Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  Or maybe because I was too blinded by my feelings for Aron to see what was happening to him.

  But now I’m almost sure. Aron’s got nearly every symptom in the book, but worse than that: I think he’s losing touch with reality. As the mania spirals higher, he’s believing things that aren’t true, like being related to a billionaire. If I don’t stop him, he could bankrupt himself. But worse than that, he might hurt himself. Or kill himself, my mother whispers. I still remember the sound of her screams when the police showed up at the door to tell us my dad had driven his car up the tracks to meet an oncoming commuter train.

  As I ride the trolley down Chestnut and get off a few blocks from Aron’s apartment, I once again try to convince myself that I could be wrong, that I’m overreacting because of what happened to my father, because I’ve been living for years under my mother’s watchful eye, seeing bipolar disorder under every rock, in every dark shadow. Maybe I’m manufacturing another crisis because my feelings for Aron are so intense, because they’ve felt so out of control. Because I’ve never met anyone like him, passionate and brilliant, so willing to give himself to someone he loves. Maybe I’m just scared again. Maybe I’m trapped in a cage of my own making and this is my way of trying to escape.

  I pull my coat around me and shiver, knowing it isn’t that simple this time. Aron was already in the grip of mania when he came to Madison. It’s probably what drove him to book the trip in the first place. It’s why he bought the ticket, paid for the room, made love to me all night, and then went out in search of food to cook for me, never stopping to rest. He was already in trouble, and I didn’t even realize it.

  What if his love for me is just part of his illness?

  With that horrible thought throbbing in my brain, I wave to the doorman, who recognizes me, and head to the elevator. My fists are clenched so tight that my knuckles stand out in sharp little peaks. My heart is beating so fast that I’m choking.

  I knock at his door, making a mental list of all the places I’ll go looking for him if he’s not home. “Aron? It’s m—”

  Aron swings the door open, grinning. “Nessa,” he says as he pulls me into his arms. “I’m so sorry I had to leave early this morning. I had to get a few samples from the lab to crosscheck with the compatibility serum that I created here and then I had to calculate the …” He trails off and kisses me hungrily, kicking the door shut and backing me against the wall. “Never mind never mind never mind because you’re here and I’ve been wanting you to come.”

  “Aron,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. He hasn’t shaved since yesterday, and his hair is standing on end. His eyes are bright, but the circles under them are deep and dark. How did I not see this? How did I not notice? I wrap my arms around his neck and notice an odd, astringent chemical smell clinging to his skin. “I love you.” And you’re slipping out of my grasp.

  “I love you, too, so much,” he says, nuzzling my neck, his hands roaming over my body. Twenty-four hours ago, it would have ignited me, melted me—but now it destroys me, because I have to wonder if every word out of Aron’s mouth is a by-product of the illness that’s sunk its claws deep into his mind. He slants his mouth over mine and gives me a probing, possessive kiss, and I don’t stop him or fight him. I have to get him to come with me to the hospital so he can have an emergency psychiatric evaluation. And I have to do it before he—

  Aron drops to one knee and pulls a small black box from his pocket. He looks up at me with the sweetest expression on his beautiful face and holds out the box, flipping it open with his thumb. Inside is a diamond ring, sparking in the light. The stone is larger than a pea, absolutely exquisite, and very obviously real. “Nessa Cavenaugh,” says Aron, emotion shaking in his voice, “will you marry me?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stare at him as a tear leaks from my eye. “Oh, Aron,” I whisper. “Let’s talk about this, okay? Can we go into the living room and talk?”

  Aron’s face falls. “You don’t like the ring? I’ll get you another one I didn’t know what you might like but we can go now and you can pick whatever you want I swear I’ll buy you the whole store if you say—”

  I shake my head, his pressured, rapid-fire speech making my head spin. “No, it’s beautiful. Don’t worry about that.” I tug on his hand, pulling him off his knees.

  He seems confused, looking back and forth between the ring and my face. “You … you don’t want to marry me?”

  I wrap my arms around his waist and squeeze, gulping back a sob. “I don’t think this is the right time, but once things quiet down, we can talk about it again, okay?”

  He bounces on his heels while he strokes my hair. His whole body is vibrating with this energy, like a rocket going full speed just before it shakes itself apart. “Of course you’ve been under so much stress we should get away let me take you to Sweden to Stockholm you can meet my family they’ll love you and I’ll show you everything—”

  Aron’s phone starts to ring from the living room, and a frustrated growl rolls from his throat. “They keep calling I swear they won’t leave me alone. I’ve told them I’d have it ready this afternoon but they’re so goddamn impatient.”

  “Who, Aron?”

  I follow him into the living room, which sends another swoop of fear through me. The table and coffee table are covered in papers, pages cut out of books, magazines, journals. Printouts of lab results, page upon page of handwritten notes. All strewn around, taped to the walls, the chairs, the slider to the balcony. Aron’s connected certain numbers and images with a red marker. His kitchen counters are cluttered with bottles of various cleaning products and water glasses half-filled with blue and green liquids that make it obvious why he smells like a janitor’s closet.

  He picks up his phone and then throws it down again. “Joanna. And the NIH. Pharmaceutical companies. The FBI and the DEA. All of them want to know what I’ve discovered.” He nods toward the collection of glasses, to the dish soap and toilet bowl cleaner and Windex, which he obviously believes is some miraculous cure for cancer.

  I cover my mouth to hold in the whimper. Aron is not only manic—his mind has slipped the bonds of reality and is spiraling out in space, lost. “Aron, I want you to come with me somewhere.”

  He smiles. “Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere.”

  I take his hand, lacing his fingers with mine. “I want you to come with me to Jefferson.” I looked it up on the way over here, just in case. It’s the closest hospital and has adult psychiatry services.

  His brow furrows. “Why? Are you sick? Why are you squeezing my hand so hard?”

  “Come with me?” I ask, tugging him to the door.

  “No, really, Nessa, are you sick? Are you all right? I could help you.” He takes my face in his hands, concern etched into his features. “I’d die if anything happened to you. Tell me.”

  “I’m fine, Aron,” I say, placing my hands over his and trying not to scream. “I just need you to come with me.” It’s all I can do not to beg him to help me figure this out. I need Aron to help me strategize, to reassure me … but that Aron isn’t here now.

  He frowns and tilts his head. “You want me to go to Jeff with you, but you’re not sick? Wait—did they send you here? Did they tell you to—” His lips clamp together and he shakes his head. “No, I have to stay here and finish this and then I have to get to CHOP. Greg is going to be so happy when Finn gets up and walks out of the hospital.”

  He lets me go and weaves his way through his papers, then hunches over his computer bag and paws through it. I take a few steps back, staring in horror. If he goes to CHOP, they might stop him, especially if I call them and tell them to watch out for him. But it would scare people, and it would get Aron in a lot of trouble, more trouble than he’s already in. And if he did talk his way in, he could end up harming one of his patients.

  And that would kill him. I know it would. In his right mind, Aron is a careful and caring doctor. I’ve seen it myself, witnessed
it dozens of times, listened to him present his cases in rounds, sat next to him as he read article after article about the latest research in pediatric oncology. He was made to do this, and he’s about to lose everything. I pull my phone from my pocket and send a quick text to Mark. At Aron’s. Come over as soon as you finish?

  Just finished. U ok?

  No. Aron needs psych eval stat.

  On my way.

  “What are you doing?” Aron asks sharply, and I look up to see him holding a sheaf of papers, watching me closely.

  “I was texting with my mom.” My voice is shaking. “She’s about to quit her job.”

  “I almost did the same today. Joanna was being such a pain. But she finally told me to come back here and work on this. She’s waiting for it. I need to go soon. I have to change. Will you wait?”

  I nod, shivering as the cold dread wells up inside me. “I’ll wait.”

  As soon as he’s disappeared into his room, I have my phone to my ear. Mark answers immediately. “How close are you?” I ask. “Because he’s about to leave. He wants to go to back to CHOP.”

  “Why?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because he wants to magically cure all his patients of cancer with a mixture of Windex and Tide,” I choke out. “Mark, he’s psychotic. No doubt in my mind. He thinks the FBI is after him.”

  “Shit. I can’t believe this is happening. I won’t be there for at least another ten, Nessa. Is he workable? Would he go for a psych eval on his own?”

  “No,” I whisper. “I tried.”

  “You need to call the rescue. They’ll get him to the hospital. I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? And be careful. Get out of there if he gets too agitated. Aron would never forgive himself if he hurt you.” He hangs up.

  Knowing I could never leave Aron alone when he’s like this, I dial 911. When they ask me what my emergency is, I explain that my boyfriend is manic with psychotic features, and that he needs an emergency psychiatric evaluation and possibly a seventy-two hour involuntary hold because he’s a danger to both himself and others. I tell them he’s six-two and very fit, so they need to come prepared to deal with him, and that he’s determined to go to CHOP to see his patients, which would be a dangerous idea at this point. While I talk, I tiptoe down the hall and slide the lock so the front door is propped open just a crack.

  “Ma’am, are you safe?” the operator asks.

  “What?” I say quietly as I scurry back to the living room.

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “He asked me to marry him,” I say, my voice cracking as I sink onto the couch. From here, I can see the ring sitting in its box on the counter, a twisted version of my own fragile, barely formed fantasies for the future. “When will they arrive?”

  “Unit’s en route, ma’am.”

  Aron’s bedroom door opens, and I hang up and let the phone fall to the cushions. The EMS will be here soon. I simply have to keep him calm and in this apartment until that happens. He’s dressed for work, and a thrill of fear skitters down my spine. Apart from the wildness in his eyes and his messy hair, he looks like Dr. Lindstrom, a guy parents trust to help their kids survive, a guy who wants to make the world more fair. And somewhere in there, he is exactly that person. But I have no idea how to reach that Aron now.

  “Are you coming?” he asks.

  “In a minute,” I say. “Could you—could we talk for a little bit?”

  “I don’t know, Nessa, I really need to go …”

  I slide my coat and sweater off my shoulders and turn to face him in my sleeveless shell, hating that I’m doing this, for so many reasons. “Five minutes?”

  His gaze slides to my breasts. “What did you have in mind?” he says, a wicked smile playing at his lips.

  “Let’s take it one minute at a time,” I suggest, relieved that he’s distractible—and that he wants me. I sit down on the couch and set my phone on the floor next to it, within easy reach.

  Aron sits next to me, heat flaring in his eyes. He pulls me onto his lap, straddling him. With him so close, his stubble abrading my palms, his hands sliding under my shirt, it is tempting to forget everything, to pretend that if I hold him tight enough, he’ll come back to himself. And when he kisses me, I give him all of me, because that is what I want him to have. I want him to know how much I love him, to plant the understanding so firmly in his mind that it never shakes loose, no matter how confused he is.

  When the knock at the door comes, I know we’ve reached the endgame, though it’s not anything like I hoped it would be. “It’s open,” I call out tremulously, and Aron freezes.

  Two burly paramedics stride into the room, and one has a med kit in his hands. Aron pushes me off his lap and turns to face them. “Get out of my apartment,” he barks.

  I reach for his hand. “Aron, they’re here to help you.”

  He rips his hand away and looks at me with green eyes that brim with terrible realization. “You did this?” He grimaces like he’s been hit with a physical blow. “You did this. I thought you loved me.”

  “I do love you. And I want you to be safe.”

  The paramedics come forward slowly, their eyes scanning the room, taking in the mess, the cleaning products, and Aron. “Sir, if you could just come with us to the transport, we can fill out some papers and talk—”

  “No,” Aron says, taking a few steps backward, deeper into the apartment, toward the slider to the balcony. “Did Joanna put you up to this? She did, didn’t she? I knew she would sell me out to the FBI. Get away from those!” he shouts frantically as one of the paramedics passes the kitchen counter.

  “Sir, we’re not going to touch your property. All we want is for you to have a chat with us downstairs,” says the dark-haired paramedic who looks like he’s seen everything under the sun. He’s pretty tough-looking, but his voice is soothing as he speaks to Aron. “Just come with us downstairs.”

  Aron ignores him and turns to me. “And you’re helping them. I trusted you, Nessa!” he yells. “I would have given you anything. I trusted you with everything, and this is what you do? You’re trying to ruin me and destroy my reputation! You’re spreading lies about me!” He takes a step toward me, and the paramedics move quickly, flanking us.

  “Miss, I want you to step away from him,” says the paramedic whose red hair is shot through with gray. “Slowly.”

  The front door creaks, and all of us turn to see Mark poke his head in. “Aron,” he says, sounding relieved. “I wanted to see how you were.” He throws me a nervous glance, looking me over like he needs to make sure I’m in one piece.

  “How I am, Mark? Or what I’m working on?” Aron asks, inching backward again until he’s within arm’s reach of the slider to the balcony. He fixes the red-haired paramedic with a menacing glare. “I’m not going with you,” he says in a low voice. The moment he looks over his shoulder at the balcony, I see what he’s planning to do, and it shoots pure adrenaline through my veins.

  Aron lunges for the slider, and I throw myself against his legs, desperation making me strong. He loses his balance and smacks into the glass, which cracks but doesn’t give—then Aron starts to pound on it, shouting at the top of his lungs that he’s going to jump, that he’ll never let them take him. I hold onto his legs while the paramedics try to control his arms and haul him back to the couch.

  Aron struggles like a wild man, frenzied and fierce. My arms and legs are coiled around his calves and knees, but the paramedics are having trouble controlling the rest of him. He’s a strong guy to begin with, but now he’s fighting for his life, feeling no pain, nearly superhuman in his strength as he slams one of the paramedics into the wall and heaves the slider door open as soon as his arm is free. Wind whips at my hair as Aron lurches to the threshold of the balcony, stretching to reach the railing. The dark-haired paramedic who hit the wall shouts that they’ll need chemical restraint. “Droperidol five mgs!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mark hustle the med kit over to the
dark-haired paramedic. As the guy grabs the kit and the rest of us fight to keep from being dragged onto the balcony, Aron shifts suddenly and wrenches his leg free. His knee slams into the side of my head, and my vision goes black. My world turns sideways. My thoughts go dull. I hit the floor, nerveless and broken. Somewhere, I hear Aron shouting, and glass rattling, and men barking orders. Somewhere, I see dark figures tangled, and I see them fall together, pinning Aron to the floor, but it feels strangely disconnected. While Mark lies across Aron’s lower legs and the dark-haired paramedic grapples with his arms, the red-haired one stabs a syringe into Aron’s thigh. The three of them hold him down as he continues to struggle. “Give it a minute,” the red-haired paramedic huffs, shaking his head.

  Like it’s a damn shame.

  Aron turns his head and stares at me, his mouth opening and closing, still fighting, but his movements are slowing, going loose. A tear slides from the corner of his eye and falls to the floor. The moment it hits, I feel it, a sharp, rending pain in my chest. My heart, breaking for him.

  A few moments later, arms wrap around me and turn me over. “He hit you so hard,” Mark says, stroking my hair away from my face and wincing. “That’s a nasty bump.” He tilts my face to the light and pulls my eyes wide, checking my pupils.

  “Will she need transport, too?” the red-haired paramedic asks as he rises to his feet. “We’d have to call another unit, because this guy needs to ride alone.”

  “I’ll take care of her. I’m a physician, and if she needs a scan, I’ll make sure she gets one.”