She Wouldn't Change a Thing

by Sarah Adlakha

  “Alabama.”

  “What country are we in?”

  “The United States.”

  “And who is the current president?”

  Who is the current president?

  The question echoed in her mind until the names of former presidents were spinning through her thoughts faster than she could hear them. Reagan, Bush, Clinton. Who was the president in 1988? She’d imagined it would be the little, day-to-day details of life that would trip her up, not the significant chunks of history that were printed in books and taught in school.

  “Maria.” Dr. Anderson tapped her pen on the notebook. “The president?”

  “The first Bush,” she said.

  “The what Bush?”

  “I mean … there’s no first or second yet. It’s just Bush. George Bush.”

  “There’s no first or second yet?” The doctor closed the notebook on her lap and placed it on the table before she capped her pen and tucked it into the front pocket of her white coat. She didn’t bother with a response. She rose from the chair and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt before she raised the bed rail and collected her notebook from the table. “What does that even mean?”

  “It’s Reagan, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like for you to get some rest, Maria. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow and maybe then you’ll be ready to tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you unless you’re honest with me.”

  “No, please don’t go. I promise I’m not lying to you. I’m just still a little fuzzy from all the medicines they’ve been giving me.”

  “You’re not being honest with me, Maria. I’ve been doing this long enough to see that quite clearly. I don’t know what you’re hiding, but if it’s drugs you’re taking, then we need to get a handle on that. And if it’s something else, and you’re trying to downplay your symptoms, then I need to know so I can make sure we keep you safe. There’s something going on that you’re not telling me, and my job is to find out what it is.”

  Her instinct was to beg, but Maria kept her mouth shut, counting down from five so she could rein in her compulsion. It was a setback, but it didn’t have to be a disaster.

  “I’m sorry,” Maria finally replied. “I’m not quite myself, with everything that’s happened. I’m just ready to get out of the hospital.”

  “Nobody wants to be in the hospital, Maria. Let me get that drug screen back and talk to your parents and then we’ll discuss our options. For now, though, I’d like you to get some rest.” She glanced at Maria’s casted arm. “You still have a lot of healing to do.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE RAIN PATTERED AGAINST THE WINDOW and the clouds cast a darkness over the room that no artificial light could penetrate. It fit her mood well. Her mother’s hands fidgeted as she sat otherwise motionless in the plastic chair by the bed, and when Maria peeked over the rail, she could almost see the abandoned hope in her eyes.

  “Good morning,” her mother said. Her voice held the same defeat as her eyes.

  Maria owed her an explanation, an apology at the very least, but the thought of it was too exhausting, so she watched in silence as her memories dragged her back to a similar scene from two years earlier. Their roles were reversed back then, as her mother rested in a hospital bed while Maria sat vigil by her side, stroking her hair and praying for a miracle. When it was clear there would be no miracle, she prayed for comfort, and when it was clear there would be no comfort, she prayed for death. She never told anyone that. She could never bring herself to admit that she had prayed for her mother’s death, even if it was to end her suffering. Tears gathered in her eyes as she watched her suffer again.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

  “We’ll get through this,” her mother replied. “Whatever it takes. We’ll do it.”

  Maria examined the plastic splint that had replaced the cast on her arm, relishing the newfound freedom of her limbs after the leather restraints and wondering how long she would play this role of daughter, teenager, and patient. She wanted so desperately to warn her mother again about the cancer that would be coming for her, but how could she do that without digging herself deeper into a hole? She’d have to leave her a note, a letter to inform her of all the catastrophes to come.

  “Do you think maybe I’ll get to go home today?” Maria asked, but her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes, and shrugged in response. “I’m feeling much better.”

  The door swung open with a bang before her mother could respond, and Nurse Joanie ambled into the room with a wheelchair in tow and a crooked smile across her weathered face.

  “Just like a teenager,” she said. “Sleeping ’til noon. I’m glad you woke up before I left for the day. I wanted to say good-bye.”

  “I’m going home?” Maria breathed out an exaggerated sigh of relief and glanced from Joanie to her mother, who still refused to make eye contact with her.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” Joanie’s throaty voice cracked before she coughed into her fist and shot a quick glance at Maria’s mother. “I thought you already knew. You’re being transferred to Three West.” She secured the wheelchair next to the bed before she continued. “The psych unit.”

  “The psych unit?” Her voice caught on her words when she spoke, but it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. It was so obvious it was almost laughable, but somehow Maria hadn’t seen it coming. She’d fallen into a trap even Sylvia had enough sense to avoid. “I’m not suicidal,” she said, pleading with Joanie, as if her nurse had any say in the matter. “I’m just ready to go home. Please call Dr. Anderson back here.”

  “I meant to tell you,” her mother said. “I just—”

  “Mom, listen,” Maria interrupted. “You can stop this. Just tell them you’re willing to take me home. That’s all you have to do.”

  She could hear the desperation in her own voice, but she knew it was useless. She’d already cemented the deal with her psychiatrist the previous day, and her mother was barely keeping herself afloat while trying to save her drowning daughter. Maria was surprised by the unexpected comfort she found when she reached out and placed her splinted hand over her mother’s arm. She missed the familiarity of her role as caregiver. Looking back, she felt she’d always been the caregiver—for her husband, her children, her mother—but it wasn’t always that way. She wondered at what point in her life their roles had changed.

  The hospital was a labyrinth of halls, but Maria recognized the steel doors with the tiny, prison-like windows at once. She flinched when those doors slammed shut behind her, feeling like an imprisoned warden. It was the first time she’d ever been on a psych unit without the keys in her pocket, and the view was quite different from the other side. It was a world she knew well, though, a world that had once offered hope and healing but now gave meaning to the phrase that swam through her head and refused to desert her.

  Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

  Joanie and Maria’s mother were escorted off the unit just moments after their arrival, before a nurse with no name tag wheeled Maria through a vacant corridor and stopped in front of a room with an unobstructed view of the nurses’ station. The walls were a cold and steely gray, and the fluorescent glare from the oversize lights that hung from the ceiling did little to soften the atmosphere. A twin-size bed with faded and worn sheets sat against one wall and a wooden desk rested under the only window in the room, its heavy bars blotting out the sunlight.

  “You can put these on,” the nurse said, dropping a pair of hospital pajamas onto the bed and then hovering in the doorway.

  Maria eased herself onto the bed, listening to the springs creak as her weight sank into them and wondering if Will had changed the sheets on their own bed at home. She tried to do it once a week but it rarely happened more than twice a month. There was just never time. How could she have let dirty sheets cause her so much stress? Even Emily’s urine-soaked sheets seemed so trivial to her now.

  “Could I have some privacy, please?” Maria motioned toward the pajamas b
eside her on the bed.

  “No closed doors while you’re on suicide watch,” the nurse replied. “We’ll go over the rules this afternoon. There’s a group therapy session going on right now that your doctor would like you to attend.”

  Maria already knew the rules of suicide watch: no closed doors, no shoelaces, no utensils. She’d enforced them for years, but she never imagined she’d be on the wrong side of the rule book. The nurse watched her from the doorway as Maria dropped to the floor the open-backed gown she’d worn from the ICU and struggled to get the hospital pajamas over her head with her bulky and awkward splinted arm. She was too proud to ask for help.

  “I can’t imagine therapy would do me any good,” she said, still fighting with the sleeves of the pajamas. “I’d rather stay here, if that’s okay.”

  The choice wasn’t hers, though, and as Maria was escorted down the corridor to the group therapy room, she could hear the muffled voices on the other side of the door growing louder and more distinct. When the door opened, and the flow of conversation ceased, Maria’s eyes landed on the boy who’d been speaking. For a moment, just a breath or two at most, they watched each other, as if they’d known each other at some point in their lives, maybe crossed paths at a familiar coffee shop or sat in the same waiting room at a doctor’s office. Maria could tell that he was trying to place her, too, but the moment was fleeting.

  “It must have just been a side effect from that new medication,” he said, pulling his gaze from Maria and turning his attention back to the group. “Because I feel better now, and I don’t have those thoughts anymore.”

  “That’s wonderful, Henry. Thank you for sharing with us.” The leader of the group couldn’t have been much older than twenty, with hair the color of ground ginger and curls that screamed Ogilvie Home Perm. She looked decidedly too young to be leading a group, but her words were beyond her years. “Sometimes the truth in our minds doesn’t match the truth that those around us see, and our lives become more about perception than reality.”

  Chair legs scraped the floor as the circle widened to create a spot for Maria. A small group of children, as young as six or seven, huddled together on the far side of the room, but teenagers made up the bulk of the patients. Until that moment, Maria hadn’t considered she’d be on a child psych unit.

  She slid onto a chair among the teenagers as all eyes in the room tracked her movements, forging their own interpretations of the bulging bandages under her splinted arm. As interest waned, though, Henry’s eyes didn’t waver. The boy who’d been speaking when she entered watched her with rapt attention, words almost forming on his lips as a disquieting anticipation settled over them.

  “Welcome to the group, Maria.” The ginger-haired woman’s voice crashed through the silence. “I’m Tonya, and this is our afternoon group session. There’s no judgment here. You can ask questions, talk about your experiences, or just listen, if you prefer. A couple of weeks ago, Henry shared with us his belief that he’d already been through all of this.” She nodded to the boy with the short-cropped hair, whose eyes hadn’t left Maria. “Sort of like déjà vu, right, Henry?”

  “That’s right,” he said, reluctantly peeling his gaze from Maria. “Just like déjà vu.”

  “Sometimes the medications we use can do things like that,” Tonya continued. “Play with our minds and trick us into believing things that just aren’t possible. But eventually, once they work their way into your system, everything will balance out and you’ll think clearly again. Has anyone else noticed problems like that with their medications?”

  “What do you mean, déjà vu?” Maria’s words were floating through the air before she realized she was speaking, a meek voice piercing through the suddenly curious gazes around her. Her eyes were trained on Henry. “You mean like you’ve lived this life before and you’ve somehow come back?”

  “I don’t know about coming back or reliving my life,” he said. “It was more like Tonya said. Déjà vu.” His smile broadened as he gestured to the woman with the Ogilvie perm, but Maria knew that, despite his answer, her words had shaken him.

  “But when you thought you’d done this before—”

  Henry silenced her before she could continue. It was just a subtle shake of his head, but Maria let her words drift away unfinished and unreciprocated. He was right. Group therapy wasn’t the place for this conversation. The other patients around them sat captivated, with perked ears and riveted attention, unaccustomed to voluntary participation, and it wasn’t until the clap of Tonya’s hands shattered the stillness that Maria realized the room had succumbed to silence.

  “Well, we’re just about out of time for today,” she said. “Maybe we can continue this tomorrow?”

  Maria sat motionless, unable to pull herself from her seat, as the other patients clambered around her. Shuffling chairs and screeching shoes echoed across the floor as the room emptied, until it was just her and the boy.

  “Was it really just déjà vu?” she asked, when she was certain they were alone, but Henry didn’t offer a response. His eyes never left her face, as if he, too, was struggling to remember where they’d met, struggling to put a name to her face. He scooted forward on his chair, narrowing the gap between them.

  “Do we know each other?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Maria replied. “But it happened to you too, didn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shook his head and glanced back at the door before leaning in even closer and lowering his voice to a whisper. “But I’d suggest you don’t mention things like that to anyone, if you ever want to get out of this place.”

  “Please,” Maria begged. “Tell me what you meant by ‘déjà vu.’ Have you been here before?”

  “I can’t talk right now.” Henry glanced at his empty wrist, like a man with a watch who had somewhere to be, and rose from his chair. “I’ll find you in a little bit.”

  “Wait. Tell me what you meant.” Maria trailed him to the door, her voice rising. Henry turned to face her, their bodies just inches apart. His square jaw and deep-set, piercing eyes held an intensity that could almost be described as intimidating, but at the same time there was safety within them. He was broad shouldered and confident even at this, likely one of his weakest moments. He was the man you wanted showing up when you were trapped inside a burning building.

  “Not now,” he said. “I’ll find you, but you have to be patient. And trust me when I say this: it wouldn’t hurt if you learned how to keep your mouth shut.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WHEN DAY TURNED INTO NIGHT, MARIA started to worry. She couldn’t find the boy from group, and the more she pestered the nursing staff about his whereabouts, the more closely they watched her. She was starting to wonder if he had been discharged, or maybe even imagined, but half an hour before lights out he finally showed up in the dayroom and dropped onto the couch beside her. She was so relieved to see him that she almost wrapped her arms around him and violated one of the most important rules of the psych unit: no physical contact between patients.

  Maria hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was a charm to Henry that couldn’t be denied. The same sandy-brown hair that her husband wore in loose messy waves was shorn close to his skull, but that was where their similarities ended. Henry was a boy with the physique of a man and the eyes of a timeworn traveler. There was something so achingly familiar about those eyes, but she just couldn’t place it.

  “Where have you been?” Maria asked, startled by her own brashness when the question left her mouth, as if she had the right to question Henry about his whereabouts. She nodded toward the clock on the wall. “I thought maybe you’d find me sooner. It’s almost lights out.”

  “I had a meeting with my doctor and my family,” Henry replied. “I’m going on a day pass tomorrow to see how I do off the unit. Apparently, if I can hold it together, I’ll be discharged in the next few days.”

  There were no day passes on the horizon for Maria
. She’d been on the psych unit for less than twenty-four hours but had already managed to raise alerts with her doctor, the nursing staff, and the group therapist. Henry was right. She needed to learn how to keep her mouth shut.

  When she turned to face him, she was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, and that her pajamas were too baggy, her hair was too messy, and she hadn’t brushed her teeth all day. It was like a veil being lifted to reveal insecurities and vulnerabilities she didn’t even know were there. Who was this boy beside her who made her feel these things that she hadn’t felt in years? When he leaned in close, she could smell the mix of coffee and faded mint toothpaste on his breath.

  “You weren’t here last time,” Henry said, turning his body to block out their conversation from the other patients, who were settling into their evening routines of crocheting and reading and staring off into space. “I was here over twenty years ago, and everything was exactly the same. The same doctors, the same nurses, the same patients. Until you showed up. And when you started asking me those questions in group therapy today, I knew you’d come back too, but I just couldn’t figure out why.”

  “You did come back,” Maria said. “I knew it. What happened to us?”

  “I don’t know what happened to us, but we know each other, don’t we?” He studied her face until the moment became uncomfortable, until Maria turned her head away and shrugged her shoulders beneath the sagging hospital pajamas.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Who are you?

  Who was she? It was no longer an elementary question, and as Maria thought about the answers she could give, they all felt like lies, or at least half-truths. Who was she? Maria Bethe? Maria Forssmann?

  “I’m Maria,” she whispered back to him.

  “But how do I know you?”

  She dropped her gaze to the stark white fabric of the freshly rolled gauze around her splinted arm and let Henry struggle with his memories. She had her own memory lapses to resolve, her own missing chunks of time that were essential to her return home, so while she could believe they’d once crossed paths, the question of how they knew each other didn’t seem as pivotal as why they were thrown together now. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s hard to believe us meeting here is coincidence.”