Out of My Mind

by Pat White

  “The ambulance is here,” her father said. “Hurry up, hurry!” he called to the paramedics.

  “I’m afraid to look at you,” Catherine said to J.D.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you…?” she whispered, oblivious to the commotion going on around her. Then she glanced at her hand, pressed against his chest.

  “Because he hates you, he hates everybody,” Taylor accused.

  Catherine didn’t seem to hear her. “The lights…”

  “Get her to the hospital, damn it,” her dad ordered.

  “I was the doe,” she whispered to J.D. “In the street.”

  He couldn’t form a single word. He searched her eyes, but she glanced away and pushed off of him.

  “Honey, don’t move,” her mom said.

  “I’m fine.” Catherine stood with her mom’s help and glanced down, eyeing J.D. with a puzzled expression.

  Her dad towered over J.D, probably waiting for the crowd to disperse so he could kick the crap out of him.

  “She’s on blood thinners so if she bruises she could bleed internally,” her mom said to the paramedics.

  They encouraged Catherine to get onto a stretcher and she did. But she stood on her own and took a few steps. That was a good sign, right?

  “Hey, hey,” the nurse called after them. “What about this kid?” She pointed at J.D., still lying on the ground.

  With a deep breath, not knowing what would work and what wouldn’t, J.D. got up and wavered slightly.

  “You’d better get checked out,” the nurse said, supporting his arm.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You bastard.” Catherine’s father lunged at J.D. but Detective Ryan blocked him.

  Good thing the cop was built like a football player.

  “Sir, you don’t want to do that,” Detective Ryan said with his forearm against Mr. Westfield’s chest.

  “Yes, I really do.”

  Mr. Westfield’s eyes radiated the same kind of hatred J.D. had seen in his dad’s eyes. Which meant that someday her old man would be hiding in J.D.’s front bushes with a baseball bat.

  “Hey, back off,” the nurse said to Mr. Westfield. “This young man saved your daughter’s life.”

  Her father didn’t stand down from his aggressive position. It was like he couldn’t hear the woman’s voice through the cacophony of rage.

  “Daddy?” Catherine said.

  Color drained from her father’s face. He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter.

  She reached out from her prone position on the stretcher. “I can’t go to the hospital without you.”

  Turning back to J.D., Mr. Westfield raised a threatening index finger. Detective Ryan put up his hand in warning.

  With a huff, her dad turned and went to his daughter.

  Catherine nodded at J.D., at least he thought she nodded. Her dad climbed into the ambulance and they closed the doors.

  “We’ll meet you at the hospital.” Taylor grabbed her friend’s arm and bolted to the car.

  “You should really go to the hospital,” the nurse said to J.D.

  “Yeah, thanks.” J.D. watched the ambulance disappear around the corner.

  “So, you want to tell me what just happened?” Detective Ryan asked.

  “Why? You’ve already made up your mind.” J.D. scanned the street and spotted his skateboard, crunched in half. The bimbos had destroyed his last mode of transportation.

  “I saw what happened, officer,” the nurse offered. “This young man went flying into the street to save that girl from being hit by a car. He really did save her life.”

  “Yeah?” Detective Ryan eyed J.D. “Is that true, kid?”

  J.D. ignored the question. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Random drug test.”

  * * *

  J.D. wanted Detective Ryan to wait on the front porch, but the cop wouldn’t let him out of his sight. Who knows, J.D. might be stashing someone else’s pee inside, right?

  They went into the dark house, J.D. pausing at the threshold for a second, listening intently, even though he knew Wednesday was billiards night at Palmer’s Pub.

  Every Wednesday a part of J.D. hoped the old man would drink too much, get behind the wheel and drive his Olds headlong into a tree.

  Never happened.

  The cop needed to be gone before the old man got home. J.D. didn’t want anyone knowing the truth. Besides, a cop might feel like he had to do something about it, which would cause more misery, more beatings, or worse.

  They’d split up J.D. and Billy and send them off to foster care. J.D. wouldn’t let that happen.

  “Leave the bathroom door open,” Detective Ryan said, handing J.D. the plastic bag with the pee cup.

  “You gonna watch me, too?” J.D. snatched it. The guy was a ball buster.

  “I’ll pass, thanks,” he said with a smirk.

  J.D. went into the powder room, that’s what Mom had always called it, and did his business. He glanced at the cat soap dish. Mom bought it at a craft fair because she said cats were fluffy balls of happiness.

  Not a good time to be thinking about her.

  “Where’s your dad?” Detective Ryan called from the hallway.

  J.D. stepped out of the bathroom and offered him the bag. “Here.”

  Ignoring him, the detective wandered through the main room, fingered a stack of books on the coffee table. “Looks like you read a lot.”

  Yeah, he read a lot of psychology books to help him manage his dad.

  “Not really,” J.D. said.

  Detective Ryan tipped his head to the side and spotted one of J.D.’s sketchpads on the table.

  “I draw.” J.D. placed the specimen bag on the table between them and closed his sketchbook.

  “So, I see.”

  J.D. suspected the detective saw a lot of things. “Are we done?”

  “Why? You’ve got someplace to be?”

  “I’ve got homework.”

  “Uh-huh.” Detective Ryan waited for more.

  He’d be waiting a long time.

  The front door swung open with a crash and J.D. held his breath.

  “J.D.!” Billy bolted down the hall and froze at the sight of Detective Ryan. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Drug test,” J.D. said. “It’s fine. Go upstairs.”

  Billy shot a quick glance at the ceiling and hesitated.

  “Not home,” J.D. said.

  With a nod Billy sprinted up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door.

  “What was that about?” Detective Ryan said.

  “What?”

  “He looks terrified.”

  “Doesn’t like cops.” J.D. went to the front door and opened it.

  The cop grabbed the specimen bag and eyed J.D. from head to toe and back up again.

  He walked to the front door and looked directly into J.D.’s eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m not on anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  J.D. clenched his jaw.

  “Okay, I’m going.” Detective Ryan put up his hand in surrender and left.

  J.D. slammed the door, but not hard. Didn’t want to piss off the cop. He just wanted him out of his life.

  Chapter Nine

  I can’t believe they’re making me miss morning classes to see Dr. Sanders. The ER doctors said I was okay, so what’s the big deal?

  Skipping class is really not good for me right now. I haven’t even done yesterday’s homework thanks to last night’s near brain disaster.

  “Dr. Sanders will be with you in a minute.” The nurse shut the door to the examining room.

  “Magazine?” Mom offered.

  “No, thanks.”

  Mom and I wait patiently in the sterile white examining room. Dad had an early meeting and couldn’t come with us. I didn’t expect him to. Last night only made him more insane. I accused them of overreacting, especially Mom, who kept checkin
g on me all night long. I pretended to be asleep, but a few times I heard the door open, sensed her sneak to my bed, and felt her touch my forehead. Why she thought I’d get a fever is a mystery.

  Also a mystery, what exactly happened last night in the street?

  My recall is fuzzy. I remember the blinding lights burning into my chest, about to vaporize me when I was shoved out of the way.

  Vaporize me? Yep, I’ve really lost it. I just wish I could remember.

  Taylor says J.D. purposely slammed into me on his skateboard. Dad believed that story and wanted to press charges, but the nurse at the scene said J.D. shoved me out of the way of oncoming traffic.

  If he hadn’t, I would have been road kill. Again.

  It’s a pretty good bet that another crack to the skull would have been my last. The brain can only take so much.

  I can’t help but wonder…why would J.D. care if I got whacked by another car? He doesn’t care about anything but partying and staying out of jail. Wait a sec, I get it: I’m his community service project, his ticket out of probation and the way to clear his record.

  Yet last night when I regained consciousness his arms were protectively locked around my body. I inhaled his woodsy scent and felt, I don’t know…safe?

  I am losing my mind. For real.

  A brisk knock snaps me out of my thoughts.

  “Ladies.” Dr. Sanders joins us, eyeing a folder in his hand. He isn’t wearing his usual, charming smile. Crap. Did he spot something on the C-T scan?

  “Catherine, I see you made a trip to the ER?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to palpate the shunt to make sure there’s been no damage.”

  He washes and dries his hands. Tension fills the room. Not making eye contact, he touches my scalp, my neck. I hold my breath.

  “I’ll order another C-T scan for comparison.” He sits on a stool by the window and reviews my file.

  Seconds feel like hours. Did he feel something? Did I damage the shunt?

  And I think I’m getting back on Cheer when I can’t even cross the street without being run over?

  Dr. Sanders finally looks up. His eyes are dark and serious. “I’m going to have to recommend you wear a helmet.”

  “What?” My heart plummets. Wear a helmet at school? I’ll look like a dork, a mental patient. I can see it now: look at the alien-headed cheerleader! Freak.

  He slaps the folder on the table. “I wouldn’t be a responsible doctor if I didn’t recommend you wear one, twenty-four seven.”

  “But, Dr. Sanders—”

  “There’s no discussion about this,” he raises his voice.

  He’s starting to scare me. Mom must sense it because she places a hand on my shoulder. I barely feel it. No burn, no comfort. My mind is swimming in panic.

  “Doctor, this was not her fault,” Mom defends.

  “She was walking in the street again,” he said.

  “She was crossing the street. She wasn’t walking in—”

  “What is the matter with these kids?” he interrupts Mom, then glares at me. “The streets are designed for cars, young lady, not self-absorbed teenagers who tempt fate by stepping in front of a moving vehicle.”

  I study my fingers in my lap. This guy is being a class “A” prick.

  “Excuse me, doctor, but—”

  “I’ll send in my assistant,” he says, cutting off Mom. Without looking at us he leaves the room as if I disgust him and he can’t stand to be around me.

  “What on earth…” Mom glances at me. “You okay?”

  “What did he mean about me walking in the street…again?”

  Mom doesn’t answer. She glances at my Celtic knot ring. She brushes her thumb across it and a sad smile eases across her lips. “I thought you’d lost this.”

  “Mom? Please?”

  “I don’t know why we have to dredge all that up.”

  “Answer me!”

  Still studying my ring, she sighs. “J.D. Pratt said you were walking in the middle of the street when he turned the corner and hit you.”

  “Why would I be in the middle of the street?”

  “That’s just it, you wouldn’t. That boy was making up a story to stay out of jail.”

  A piece of memory flashes across my mind. Listening to Maroon 5’s “Love Somebody” on my iPod, completely rocking out…

  “I did this to myself,” I whisper. It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Mom says. “If he wasn’t speeding around the corner he could have stopped in time.”

  A firm knock makes me gasp. I can’t handle another lecture from Dr. Sanders. I’m raw, crushed by the truth that everyone’s been keeping from me.

  The doctor’s assistant, Lisa, comes into the office. “Mrs. Westfield, Catherine.”

  “Hi, Lisa,” Mom greets.

  I stare at the vinyl floor. Devastated. Ashamed.

  Lisa shuts the door. “Catherine, Dr. Sanders wanted me to apologize if he was short with you. It’s been a bad week. His wife and teenage daughter were in a car accident.”

  I glance up. “Are they okay?”

  “They’re in the hospital. His wife was pretty banged up. His daughter wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. Anyway, he wanted me to talk to you about getting a helmet.”

  “I won’t wear it,” I blurt out.

  “Catherine,” Mom hushes.

  Lisa shares a sympathetic smile. “I understand how you feel, Catherine, but try to see where we’re coming from. It’s our job to help you recover and protect that fragile head of yours.”

  I don’t want to be fragile. I want to be tough and confident.

  And normal. My “old normal.”

  “Here’s the orthopedic office number to get fitted for a helmet.” She hands Mom a card. “Were there any other concerns today?”

  “Light sensitivity.” I hope dark sunglasses will stop my HULU’s. Maybe if I can’t see too clearly into people’s eyes I can avoid the visions. Or at least they won’t notice me staring at their noses instead of their eyes.

  “No other vision problems?” Lisa asks.

  Other than the dreaded HULU’s?

  “Not really,” I answer.

  “You can see the blackboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Understanding words on the page isn’t a struggle?”

  “Nope.” Especially when J.D. draws pictures in the margins.

  “Okay, here.” Lisa hands me a slip of paper. “These brands of sunglasses carry a line with extra protection against fluorescent lights. Is it mostly the fluorescents or sunlight or…?”

  “Kind of all of it.”

  Mom looks at me with a concerned frown. “Catherine, you didn’t say anything.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “You want to protect Mom. That’s sweet,” Lisa smiles, “Just remember we can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Okay.”

  “Carlisle’s Vision and Optics in Bellevue carries most of these brands. They have some pretty cute styles so you can make this a fashion statement.”

  “As opposed to the helmet?” I mutter, folding the piece of paper.

  “Catherine?” Lisa says.

  I glance up for a second then refocus on the notepaper.

  “We want you to live a long and happy life,” Lisa says. “We’re not trying to torture you.”

  I shrug. “I know.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt last night.” She reaches out and we shake hands. She always treats me with respect, like I’m an adult, not a…what did Dr. Sanders call me? A self-absorbed teenager.

  “Mrs. Westfield, call me if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks.”

  With a smile Lisa leaves the examining room.

  “How about girls’ day out?” Mom offers. “Lunch at Gilberts on Main?”

  I shift off the examining table. “I’d really like to get back to school.”

  Mo
m looks disappointed. “Oh, okay, sure.”

  “It’s just that I don’t want to fall behind.”

  Mom hugs me and I hold my breath. Why is it whenever people touch me I get weirded out?

  Well, that isn’t completely true. There is one person whose touch does just the opposite. It calms me, grounds me.

  I can’t think about him right now. I need to get sunglasses, stop the hallucinations and get back on track at school.

  Mom breaks the hug and smiles. “You want to do well in school. It’s so good to have you back, Sweetie.”

  “It’s good to be back.” Yes, sir, I’m doing a damned fine job of faking it.

  Chapter Ten

  J.D. had been pretty proud of himself last night. He’d iced his back, finished his homework and managed to stay out of Dad’s way.

  It wasn’t hard. The old man had staggered into the house at ten, slogged his way up to his bedroom and slammed the door.

  An easy night in the Pratt house. Billy was safe in his room and J.D. felt good about having saved the Princess from another ten rounds with a car.

  With his feet propped on the window ledge, he’d turned the lights off in his bedroom around nine and watched for the Westfield family to pull into the driveway. By ten thirty he was going crazy and called the hospital. Catherine hadn’t been admitted. A good sign.

  Unless she’d been transferred to another hospital that specialized in brain trauma.

  Doubt taunted him. Maybe he hadn’t done such a great job of protecting her. It all happened so fast. What if he’d squeezed too hard to shield her from the pavement and hurt her somehow?

  He pulled out his sketchbook and scribbled mindless stuff for a few hours to calm down. Around eleven thirty the slam of a car door drew his attention outside. He spied through his bedroom drapes. The Westfield family had returned home.

  Catherine looked okay as she walked up their driveway to the front door. Her mom walked beside her, asking her a question and sliding her arm around Catherine’s shoulder. Catherine wrapped her arms around her stomach and shrugged.

  Her father walked behind them, his shoulders hunched in a defeated posture. Then he stopped, turned and glared at J.D.’s window. He couldn’t see J.D., but J.D. felt the hatred spew from the man’s eyes.