“Sir, is everything okay?” The doorman asks.
“No, call Mr. Beesley.”
My legs find the strength and speed to carry her down Park Avenue. The pedestrians move aside as I continue to yell for them to move out of the way. “Emergency, coming through.” A block later I have two guys pushing the crowd in front of me.
“Where to, man?”
“Lenox,” I say not stopping, urging Willow to stay with me, to keep fighting.
Entering the ER, a team of nurses are already waiting with a stretcher. Another person had sped to the hospital announcing our arrival.
“Good luck, man,” one of them wishes me, patting my shoulder.
“Leave your name with the nurses at reception, please. Tell them it’s for Hunter Everhart,” I tell all of them as I set Willow on the stretcher.
“What happened?” The thundering round of questions begins. Date of birth, where did I find her. My relationship with her. I lie and say she’s my wife. They push her away to a small room and start working on her. Willow’s hand is weak, but she doesn’t let me go.
“And you just happened to find her like this?” I don’t know who asks the question, but they look at each other and one of them leaves. “Where?”
“On the balcony, unconscious. I thought I’d lost her,” I mumble, kissing the top of her head. “We had a date. She waited for me at her grandfather’s home.”
I hear self-inflicted wounds, a few need stitches while others only need cleaning. They ask if I found anything out of the ordinary.
Are they fucking kidding me? “Do you think this is ordinary?”
“How long have you been married?” One of the nurses narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.
“Almost two weeks, spur of the moment,” I say, narrating our fake wedding. Dropping on one knee and proposing with candy. Going on our honeymoon here, in the heart of New York. I just don’t disclose that we had been pretending all of that and that we were supposed to be Californians.
“What can you tell me about the old scars?” One of them asks as she starts an IV on her left arm.
Exhaling harder, I shake my head. There’s nothing I can say. We haven’t been having sex for long. I wasn’t comfortable asking about them. Today is a fucking disaster. She trusted me to make it special. The best. The one time she was happy about her birthday, and I failed her. But, she didn’t call me when things began to break inside her head.
“I understand you haven’t known each other for long, but has she communicated any suicidal thoughts to you?”
Everything shifts as I repeat the question inside my head.
“Never.” I’m stoic. The voice isn’t my own. I want to run away, but I look down at the woman I brought in, and I can’t.
They continue to talk. Insisting on learning about her mental health. I have zero answers for them. It frustrates me to not have them. My questions are different from theirs. What now? This is bigger than me. I’m already broken. She broke the pieces of my heart into smaller ones. I thought I’d lost her.
Running a hand through my hair, I berate myself for not listening to my brothers. Willow can’t make it through with just my help. She needs a professional to navigate her through whatever goes on inside her head. I don’t understand what she needs. We’ve talked for hours at night. She will write a book on my back about what’s bothering her, unloading. I tried my best to make today special. Her birthday was a sensitive day for her. I’ve tried. The flowers I sent her every hour weren’t enough. What else does she need?
The sound of a whimper resonates inside the room. I squeeze her hand.
“You’re going to be okay, baby.” The words sound weak as they leave my mouth. I don’t know if either one of us can get past what happened today.
I blame myself for not pushing her to tell me what’s inside her head.
How selfish of me!
I didn’t care enough to dig deeper into her problems. A woman rolling a small cart with a laptop on top greets me. “Does she have an insurance card with her?”
How the hell would I know? We’ve never discussed those things during our time together. Wait while I go and pick up my husband of the year award. “No.”
“How would you like to pay?”
Pulling my wallet, I hand her my credit card. “Make sure you bill me. I’ll give you the rest of her information later.”
Because I have no fucking idea what her social security number is or her basic medical history.
Once they finish, I notice she’s wearing a hospital gown and they cover her with a flimsy blanket. They want her to stay for the next twenty-four hours while they run a psychiatric evaluation. All at once everyone leaves.
“Press this button if you need anything else.” The last nurse stops, pointing at the wall next to me.
Instead of turning, I make my requests. Willow needs to be comfortable if she’s going to be subjected to questions I know she prefers to avoid.
“Yes. A private room and a warm blanket.” She leaves, and in a matter of minutes, we are moved to a private suite with better bedding.
“Do you need us to bring food?” a new nurse asks. “We have concierge service for these rooms.”
I shake my head. My stomach is full of concern.
“Gorgeous, wake up for me.” Willow lifts her lids slowly. The agony in her eyes breaks me apart.
Sitting on the bed, I take her hand and bend closer to her ear. “Are you hungry?” She shakes her head. “Willow, I need you to help us make you feel better. Can you do that for me?”
She nods, curling herself against my body.
“Bring her apple juice and a grilled cheese sandwich.”
The nurse exits promptly. I leave to close the door and listen to her whimper again.
“What happened?” My voice is harsher than I intend, and I keep my distance. “I tried everything. The flowers, the ring pops—blue raspberry. I was taking you for dinner. Why did you give up on me?”
Her lips quiver, and I feel like a fucking asshole for snapping at her when she’s in such a fragile state. “What flowers? Your assistant said you were having dinner with Jordan. I wasn’t giving up, I just . . .”
“I sent flowers. Fitz’s assistant was ordered to send them. I prepared the cards on Monday. I was in a meeting all day.”
My frustration is getting the best of me. It’s a façade covering the panic caused by almost losing her. “Why, Willow? Why are you doing this to us?”
“I thought I’d lost you. You have become my everything. I just had to let go of the feelings. They were poisoning me.”
She shatters, and I run to her, wrapping my arms around her. I can’t think. I crumble with her, trying to hold onto what we had for the last few days. Each sob is a knife puncturing my heart. The rawness of her voice horrifies me. She’s shaking, trembling as she mumbles nonsense I can’t understand. And I feel like I’m breaking once again.
I want to run from her.
I want to save her.
I want her to save me.
I want to reach inside her, and extract the pain and sadness that’s destroying her.
I want to go back to Saturday when the two of us couldn’t get enough of each other.
I want to be inside her and her inside me so we can heal each other.
But I know one moment won’t be enough to glue what is impossible to be put together.
Tightening my hold, I try to assure her that for now she has me. Her face is buried in the crook of my neck. It takes a long time for her to calm. Her dinner arrives but she ignores it. The on-call psychologist tries to talk to us, but I request him to come back later or tomorrow. Sometime around midnight the small whimpers quiet down and her body relaxes. I watch her sleep for a long time. She looks peaceful, calm. I wish I could see her like that always. After today, that’s nearly impossible.
Some of us have wounds and scars so deep, old, and exposed they never fully close. Their souls bleed, leaving devastation along their paths. Ch
oosing to stay and bleed with her, or leave to save myself are the only choices I see, and I hate them. For tonight, I pretend we are that happy newlywed couple. Reality isn’t a choice for our broken souls. Not tonight.
Twenty
Don’t give up on me
This, the end, is only the beginning. ~ Dr. Weiss
“How are you?” Jensen arrives around a couple hours later, carrying a bag of things for Willow.
I shrug, watching Willow breathe, calmly. She rests best if I’m by her side. The few times I left to make a few phone calls, she started mumbling and having nightmares. After calling Jensen, I chose to stay beside her, with her molded to my body.
Fitz and Mr. Beesley are flying back tonight. Their plane lands around midnight. Scott flew to North Carolina to pick up Hazel and deliver the news in person. He didn’t want her to learn about the incident while she was by herself. Harrison called from Seattle, where he’s working, to check on Willow and me.
“Sorry, man,” he said. “Tell me how to help you.”
“We’re fine,” I lied. “She should be going home tomorrow.”
“Do you need us to set up anything special?”
“Ask Mr. Beesley. I’m not sure what’s going to happen after tomorrow.”
“Got you.” He understood I had no fucking idea what tomorrow would bring. “I’ll be around if you need something.”
The conversation with Fitz’s assistant has shed light on what happened with Willow. She had no recollection of the flower delivery, or the conversation with Willow, and didn’t have time for a late-night phone call. I inform Fitz of what I’ve gathered so far, and he has promised to fire her. My girlfriend’s fragile state isn’t her fault. Not doing her job and giving false information over the phone is what’s getting her fired.
“Do you want me to stay?” Jensen sets the bag next to the bed and looks at Willow before moving his gaze to me. “How are you?”
“Why do you ask that? I’m not the one on the bed barely alive.”
“How are you?” he repeats.
“Fine.” This isn’t a lie. Currently, I don’t feel anything. My entire system is shutting down.
“Harrison is on his way back from Seattle.” I huff when he gives me the news.
I’m not the one who needs protection and help. She needs understanding from all of us. My brothers might not comprehend that like Hazel, Willow needs a family, too. Jensen announces he’s going to stay in the waiting room. There’s a television playing reruns of MASH.
“Hunter, what happened?” A couple of hours later, Grant Beesley enters the room, his strained eyes watching his granddaughter. He raises her hands and looks at the inside of her wrists. He sighs in relief. “Thank fucking God. I thought she had done what her mother did at her age.”
“What happened to her mother?”
“She slit her wrists,” he answers. “Nothing deep, but bad enough to scare my son.”
Caressing her forehead, he says, “I hope she lets me help her. She’s a sweet girl, you know. Every morning she prepares my coffee, sets it on my desk, and leaves a note wishing me a nice day. When she goes to lunch, she brings me a Hershey almond bar.” His eyes lift, meeting mine. “Thank you for looking after her.”
I nod, turning to Fitz who is observing from the door. There are no words coming out of his mouth, but I hear his question. Are you okay? I shrug. I don’t even know what I am right now. Later, when the storm calms, I’ll take stock of my head, my thoughts, and test if my heart is still working. Tonight, it’s all about getting Willow some much-needed help.
Hazel arrives later with Scott next to her. “What happened?”
I explained what I found, the pieces of information I’ve accumulated from her texts, from her and Fitz’s assistant.
“Wills, I’m here. You’re going to be okay.” Hazel doesn’t care I’m in bed with her sister, she makes some room on the other side for her. “Why isn’t she waking up?”
“Because she’s exhausted? I don’t know, Hazel.”
“Why did they say her husband is with her?”
I smile, remembering those days we spent pretending. The only happily ever after we’ve had and lasted seconds. Not going into detail, I explain the basics to Hazel. She smiles while brushing Willow’s hair away from her face.
“She does have a romantic side.”
My brothers and Hazel stay in the room for a few hours. We all watch Willow while she rests. When the sun rises, Scott and Harrison leave promising to come back later. I feel like they are saving the lecture for later.
“Do you want to go for some coffee, Hazel?” Fitz asks, pulling her toward him. “You look like you need a break.”
Hazel nods, taking her phone out of her purse. “Can you keep it? I’ve been so close to calling him.”
Fitz nods, taking it from her and leading her outside the room.
Willow
As I speak, I feel like the poster child of instability. The psychologist, whose name I don’t remember, continues to ask questions about my childhood, my teenage years and is generally prying on every detail of my life. The big highlights are the uncertainty I feel about who I am. Then there’s the instability in my moods, and my unstable relationships, or lack of them. Impulsive and dangerous behaviors. I protest and he says the key word, self-harming. There was no defense since I’ve ended up in the ER for exactly that.
The doctor, who visited me in the morning, thinks my self-imposed vegetarian diet during auditions, not eating for over twenty-four hours, and the pain from the cuts, caused me to faint. They ordered a stress test and referred me to a general practitioner.
“How often do you self-harm?” He circles back to the cutting.
How do I answer? Driving the blade over my skin isn’t a premeditated choice. The pink ridged lines on my thighs and abdomen are a result of the intolerable sequence of emotions plaguing me all at once. Seeing my skin weep as I etched lines brings me a sense of control over my life.
“I don’t know. When I’m so fucked-up I fall apart if I don’t expel the feelings out of my body.”
Hunter rubs the inside of my wrist with his thumb. I don’t know why I asked him to stay. That’s a lie. I’m holding onto him because I know he’s leaving. I feel it in my heart. His eyes said as much yesterday. I’m done with you. I rock slightly back and forth calming the overwhelming feelings trying to capture my mind. If only I can show him for a moment that this won’t happen again, that I’m not sick—maybe then he won’t leave.
“I want to stop,” I declare, lifting my chin with the determination I assume they require from me. Hunter might give me a second chance. Can he love someone like me? It’s not a matter of can, it’s a matter of showing him how much the incident has affected me and how I plan to grow. “This was a childish action, I recognize it.”
“It’s not that simple,” the man says while clicking his pen and putting it inside of his shirt pocket. “Borderline personality disorder is a condition which not many therapists diagnose immediately. And not many have the skills to help patients in an effective way. BPD is complicated.”
He babbles and explains, but my mind just doesn’t process his words the way he expects.
“What do you mean?” Hunter, who is paying more attention than I am, asks.
“Willow has an untreated mental illness many prefer not to label.” He rises from his seat. “There are places where you can go on an in-patient basis and start dialectal behavior therapy. You have to learn how to regain control over your emotions.”
“What is that?” I ask, trying to assimilate everything he’s telling me.
“The most effective treatment for patients like yourself.” I narrow my gaze, not understanding what he’s offering, or prescribing for my untreated mental condition.
He presses his thumb and index finger together and turns it slightly to the right. “Rhetorically, you’ll be provided with a switch that you can use to regulate your emotions. Add tolerance and interpersonal relationshi
ps you currently don’t have.”
“I’ll sign your release papers on my way out, but I recommend you start treatment as soon as possible.” Just as Hazel did on Monday, just two days ago, he leaves me with numerous names and phone numbers of therapists I can reach out to.
In a matter of minutes, the nurse comes into the room to take the needles out of the backs of my hands. Hazel enters right behind her. She insists on helping me change clothes. Even though the hospital is only a couple of blocks from home, Hunter insists on driving me, and Hazel jumps in the back of the car. My grandfather is waiting for us when we arrive. The house is clean, my room is spotless, and there aren’t any residuals of the mess I made yesterday. Instead, eleven flower arrangements decorate my room.
“Fitz’s assistant forgot to follow my instructions,” Hunter explains. “I had it all planned. Each one would arrive every hour. If I had taken the time to do it myself, I would’ve saved you.”
“I’m alive,” I remind him of the obvious. “She was cruel. But I was already falling apart. Thank you for . . .” Looking around one more time, I settled on the lava-colored bouquet. Yellowish-red like the liquid spewed from volcanoes. If our love were a flower, it’d be a lava color. Molten and hot, yellow-reds shooting every time we touch.
That was then, now he knows.
“Hazel, would you mind giving us a few moments alone?” he requests, going toward the door and closing it as my sister walks out without fighting him.
He takes my hands and lifts my chin with his free one. I spot it immediately. The end. A small whimper escapes me, but the tears stay hidden. I’m an actress and as such, I order myself to become a strong woman who doesn’t care about the man in front of her.
Twenty-One
Change
Now, this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning. ~ Winston Churchill
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