I stand too, my heart probably squeezed between the bones of my ribs, trying to fly out.
Stopping a couple of feet before me, he looks down. How is it that even without a single expression on his face, I feel like he’s telling me something? Only I don’t know what, exactly, but every part of me is listening.
It’s crazy. Not the useless kind but the kind that’s stealing my breaths.
“Give me your hand,” he commands.
“Why?” I ask, even as I obey him.
He takes my hand into his, and I notice all those tiny scratches on his fingers again. I want to ask him about the house, but he speaks over me. “I’m teaching you how to make a proper fist.”
My small palm is dwarfed by his big one as he curls my fingers. The last time our touch was over quickly. I couldn’t appreciate the heat and the texture of his skin completely.
I do, now. The warmth of his skin seeps into mine as he tucks my thumb down across my index and middle fingers.
“Keep it tight,” he instructs, tapping my thumb. “You don’t want it to get hurt.”
I smile slightly. “Okay.”
He’s been focused on my hand and the technique of making a proper fist but at my whisper, he glances at my face. There’s a dangerous clench in his jaw. I don’t know why I think it’s dangerous, but it is. Maybe it’s because that clench is paired with the look in his eyes. Kind of frosty. Kind of not.
When he lets go of my hand, I don’t like it. I don’t like the loss of touch, so I lightly punch him on his chest, before he can move away and go back to his chair where he’ll psychoanalyze the shit out of me.
And because I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation, I’ll let him.
He stops. Freezes, almost.
I peek up at him through my lashes. “Sorry. I wanted to see if it worked.”
“If that’s how you punch, I don’t think you really taught them their lesson,” he rumbles.
“How do you know so much about punching?”
His heart is beating beneath my fist and I want to press down harder, press up on the rhythm that gives him life.
Sighing, he answers, “I’ve been in fights before.”
“Yeah? With whom?”
He shrugs; it’s tight. “With kids. At school.”
I frown. “Were they assholes to you?”
His lips twitch. “Why? Are you going to use your stellar punching skills on them?”
“Maybe.”
My answer makes him chuckle and I feel it reverberating inside his chest. The chest that I’m touching, through the fabric of his shirt.
There’s no reason for me to touch it. But I can’t not touch it either. Especially when he’s not moving away or telling me to back off.
“Is your house fixed?” I whisper.
He swallows; I notice the slow bob of his Adam’s apple.
Apart from that grave way he was watching his dad’s photo, this is the first reaction I’ve seen from him or at least, the reaction that he’s shown me. That swallow. But before I can really marvel over that, he clips, “No.”
Something heavy sits on my chest. It’s not my illness. That’s where it comes from sometimes. My chest. This is different. This is for him, and for that pained reaction.
“Why are you fixing a house you don’t even live in?”
His eyelashes look thick, like a forest around his eyes, as he scans my face. “Because I have to.”
I accept his answer with a nod. I know his answer. I do a lot of things that I have to do, too.
Like lying.
I’ve lied all my life. For my mom. I’ve disappointed her a lot. The fact that I struggled with school, with making friends. The fact that I never took much interest in the things that she had an interest in. My cousin took to our store, fashion, cosmetics, jewelry, right from the beginning. My mom wanted that for me too, but I never gave her that.
When I was diagnosed, she was so heartbroken. I saw it in her eyes.
Lying and pretending were the only ways I could keep her safe. I could keep myself safe from her disappointment.
Until The Roof Incident.
I splay my palm on his chest. “You like fixing things, don’t you?”
Kinda like a hero.
He goes all stone-like. The breathing chest under my hand, just… stops. It stops moving. Stops being alive, even. I think he’s going to ask me to move my hand. He’s going to step back because he hates my touch.
But he simply says, “It’s my job.”
God, what is it? Why’s he so sad?
“Why did you move here? From Massachusetts?” I ask, thinking about the rumors.
Stupid fucking rumors that I don’t believe in.
People can be so cruel sometimes. Ask me. I know all about it.
A frown forms in between his brows. A suspicious, almost defensive frown. “Why?”
I shrug, appearing as casual as I can. I’m no threat to him. But I probably look like one because I’m asking the questions.
“I’m just wondering if you’ll go back once Dr. Martin is fine and back to work.”
The vein on the side of his neck has become taut. “I might.”
“Do you miss it? Boston, I mean.”
“Not really.”
“What about your friends? Colleagues?” Then I add, because I can’t stop myself, “Girlfriend?”
It sounded casual, right? I mean, there’s no way he can know I’m fishing for information. About his earlier job, his life before Heartstone.
I hope not.
Dr. Blackwood’s frown gets deeper. “Is this your way of fishing for information?”
Damn it.
I purse my lips, and admit, “Yes.”
“And what information would that be?”
His smell wafts through my nose as he shoves his hands inside his pockets. There are tons of things I can ask him. Tons of things I want to ask him. But I don’t think I can. I don’t have the right.
Though there’s this question that’s burning in the forefront of my mind. In my mind, I see him with Josie. Chatting, smiling.
And I’m jealous, despite the fact that I shouldn’t be.
The pads of my fingers dig into his chest, and as I realize his muscles are so toned, so sculpted that there’s absolutely no give, I ask, “Do you have someone special, Dr. Blackwood?”
Someone you kiss? Someone you grab and pull into a dark alley and press against walls?
I don’t say that but I’m definitely asking that.
It’s like he hears the unspoken questions because the heat of his body seems to have doubled. Like his blood is rushing in his veins with an uncanny speed.
With flaring nostrils and a hard jaw, he answers, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m busy.”
I want to smile. Actually, I’ve never wanted to smile this hard. Ever. His answer calms me but it also makes me restless to move closer to him. I want to trace my palm over the arch of his chest and see if I got it right in my dreams.
But I don’t do any of those things. I don’t want him to take away this small concession he’s given me.
Why is he even giving it to me? I’m not complaining. But still.
“Busy with patients?”
“Busy with my job. Yes,” he says, all professional-like.
That’s what he is. Professional and distant. Dedicated to his job and fixing people. If Mass General let him go, then they are idiots.
I’m an idiot, too, in this moment.
Instead of backing off, I want to do something. Something that might crack his cool façade. Maybe reaching up and messing up his no-nonsense hair.
What would he do? If I did that? If I grabbed his collar and pushed him against the wall?
And kissed him?
My eyes drop to his lips, his soft, soft lips. There’s a cleft in the middle of his lower lip. I want to taste that cleft
, dig my tongue in it, wet it, suck on it, bite it.
“So you don’t have fun at all?”
“No. I’m not a fun guy.”
I watch his lips form the words, and every syllable that comes out of his mouth makes my need to shake him, kiss him, mess him up, stronger. Stronger and stronger.
The need is so consuming that I hardly notice when he puts his hand on my palm and takes it off his body. It’s final and smooth, his action. Effortless. As though my touch barely registered to him.
“But I think you have a point. It’s after hours and I should go… have fun rather than spending my time with a patient.” He steps back then. “I’ll see you next week. Same time.”
There’s a sun stuck in my head.
It’s bright and glaring. It hurts my eyes, my skull, my very bones.
I shove a pillow on my face, trying to shield myself from the rays. Obviously, it doesn’t help. Because the sun is inside my head.
Inside. My head.
There are some things people might not know about depression. Like, if you’re lucky, you’ll see the signs and you’ll know it’s coming – the episode. But other times, there’s no warning. You wake up and it’s just there, either sitting on your chest, or shoved inside your head, like a giant light bulb that won’t go off.
Depression is also a whore for attention. Just when you think you’re okay. Meds are great. There’s quiet and peace and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of happiness, it strikes. In a whiny voice, it says, you didn’t forget about me, did you?
And then it’s there. It’s real and everything else is fake.
Like the fact that it’s a rainy day. I can see the splatter on my window above my bed. And yet, it feels like sun is glaring down at me, leaching away my strength, drying me up, leaving me a mass of heavy bones.
I’m exhausted, and I haven’t even opened my eyes yet.
My body feels like it’s heavier than yesterday. I know it’s not. I know it’s impossible – I haven’t lost rational thought – but it still feels like it.
In most cases, mental illness is not the absence of rational thought, but the presence of irrational ones, despite all rationality. Well, until you really lose it. Then you don’t know the difference between anything anymore.
At exactly 6:45AM, the knock on my wall comes. Renn and I have a ritual of talking through our paper-thin wall every morning. But today, I groan and tell her that I can’t.
“Willow, you okay?” she asks, concerned.
But I ignore her. I can’t do it today. I want her to go away. I wanna sleep.
At exactly 7AM, the knock on my door comes as well, and a nurse tells me that breakfast is in thirty minutes.
“I know,” I snap at her from under the pillow.
At my answer, she goes away.
Good.
Of course I know breakfast is in thirty minutes. I’ve been living here for twenty-four days, haven’t I?
Damn it.
I’m not this grumpy, usually.
That’s another thing with my episodes. They make me snappy, irritated. Everything bothers me. The crowd, the daily chores, my mom, school, teachers. Everything. But I tried my best to hide it on the Outside so I don’t seem crazy to anyone.
I toss the pillow away and cover myself from head to toe with my dark blanket. Another knock comes at my door and this time, the nurse’s voice is louder. “Willow, get up. Come on. It’s way past time.”
“Go away,” I tell her through my blanket.
“Willow, come on. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Just please go away,” I repeat, hoping she will.
Hoping. Praying.
But when has that ever helped me?
She asks me to get up again, but this time her voice seems to be coming from closer, and I tighten my muscles under my covers.
Is she approaching me? Is she going to touch me?
Because if she does, I swear to God I’ll…
I’ll fucking scream. I’ll scream my heart out.
Because that’s what’s happening inside of me. Someone’s screaming and thrashing and blazing. And I don’t have to hide it. I don’t have to pretend or lie. Not on the Inside.
I’m already locked up. I’m free to be insane.
A second later, a fist is pulling down my blanket. “What the….”
The nurse is looking at me, both stern and concerned. We’ve never had a problem before today. In fact, we smile at each other whenever I see her in the hallways or at the nurses’ station.
“What’s going on?” she asks with suspicion in her voice.
And here I thought we were friends. Or sort of friends. But I guess I’m like any other patient for her. She’s nice to me but she can’t trust me.
Do it, Willow.
Do it. Do it. Do it.
Do. It.
Scream.
“Go. Away.” I grit my teeth.
I’m not sure who I am asking to go away right now, this voice in my head or the nurse. But I just want all of them to leave me alone.
“Willow, I’m asking you nicely. Get up and go to breakfast.” She raises a stern eyebrow.
“And I’m telling you I don’t wanna get up. Why’s that so hard to understand?” I jerk the blanket out of her grip and cover myself again.
“Willow, don’t make me call the techs. I don’t want to do it.”
“Fucking call them.” I close my eyes and a breath escapes me when I hear her retreating. It hurts my lungs and I curl up in a ball.
Maybe she’ll really bring in techs, security even. And maybe they’ll bring a needle. Maybe they’ll stick me with it, if I become difficult.
None of that’s scaring me. It should; I hate needles. But then, I see him behind my closed eyes.
Dr. Blackwood. The hero.
Maybe he’ll come and save me. Like he saved Annie. Yeah, I want him to save me. Just for today.
Please, God. Let him come save me.
I can hear the crowd gathering around my room. Murmurs and voices and footsteps. It’s agitating me further. I feel like they are laughing at me, pointing fingers. Don’t they get it?
I need to be left alone.
“Willow,” Renn calls; she must be in the hallway. “What’s going on? You okay?”
I hear Penny’s voice too, asking what’s going on. Even Violet’s talking in louder tones. If this were any other day, I would’ve talked to them or smiled.
I can’t move a muscle today.
Then I hear another set of footsteps and a voice that, despite everything, manages to make it through to me. “Willow.”
Dr. Blackwood.
He’s here, in my room.
Finally I lower the blanket, but only down to my nose, and take a peek at him.
He’s on the threshold, filling the doorway with his massive shoulders, his wingtips half in and half out, staring down at me with a big frown.
Is he here because of the commotion? Or does he really want to see if I’m okay?
“What’s going on?”
The nurse fills him in, but he doesn’t move his eyes from me, nor I from him. The more I stare at him, the more I want him to come to me and the more I want to cry.
No idea why I want to do the latter. But I feel like I can.
I can cry in front of him and he’ll lend me his broad chest, so I can rest my head on it. He’ll even let me soak his shirt with my salty tears.
He enters the room, and comes to stand by my bed, towering over me, like he did the very first time I saw him. Shifting the air, making space for himself.
“Get up,” he orders.
His voice makes me lose the battle with my tears and they well up in my eyes. “Please make them go away,” I whisper thickly.
Again, I’m not sure if I’m talking about the people crowding the hallway or these shadows and thoughts inside my head.
He watches me for a few seconds, roaming
his eyes all over my face, with a tic in his jaw. Then he twists his torso to look toward the door. “Can you clear out the hallway, please?” he says to someone behind him. “I’ve got this.”
Slowly, the noises and murmurs die down and the people are taken away. I close my eyes and a tear seeps out, getting into my loose hair.
When I open my grainy lids, Dr. Blackwood is facing me. His chest swells and falls inside the confines of his shirt. “Get up.”
I swallow. “Would it matter too much if I just stayed here for a little while?”
“Yes,” he clips. “Breakfast’s in about fifteen minutes and you need to be there for it.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“How does it work then?”
“There are rules, protocols. They need to be followed.”
I know about rules. I’ve followed them all my life. But then, what has that ever gotten me? This. This illness that never goes away.
Swallowing with difficulty, I take him in, his crisp pants and his polished shoes. I think of his charts. His pen, his glasses. The fact that he’s always working. The fact that he doesn’t have fun.
Lowering my blanket, I ask him, “Do you always follow the rules?”
He sighs. “Willow, get up.”
I would, if I could.
The thing is, I don’t think I can stand. And I’m not making this up. Sometimes my limbs don’t have the energy. I feel so exhausted and heavy that it seems like my legs won’t hold my weight. They shake, making me dizzy.
As always, I’ve tried to hide it, hide my episodes and bouts, as much as I can.
But in this moment when he’s here, I don’t want to.
I don’t want to hide from him.
Somehow, I move. I gather whatever energy I have in my body and raise my arm to him. Dr. Blackwood glances at it, then at me.
“Can you help me up?” I ask in a small voice.
Not in a million years would I have thought that I’d ask for help. I never have before. Not from anyone. Let alone a doctor. But he’s not a doctor, not to me.
And I don’t want to be a patient to him, either. I want to be more.
My breaths are choppy, and my hand starts to tremble with its own weight. Only then he comes to my rescue. He grabs hold of my wrist and pulls me up from the bed. Like I don’t weigh anything. Like all the heaviness is in my head.
Medicine Man Page 11