Red streaks past and I doze off watching for her to pass again. I wake to the now familiar click and buzz of the ward door opening. The weight of my book is a comfort. Red rocks on her bed. The poor girl watched her mother being cut out of the car wreck. What would that do to someone like me? Having to relive it in my mind like she does. Spontaneous combustion. Baked like that witch tried to do to Hansel and Gretel. Their stepmother hadn’t wanted them either.
Nurse Stenson steps to the door. Her lips are drawn back as if perpetually smiling. Her twisted teeth glint in the institutional lighting. A glow touches her cheeks. I’ve never heard of a witch blushing.
“Your father’s waiting,” Stenson says to Red.
Red nods to herself, rubs her legs and hops up. She meets him at the bedroom door.
Her father has the sort of square jaw that women seem to like. A cashmere sweater with a neat V-neck stretches at his shoulders. His Adam’s apple juts; his body moves with lean muscle, and his smile is bright and welcoming.
“Honey,” he says and enfolds Red in his arms. Red stiffens in the hug, but he rubs his hand up and down her spine. Up and down. Up. And. Down. “I missed you.”
He steps back a little and, gripping her shoulders, stares at her with clear blue eyes. “You look better,” he says, but she doesn’t; she looks like a wreck. Even I can tell she’s lost weight and hasn’t slept since I arrived, not unless you call a constant nightmare sleep. “Which interview room would you like, one or two?”
As if that’s even a choice.
“Here,” she says. “Can we stay here?” She shifts so that she’s leaning back into our room.
“That’s not fair to the other patients who need their rest,” he says. “One or two.” She goes to speak again and he cuts her off. “One or two. I’d like to talk to you in private.”
And then she’s gone, sucked through the door into one or two. Something’s wrong here. I feel it in my marrow, but nausea crests into my throat. I cough spittle into a bucket at my side.
Laughter erupts from group in the rec room, and I wonder what they’re cackling about. I must have appeared crazed last night. I wonder if Pig’s angry because I didn’t show to breakfast so she couldn’t eat my leftovers. Sleeping Beauty draws deep breaths. Maybe it’s me, but her breathing seems easier than it has been, but that’s probably because they backed off her chemo.
A knock comes at the door.
“Milly, do you feel up to meeting Wolfgang?” Doctor Balder asks, now in full wizard regalia. A blue, sparkly hat boasts matching stars with those on his coat, which is cinched with a blue silk sash.
“Wolfgang’s OCD also gets him to do a number of things, and I think it would help if you both shared your experiences with one another.”
. . . “What about the panic attack?” I ask. My hands begin to wring each other out. “Will it happen again?”
“Well, I suspect this isn’t your first episode, Milly. Do you recall what you told me about the day you fainted in gym class?” I shake my head. “The day you fainted, you said you were anxious about having to navigate doors and lines on the gym floor.”
He’s right.
. . . “I had a panic attack, didn’t I? Oh my god, what am I going to do?”
“Losing consciousness during an attack is very uncommon and I think your lack of nutrition played a role. I also think when you first arrived here, you had something of a panic attack.”
. . . “Then what about last night? I’m eating well, and I almost died!”
He presses his lips together before responding. “I am of two minds on that. One is that the attack was due to a very powerful trigger. A trigger we’ll try to ensure doesn’t happen again. Secondly, you should put it into perspective. Panic attacks are really common in anxiety disorders. What you need to know about them is that despite how they may feel, they will not hurt you and they will pass within a few minutes. I assure you that you did not almost die, even if you felt that way.”
The certainty in his voice makes me wish I believed him. . . . “Okay,” I say, but I’m quaking. I don’t want to continue this treatment if I have to feel this way every day. It’s time to face the wolf, but I also know what I am to him. I’m the lame deer at the back of the herd. Diseased, weakened, young, and easy prey.
I hop through the door, and flush for still having to hop. I follow Doctor Balder down the hall where he opens the door to the acute room and steps through.
“Wolfgang,” he says. “This is the girl I was telling you about: Milly.”
“Where is she?” The voice is brittle and under tight control. “Doesn’t she know how little time I have left?” he asks.
“We’ve found nothing wrong with you,” Doctor Balder says. “You’ve many decades left. More than enough time for Milly to talk to you.”
Having finished my count, I step to the threshold of the room but don’t enter. I was counting to speak.
“Hi.” I’m about to say more and am left staring and glad I hadn’t hopped inside. Wolfgang’s room is white and he is white. Well, not his skin. That’s dark brown and burnished in places to a painful-looking red, but he’s draped in a white poncho and wearing white shoes. He’s no longer unshaven, and his eyes, far from being dead, now twitch with life. A white turban still wraps his head.
“I’m filthy,” he says.
He’s not what I expected.
. . . “Let me guess, you think you’re dying and are compulsively clean,” I say and it sounds rude, but it’s not meant to be, we both know why we’re here. For me, though, what’s more important is that Pig was lying. Wolfgang’s as much of a wolf as I am. This isn’t the wolf. Not the one from my nightmares. And it’s a new ring to clutch. If my fears were unfounded here, then maybe none of them are real.
Wolfgang touches his neck.
“You’re a counter, that it?” he asks. “Count before you speak?”
And we start talking, and as we do, I understand why Balder brought me here. We trade our obsessions like two kids trading hockey cards.
“I touch my neck a lot, I feel things crawling there.” Wolfgang holds his hand away and then it starts to shake before he itches at a particularly red spot, the relief obvious.
. . . “Don’t worry,” I say. “I have this hop that I do when I go through doors.”
He smiles at that. “You actually hop? Like a bunny or a kangaroo?”
Outside the door I do a little jump to show him, and he laughs.
“Okay, so the one I get teased about the most is round objects,” he says. “They terrify me.”
I stare at him, confused.
“Balls. Oranges. Wheels,” he explains.
. . . “Whoa—that’s pretty random. But it’s just your OCD, right? All in your head.” I can say this because the counting might seem just as stupid to him, something I do in order to manage my anxiety instead of facing the anxiety itself. If I’d waited longer before getting treatment, I might have grown as bad as Wolfgang—frozen by anxiety.
“So they tell me.”
. . . “I’ve started counting to go to sleep and count a sort of prayer to each person in my life, so that they’ll stay safe too.”
“Sounds to me like a good reason not to get to know too many people. I don’t like the sort that tries to touch me.”
What’s weird is that I understand what he’s saying about touching—he’s worried about germs—but my first impression was that he’s talking about abuse. And with that thought, I suddenly know what’s happening with Red. I suspect why no one’s figured out how to help her. Her PTSD isn’t about her car accident at all.
In the ten minutes I’ve been here, standing on the opposite side of the door as if Wolfgang’s in a clean room, he’s checked his pulse eighteen times.
“What do you think of Wolfgang’s compulsions?” Doctor Balder asks me.
. . . “Pretty crazy.” I chuckle. “I don’t see how round objects can hurt anyone and he’s not dying.”
“Do you think
Wolfgang’s obsessions are a part of him or are they a part of his OCD?”
. . . “Well, OCD, right?”
“It’s not a test, Milly. But I agree with you. His obsessions are just that, something to be dealt with. Nothing to be anxious about, just exposed for what they are. He’s not dying, nor are you causing anyone else to die when you don’t count.”
I nod. No wolf.
. . . “But . . . how do you fight it?”
“When Wolfgang first arrived, he was paralyzed by his compulsions into total inaction. He’s had ECT, combined with drugs and now psychotherapy. After his medications took effect, he improved rapidly but has a long way to go. Now he’s doing what you’re doing. Exposing himself to his compulsions with the goal of reducing anxiety.”
“You’re part of my therapy,” Wolfgang says. “Your breath has a lot of germs. And you carry a lot of disease.”
. . . “Not to mention my round head,” I say with a smile, which he returns.
“Thank you, Wolfgang,” Doctor Balder says, and Wolfgang runs to his sink where he dips a brush into the tap water and begins scrubbing his forearms raw.
“Green tab, Milly, for our next meeting,” Balder says and signals that he’ll be staying with Wolfgang.
The door closes in my face with a click.
At the end of the hall, Red’s being hugged goodbye by her father. He’s crying, saying how much he misses her and that he’ll see her soon. She’s crying too, but I’m pretty sure it’s for very different reasons. Some wolves are all too real.
Chapter 22
On the thought board, I write: Who’s your wolf?
Milly: ???
Wesley: Parents
Pig: Mother
Peter: Fairies/Witch
Vanet: ??
Red: Father
It’s afternoon, before group. I left lunch early, compelled to write this on the thought board. Maybe someone knows who my secret wolf is. But what’s important is that I know Red’s.
Her PTSD isn’t just the car crash. It’s also about her father. A father who wants to take her home this evening.
A few other notes are on the board. I’m going to miss Red. And: In the land of the crazies, we are all sane. Vanet wrote that last bit. It goes without saying that the inverse is true.
Stenson’s taking group today, and I’m happy about that. Tink couldn’t handle me as the hunter. I can change Red’s story if I can arrive before her wolf. Rottengoth wanders in first. I wonder why he’s still here. Well, I know he was depressed, but he seems okay. But here is the land of crazies. It’s weird that we feel better amongst other sick people. It’s a strange little community. And the thought reminds me how far I’ve come. That I realize I’m sick. Maybe that means I can get better.
I’ve always known my counting didn’t make sense, not really, but it’s easier than dealing with the anxiety and it wasn’t a problem, because everyone adapted their lives around me. I have to start working through it. Today, I will stop the hop. If that works, maybe I’ll try counting by twos or fives or even tens.
The wood looms darkly. One step at a time.
I sit in a chair. Pig walks into the rec room, rubbing her stomach. She’s been almost as twitchy as Red as of late, but she’s always more relaxed with a full belly. At lunch, I chugged the can of Ensure they gave me and then let Pig go to town on my sandwich.
Vanet’s next, followed by Peter, as bouncy and happy as ever. Red arrives, scratching her arms like a crack addict. Stenson drags Rottengoth into the room, pauses when she reads what’s written on the thought board, and then sits.
“Welcome to group, everyone.” She smiles, carrying a small plastic pumpkin with candies. “Today is a special day where one of us moves on. I’d like that to be our theme this afternoon. The unit offers support from staff and patients, but outside we need to depend on others and ourselves. How can we cope with challenges after we leave?” She holds up a tiny Mars bar as a reward.
I’m disappointed. I want to talk about wolves.
. . . “How do you know you’re ready?” I ask. “I mean, Red doesn’t look ready. Are you ready?”
Stenson holds up her hand to Red. “That’s a very complex discussion, Milly, and is really one best had between doctor, guardian, and patient. There’s always a lot of work to be done after you leave. For everyone.”
This isn’t good enough. I need an axe to cut Red out of her wolf.
Forty-two . . .
“How can we cope outside of the hospital?” Stenson asks again.
“Think happy thoughts,” Vanet replies, and everyone but Red and me giggles.
“We can try to stay positive, yes, I think that’s very important,” Stenson says, tossing him the chocolate bar. “Wesley?”
“I can take my meds. Find better parents, I guess.” Rottengoth sounds doubtful, but a Kit-Kat lands in his lap.
“Great, it is important that we stay on our medications and continue the exercises Doctor Balder has prescribed.”
“Can I give group a miss?” Red blurts. “I’m leaving and everything.”
Stenson shakes her head. “All the more reason for you to stay.”
. . . “What do you mean, find better parents, Wes?” I ask.
He flushes and his head hangs impossibly lower. “I dunno. I don’t think social services will find anyone.”
“There are some wonderful group homes,” Stenson says.
Pig laughs at that. “Sure, if you like brothers who’ll steal your stuff and house mothers who just want you to stay quiet.”
. . . “I don’t understand, aren’t you going home to your parents?” I ask.
Red’s legs gallop. “Group is like picking at scabs.”
“My parents are separated and neither wants custody of me,” Rottengoth says. “They are fighting over who gets my brother, but neither will take me. That’s why I’m still here.”
. . . “Oh, sorry,” I say.
Stenson brings our attention back: “I see that someone has written on the thought board, Who is your wolf . . . that’s an interesting thought. Can anyone tell me what might be wrong with the question?”
This is it. I watch Red. Her eyes go round as she reads the board.
“Red’s wolf isn’t her dad, it’s the car accident,” Vanet says and then jabs a thumb into his chest. “I know my wolf. Me.”
Stenson smiles. “You’re right, Vanet. The reason why patients arrive here is more often a what rather than a who. Yes, experiences like a car accident can be the root of some problems, but the illness is yours alone. It’s internal, and something that can be treated.”
“If Milly does have a wolf, it’s her stepmother,” Rottengoth says. “That’s easy.”
I flush and heat washes over me. Red’s leaving in an hour or two—I need to bring to light what I think is really happening to her.
. . . “Was it the accident?” I ask. “I mean for Red, is the wolf the accident? I know that’s what put her here, but what keeps her here?”
Red’s eyes shine with hate and I falter. It’s not what I expected from her, but it confirms my suspicions. I need to say this, or I’ll forever regret it. It would be like letting Peter climb on to the roof all over again. I need to finish my count.
“Don’t you dare,” Red says.
But no one else talks over me. They’re all respecting the count.
. . . “Why were—”
“No, Milly,” Red interrupts.
It’s just my OCD.
I blow past it, I have to, despite the grimy roots looping to tug at my intestines. Despite the gnarled trunks that rear up over the path, I say without counting, “Why were you in the car, Red? Where were you going with your mom?”
Panic gushes in me, the stomach clenching, then my heart and throat. I grip the edges of the chair seat and haul upward as if I might otherwise be pulled from it.
Red glances to Stenson, who is suddenly pensive and then says, “Maybe this is another discussion best had outside of group.�
�
No one seems to have noticed that I’m exploding.
“Oh my god,” Vanet says. “I get it. I think I know.”
Red moans.
“Know what?” Pig asks. “If I had hair, I’d be pulling it.”
“Her dad’s boning her,” he says.
“Vanet!” Stenson shouts.
Red crumples to the floor into a crimson ball.
I gasp for air, but everyone is watching Red.
Red sobs, then again, a deep braying sound that rounds her back. Stenson rubs her spine. She gives us the go-away look, but no one moves. Red’s talking.
Red’s words are garbled, but I understand them.
“He’s not . . . boning me . . . but . . . .”
She makes these staccato whines as if fighting for breath. When she settles, she looks to Stenson, who nods. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Red swallows. “I never know if he’s going to be nice or not . . . you know? Sometimes he’d come home with flowers and chocolates and movies and we’d snuggle on the couch, all of us, my mom, my dad, me.” Then her voice lowers weirdly. “Other times he’d slam the door and start punching. I’d hide.” She sobs for another minute and no one says a word. “The day of the accident, my mom didn’t wait for him to come home to see who would come through the door. She packed the car and we left. She was so brave. We had nothing. Then the truck hit us. We were escaping. We were finally breaking free of him. My dad’s been nice ever since. So, good-dad. But I know . . . I miss her.”
The last ripple of anxiety passes through me, and I release my chair seat. A tear tracks down my cheek. I did it. I didn’t die.
“It’s okay,” Stenson says, rising up over Red as if she’s a wolf protecting her cub. “It’s okay. You’re not going anywhere.”
When Red looks back at me again, the hate’s gone, replaced by agony.
Counting Wolves Page 14
