Come Closer

by Brenda Rothert

  “If you have any problems at all, let me know. You can roam around the place during free hours from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.”

  I look over at the window, where the open curtains reveal a clear blue sky. Most people would call this a beautiful day, but not me. I can’t find beauty in a world with such ugliness. A place that would allow the brutal murder of the other half of my heart.

  Closing my eyes, I shut out the sunshine. Fuck sunshine. I want dark clouds. Torrential downpours. Destructive tornadoes.

  “I’ve taken you off the sedative, but Allison . . . let me know if you’re struggling with anything. Sadness, insomnia . . . whatever it is, I can prescribe you something to help. I’m sure you’re still hurting from the loss of your sister. I’m very sorry about that.”

  My throat tightens and burns. He’s the first one to mention her, other than that bitch Dr. Heaton. And I don’t like it. It hurts too much to hear anyone speak of her. It brings to the surface what’s already horrifyingly real.

  I grab the bedcovers, lie down, and curl up, pulling the covers over my head. This doctor seems like a decent enough guy, but I can’t listen to him anymore. I need to cry until my head pounds, so I can feel something—anything—other than the ache that’s burned its way into my very soul.

  “HOW ARE YOU TODAY, ALLISON?” Dr. Heaton asks, her familiar tone making it seem like we’re old friends.

  I stare out the window of her office, wondering if the weather outside is as nice as it looks. The sun is shining bright in a clear blue sky again, but it’s April. In my hometown of Chicago, April can be a bitch. It’s cold, rainy, and dreary.

  And I’m even farther north now. I bet it’s chilly outside, the sun’s rays just giving the illusion of warmth.

  “You can talk to me,” Heaton says for at least the twentieth time since I’ve been here. “Everything said in this room is confidential. I’m here to help you work through the grief I know you’re feeling.”

  I glance around her office. There are framed diplomas on the wood-plank walls and bookshelves with books and picture frames arranged just so. The photos show smiling people posing for the camera, all of them smiling so perfectly they could be the paper photos that come in picture frames when you first buy them.

  A fountain in the shape of a bunch of bamboo gurgles in a corner, and neatly trimmed bonsai trees line the ledge of the large window behind Heaton’s desk.

  Even the box of tissues on the coffee table in front of me has been methodically placed, one corner of the square in front of me so it makes a diamond shape. The top tissue is pulled up, its sides still tucked neatly inside. It looks like a tissue fountain, beautifully shaped into a parallel pattern.

  That’s not the tissue box of a doctor whose patients feel comfortable crying. If the box were half-empty, with little white specks of tissue dust dotting the coffee table, I’d at least feel like it was okay to use one.

  A smile quirks at my lips as I imagine whipping out a tissue or two. I’m picturing Heaton descending on the box right after me to tidy up the tissue fountain and brush away the tissue flecks.

  “Why are you smiling, Allison?” The warmth in her tone tells me she thinks it has something to do with her. “Do you see something that made you remember something happy?”

  I sigh softly and look at the wall clock. I’ve got thirty-five minutes left in this hour-long session. I’ve been at Hawthorne for almost a month, and I never get to go more than two days without coming here for a session.

  One of my favorite games to play with myself during our sessions is “Will she, or won’t she?” Sometimes, Heaton gets so aggravated that she lets me leave early. Other times, she digs in her heels and makes me stay the whole hour. I’m pretty sure she’s tried every trick in her shrink bag, from just staring at me in silence for an entire hour, to offering to just cry with me, to jabbing at me in subtle ways designed to get a reaction.

  Today is a Monday, so I think she’ll keep me the entire hour. She starts her weeks resigned to make me talk.

  “We can’t make progress this way,” she says, crossing one leg over the other in the wingback chair she’s sitting in across from me. “I know there are thoughts and feelings happening inside that head of yours, Allison.”

  I just want to go back to my room and read the book I got from Hawthorne’s library. It’s the biography of a former prisoner of war, and I’m hooked.

  “When I’m concerned about my patients, I take my work home with me.” Heaton leans forward in her chair. “And I read through your entire file again over the weekend.”

  She pauses to let that sink in, like it’s going to impress me.

  “You and Ava were very close. Twins have a very special bond. You must miss her terribly and feel like you have no one to talk to with her gone.”

  I turn back to the window and see a big, black bird flying across the expanse of sky. Even if it’s cold outside, the breeze in its face has to feel downright glorious.

  “The police still haven’t made an arrest in Ava’s case, you know. If you want to see her killer brought to justice, the best thing you can do is talk to the detectives assigned to the case. They can come here, and I can help you do that. Any detail you recall from that night, no matter how small, may be the lead they’ve been searching for.”

  There are more birds visible now, and I watch them flying over the forest in the distance. Do they live nearby, or are they just passing through?

  “Okay, Allison,” Heaton says, sighing softly. “You can go. Just remember that my door is always open. All progress is good, no matter how slow. You’re eating and drinking now, and that’s progress we can celebrate.”

  I give her a tight-lipped half smile and get up from the couch. I’m eating and drinking because it’s impossible not to. I can either do it myself, or they’ll stick an IV in me.

  The CNA assigned to bring me to my session today, Terrance, is waiting for me in the hallway, smiling at something on his phone.

  “Back to your room, Miss Allison?” he asks, putting the phone in his pocket.

  Just like every time I leave Heaton’s office, I lead the way to the wide stairway, walk up, and make my way to my room. I pour myself a big glass of water from the pitcher beside my bed and then curl up in the chair in the corner of my room with my book, setting my water on the table beside mine.

  “You just push your call button if you need anything,” Terrance says with a smile.

  I meet his eyes in acknowledgment, and he leaves the room. I’m blissfully alone once again.

  It’s just too hard to be inside my head, and I fear it always will be. I’ve finally found a way to escape into someone else’s head—books.

  As soon as I start reading, I feel like the bird I saw outside Heaton’s window. Careless and free.

  THE COOL, RAINY APRIL FINALLY gives way to May. It’s muddy and there’s still a chill in the air some days, but everyone knows the worst of the Montana weather is behind us now.

  Hawthorne Hill’s stable opened back up for patient use today, and the dining room is buzzing with excitement from those who went riding for the first time since fall.

  “You see that new mare?” Leonard asks as he sits down across from me at one of several tables in the dining room.

  “Yeah, she’s a beauty.”

  “Bet we’ll see some Level Twos workin’ up to Level One just so they can ride her.” He chuckles and puts his fork into the steaming chicken pot pie on his plate.

  I nod in agreement. Hawthorne’s patients are classified into three different levels, and only Level Ones get to do outdoor activities.

  “Did you ride Thunder today?” I ask him.

  “Sure did.”

  His wide smile says it all. Leonard loves that horse. Other than the stable master, Leonard and I are the only ones who can ride Thunder. He’s a massive stallion who’s a bully when he wants to be.

  “So when are we going camping, Doc? You know I’m first on your list for this season.”

&n
bsp; “We can go this weekend.”

  He smiles. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” His expression turns cloudy. “Well, unless the phone lines have been tapped. I don’t want no government types following us out there, you know?”

  “I think we’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t know what they’re capable of, Doc.” His eyes widen with fear. “They’re planning something. I know it.”

  When Leonard starts to go down this path, I try to redirect his attention. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

  “Are you hanging around for movie night after dinner?” I ask him as I scoop up a bite of chicken pot pie.

  “You know it. What about you?”

  “Wish I could, but I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”

  Hawthorne sends quarterly summaries about patients to their families, and I have to read and sign off on all of them. I could take them to my cabin, but I might as well just stay here.

  As soon as I’m done with dinner, I go into my office and close the door. I’ve been needing to get to these reports for several days, but I’ve been too busy. We have a new patient who was sent here after he had a break with reality and went on a shooting rampage. He was found mentally unfit for trial. Since he’s a strapping guy with serious mental issues, I haven’t wanted to leave him alone with any of the staff. A patient like him requires extra security.

  Some of the reports I read detail small victories. A patient who obsessively pulled out her own hair has cut back on the habit after taking up drawing. Another admitted he’d sent threatening letters to women, which he’d been denying for the entire year he’s been here.

  I don’t see much backsliding this quarter, which is good. But a strong majority of the patients remain the same as they’ve been every quarter I’ve read and signed off on these reports. Many of them are getting treatment that improves their quality of life, and I like being part of that.

  Some people are broken, but not many. I find that nearly everyone thrives when we focus on their strengths instead of their weaknesses.

  The final report in my pile is the shortest. Allison Cole has made progress. She’s eating and drinking now and spends her days reading in her room. Sometimes her nights, too. Dr. Heaton is critical of letting Allison escape into books instead of “helping” her confront reality.

  But I tell Heaton in every weekly staff meeting that help is a two-way street. Until Allison is ready to face what happened, we can’t make her do it. And we shouldn’t.

  We still don’t know if she’s even physically able to talk. Her vocal cords may have been damaged by the strangulation. It would help if she’d use the dry-erase board to tell us things, but she doesn’t want to.

  Pain affects us in unique ways. I bury mine deep and seek outlets for it. Drinking was the worst of those outlets. Now I use work to avoid confronting past mistakes and the fallout I caused.

  It’s eight thirty at night when I finish the reports and get up from my desk. As soon as I open the door to my office, I hear muffled laughter from the movie room and smile. We usually play light comedies on movie nights, because dramas upset some patients.

  I skipped dessert after dinner, but the smell of Black Forest cake still lingers in the air, so I head to the kitchen to swipe a piece. As I’m grabbing a plastic-wrapped saucer, I think of Allison again and reach for another one, then get two forks.

  There’s a back staircase to the second floor, and I find total silence when I walk up there. Allison’s room is near the end of the hall, and when I get there, I knock on her half-open door and look inside.

  “Hey, you still awake?” I ask.

  She looks over from the chair in the corner, where she’s curled up with a book, the lamp on the table next to her casting a soft glow.

  “Thought you might like some of this,” I say, walking into the room and setting a saucer on the table. “Mind if I sit?”

  Her lips turn up just a touch, and she looks at the end of her bed. I sit down there and peel the plastic wrap back from my cake, taking a bite.

  “Can I ask what you’re reading?”

  She looks up, holding my gaze for a couple seconds before lifting the book from her lap to show me the title.

  “Anna Karenina.” I nod. “Good choice.”

  Allison passed her first thirty days here with good behavior, so she no longer has to wear the blue scrubs of a Level Two patient. She’s a Level One now, but the only perk she seems to be taking advantage of is wearing her own clothes. Tonight, she’s wearing gray sweat pants cut off just above the knee and a Chicago Bears T-shirt that looks soft and well-worn.

  “I read that in a college lit class.” I finished my cake in three big bites, so I set my plate next to me on the bed. “I was in a fraternity, and I skipped a party we were hosting on a Friday night to read Anna Karenina. Went to the library instead. Never heard the end of it. Usually, I was up for a party every Friday night, but there was something about that book . . . I had to know what happened, you know?”

  She smiles in answer.

  “It’s probably how you feel right now, but I’m here keeping you from it.”

  Her smile widens and she meets my eyes. It’s the first time I’ve seen a true spark of happiness in her.

  “So you like classics.” I think back to my college lit class. “Have you read Tarzan?”

  The shake of her head is almost imperceptible. I feel a surge of satisfaction, but I hold it in. This is the only time Allison has communicated with anyone from Hawthorne in any conscious way. I can tell she’s unhappy when she narrows her eyes and when she’s overwhelmed because she stares out the window, but that’s not communication.

  “It’s a great story. More than just a Disney movie,” I say. “Not that the movie wasn’t good. And the soundtrack’s pretty great, too.”

  I get up from my seat on her bed and pick up my plate. “So we both like classic literature, but maybe the Black Forest cake is just my thing.” I reach for the plate on the table next to her, arching my brows in question.

  She reaches out and puts her fingertips on my wrist, gently pushing it away from the plate of cake.

  “We agree on the cake, too, then. I think I’m gonna go grab another piece before I head home, actually.” I walk toward the hallway, turning to face her when I’m in the doorway. “Night, Allison.”

  She meets my eyes again, and I get a slight nod. The whole way back to the kitchen, I can’t keep the grin from my face, because another small victory just happened.

  EATING THE CAKE MEANS I have to brush my teeth again, but it’s worth it. After that, I turn out the lights in my room, get in bed, and switch on my small reading lamp to get in some more Anna Karenina.

  That interaction with Dr. Delgado almost felt like a conversation. It was nice. I’ve gotten used to people not even talking to me here because they know they’ll be met with silence.

  The CNA doing night checks just smiles when she peeks inside my room and sees me reading. Before I came here, my pre-bedtime ritual was scrolling through my phone, which I no longer have and no longer care about. I never used to read books. Now they’re my lifeline.

  I make it until almost eleven, and then my eyelids get too heavy to continue reading. After sliding my book onto the nightstand, I switch off my reading light and let sleep take over.

  A deep voice sounds inside my head.

  “Who killed your sister, Allison? You know who it was, don’t you? Tell me. Tell me.”

  I try to reach into the darkness, but my hands won’t move. A sound rumbles in my throat against my will.

  “Tell me who killed your sister.” The voice is closer now, more insistent.

  In my dreams, I still talk. I scream and cry and let out everything that haunts me. Though I can’t even understand what I’m saying, I know that’s what I’m doing now.

  “You saw her die,” the voice says. “You know what happened. Don’t you want the killer to be caught? Only you hold the key, Allison. Tell me who killed your
sister.”

  I try to push the voice away, but I’m weighted down, trapped in a fog I can’t even see through. The fog only gets cloudier, and soon I stop trying to find my way out of it. The voice is gone now, and I don’t want to find it again.

  THE NEXT DAY, my breakfast tray has the same three things I order every morning: a small dish of oatmeal, a piece of wheat toast, and a cup of coffee. It’s like room service at a nice hotel, except the dishes are plastic and I don’t have to tip the person who brings it.

  I sit in my corner chair to eat, reading my book as I nibble on the food and down the coffee. When I shift in my seat, movement outside the window of my room catches my attention.

  There’s a man riding a beautiful black horse across a field. He’s leaning down, a hand on the horse’s neck. The look on his face is pure elation, his smile warming my heart.

  Other than my trips down to Dr. Heaton’s office, I don’t leave my room. But something about the scene outside my window makes me want to. I’ve been here for more than six weeks, but I still don’t know much about this place.

  I put my book down and dress in dark jeans and a gray T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves, then slide into black ballet flats from my closet. The Hawthorne people did a good job buying me clothes I feel comfortable wearing.

  When I venture out of my room and walk down the wide, open staircase, no one seems to notice me. There are a few people drawing and coloring at a small round table in the great room.

  “Good to see you, Allison,” a woman in the gray scrubs of a Hawthorne CNA says.

  Another woman looks up at me from her spot on a leather sofa.

  “Hey! You’re out of your room.” She gets up and walks over to me. “Can I just tell you how glad I am to see you? You’re the only woman in here who’s remotely close to my age. I mean, other than Clara McMahon, but she’s a sociopath on Level Three.” She rolls her eyes. “Can’t exactly hang out with a sociopath, you know what I mean?”

  She looks like a teenager, her face fresh and her blond hair in a loose braid. She’s lithe and not much over five feet tall.