I know I’m letting Dr. Kostas down, and that’s the only regret I have.
I just want it all to end. The red swirls in the water, and it’s kind of beautiful. The room starts to spin. I drop the razor after four cuts on each wrist. I lower my arms into the hot water. It stings, but then I feel it—weightless, nothingness, relief. Instead of feeling the weight of the world, I feel free. The need to escape was almost overwhelming, and now, I am going. I start to see spots. The water gets darker. The room goes black.
Nothing…
Nothing…
Nothing.
Part Two:
Marlin
Chapter Thirteen
PRESENT
Beep, beep, beep...
I know in an instant that I am in a strange and unfamiliar place. The smells are alien, sanitary. The beeping is distinctive. The noise is frantic and erratic. Voices—that’s what I hear—hushed, urgent, worried voices. My mouth is gummy, my saliva sour. I can tell I’ve been asleep for a long time because of the way my eyes feel sealed together with sleep.
Beep, beep, beep...
The noises and smells become stronger with each passing second. I feel something stinging my forearm—an IV? The weight of a blanket presses me down into the bed. I can’t move my legs very well because the blanket is wrapped tightly around me.
I move my left arm ever so slightly, and the hard mattress creaks. My body is sore, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve been asleep for a long time or because something happened to make it sore.
Beep, beep, beep...
My heartbeat. It sounds slow, but then as I try to open my eyes, panic seizing my throat, it quickens. Where am I?
Beepbeepbeepbeep...
The beeping must alert someone, because suddenly I feel a warm hand on my forehead. I know in an instant that the hand belongs to my mom.
“Marlin,” she says quietly. “You’re in the hospital. Don’t panic.” Her words are calming, but I claw at the IV nonetheless, pulling away from her, from the beeping. It feels like someone is lying on top of me. She pushes me back down, using her velvety-soft hands on my arms, but not too hard. She pulls back instantly so as not to hurt me.
Delicate. I’m delicate. I know that instantly. My god, what happened?
“Where is…” I start, my brain too slow for my own liking. The wheels aren’t spinning fast enough. “Sebastian?”
“What?” she asks, and then I feel another presence. I open my eyes slowly, and Charlie is watching us, a look of worry on his face.
“Nothing,” I say. I look down at my wrists. Bandages are patched onto each wrist. I remember what happened. I know why I’m here.
I close my eyes and sigh heavily.
“Who is Sebastian?” Charlie asks, his voice higher than normal.
“It was just a dream,” I say wistfully. I want him to leave. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s getting some coffee,” my mom answers, and she grabs my hand tenderly. “Honey, we are worried about you.”
“I tried to kill myself.” It’s not a question but rather a statement. She looks over her shoulder at Charlie, and then back at me, her eyes watery. She nods. “I didn’t succeed,” I say, my voice glum.
At this, my mother starts to cry. I know I’m hurting her. She had no idea things were this bad—how could she? I hadn’t seen her in over a year.
“I was so worried.” It’s Charlie’s voice now, and he bends over my mom and gives me a warm smile. “You have no idea how scared I was, finding you like that…” He trails off and looks away.
“How long was I unconscious?” Pieces of Vermont, the cheese shop, Emma, the Jeep, our apartment, Sebastian… they begin to fill my mind, and I fight back tears when I realize they were all figments of my imagination. They were all some sort of dream.
“A couple of days,” my mom answers, and she brushes my hair away from my face. “Your father and I came as soon as we heard.”
I lean back against the bed and sigh, closing my eyes. I don’t want to deal with any of this. I don’t want to be here. The weight is back, sitting right on top of my shoulders. I think back to my day in Vermont, and it seems absurd that it was all a dream—somewhere, somehow, it must’ve been real. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about people who almost die and see heaven.
Maybe Sebastian was my heaven.
“Knock knock,” my dad says, coming in and walking over to me. “I’m so glad you’re awake, baby girl. I was so worried. No dad ever wants to get a call like that.” He envelops me in a warm hug, and that’s when I lose it. I begin to cry, my tears getting his blue button-up shirt wet, and my dad pets the back of my head. “Shh, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
I feel my mother grab my hand, and I squeeze it tight. I never realized how much I missed my parents—how much I needed them.
“We need to talk about the next steps,” my mother says softly, and she nods at my father. I know instantly what my next move will be.
“I want to come home,” I cry, snot dripping out of my nose.
My parents pull apart, first looking at each other and then back at Charlie. He nods, and then he comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. I wince.
“Catheter,” I say, and he hops up as if he were burnt.
“Marlin, we can talk about this once everything settles down,” Charlie starts, taking my hand. I pull away.
“No, I’ve made up my mind, and I want to go—”
“Marlin Winters?” A female doctor sets my chart down on the table and walks over to me. “I’m Dr. Hale. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” I say, not to be rude but just to be honest.
She laughs dryly. “That’s to be expected.” She looks around at Charlie and my parents, and they seem to understand, because they all file out, leaving me alone with her. “Marlin, we need to talk about what happened.” She eyes my wrists.
“Are you a doctor doctor, or a psychiatrist?”
“I’m the attending physician at this hospital. If you have a psychiatrist you’d like to call, please let me know. But first… can you tell me what happened?”
I think of Dr. Kostas. I’m not sure if I want to call him. On the one hand, I really liked him, and I opened up to him in a way I’ve never opened up to anyone. On the other hand, I feel like I let him down.
“Could you call Dr. Philip Kostas, please?” She nods, making a note, and I relax. “I don’t know what happened. Honestly, it was just a normal day. My boyfriend and I got into a fight. I was feeling… everything. I just wanted it all to end.”
“So, something set you off?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
She nods and writes something down on the clipboard. “Marlin, is your boyfriend abusive?”
“What? No. Oh, god, that’s not what this was about.”
“Okay. I just want to make sure.”
“Yeah, Charlie isn’t the issue.”
“What is the issue?”
I think about my life here with Charlie, teaching yoga, scooping up the newest trendy purse with my “allowance” or redecorating the townhouse. I don’t really have friends here. I don’t have anyone to talk to. And I think of Sebastian.
“I’m just not fulfilled here. I don’t think I’ve ever been fulfilled here.”
“You chart says you went through a pretty traumatic experience a few years ago. PTSD has many manifestations. I’m not going to suggest anything outright—Dr. Kostas can do that—but I think you should consider a treatment program. Inpatient or outpatient, it doesn’t matter. There are many programs out there aimed at decreasing suicidal ideation and behaviors. A mental health center that specializes in depression and/or suicidal ideation is one of the most effective types of intervention available.”
“You’re not going to involuntarily hospitalize me? Lock me up?” I smile, but she just scowls. Her short blond hair is perfectly in place, and she’s showing off toned legs beneath her white coat.
“I will let
Dr. Kostas decide that.” I nod, and she stands up. “I’ll check in on you later.”
“Dr. Hale?” I look down at my hands. “Is it possible to dream while unconscious?” I look up at her, and she gives me a tight smile.
“You know, Freud believed that nothing we do occurs by chance. Every action and thought is motivated by our unconscious at some level. Technically, it’s not possible to dream while truly unconscious, but many people claim to have experienced it.”
“If it wasn’t a dream, then what was it?”
She studies me for a second, clutching the clipboard to her chest. “Like a child, our unconscious acts on its urges and impulses. It does not follow logic or reason, but rather those innermost desires and basic urges that we all possess. It represents those wants and needs we didn’t even know we had while awake. In dreams, or whatever it is that you’re referring to, your subconscious is trying to show you how it perceives the world in this conceptual form. It shows you its fears and its desires—but not necessarily as you would expect to see them.”
I nod. “I see.”
“Many people have surprising dreams while hospitalized. Don’t look too much into it. Just get some rest. Okay?”
“Okay.” After she leaves, Charlie wanders in. “Where are my parents?”
He sits down on the bed (more carefully this time) without answering me. Finally, after a loud sigh, he speaks.
“I don’t think you should go to Wyoming.”
I look away, and my next sentence comes out through my clenched teeth. “Charlie, I slit my wrists two nights ago. I wanted to die. Do you understand that?”
“Stop with the dramatics, Marlin. Let’s talk about this like adults.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest, which doesn’t really help to disprove his point. “Why don’t you want me to go? Because if I’m away from you, I’m out of your control?”
“My control?”
“Yeah. You manipulate me. You abuse me emotionally. I’ve known it all along. My unhappiness is a catalyst for your happiness.”
He gawks at me. “That’s not true. I love you, Marlin.” He bends down and kisses me softly on the lips. “I think we should talk about what the next step entails.”
“I’ve told you what I want. And what I want is to go to my parents’ house in Wyoming.”
“What about our future?” He looks sincerely concerned now.
“Charlie…” I start, sitting up straighter. I clear my throat. “Can you honestly say we’re happy together?”
He looks shocked that I would even bring it up, but once he ruminates on it for a few seconds, he just shrugs.
“We’re not unhappy.”
“No. You’re not unhappy. I am. And when I go to Wyoming, I think we should take a break.” He stares at me, unsure if he heard me right. And then he gets up and begins to pace the room.
“A break,” he repeats, stroking his chin.
“You hit me,” I say matter-of-factly.
In a matter of seconds, he lunges towards me. “You told me to hit you,” he hisses.
“Real men don’t hit women,” I answer, glaring at him. “Real men don’t guilt their girlfriends into staying with them.”
Just then, my parents slowly shuffle in. I can tell by my mom’s pale face that they overheard the last part of our conversation. Good, I think.
“I think it’d be best if you leave, son,” my dad says, his voice stern. He faces Charlie head on, and though he’s smaller than Charlie, I know he’d win in a fight between the two. I love my dad for that. I want to whimper with delight, but I keep my mouth in a tight line. I’ve never had the courage to say any of this to Charlie, and having my parents’ unspoken support means the world to me. A small weight is lifted off of my shoulders, and I know I’m taking a step in the right direction. I really should have done this years ago.
“Goodbye, Charlie,” I say, and he looks between my dad and I. “I’ll send for my things.”
Angrily, he balls his fists and storms out of the room, his heavy, shuffling steps echoing down the hall for what feels like minutes. God, I hate the sound of those fucking Birkenstocks.
“Good thing I talked you out of signing the deed to the townhouse, eh?” My dad says, chuckling.
I laugh. Co-owning a house with Charlie would complicate things, and I’m so relieved to be done, to be here, to be with my parents.
“You’re always right, Dad,” I say, shaking my head.
“I had a hunch.”
Both my parents come and sit on the bed with me.
“You’re coming home with us,” my mom says, and I nod in agreement.
I’m coming home.
Chapter Fourteen
TWO months after
“Marlin, lunch is ready!” my mother yells, her voice carrying over my shoulder and startling me. I feel the meditation high slowly fading away at the unexpected interruption. I lift my hands slowly and stretch them above my head, taking a deep breath.
“Okay, thanks,” I answer, standing.
“Hurry on in. It’s getting cold.”
Before going inside, I lean against the porch railing and study the view in front of me. It’s easy to meditate here. The farm is behind us, so looking out, there’s nothing but rolling green fields and blue skies. The nest in one of the porch alcoves provides the only soundtrack I need for my mornings here—chirping birds and the slow rustle of wind are the only therapy I need. I’ve forgotten how regenerating the spring here can be. I walk inside feeling happy and relaxed.
“Mmm, this looks good,” I coo, drooling over the grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup. I don’t hesitate to dig right in. My father is out tending to the crops, so I know we won’t be saying grace. My stomach rumbles happily. Mom sits down across from me after plopping a glass of milk down in front of me. I don’t think she realizes I stopped drinking milk at meals when I was ten. I take a large sip anyways, smiling and smacking my lips.
“Oh, someone named Darcy Kavanagh called for you a few minutes ago,” she says casually, eating her soup slowly.
“Awesome.” I bite into my gooey sandwich. “That’s a good sign.”
My mother is quiet, and I know that’s her way of showing her disapproval. After a few minutes, she speaks. “You know that you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you need. Now that everything’s settled in San Clemente, you don’t have to be in any rush to leave.”
“I know, Mom. Thank you for the offer. While I’d love to stay and get fat from your cooking, I’m really starting to feel better about everything.”
“Okay. I get it. I just worry about you.” She studies me intently from across the table. But I know that I’m okay now. I can feel it when I’m alone at night, about to fall asleep. The demons stopped chasing me weeks ago. But I get it—she’s my mom. It’s her job to worry.
“I’m on medication now. I’m fine. I promise.” I reach out and grab her hand, smiling reassuringly. The medicine Dr. Kostas put me on has done wonders. I was diagnosed with clinical depression, and I’m supposed to take a very small dose of Wellbutrin every day to stay leveled. It’s a small sacrifice for the sake of my life. Mom shifts in her seat, and I can tell she wants to say something. “Spit it out,” I say, laughing between bites of sandwich.
“Nothing, honey.” She reaches out and touches my arm, and then I see it. She takes a deep breath. “Okay, my only concern is… why Vermont? And why the retreat? Won’t it be triggering?”
“What, helping others with mental illness? No. I think it’ll be very rewarding.” I look down at my bright-red bowl of soup. “I don’t know why I chose Vermont. I dreamt about it a little when I was… you know… and I think it was a sign.”
She nods and smiles. “Okay. If that’s what will make you happy, I think you should do it. You’ve always been very perceptive, so I trust you.” She gets up and walks over to the kitchen, and I join her, bringing my dishes over and placing them in the large farmhouse sink. She reaches for the sponge,
but I intercept her.
“Let me. You cooked. I’ll clean.” I wink and take the sponge from her, and she gives me an appreciative grin before leaving through the front door to check on the hens.
I searched for Sebastian after I got out of the hospital. Actually, if I’m being honest, the minute I was alone in the hospital room with my phone, I tried to find him on Facebook, to no avail. There is no Sebastian Juares living in Brattleboro. There is no Sebastian Juares in all of Vermont. I’m not sure why I’m so sad about that. He was never real to begin with. He was a figment of my imagination, as Dr. Kostas said during one of our sessions after my incident. The mind constructs fantasies, and he was merely my fantasy.
After I finish the lunch dishes, I call Mrs. Kavanagh back. She picks up on the third ring. “Ah, Ms. Winters, so nice to finally chat with you on the phone.” Her Irish accent is startling at first, but I continue.
“Thank you for the quick response. I appreciate it,” I say. I play with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. I’m nervous for some odd reason. Perhaps it’s because this volunteer job is my ticket to Brattleboro.
“Not a problem. I do have to ask, though… how did you hear about our facility?”
I laugh. “Google.”
It’s true. After I moved in with my parents, I’d researched job openings in Brattleboro, feeling mysteriously linked with that place. A volunteer position at Brattleboro retreat was one of the first results. I thought about it for weeks, and when I finally got the courage to apply, I was delighted to see that the advertisement was still active.
“Ah, very well. So, we do have a volunteer position opening up next month. There is a three-month commitment, and the possibility to come on board full-time in any capacity that you’re qualified for. I’m going to be honest with you… it’ll be tough. Some of the patients we have can be difficult. Do you think you’ll be able to handle that?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding my head even though she can’t see me. “That sounds fine. I work well under pressure.”
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 11