A Kiss for Emily (Emily Stokes Series)
Page 16
“Will I have to go to the Psych Ward?”
“No, you will not.” Sitting down on the side of my bed, Dr. Lui smiled reassuringly. “You’ll be moved upstairs to pediatrics.”
That made me feel a little better.
Dr. Lui stood. “I know you are afraid, but you’re in good hands. Your parents love you very much.”
“We’re here for you, Em.” Dad placed his hand on my shoulder. I felt the weight of Mom’s hand rest upon my other.
Dr. Lui left, leaving my parents and me alone to talk about nothing of consequence. We all agreed the weather was nice, and it would be great to have a swimming pool, but couldn’t decide who would have to pick all the leaves out of it. We talked about getting a contra bassoon before school started back up in the fall. We talked about Mom gardening and Dad fishing. We talked about everything we could possibly think of, so we could avoid talking about me, or Sam, or the fact I was currently lodging in the hospital.
We were occasionally interrupted by the hospital staff, including an elderly women who presented us with a butt-load of papers to sign so I could be properly admitted as a patient and receive treatment, a man who needed to collect a sample of my blood, the orderly who escorted us to my room, and finally a young looking nurse who identified herself as Brandy, who would be on the clock till eleven pm. Among other things, she informed us that she usually didn’t work second shift, but had switched with a co-worker who wanted to attend an out-of-town concert.
“By the way,” Brandy said, handing me a hospital gown. “Your dinner should be arriving shortly.”
It was then I realized I should have at least packed an overnight bag.
Mom and Dad brought their dinner up from the cafeteria so we could all eat together. My parents both had spaghetti. My meatloaf was delivered just in time. We were all pleasantly surprised by the tastiness of the hospital food, and for a second, I forgot where I was.
“Where’s Kat?” I asked, finishing my last bite of roll.
“Sleepover at Britt’s house,” Mom replied.
The three of us sat in silence with our empty plates.
“I’ll bring a puzzle tomorrow for us to work on,” Dad suggested.
His idea was well intended, but made my meatloaf turn over as I realized I might be in here for a while.
Silence crept in again.
“I’ll call the nurse for an extra blanket and stay here with you tonight,” said Mom.
Somehow the idea sounded revolting. I was becoming desperate for some alone time, to try and come to grips with life. That would be next to impossible with Mom hanging around.
“You don’t have to stay. There’s no sense in both of us getting a bad night’s sleep.”
“I can’t leave you alone—”
“You heard Dr. Lui. I’m in good hands here.”
Mom looked at Dad.
“It’s your call,” he said.
After too many hugs and kisses, Mom and Dad went home. At first, I pretended to relax by stretching out over the bed. Quickly becoming bored and very un-relaxed, I had some fun pushing the buttons controlling the electric bed, curious to see how high each end would raise.
That too lost its novelty.
A television was suspended from the wall in front of me, but there was nothing I wanted to watch. It would only show people suffering. No wonder I had invented Sam; I saw my life just as miserable as the ones portrayed on television. My heart ached for him.
With a deep sigh, I knew I was only putting off the unavoidable. It was time to accept the reason why I was in the hospital… to face the reality that I didn’t want to admit. Strange though, the possibility of having a rare brain infection didn’t bother me so much, nor did the accusation of having a true form of psychosis. Either of those two explanations for my recent strange events would be the easy part to handle.
My throat began to sting as I mournfully considered the idea that my greatest source of joy was not real, and would soon come to an end with the remedy of my illness.
Bailey was right again. I was in love with someone who was too good to be true.
Chapter Twenty-eight
THE INTERNET
ALTHOUGH IT WAS LATE in the evening, I found myself restless and awake. Maybe I was afraid to fall asleep—afraid Sam would not be a part of tomorrow. I scanned the room and found comfort in a small piece of artwork hanging on the otherwise gray wall. It reminded me of Sam; he was my artwork in an otherwise gray world. He had brought so much beauty into my life. What would I do without him? Holding back the tears, I pulled the covers up to my chin.
Still not ready to end the illusion, I returned to the memory of playing my guitar for Sam; the last place I’d ever see him. Ignoring the freakish parts, I concentrated on his smiling face while I played my song for him. This memory helped ease the emptiness I felt, yet at the same time, intensified the pain crushing down upon me.
Just when I was about to call mom and ask her to come back, it dawned on me she said something about a communal computer in a nearby waiting room. Perhaps I could use it? I pushed the red call button located on the side of my bed. Brandy, the young nurse, arrived a short while later.
“Do you need something?”
Obviously I did, that was why I pushed the button, but I let it go. “Yes, I was wondering if I could use the computer out in the waiting room?”
“Hmm.” She pressed her lips together. “Let me check your chart for restrictions.”
Hearing the word “restrictions” caused me to stiffen.
Brandy disappeared out the door and returned with a clipboard full of papers. Her pointed finger zigzagged across the board as she silently skimmed through the pages.
“This area of the hospital is rather quiet tonight. I don’t see why not,” she finally said. “I’ll still be able to observe you from the nurses’ station.”
Observe? While her nursing verbage made my skin crawl, knowing I had something to keep my mind occupied seemed to take an invisible weight off my shoulders. “Where is it located?”
Tossing the chart on the foot of my bed, she turned around and faced outward toward the hall. “It’s down the east corridor,” she said, pointing to the left. Then she turned around to face me again. “Can’t be more than twenty feet. You won’t miss it. There’s a small visitors’ kitchenette directly across the hall. Help yourself to some hot chocolate, tea, or fruit juice if you like. You might even be able to find some crackers.”
“Wow, thank you!” I responded in earnest.
“We even have a bathrobe for you to wear.” Brandy walked over to the tiny closet and gave the sticky door a mighty yank. “These hospital gowns can be a bit drafty,” she said, giving me the, you-know-what-I-am-talking-about-look while fanning her rear end.
I grinned, thinking how glad I was that I didn’t respond sarcastically towards her first comment. She was quickly becoming a huge asset at making my time here more like a hotel stay rather than a dungeon lockdown.
“I just love helping people,” Brandy said, handing me the robe. “That’s why I became a nurse.”
“I can tell,” I said. “It shows.”
“Thanks. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way then. Enjoy the computer.” Brandy smiled, and then left to go about her own business, forgetting my patient chart still at the end of my bed.
I thought of her as friendly, but not very professional. Just as I was about to call after her, it dawned on me to take a look at my chart for myself. I snatched it up like a misbehaving toddler. My name appeared at the top, naturally, but what was next to my name in bold red letters made me choke on my own spit: “SUPERVISION REQUIRED.”
What? Supervision? Like Brandy really has to observe me?
I scanned the first paragraph that simply contained my demographic information. “Admitting Circumstances” followed. “The patient presented as a hysterical white 17-year-old female exhibiting severe visual and olfactory hallucinations. Patient was agitated upon arrival and behavior
increased into aggressive physical outburst. Further fits of violence may be treated with Ativan prn. Patient admits to a marked deterioration in social networks prior to hospitalization. Depression may be present, but not likely to manifest current symptoms. Diagnosis: Rule out Schizophrenia.”
“What happened to the little creatures scurrying around inside my brain?” I asked myself. “The report didn’t even mention anything about me falling or hitting my head.” I thought that was why I was here, to be evaluated for an infection, or a concussion…or something!
I skipped down to the physician signature. It was signed Dr. Richard Kendall. Bastard! I wondered if people called him “Dick.” He didn’t even mention me hitting my head! I hated that piece of crap more than ever! Stupid idiot! The idea of ripping up my chart crossed my mind, but I decided that would only give Dr. Kendall more evidence of violence, so I returned it to the hook outside my door.
After slipping on the yellow hospital robe, I continued to internally bash “Dick-face” as I plodded down the hallway for some hot chocolate, a keyboard, and a chance to clear my mind.
The dust had already settled from pouring the chocolate mix into my styrofoam cup. It took me a while longer to realize where to find the hot water. Stirring my heated beverage, I marveled over the simplistic pleasure of preparing my own hot cocoa. If nothing else, being strapped down to a hospital bed let me appreciate firsthand what I normally took for granted. That was one of the most disturbing experiences, in my life, ever. But then, I’ve been having more of those lately.
Reflecting on the day’s events, I thanked God, believing that my illness would be cured. I had to admit, it wouldn’t be so bad to stop second-guessing myself as insane.
And then I apologized to God for lying. I didn’t want Sam to go away.
Stirring my cup reminded me of coffee, which quickly progressed to Clair. I couldn’t understand how she could have betrayed me. Or was it a true act of friendship? I didn’t know. I was so confused.
Across the hall, I spied the components of a computer arranged on top of a large desk. Another colorful piece of artwork hung beside the desk brought another wave of remorse. And emptiness. Would every flower I see, real or painted, remind me of him?
Aside from myself, the area remained deserted. Many of the overhead lights had been dimmed, making the small table lamp on the desk stand out. Settling down in front of the computer, I wondered what to do next. It was easy to avoid social networks. Although I had plenty of interesting things going on in my life, I certainly didn’t want to share, and I hoped none of my friends would be so thoughtless as to post our mishap adventure on the Internet. Unwilling to look, I sat in the chair, staring at the blinking prompt.
My knees shook nervously under the desk; my fingers hovered above the keyboard. The word finally filtered through my subconscious: Goldenrod.
I quickly typed the word and hit ‘enter.’ My stomach tightened; I felt like a stowaway child in a candy store, about to be had.
Many different hits popped up instantly with brief descriptions. Scanning the first article, I began to read: “It was built in 1909…the last, largest, and most luxurious showboat designed for the Mississippi.” I could almost see Tilly and Garret performing on stage in front of a large audience that applauded joyfully as they sat in extravagant red velour theatre boxes.
Scrolling down the page, a current photo displayed a badly neglected vessel, desperate for paint and some TLC. In fact it was junk! How could such as magnificent craft rot so quickly? It made me angry to think that such a historic part of our past was rotting away, just like Sam had mentioned.
“Sam.”
Scrolling back to the top of the page, I continued reading the article.
“Hmmm.”
The story continued, but not in a way I had anticipated.
“In 1910, there were twenty-one riverboats touring the Mississippi River. By 1928, this number dwindled to eleven. With popularity plummeting and already in need of repairs, she was moored at the St. Louis riverfront in 1937. The magnificent Goldenrod was the last showboat—”
“What? It stopped sailing in 1937?” I wondered aloud. “That doesn’t make sense. It had to be a typo. Sam said—”
I sat back roughly in my chair. The wooden joint creaked under the abrupt pressure. Why was I doing this to myself?
An internal war raged within my very core. One part of me tried to accept that Sam was a figment of my imagination. The other part of me fought to keep him alive. I did not trust Dr. Dickhead Kendall, or his theory of schizophrenia. Sure, I had been upset by the move, but enough to create an entire fantasy world? I knew I used my fair share of denial and repression. But psychotic?
But then, how else could I explain all the bizarre things about Sam? People don’t blow up in lightning storms.
Frustrated more with myself than anything else, I went back to the main search page and clicked on another site for the Goldenrod. Skimming over the story, I read the same basic information. I decided to try a third site. The heading confused me: “Ghosts of the Prairie.”
At first I thought I had the wrong page, but then I caught sight of the familiar boat, the Goldenrod. Intrigued, I scanned this article quickly for something to catch my eye. “…haunted by a young girl.”
My pulse quickened. I continued scanning the article for pertinent clues. “She had been nicknamed Victoria. Legend tells of a widower raising his daughter. The girl was found floating in the harbor. She had been brutally murdered…the attackers never found. The father died shortly thereafter.”
My arms fell to my sides, useless. I looked up at the ceiling for some kind of reassurance. I felt my pulse quicken. Could this be Sam’s sister? How could I make this up?
“Miss Stokes?”
Startled, I nearly spilled my cocoa.
“Finding anything interesting?” Brandy asked, looking as cheery as ever.
“Oh.” I repositioned myself in front of the screen. “Not very.”
“Is that the Goldenrod?” she asked, pushing me aside to view the monitor.
My stomach dropped. How could she have known? I dreaded what she might add to my file after catching me obsessing.
“They made a movie about that back in the ‘80s,” the nurse continued. “It was on T.V. a few nights ago. Did you see it, too?”
“Oh?” I replied, glad she was not spying on me, but feeling quite ill about it being made into a movie. Maybe I had seen it.
“I wished I lived in that era. People seemed happier then.”
“Yeah.” My stomach hurt. Maybe that’s how I knew about the boat.
“I actually stopped by to give you these.” She held up a tiny paper cup. “It’s time for your meds.”
“Meds? I wasn’t told I would be receiving any medication. Are the blood tests back?”
“Not yet.” Brandy smiled kindly. “The lab probably won’t report anything until morning. The doctor ordered this late this afternoon and apparently the pharmacy had been busy today. But now that the prescription is here, I need you to take it.”
She extended the paper cup in her right hand and held up a plastic glass of water in her left.
I immediately regretted sending my mother home. I didn’t want to take the medicine, but I didn’t want to put up a fuss and appear violent either, so I swallowed the pill without quibbling, then thanked her out of habit.
“By the way, what was it?” I asked, handing the empty cups back to her. I’m not sure why I asked; about the only medicines I was familiar with were Tylenol and Midol.
“Seroquel. And it’s a pretty high dose so it’s going to make you sleepy.” After crumpling the paper cup, she put it inside the larger plastic cup and then threw it all in the desk-side wastebasket. Starting down the hallway, she added “You should probably head back to your bed shortly.”
“Okay,” I mumbled, not really paying attention because I was more interested in my next search. Turning back towards the monitor, my muscles tensed with apprehensi
on. Maybe fear. I had a mystery to solve: finding the theatre where Garret met Tilly.
Before I could find out if there was a movie about that too, I first needed the name of the theatre. It was easy to recall “Sam” telling me about his parents. I pictured his face, smiling, and his eyes twinkling, as he described his parent’s first encounter to me. Unfortunately, I only remembered it took place in Chicago.
“Chicago Theatres” only led to movie theatres.
After fifteen minutes of searching, I was growing exceedingly impatient and the meds were kicking in. My eyes kept fogging over and I was ready to call it quits when I found it. “A History of the Merle Reskin Theatre: The Blackstone Theatre.” Sam had called it the Blackstone.
A quick search proved that there had never been a movie made about the Blackstone Theatre. My heart started pumping faster, knowing I couldn’t have had pre-knowledge about this place.
An interior photo of the theatre showed a magnificent French architectural design all in gold. Gold velvet curtains, gold chairs, and gold carpet. More gold accents trimmed the beautiful woodwork. Once again I became envious as I imagined what it would be like to perform on such a grand stage. Memories of my own past performances in the school auditorium transformed onto the stage of the Blackstone.
My short-lived burst of enthusiasm gave way to eyelids growing heavier by the second. I forced myself to read on, in hopes I could prove I wasn’t crazy after all. And to prove Sam was real.
“The Blackstone Theatre became a leading center for drama soon after it opened on New Year’s Eve, 1910.”
My body froze. My eyes pained. Surely there could not be two typos. I squeezed my tired eye to clear the fog.
“1910.” Sam’s mother performed on opening night.
It couldn’t be. I hit the back arrow on the screen repeatedly until the Goldenrod flashed up on the screen. I scanned the page for dates through squinted eyes.
“Built in 1909. Moored in 1937.”
I clapped my hands over my eyes, shielding myself from the horror on the computer.
They were right. Somehow I was inventing Sam.