by Ella Fields
“I guess you’ve seen grown men cry,” I told the good doctor, to which he just twisted his fingers around each other with a bob of his head. “It’s a pretty sobering sight.”
“It is indeed.”
I swallowed thickly, trying to rummage through the mess rotting in my head. “He didn’t deserve that. Not from me.”
“And you? What do you deserve?”
“Nothing,” I said instantly. “Not a damn thing.”
“What makes you say that?” He sat back, steepling his fingers.
Anger filled the hollow void in my chest. “We’re doing the repetitive question bullshit now?”
“If you want. I try to go with the flow.”
I jerked back, shaking my head as I relaxed a little into the cool leather of the couch.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Why are you here?”
Frowning, I stumbled over what to say. Who asked their patient that? Wasn’t it fucking obvious? “Um, because the hospital required it in order to discharge me, and well, I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“Like what exactly?”
The words wanted to stay trapped inside. They didn’t feel like they belonged anywhere else but my own head. I was here for a reason, though. Fuck what my head wanted. “Crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Yes. Sometimes, I feel like I’m legitimately crazy.”
Silence arrived again, sinking into the corners of the large room and shrinking it.
“Where did you get that idea from?” the doc asked quietly, curiously.
“My mom,” I said, choking on my next words. “She was, is, crazy.”
His head tilted. “Do you believe this crazy”—he used air quotes—“is genetic?”
I scoffed. “Well, isn’t it?”
He stuck his lip out, conceding, “Sometimes. Where’s your mom? At home?”
“She left when I was nine.”
His chair let out a puff of air as he reached for his notebook and pen. “Where is she now?”
“I have no idea.”
The weeks crawled by at a pace that had me panicking—too long, too short, and still no word from him. The scratch on my head from where the frame hit it had now healed, and I found myself missing it, my fingers constantly diving into my hair to search for it.
I didn’t get to see him. My eyes couldn’t soak in the sight of him in order to placate my anxious, burning heart. What kind of cruelty was that?
The kind that spoke so quietly, it often went unnoticed.
Without the phone calls to Liam, I’d honestly fear the worst. The friends he had on the team walked around campus with fake smiles, looking as though someone had died, but they refused to let their bleeding hearts reveal themselves.
No one whispered a word about him unless I did, and even then, Daisy was the only one who’d indulge my heart.
“I’m just trying to understand. He’s allowed visitors on the weekends. He’s allowed to make phone calls.”
“His dad is trying to be nice, Pip,” Daisy said, tucking her notes away and zipping up her bag.
“He can’t just outright say that he doesn’t want to talk to me?” I asked, my hands slapping the table.
The librarian shushed me, and I glared. I swear, she made it her business to find people who talked even in areas you were allowed to talk and shushed them. She was a professional shusher; that was what she was.
Daisy shot me a look that said, no, he couldn’t say that.
I dropped my head to the table, banging it gently against the wood. “I just want to hear his voice. This isn’t fair.”
Daisy grabbed my hand. “And you’re still trying to call the facility?”
I guessed facility was a nicer term than psychiatric hospital. “Yep. Twenty-eight times now, to be exact.”
“Oh.” Her lips formed a shocked O around the word.
“I know. I’m not on his special ‘list.’”
That hurt. It nestled deep inside my chest cavity, lodging itself inside.
“Do you think we’re over?” I asked the one question I’d been agonizing over. Funny, how just weeks ago I thought it best to step back and give us some breathing room. Now, well, I could hardly breathe without him.
“I don’t know,” Daisy said, squeezing my fingers.
A month passed before I finally let myself feel it.
Anger.
How dare he just leave me to hang like this? No answers, no contact, nothing.
Again.
Not being able to help it, I kept calling the hospital he was supposedly staying at. Over and over. Like I was back in the third grade, hounding the Santa hotline to find out why he wasn’t real.
Then one day, my phone rang. It wasn’t who I needed to hear from, but it was a close enough second. I needed someplace to put this anger, this frustration, and I knew it wasn’t fair to lob it at him. But he was the one person who spoke to him, and I needed him to send a damn message.
“Pippa, you need to stop calling there.” Liam chuckled, then caught himself. “It kind of clogs up the lines.”
“He knows I’ve been calling then?” I asked.
“Uh, yes, he definitely knows. But you need to stop.”
“If he’d just talk to me, just once—”
“He won’t. He said he wants you to keep going.”
My anger vanished, and I blinked three times, trying to process what he’d said. “What?”
A long pause, then, “He wants you to move on.”
Dropping the phone, I laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed. Move on. Like it was that fucking simple. I picked up the phone. “He honestly said that?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve tried, but this is what he wants right now, and he’s doing the right things …”
The message already delivered to my heart, my brain tuned out in an effort to stop any more damage.
“I get it. I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry.” I stared up at the ceiling, tears brimming my eyes. “I’ll stop calling now.”
Before he could respond, I hung up, then promptly threw my phone at the wall, watching as it fell to my bed, still in one unsatisfying piece.
Nausea rolled over me in a heady wave, and I stared at a crumb on the coffee table in an effort not to give in to it.
“Your girlfriend is persistent.” The good doc crossed his ankles, making my gaze shift to his fuzzy socks.
The reminder made me want to smile, but I didn’t let it happen. “It’s better this way.”
“For her? Or for you?”
What did you do? My teeth gritted as I forced out a lie over the memory of Quinn’s voice. “For her.”
My eyes blurred, the room tilting dangerously.
Dr. Jenson clicked his pen, over and fucking over. “Could you stop doing that?”
“Hmm? Oh.” He clicked it again. “It bothers you?”
“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth, trying to focus on him to right my vision.
He merely smiled but thankfully stopped. “How long do you expect she’ll wait for you?”
“Who?”
“Your girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. Not anymore.” She was better off without me. I knew that from the start, but I’d been a selfish dick.
He poked his chin with the pen. Could this dude not sit still for one full minute? “Why not?”
“Why are we talking about this?”
He shrugged. “We can talk about whatever you want. Either way, I still get paid.”
His honesty struck me as both shocking and kind of refreshing. My stomach clenched, and bile rose steadily up my throat.
“How’s the new medication going?”
Spying a small trash can near his desk, I launched at it and hurled up the contents of my empty stomach.
The pen clicked. “Not very good then.”
I threw myself onto the leather couch, determined. “I’m going.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
&nbs
p; The good doc put his mug down. “Oh? And why’s that?”
“Because I’ve been here almost two months and nothing’s changed.”
“Interesting. Well, you’re here of your own accord now. You can sign yourself out whenever you like.”
My jaw tightened, my feet shifting in agitation. “Great. Okay.”
“But?” he asked.
“What do you mean, but?”
“I just felt like there was a but that wasn’t said. So I said it.”
“You’re kind of strange.”
“So I’ve been told.” His smile was disarming and aggravating. “Look.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. His stare was piercing as though he knew things about me I didn’t, but it didn’t make me uncomfortable. “You came here wanting help, right?”
I gave him a terse nod.
“That’s not going to happen overnight. Some people get lucky. The right medication, the right therapy, and the right timing. In a matter of weeks, they’re feeling like a new person. But for some others? It can take months, sometimes years.”
I swallowed, my eyes closing at the thought of having to wait that long for … what? I didn’t know. I supposed not to feel like this. “Years?”
“How old are you again?”
My eyes opened. “You’ve got the answer to that beside you on your handy client information sheet.”
He smiled once again. “Correct. But I’m asking for a reason.”
“I’ll be twenty next month.”
He sat back in his chair, scratching at his chin. “A long time to feel this way, right?”
I frowned, then it sunk in.
“You’re a strong guy for dealing with this as long as you have. Give yourself some credit.”
“Uh-huh, I’m a real hero.”
“Sarcasm. I like it. So”—he clapped his hands loudly, making me flinch—“you’ve made it even after all this time, so what’s the harm in a little more? You’re on the right track, doing what you need to do, and you’re at the right place. Have a little faith and a lot of patience.”
I smirked. “Patience and me, we’ve never really been friends.”
“You don’t need to be friends. A mutual agreement will suffice.”
By the end of March, I’d stopped calling Liam for updates. I knew he didn’t mind, and even if he did, he was probably too polite to say so. I didn’t stop for him, though. I stopped for me.
Trying to get my heart back was proving impossible, and I was sick of the hurt, sick of the tears, and sick of constantly thinking about him and what he might be doing.
Toby might have wanted me to move on, and if I knew one thing about myself, it was that I could be a stubborn bitch. Enough was enough, though. It was obvious now that I was only torturing myself. I refused to believe he actually wanted me to move on. The two words tasted foul in my mouth, and the mere thought of them sent a sharp pang all over.
Regardless, I did need to move on somehow, but I didn’t quite know how to do that.
Daisy left yesterday, heading home to Clarelle with Quinn. Apparently, after spending most of the summer break there, they were going to spend a week with her parents before arriving back for the new school year.
Daisy’s things were now at Quinn’s place. Liam was happy to continue leasing the townhouse to Quinn, and Daisy had practically moved in anyway.
I was happy she was happy. I was just angry I was still miserable.
My fear for my grades should’ve been higher, but really, I was just proud I managed to fluff my way through my final exams.
Freshman year done and dusted, I zipped my last duffel, looking around the empty dorm room one last time before I began hauling the boxes and bags downstairs and out onto the steps.
I’ll tell you what; it was sure as fuck easier taking them down than it was up. It just sucked doing it on my own. But Mom should’ve been here soon, and I didn’t feel like standing around waiting any longer.
I sat on the steps, shaded from the early June sun by the small overhang, and dug out my word search book.
A truck pulled up in front of the dorms, startling me when the horn honked.
My dad stepped out, and my jaw fell open. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a little late to the party, but I thought it was time I did the whole father-daughter intervention thing.”
“Intervention?” I looked around, seeing a few students still loitering outside. The campus was eerily quiet, the usually deep green grass turning lighter, crunchier, and dry thanks to the heat. “Mom was picking me up.”
My dad opened the truck door, then grabbed my bags, tucking them behind the seats. “We spoke about it, and I’d like you to spend some time with me before heading home.”
He started placing boxes in the back, and my arms folded over my chest, petulant annoyance rising within. “Oh? Don’t I get a say? I’m nineteen. Pretty sure it’s a little late to discuss custody of me.”
He chuckled, walking over to wrap me in a giant hug. My annoyance dripping away, I wrapped my arms around him and closed my eyes. “You doing okay?”
“Fine.”
“Your mom told me all about what happened, but before you get mad …”
I stepped back, jumping into the truck. “I’m not mad. What I am, though, is hungry. Can we hit a drive-through?”
Looking a bit stunned by my easy acceptance, he only took a second to say, “Sure, yeah.”
My dad’s apartment was small but fairly new. What it was not, was clean. Which was surprising, given what I remembered of him growing up.
I busied myself for the first few days with cleaning out cupboards—which were kind of bare, so that was easy—and dusting everything I could see. Then I brought my best friend to the party, the Hoover, and felt my tense shoulders loosen with every sweep of the vacuum, making perfect lines in his soft beige carpet.
My dad didn’t try to stop me; he just went about his business of going to work and coming home. His avoidance of any and all Felicity talk didn’t go unnoticed, though. And on the third night there, I brought it up over the takeout he’d brought home for dinner.
Cooking? No thanks. I’ll clean all day, any day, but cooking, especially dinner, was not my strong suit. Unless you liked grilled cheese, mac and cheese, or homemade pizza.
I was a pro at all the above.
“Work has settled down then?” I asked around a bite of chicken.
My dad wiped his fingers on a piece of paper towel, nodding and chewing. “It has, but I’m taking on some extra hours.”
“Why?” I tore off another piece of chicken, chewed, and swallowed. “Felicity did a big number on you? You wanna stay busy?”
He looked like he was barely holding back a laugh, shaking his head before taking a sip of water. “It’s been a few months now. I’m perfectly fine. Trust me.”
“You haven’t heard from her?”
He shook his head again, then held up a finger. “No, wait. She did leave a message on my phone. The usual. Sorry, and it wasn’t me, she just has issues, oh, and if I was to see Toby, tell him she loves him and she’s sorry.”
The chicken fell out of my hand, my fingers still midair. “What?”
Dad smirked, grabbing my hand and patting it with some towel. I took it from him, doing it myself. “Did you call her back?”
He stared across the kitchen toward the window. “No. I probably should’ve. But it wasn’t a forever thing; it was an ‘it feels good for right now’ thing. Know what I mean?” At my scrunched nose and raised brow, he laughed. “Sometimes, you remind me so much of your mother.”
“Funny,” I said with a smirk of my own, returning to my chicken. “She said the same thing to me not too long ago about you.”
He threw me a look that said he’d like me to go on but wouldn’t ask. Instead, I changed the subject slightly. “Gotten through to Drew lately?”
Dad sighed, shoveling some pasta salad into his mouth before saying, “Last week.”
>
I tried not to sound too surprised. “How’d that go?”
“It went for all of three and a half minutes.”
“Well.” I bounced my head side to side. “Progress is progress.”
He laughed, then pushed his plate away. “If he doesn’t wanna play hockey, we can’t force him. It’s strange, though. I know how much he loves it.”
I nodded. “Yep, he’s quit for reasons he might never tell us.”
“I don’t think he needs to tell us,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” I asked, taking a sip of water.
“Nothing. How’re you doing?”
“Good.” I set my water down, getting up to take our plates to the sink.
“Pippa,” he said firmly. “I’ve let you clean this place till it sparkled. Now it’s time to talk.”
Scraping the leftovers into the trash, I then ran the plates under the water before filling up the sink. He didn’t have a dishwasher, which I liked. Washing dishes by hand was so much more satisfying. “Toby overdosed, decided to up and leave, and doesn’t want to hear from me. What else is there to say?”
His voice softened. “How about how that makes you feel?”
I snorted. “Did your shrink teach you some things?” The words came out before I could stop them, and I cringed, hating that I said them. “Sorry.” I turned the water off, tossing my glass in before turning around and leaning against the counter. “It makes me feel like crap, okay? But I’m … I’m trying. I know it’s been months, and that I need to let go.”
I stared at the brown tiles while my dad took his time to respond. “I’m sorry,” he said.
My head lifted. “What for?”
His gaze was full of remorse for something he hadn’t done. “I guess, watching you since you got here, it’s …” He sighed. “I hate seeing you like this. And I hate that I can empathize with what he’s going through. That I understand it yet still wish I could kick his ass.”
I could taste salt in the back of my throat, and sniffed, willing the tears to stay away. “I know, it’s complicated like that.”