We are US... (I am HER... Book 3)

by Sarah Ann Walker

  CHAPTER 15

  Suzanne

  "How are you this morning?" Mack asks walking right into my room- a room very similar to my first room in New York a few years ago. A room in his ward, and a room I'm dying to get out of.

  "I’m fine. But I need to get out of here, Mack. Please?" I whine again.

  Taking a chair to the little table of my past it seems, Mack smiles but shakes his head at me as he hands me a bagel. Shit.

  "Fine? Come on, we've talked about that answer," he says just short of irritated with me again and I know why. I'm heard this lecture so many times, I know it verbatim at this point.

  'Fine explains nothing. Fine is as uninspired as I'm good. Fine doesn't express feelings or emotions, or anything within us. Fine is a catch-all flippant answer that gets us nowhere.'

  Waiting each other out, I know Mack's going to win because he always does. Mack has the patience of I don't know, I want to say a Saint but I think even Saints had limits.

  Opening his coffee lid with a little snap, Mack takes a long gulp of the steaming liquid while relaxing and settling in. Oh crap. I think this is going to be the morning. Shit! And I already screwed it up with a 'fine'.

  Smiling at me as he starts unwrapping his bagel Mack asks, "How are you this morning, Suzanne?" Ummm... "And if you say what you think I want to hear to get out of here, you won't. I know your lies, white and otherwise, and I know when you're simply trying to appease me. Therefore, I suggest you start with honesty this morning," he smirks to the totally offended face I'm sure I'm sporting.

  "I don't lie, Mack."

  "Yes, you do, Suzanne. Not bad lies, like the horrible kind that serve no purpose and have no merit. Not the kind people tell without a conscience, or just because they simply like to lie. But you know as well as I do you lie. Or rather, you alter the truth to 1) make others happy, and 2) to make yourself look like you feel better to others. Both of which could be seen as somewhat harmless for a normal person, though not for you. Meaning, if you tell a white lie to not hurt someone's feelings most people think that doesn't count. But when you lie and say you feel good inside when you don't at all, you're not helping anyone. You're hurting not only yourself but those of us who are trying to help you. So, yes, Suzanne. You lie."

  "Oh. I..." I've got nothing again. I hate when he does this to me.

  "It's frustrating being called out on your shit, isn't it?" He grins. "It's probably as frustrating as when I'm trying to help you, but you lie to me instead of being honest with me so I can help you," Mack says again without anger as he squeezes my hand.

  Exhaling, I feel like we've done this so many times over the years. Too many times actually, and it always comes back to the same thing. I get screwed up, Mack tries to help me, my life gets worse, Mack still tries to help me, then I lose it totally and Mack has to put me back together again.

  Grasping for anything to talk about except all the obvious I'm avoiding, I beg, "I need some music in here."

  "Not yet. You use music to soothe and to torture yourself," Mack says almost sadly. "I really don't think you're ready for music, Suzanne." What?

  "No, I don't. I just want to listen to some music because I'm bored and I'm going crazy here in all the silence," I actually whine again.

  "Can I tell you something?" Mack asks like I would actually ever say no to him. Squeezing my hand again, Mack looks at me so sweetly, I want to just hug him. A huge almost crawl in his lap Mack hug. But instead I sit here anxiously waiting for whatever it is he has to say to me.

  "Suzanne, you have a high audio perception and emotional reaction to audio stimuli. Therefore music, and sometimes even poetry draw you in to yourself deeper. I've watched it, and Z has spoken about it to me."

  "He has?" I whisper trying to think of how I feel about music.

  "Yes, he has. For example, there was a time when you and Z were driving to the airport for Chicago not too long ago and you were both talking and apparently everything was good and comfortable between you. Z describes the atmosphere in his truck as light and even flirty, but then some song began and before he could understand why you weren't answering a question of his he looked over and you had paled right out, shaking in your seat with your hands folded tightly in your lap, with tears streaming down your face. Z described trying to talk to you, and even trying to take your hands but you were almost catatonic as you sat there rigid and unaware of Z or even your surroundings. Z said he pulled over whispering your name but you were lost to him before he knew what had happened. And then you just snapped out of it, and Z says it was at that moment that he realized the DJ was talking and the song had ended, and you were back to normal totally unaware of what had just happened to you. Do you remember that day?"

  "Yes," I whisper. I remember Z explaining why I was crying and what had happened when I became aware of my surroundings again. I remember trying to understand what set me off and I remember being unable to explain anything to Z. He wasn't mad about it, but I know the fact that I couldn't explain what had happened frustrated him. "Z tried to figure it out when I couldn't."

  "How?"

  "He, ah, called the radio station while we sat on the side of the road to find out what the song was."

  "What song was it?" Mack asks almost breathless himself.

  "'I'm in here' by Sia," I suddenly cry. "It's such a good song, Mack, and it's like me, and I swear she wrote it for me, though that's impossible because she doesn't know me, or care about me, or like know anything about me. But that song is me, Mack. Totally," I cry again to Mack's silence.

  Hearing Sia sing her song in my head I am me again. I’m lost and alone Suzanne, begging anyone to love her- anyone to help her. I am HER again and I hate it. I hate feeling this alone and not understanding why it's always this way, or why I feel this way, or just how I'm supposed to not feel this way all the time.

  "I'm in here... Can anybody see me? Can anybody help?" Oh god...

  "Suzanne...?" Mack calls to me gently to get me out of my head.

  Suddenly back in my room with Mack I need to know. "Do you ever get tired of me?" I ask just above a whisper. I can't even look at him because I fear his answer so much. If he actually is sick of me I don't know what I'll do. There isn't anything I can do. "There is no one but Mack to help me," I gasp out loud before catching myself.

  "Suzanne...?" Mack whispers again before taking my hand as I lean my head on the table. Suddenly feeling everything horrible inside me, I can't even pretend I’m okay right now.

  "I'm very sad, Mack," I whisper cry.

  Feeling Mack stroke my hair away from my face, I find myself still. I don't pull away because I don't have the energy, and really, what's the point? It's not like Mack hasn't seen my hideous face for years now, and he never seems to care.

  Leaning into his hand, I actually feel comfort for the first time in forever. I feel the warmth of his hand, and I feel the depth of his caring for me.

  "Tell me," he breathes quietly leaning into my side.

  "Ummm... I feel like shit, Mack. Like everywhere and everything, and just all of me. My head is confused, and my heart hurts all the time, and even my body hurts. I can't explain it, but it's like there's a physical part to this that I've never had before. I find my arms and legs hurt, and even when I do try to sleep, all of me is sore or heavy or something which annoys me until I can't sleep. And I just feel terrible."

  "And?"

  "Ah, and I think I'm lonely," I cry wiping a tear that slides across the bridge of my nose. "I want to go home, but I don't want to go home to nothing. And I know there's nothing there anymore, and I don't want to feel that nothing in my home. But I hate this place, too. So I feel kind of trapped, even without the hold against me."

  "What else, Suzanne?"

  "I miss my life, but I also hate it. So I don't know what I want or what to do anymore," I admit as a sob breaks free from my chest.

  Turning my face away from Mack, I still love the cool of the table against my cheek, maybe even more th
an I did before.

  I know it's impossible, but I've explained to every doctor and plastic surgeon over the past few years that my cheek always feels hot, like I'm still being burned. Almost like phantom limb pain after an amputation, I swear my cheek feels hot inside and to the touch, though I never let anyone see what I mean by touching my face. Except for Z. Sometimes.

  "Can you look at me?"

  Turning back to Mack I realize I still love the cold on my skin. Just like in my parents’ house, and in my house with Marcus. "I still love the feel of cold on my skin to cool the pain."

  "Yes, but it's not the same pain as when you were abused, is it?"

  "No. But I still like it."

  "That's a memory of what you needed to aid you physically Suzanne, mixed up with the reality you don't have now. You aren't being abused, and your body and face aren't being hurt right now, but your mind likes to think the cool will ease some of the pain inside you. But it's not the same thing. The pain you have now is emotional, not physical. Though often it feels the same."

  "It always feels the same."

  "Do you still lie on the cool tiles in your home?"

  "Yes. Whenever I feel all gross and Z isn't home, I lie down on the cold floor in his gym. Actually, that's the only time I enter the gym," I smirk a little laugh as Mack does.

  Leaning his own face on the table mere inches from my face, Mack smiles at me. "It does actually feel good," he admits as I nod. "I didn't realize before how the cool feels on your skin. I might have to give it a try sometime."

  "You don't have to, Mack. You're normal," I grin back. "Well, for a Shrink."

  We must look so weird. Me crying on the table with my face pressed against it, and Mack's huge body pushing his chair back so he can lie his face on the table beside me. If anyone entered my room they'd think we were a murder-suicide, or just really strange or something. Not that Mack would care. He never cares how he shrinks people, as long as he's successful.

  "You're a really good doctor, Mack," I breathe in the cool tabletop silence between us.

  "Thank you, Suzanne. You're a really good test of my skills," he says so seriously I finally just laugh with him.

  "I guess I'm not ready to leave yet, am I?"

  "You tell me. Do you think you're ready to leave yet?"

  "No..." I admit on a dramatic exhale.

  God, I hate this. I hate my weakness, and I hate that it's never easy with me. I wish so much I was as strong as everyone else is. I wish I could just get up and get on with it. I wish I was like normal women. Actually, I just wish I was a little more normal. Just a little normal would help I think. Just enough normal so I could function without all this drama and upset all the time.

  "I have to go. Our time is up, but I'll check in this afternoon, okay?"

  "Okay," I agree finally raising my head from the table as Mack does.

  "Do you want to ask me anything?"

  Shaking my head, I can't ask it. "No. If he's fine I'll feel horrible, and if he's not fine I'll feel worse."

  "I understand. What are you doing this morning?" Mack asks finally standing with his untouched bagel, and his nearly full coffee.

  Laughing, I burst out, "Knitting. 101," as he laughs with me.

  "Well, you always did say you'd end up knitting in a padded cell, so..." he leaves the statement hanging in the air as he sweeps his hand out around us in my UNpadded cell. "Close enough?"

  "Yup. It's official. I've become the old crazy knitting lady, with a broken wrist wrapping the wool around the tips of my fingers that can only wiggle."

  "You're not old," he says deadpan until we both laugh again. Ha! I'm just the crazy knitting lady now. Wow, this sucks.

  "I'll be back at 2. And I'd like you to think of the biggest issue hurting you emotionally right now. Be it your past or your current situation. I want you to really think about what you think is the most prevalent issue you're facing. The issue preventing you from getting out of your depression. Can you do that for me?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Also, I have a request," he asks leaning against the door to leave me again for a few hours. A few long, lonely hours.

  "Anything."

  "Kayla would like to see you. She's been climbing the walls, and she really wants to see you. She even promises not to give you shit for all this," Mack smirks but I'm already shaking my head no.

  "I'm not ready. But please tell her it's not her at all. I just don't know what to say or do with her, and I'm scared she's secretly, or maybe not so secretly angry with me. And I'm not ready to feel insecure with her yet because she's important to me." I breathe desperately hoping Mack understands.

  "You're important too, Suzanne. But Kayla understands. She just misses you and wants to be here for you right now. But I'll let her know you're not ready yet."

  "Thank you."

  "But I would get ready soon. Kayla doesn’t have much will power where rules are concerned," he laughs again at his major understatement.

  Huh. If a rule is set, Kayla is exactly the person to question why, what's the point, and how exactly she can work around the rule.

  "Mack, I feel scared of everything right now."

  "Of course you do. Everything is in a scary unknown place right now," Mack says seriously. And it helps that he acknowledges what I'm feeling. "See you at 2:00," he gives a final smile before shutting my door.

  Finally standing to throw my uneaten bagel out, I need to freshen up before my class.

  Reapplying my mascara and foundation I'll admit I kind of like knitting though I'd stab myself in the chest with a knitting needle before ever actually admitting that to anyone else, I giggle.

  CHAPTER 16

  Z

  Parking at Mercy is a total pain in the ass. The lot closest to the main entrance is always full which means I have to park miles away from the doors to the individual wards. Not that I give a shit about walking miles, but it's annoying for me to always be late for everything when it's out of my control. Or maybe I'm just pissed again because everything is out of my control. Uh, yeah.

  This last month has been so fucking annoying, I've become the prick Suzanne used to tease me about being. I can't stand talking to anyone, and I hate going into work. My office is just dark and depressing so I hate being there, but my hotel room is worse, so I need to get the fuck out of there every day which leaves my dark, depressing office as the only place I can go each day.

  At this point, I swear if they had the balls, my office staff would either tell me to fuck off, or they'd tell me to take a vacation. Not that I've actually been a prick to anyone, I just haven't been myself. Or funny. Or happy. And I know my upset and frustration is showing to everyone who has the misfortune of being around me these days.

  I haven't really done or said anything prick-like though, I've just been the anti-Z. Well, except for that annoying kid in graphics who I told to shut the hell up when he wouldn't stop singing some goddamn Miley Cyrus song. But come on, anyone would have told him to shut the hell up whether their life was falling apart or not.

  Walking into the ugly grey, yellow interior of Mercy, I realize how much I resent this. I mean really, an appointment twice a week for a month now? I think Mack's taking this thing a little too far with me. I know he said he'd help Suzanne, but I didn't think he'd schedule appointments with me twice a week as well. I figured I'd talk to him and find out how she was doing and what was going on with her. But this? This is just stupid.

  Sitting in the even uglier waiting room of Mack's ward, I almost laugh at the interior. It's so depressing to look at, I don't know how anyone who needs to talk to a Psychiatrist could get better when all they see is this ugliness around them. Get a fucking plant, even a fake one, or some decent art on the walls, or something. Hey, I know! Switch out the grey plastic chairs for some color to liven the place up a little.

  Scowling at the chairs, I just catch myself as a young woman looks at me and quickly turns her head away and down like I scared her, or like
she's freaked about something. I don't know what’s wrong with her, but I know that look all too well. That's the 'please don't be mad at me and hurt me' Suzanne look I dread.

  Fuck! I can't stand myself anymore. I can only imagine what everyone else is feeling toward me.

  "Z?" Mack smiles stepping into the waiting area.

  Standing to follow, I just barely hold in my irritation and resentment toward Mack. I don't give a shit who knows I’m here, but does he actually have to announce my name like I'm some normal patient of his.

  Sitting in front of his desk while he shuffles around paperwork and types something quickly on his computer, I feel pissed waiting again.

  "I still don't understand why I have to come here. We could do this at my hotel. Or even at your place. Christ, we could go have a drink and talk."

  Smirking at me, Mack stops everything to just stare at me for a minute before speaking. "Yeah, because most Psychiatrists sit in a bar with their patients and have a drink over their issues. That's what bartenders are for, Z. Not Shrinks."

  "But I'm not your patient."

  "Really? Do we have set appointments and talk to each other for an hour? Do you pay me?"

  "Yeah, but that's a monetary courtesy for the time you're spending with Suzanne."

  “Uh huh. A courtesy?” He scoffs. “News flash, Z. You ARE my patient, as is Suzanne. And that's why you're here, and why we talk in my office. We have to keep this as emotionally detached as possible. Well, I have to. I've known you for too long, and way too well to be professional with you outside of this room. It's hard enough for me not talking like your buddy, or not telling you when you're a fuckhead, instead of being doctorly with you while we figure all your shit out. Got it?"

  "A fuckhead? Yeah, that's not all that professional or doctorly, Dr. MacDonald," I burst out laughing as Mack does.

  "So what’s been going on? How's work?" Mack asks leaning back in his chair as I get comfortable as well.