by Dani Wyatt
I’m laying here in the hospital. I see people walk by the open door of my room and they're smiling and I just have to wonder why.
Are some people just born that way? Are they just blessed with some genetic code that I don’t have?
I’m beginning to think the last few months with Beckett were some sort of test. An evil, cosmic way of teasing me with the contrast. Seems now that I’ve had this glimpse of happiness, it only makes the return to this darkness so much more poignant.
It’s like an alien has been living inside of me, growing stronger all the time. Something that lives off some other free will, and now it is now feeding on me. Any glimmer of hope I had about my life has been gobbled up and spat out by this thing. This entity that has sprung back to life inside of me. It chews on my insides, leaving this raw hopelessness in its wake. Despair that can’t even begin to be described so simply as 'pain.'
The doctor and Bruce say it will pass. This consuming black cloud that shows me just how far down I can go.
But it's clear to me that there are several types of people in the world. Those that are lucky enough to have some twist of DNA that gives them the ability to feel joy and contentment. Sure, they may go through trials and troubles, but it’s not the same. They bounce back.
Then, there are the others. Like me. It’s almost as though you live for so long in so much pain, you become addicted to it. It seeks you out, claims you. You may be clean for a while, step away and feel the light kiss your face, but in the end, it calls you back and in a sick, disgusting way, the darkness feels like home.
I’m thinking frightening thoughts. Thoughts about the baby. About how it would be better off without me. Everything feels dark, heavy and insurmountable.
They are weaning me off the sedatives and the My muscles have stopped quivering and jerking uncontrollably. But now, I’m fighting the sheets because my skin feels like a raw open wound. My insides are shaking, freezing cold as my flesh secretes a layer of continuous sweat.
I don't know how I will ever feel anything other than this. No matter how many times they reassure me it will only be another day or so. That I’m having an extreme reaction. I’m not so sure. I’m afraid this is just who I am now. Who I’ve always been. The medication is a flimsy mask which I tore away to expose the real me.
I look at the people walking by my door and I honestly wonder how they are even able to stand. To walk and function. Let alone smile. I’ve fallen. Not falling. I’m no longer falling. I’ve hit the bottom and it feels final.
I’m at the muddy depth of this well. It has slick sides and I've got no will to dig my fingers in and climb. It's too far.
How can I ever be a mother?
I can’t.
Jordan is gone. Beckett is gone.
Even Bruce has given up trying to reason with me. To assuage my fears. Because he knows that I'm right. Something has gone terribly wrong. The fear is part of me. Eating at me. I honestly don’t care to feel it any longer. I wish I’d never felt the happiness. The hope. It only makes my decision more difficult.
A nurse arrives to check on me every twenty minutes. Bruce stayed with me until I kicked him out. I don’t need him staring at me. I don’t need him to keep reminding me people love me. How does that make it any easier? It doesn’t. It makes me feel worse. To realize somehow that I tricked all those people into thinking I had something to offer. That I deserved their love.
I know what I have to do. I’ll do it, and pay the price. He deserves to be free and I can’t ever be free. Some people just don’t get a happily ever after. They just don’t.
And I’m one of them.
Beckett
The doctor is talking like he thinks what he's saying makes some sort of sense. “She had an extreme reaction to the withdrawal from her medication—”
I'm starting to get frustrated. “What fucking medication? My wife doesn’t take any medication.” I bite down until I hear my teeth crack. The doctor’s chest rises as he waits for the angry beast in front of him to become a rational husband. I'm trying, I really am, but this shit, on top of everything else, is clouding my judgment. I suck on my teeth and shove both hands in my pockets, trying for a moment to stem the tide of fury that is rising in my gut.
The young doctor rubs a hand across his stubble-covered chin. He’s barely old enough to have hair on his balls. I shift my weight and crack my neck. Then I center myself and nod for him to continue.
“The combination of medicaitons we used to try to counteract the acute depression brought on by the withdrawal became a factor. It sent her into a mild psychosis.”
I wrest my hands from my pockets, transferring them to grip my head so it doesn’t fly apart and plaster my brains all over the white walls. On the flight, all I could think about was how I was going to tell her what had happened. And now I'm not even sure she'll understand it.
When I deplaned three hours ago, I headed straight to Bruce’s apartment. I banged on the door until one of his neighbors came out in the hall and looked like they might call the cops. Since I didn’t have a fucking phone, I drove to his second home.
Windfield.
I had stomped up the back stairs to the second floor and practically ran down one of the care staff that happened to walk by as I stood outside the door of Bruce’s office.
“He’s been gone for a few days.” She was a twenty-something brunette with a ponytail and a compassionate look in her eye. She stopped as I leaned back against the wall, grabbing the back of my neck. “He’s never taken a sick day in the six years I’ve been here, so I know something bad is going on. He’s always here.”
“Do you know what happened? Where he is?”
“Naw. Nobody knows.”
“Well he must have called someone, and let them know he wouldn’t be in. He wouldn’t just leave.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he talked to Rochelle. She’s the Executive Director. He reports to her.” The woman shook her head, giving me a sympathetic twist of her lips. “But she's not that nice.” She softened her words to a whisper. “She probably won’t even talk to you. She’s like that. Power’s gone to her head.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll see about that. Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate your help.”
“Oh, anytime.” I didn't miss her visual inspection of the crotch of my pants. “I know you. I know Promise. She’s a lucky girl. I hope she comes back to work soon.” She looked at me quizzically. “Hey, ain’t you two supposed to be on your honeymoon? What are you doing here looking for Bruce?” The pitch of her voice raised, then turned into playful excitement.
“It’s a long story.” I gripped my chin, the scruff on my jaw making a scratching sound under my fingers. “Thanks again.” I turned toward the elevator, then quickly glanced back at the brunette and she read the question in my eyes.
“Down two floors.” She smiled. “Then turn left. You’ll see the sign. Good luck.” She chuckled and started to hum as she sashayed away.
“I don’t need luck,” I muttered as I punched the down button with enough force it nearly stuck inside the metal circles.
I found this Rochelle person. And, no. She wasn’t nice and she wasn’t helpful. But in the end, I managed to convince her that helping me find Bruce was in the best interests of her future as a walking, talking, functioning human.
I’d never overtly threaten a woman, but she picked up the vibe I was putting down.
The Suburban’s speedometer topped out at 100 MPH a few times on the freeway en route to Providence Memorial. I didn’t wait around to ask the details of why Bruce was at the hospital with Promise, but I got out of Rochelle that Promise was sick. Or hurt. Or fucking God knows what.
All I know is I left her and now she’s in a hospital with our baby in her belly.
The drumroll beat of my heart had my lungs burning for oxygen. Every disastrous scenario tore through my head as I ignored the red lights and turned into the parking lot with brakes squealing. On top of wondering what was happening
with Promise, the thought of what the fuck was happening with Jordan had me losing my shit.
How the hell am I going to tell her that not only is he not with me, I fucking honestly don’t know if I got him killed?
The one thing in the world she asked me to do was bring him back and I fucking failed.
I stomped through the hospital reception area, barking at the security guard until he gave me the room number and directions to get there.
Now I'm standing outside her hospital room. Bruce sips a Starbucks while Promise sleeps inside. When the security guard at the desk finally gave me my wife’s room number and informed me it was in the lock-down psych ward, my head just about cracked fucking open.
“So, Jesus.” I rub my hands back and forth over my head trying to process the information the doctor has given me. “What fucking medication?” I look from the twenty-something in the white coat to Bruce, who shakes his head.
The doctor looks at me in confusion. Probably wondering what kind of fucked up marriage we have, since I don’t know what meds my wife takes.
“Her sertraline. Zoloft? When she came in, she indicated she’d been taking this particular medication for approximately ten years. That is a very long time and cutting it off like she did without lowering the dosage first was dangerous. She had an extreme reaction.” He picks up on my confusion. “No one noticed a change in her behavior leading up to when you found her unresponsive?” He looks to Bruce first, then back to me.
“I’ve been out of the country,” I groan. I’ve been up for going on twenty-four hours now, and the amount of sleep I’d gotten in the four days I was away amounted to only a handful of hours. I’m walking on a knife’s edge and all I fucking care about is if she and the baby are okay. “Is she okay now? What about the baby?”
“She is better.” The doctor’s voice isn’t dripping with reassurance. “Your wife is still in a dangerously depressed mental state. That's why we've been keeping her sedated. Yesterday, we tried to lower the level of sedatives, and she became . . .” He pauses as he sticks his hands down into the pockets of his lab coat. “Despondent. I’m confident though that with the right balance of the sedative and a lowering of her medication incrementally, by next week she will be back to baseline. However, I do suggest she sees someone. I do know that keeping her on the same medication for nearly ten years is not standard protocol. You may want to find a new psychiatrist.”
“She’ll be okay.” Bruce leans forward setting a hand on my shoulder.
“Yes, and she more than likely won’t need medication long-term, but you will need to keep a close eye on her for the next few months. The pregnancy is certainly a factor in mood swings as well. Maybe for the better. We will see.” He sneaks a look at his watch without taking his hand out of the lab coat pocket. I grit my teeth.
“The baby? Is the baby okay?” My patience is non-existent and I do not like having to repeat myself.
“We have ultrasound coming up around one o’clock. Hopefully, she will be awake by then. An OB/GYN consult has been ordered and they will be here as well. Okay?” He pulls his hand out of the pocket this time, lifting it to look at his watch again.
I glance over my shoulder for the tenth time. All I want to do is hold her. She looks so small and helpless under the clinging, white sheet. It’s tucked around her body as she lays on her side. Both her hands are melded together like she’s praying as they rest on the pillow in front of her face.
Her cherry pink lips open slightly as she breathes evenly. The mid-morning sun squeaks lines of light through the closed blinds. I want to wake her. To tell her I’ll love her forever, no matter what.
My chest tightens because my heart is shattering inside it. She’s been in so much pain and she didn’t trust me enough to tell me. After everything we’ve gone through, after clearing the decks and promising there would be no more lies or secrets, I’m somewhere between crushed and fucking pissed off.
She’s mine to take care of. All of her. I’ve shown her that. Told her that. What would make her think that she couldn’t tell me about taking some damn medication, after everything she’s been through? There’s no shame in that. The blame rests on my shoulders. I’ll take it. Because in the end, if she doesn’t feel the level of trust I’d hoped, it means somewhere along the line I haven’t earned it. I’ve missed caring for her in a way she needed.
“Sir?” The doctor looks at his watch again and it is starting to piss me the fuck off.
“What?” I guess he’d said something but I’d been too busy staring at my angel laying in that hospital bed.
“Do you have any more questions?”
“When can I take her home?” As soon as the last word leaves my lips, another punch hits my gut. I remember that we don’t even have a fucking home to go to. We can’t go back to the loft. That bridge is burned. Fuck knows, I may get back there today and find out all my shit’s been tossed in a dumpster. All the years of sketches. The letters. But none of it fucking matters if I don’t get my girl back.
And get her smiling again. Because more than anything in this life, I want her happy. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to ensure that she is. Nothing.
“I’d say a few days. Let’s take it slow. We don’t want another day like yesterday. Okay, gentleman, I have to run. If you need anything else, let the nurses know.”
I spin on my heel as Bruce shifts to follow me. I’ve got tunnel vision as I make my way to the side of her bed, crouching down to gaze at her paler-than-usual, translucent skin. Her hair falls in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She’s breathtaking, even in a hospital gown. I run two fingers over her cheeks, feeling the warmth as I swallow the lump in my throat. I don’t ever want to stop touching her ever again.
I swing my hand behind me to grab the bedside chair. Bruce steps up and slides it to me.
“Thanks.” I nod.
“Sure.” He sips his coffee then continues. “I tried to call you. Left about fifty fucking messages.” Bruce maneuvers around the chair to lean against the window ledge. He runs a hand back and forth over his shiny head and crosses his long legs at the ankles. His light blue polo looks cheerful and, as always, his jeans are perfectly pressed. Even in a crisis that dude can dress.
“Yeah, we had a bit of trouble. Phones were collateral damage.”
“She was better this morning. Yesterday was scary. Not gonna lie.”
“Fuck.” My head drops to the bed and I take a moment before asking. “What happened?”
“I went home to shower and change, and came back a couple hours later. When I walked in, she was screaming at two nurses and had an orderly practically crying. She was backed up into the corner there.” He nods his head to somewhere behind my chair. “Screaming something about her mother. How she was going to end up like her mother. That they should take the baby. Crazy shit, man. She’s not good with meds.” He raises his eyebrows. “Some people just have wild reactions. You couple that with being pregnant, taking herself off a medication known to cause withdrawal symptoms, all the crazy shit that’s gone on the last week, and you being gone. Jordan gone. Shit, I’d be jumping out a damn window myself.”
“Holly come back around?”
“Not that I know of, but she wouldn’t have any idea we were here. I’d have intercepted that train wreck fast.”
“Thanks. Here you are again saving the fucking day. I don’t know how I will ever thank you.”
“Me either. I thought I got rid of you two when you got married, thought you'd be tormenting each other. You’re still a pain in my ass.” He shakes his head playfully, trying to lighten the mood.
Promise sighs and turns in the bed. My eyes dart to her and my hand caresses her cheek.
“Babe.”
Her eyelashes flutter. The soft curve of her lips turn up, then they sink right back down.
“Jordan?”
I make a split second decision.
“He’s fine. Babe, he’s good. We’ll talk about it later. You just need
to get better. Okay? That’s all that matters.”
My heart almost dies as I lie to her. I want to take it back immediately, confess, but I can't. She needs to be calm and if she never forgives me then I'll just have to wear that too. Because she is the most important thing to me, and right now she needs to feel safe.
Her sleepy eyes close again. As much as I want to talk to her, I’m relieved when she slips back to sleep.
At least she knows I’m here.
Promise
Beckett is here, and for the first time in days I feel something other than catatonic hopelessness.
Silence envelops the white walled room, except for his even breaths and the hum of the monitor over my head.
I think it must be night time. No light streams in through the blinds and the door to the room is closed.
My dry lips hurt like I’ve been walking in a desert. I’m desperate for water but I don’t dare move. Beckett’s head rests on the side of the bed. He’s settled in the chair, and he’s pulled it as close to the bed as possible. His breathing is deep and steady.
I remember him coming in. I remember asking about Jordan and I remember feeling safe when I looked into his eyes.
He said Jordan was okay and that lit a flicker of hope inside of me. For the last few days, a blackness I could’t even begin to describe had crippled any hope that remained inside me.
This feeling. This black weight that’s taken over my whole existence these last few days. It first began after the rape and the fire. I remember the day after I set that garage on fire, Jeremy came. He took me out of that house. I felt so humiliated that I could have fallen in love with someone who just played with me and then tossed me out like a used diaper.
The night after I’d snuck over to the neighbor’s garage, I did what Jeremy told me to do. I should have thought for myself. But for so long I had no clue who I even was. I existed only as a fixture for others. I lacked any sense of self.
I hated living with that particular foster family, but in truth, I hated most of them. Now I realized Jeremy encouraged my hatred. If I hated them, I’d see him as my savior. He still held out hope that somehow he could get some sort of legal claim on me. He told me to set the neighbor’s garage on fire. Not the house where I lived. He said no one would get hurt. But I used all the gasoline he left for me. He told me to soak one rag, stuff it down inside this metal bucket, light it and go back to the house.