyebrow at me and folded her arms in a huff. “Is this some kind of joke?” she asked. Her voice had more edge to it.

  I frowned. “I’m not sure exactly what part about kicking your butt in Smash Brothers is a joke,” I deadpanned.

  Her eyes lit up. “Did you say Smash Brothers?” I tossed her a remote, intrigued by her sudden interest.

  “I’ll try to go easy on you the first round, but I do call dibs on Link.”

  She caught the Wii remote easily with a smirk. “That’s okay. I’ll just humiliate you by beating you as Pikachu.” She plopped back down on the couch as I flicked on the TV. We were finally getting somewhere with each other and hope swell
ed in my chest.

  “Game on, then.” Cutie.

  Our impromptu video game session had gone well into my lunchtime when I realized we had been playing for about an hour and my next patient was due to show up in ten minutes. Not to mention how my stomach was growling, demanding my attention—and, on another note, my stats were terrible. I should have given in rounds ago since she was whooping my ass, yet I wasn’t complaining. Not when her laugh rang in my ears or when I saw how determined she was when she had something entirely new to focus on. Or how easily she let her guard down by the mere action of handing her a game controller. That’s when I noted getting my ass kicked by a girl—a cute girl—was the most fun I’d ever had in the confines of my office.

  “I never would have pinned you for a gamer girl,” I commented somewhere between rounds of choosing our next character and playing fields.

  “Well, when you’re an only child, you gotta pass the time somehow. Since I didn’t have any siblings to play with, I picked up video games. I have quite a collection of games in my room,” she announced proudly, and I was relieved she didn’t take my comment as an insult.

  She looked at me as we waited for the game to load. “I could say the same thing about you, Dr. Sullivan. I never would have pinned a psychiatrist as having a Wii U in his office and better yet, to offer it to a patient.” Our characters dropped down into the Hyrule field, and I immediately dodged her first lightning attack.

  “Well, the Wii U is popular among my younger patients. Sometimes, it’s easier getting a ten-year-old to talk while playing than it is by sitting there staring at them. Children are more apt to open up when their minds are focused on something else, something more fun to them than talking about their greatest, darkest secrets with a stranger,” I explained as I jumped to miss her next attack, flipping in mid-air.

  “That makes sense,” she said as she caught my character, Link, and used her smash attack. “Is that what you are doing to me now?”