Good for Nothing

by Brandon Graham

  Then, because he was deemed a threat to himself, his wrists and ankles were strapped to bedrails and he was kept under observation overnight and into the next morning. The doctor took his sweet time getting there for the mandatory psychological assessment.

  “Your last twenty hours or so have been rather eventful,” the doctor had said as he looked through Flip’s chart.

  “Yes,” Flip replied. The doctor didn’t introduce himself or shake Flip’s hand. Flip chose to feel insulted. Plus, the doctor was fit, youngish, and fashionably unshaven. This pissed Flip off.

  “So, let’s talk about what happened,” the doctor said. Then he stood patiently. Flip thought of waiting him out, but realized it would only prolong his stay. So he spoke up, with feigned earnestness.

  “Yesterday, I woke up with a headache and took some medicine. Then I had a couple of drinks. I guess there was a bad reaction. That’s all, just a flukey thing. I won’t do that again, I can tell you.” Flip tried to gesture; his wrists tugged against the straps, the metal buckle tapped against the bed rails.

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” said the doctor. He made some notes, dropped a fancy pen in the pocket of his casually rumpled lab coat, and tucked the clipboard under one arm. “Listen. I need to ask you some questions,” he said as he started unstrapping Flip’s left wrist. “I just want you to be honest with me. Then we can see about getting you out of here.” The doctor circled around the foot of Flip’s hospital bed and unstrapped the right side restraint. Once Flip’s hands were loose the doctor reached over and pumped Flip’s hand once, hard and firm. Flip missed the doctor’s grip and ended up getting his fingers squeezed. “I’m Dr. Hawkins. Good to meet you.”

  “Doc. I appreciate your concern. But I’m super good. This is embarrassing. And I’m tired and hungry. Also my side itches ’cause I scraped it up, my foot is bruised, my palm itches, and my ass is raw from the concoction they poured down me. I need to get home. I want a shower and a change of clothes. So if you could just, you know, hurry the hell up. Not to be rude, but I’ve been waiting here, tied up like a criminal, forever. I think those straps gave me a rash,” he said, rubbing his wrists. Flip had more to say and Dr. Hawkins just let him talk himself out. “I would like to get home, be with my family. I don’t feel right here, with all these bright lights and strangers. I need my wife and kids with me. I need to be home,” he said finally.

  “As I said, Mr. Mellis, you need to answer my questions. You need to be frank and honest and thorough. After that we can talk about going home.” Dr. Hawkins pinned Flip with his disarmingly clear blue eyes. Then he said, “If it helps, I just spoke to Lynn in the waiting room.” He called her Lynn as if they were old friends. “She has a suitcase for you. She says the kids are with her mother. It’s fortunate your mother-in-law is around to help—a stroke of good fortune, don’t you think? Everyone is fine. Lynn can come see you as soon as we are done here.” When he finished speaking, the doctor scuffed his chin and looked thoughtfully at Flip’s chart again. He unpocketed his pen and jotted down a quick note. Then he said, “Mr. Mellis. I need to understand how you ended up trying to hang yourself.”

  Flip stared at the doctor. “Fuck you. Fuck you very much for all your concern. This is America. I have my rights. I am an American. So take your list of questions, ball it up real tight, and then ram it up your nosey, fresh-out-of-the-fraternity, blue-blood, silver-spoon ass.” Flip was disappointed his insult had spun out of control. But still, he was proud of the effort. That would make the jerk back the fuck up.

  But, instead of backing up, the doctor leaned in close and said, “I don’t think you understand your situation. You are under my care. If I think you are likely to attempt suicide again, then I will have you committed to an institution.” His breath smelled delightful. Fucker. “If you are confrontational, I will keep you here for another twenty-four hours. If you just piss me off, I might have you sedated.” He smiled a tiny, mirthless grin that showed his pointed canines. “The way you just abruptly changed your demeanor from pleasant and persuasive to aggressive and abrasive could be characterized as a violent and erratic mood swing.” The doctor just let that hang there for a long moment. “Unless you want to start again,” he said.

  “Well that is some bullshit, because I’m fine. I am not a criminal. I have rights. I’m fine. I’m getting out of here and going home.” Flip heaved himself into a sitting position.

  Dr. Hawkins put his hand on Flip’s chest and pushed him back in the bed. “You’re wrong, Mr. Mellis. You may not be a criminal. But you have no rights. You gave up your rights when you stuck your head in that noose and tried to hang yourself. I will strap you down and leave you here until a space opens at a long-term mental health facility. Unless you think you can cooperate with me. Fully.” He paused to let that sink in. “I ask questions, you answer them. It takes as long as it takes. You cooperate and maybe you get to go home.” The doctor didn’t remove his hand from Flip’s chest. Flip tried to sit up again, but couldn’t budge. Clearly the doctor worked out. Then he said, “Now. Do you understand the situation?”

  Flip longed to mouth off some more. But he had finally replied, “Yes, sir,” very respectfully.

  That was nearly twenty-four hours ago. It had taken until this morning to get his discharge papers processed, which meant he had spent two nights away from home. Lynn had rushed him straight to this appointment after he had slipped into his new clothes.

  A door to the waiting room opens and Dr. Hawkins is standing there. “Hello,” he says. “Mr. Mellis,” he nods once to Flip. “And Ms. Mellis.” He nods again in Lynn’s direction. He doesn’t say Mrs. Mellis. He says Ms. Mellis. He gives her a slight smile. “Why don’t you come in and let’s get started.” He is dressed in slim slacks and a tailored sport coat all in soothing earth tones. His stubble is exactly the same length as it had been at the hospital. His hair is wavy and thick and slightly unkempt in a devil-may-care, rough-and-ready way that Flip pulled off once when he was twenty-two, but has never been able to replicate. Dr. Hawkins continues to hold the door. Lynn stands quickly from her pale yellow fiberglass chair, flashes her long legs as she crosses the room and passes by the doctor, closer than seems necessary. He smiles at her again and watches her after she passes.

  “You should have some Kleenex in this place,” Flip says. He wipes his drippy nose on his rashy wrist. Then he says, “Nice chairs,” and knocks shoulders with the doctor on the way through the door. He remembers too late that he bruises like a banana. I’ll be sore later. He notices, grudgingly, that the doctor still smells terrific. What a complete ass.

  Dr. Hawkins’ office looks like a page from a designer catalog. At the far end of the room there’s a big blond wood desk with chrome legs, Danish modern, flanked by many framed diplomas and tasteful black-and-white photos, displayed on a rich, warm, burnt-cinnamon accent wall that Flip is certain is meant to be both masculine and calming.

  There are matching bookcases thoughtfully decorated with a mix of scholarly texts, popular literature, stacks of magazines, and symmetrically arranged and color-coordinated art objects. They take their seats in surprisingly comfortable leather club chairs, placed in a circle and arranged equidistant. They are identical in size, but in three different colors, and with the seat cushions mixed up. Either the good doctor has too much time on his hands, has hired an interior decorator, or is gay. Flip’s wishful prediction: gay, with an interior designer boyfriend.

  Dr. Hawkins crosses his legs at the knee and bobs his long, zipper-booted foot casually. “So, I would like to do this in two parts. First, though, how are you feeling today, Mr. Mellis? Are you all set now, with your facial tissues?”

  “Great. I’m good,” Flip says. His ass barely fits between the arms of the chair, and he’s holding a square box of Kleenex on what remains of his lap. He straightens the tails of his Hawaiian shirt where they fall across the front of his pleated khaki shorts.

  “Well, good,” the doctor says. He nods thoughtfully
and makes notes in a black folder with his fancy pen. He shakes the expensive-looking watch on his wrist and checks it, then makes more notes. He looks at Lynn. “Is that true, Ms. Mellis? Is Flip feeling great?”

  “No,” she says. “He needs help. He won’t talk to me about what happened. We haven’t been talking for months. He is all bottled up, clenched tight, like a fist, emotionally speaking.” Lynn looks stiff, formal; she’s talking in her forced-calm voice.

  “Why are you asking her how I feel? I just told you I feel great. Know why? ’Cause I feel great, that’s why. I have had a good morning . . . ah . . .” Flip opens his mouth, closes his eyes, and sprays a fine mist of snot and saliva from his mouth and nose. The sound he makes is like a mighty battle yawp. He knocks the box of Kleenex into the center of their circle.

  “Sorry,” he says. “That one snuck up on me.” He stands, pushing hard on the arms of the chair to get himself up. The chair squeezes his hips for a moment, finally releasing him. He bends deep at the knees and scoops up the Kleenex.

  “I have allergies. I bet that happens a lot, you know, when you put your office above a flower shop.” Then he wedges his ass back in place and honks his nose more loudly than intended. The doctor and Lynn sit quietly, waiting for him to settle, as if he’s a toddler telling a joke with no punchline. “As I was saying, I have had a great morning,” Flip continues. “I’m feeling good. I think things are really turning around.” The doctor makes a note on his pad and underlines it, taps out an exclamation mark, nods as he does it. Flip pinches the damp Kleenex in his fingers, not sure where to put it.

  “Okay, Mr. Mellis. Let me get back to what I started to say a moment ago. I would like to do this in two parts. First, I want to talk with both of you. I want to be certain you and Ms. Mellis are practicing good communication strategies. I want to understand the conditions you will be returning to. Then, I will speak with you alone, Mr. Mellis.” He turns to Lynn. “Ms. Mellis?” he smiles encouragingly. “May I call you Lynn?”

  “Of course,” she says. She smiles shyly in return. Flip thinks she actually bats her eyes, but the fucking calming low light makes it hard to tell.

  “Hey,” he says. “Not to interrupt, but do you have someplace I can dispose of this?” He indicates the Kleenex with a twitch of his head and a presentational gesture.

  Dr. Hawkins waits for two deep breaths. “Are you sure you didn’t mean to interrupt, Mr. Mellis?” He says it as if the answer is clear to them all, then lifts a small chrome trashcan from beside his chair. Flip pitches the sodden mass at the can, misses by a foot, and stares at it, where it lies on the throw rug. “So close,” he says.

  The doctor stands gracefully and snatches a Kleenex from the box in Flip’s lap. He uses it to pick up the damp tissue, deposits it all in the can with a hollow thump, and returns to his chair completely composed, legs crossed gracefully at the knee, slacks still creased. The can disappears beside his chair, and the pad and pen appear in his lap.

  “Where were we, Lynn?” he says, turning to meet her gaze.

  “You just asked if you could call me Lynn,” she reminds him warmly. “And I said, ‘of course you can.’”

  “Oh yes. That’s right. Thank you. I remember now. So, when I ask you how Mr. Mellis is feeling, I’m interested in your impression, Lynn. Clearly you care for him. You know him well. Your observations and opinions could be valuable to me. Plus, Mr. Mellis,” he says to Flip. “Lynn needs the opportunity to be heard. You need to listen to how she feels about you trying to take your own life. In some ways the details are less important than how she feels about them. And besides, this incident didn’t take place in a vacuum. There were circumstances that contributed to your decision to end your life. I would like to hear your wife’s perspective. That way we can make the most informed decision possible about a course of treatment.”

  “It was just an accident,” Flip says. If he felt he could be honest with Lynn, if he thought it was any of the doc’s goddamn business, he might tell them he felt too embarrassed about the shape his life was in to continue being alive. Or that the world’s indifference to his constant emotional pain had overwhelmed him. But, looking at Lynn’s cold disposition and the doctor’s professional façade, he couldn’t muster the motivation required to be wholly honest. Instead he continued in the same vein.

  “And I know how she feels, as we are married with two children. Also, you may call me Flip, if you would like.”

  Lynn snorts. Flip gives her a look. Dr. Hawkins scratches on the pad with his pen. Lynn watches him write to avoid looking at Flip. Flip picks at the cellophane around the mouth of the Kleenex box. Lynn nervously turns one of her earrings as she waits. Flip rubs his red wrist, making it look angrier. There is a clock ticking somewhere on one of the bookcases and Flip tries to locate it. He can’t find it among the tasteful ceramic bowls, vaguely ethnic statuettes, and mismatched bookends. Finally Dr. Hawkins puts down his pen.

  “The point, Mr. Mellis, is for Lynn to talk to you about her feelings and concerns in a safe environment in which she feels supported and respected. Lynn, I know from our conversation at the hospital what happened. I wonder if you’ve told Mr. Mellis how you felt when you found him?”

  Lynn crosses her legs at the knee, in a mirror of the doctor’s pose, crosses her arms under her breasts and exhales heavily. “I was scared,” she says to Dr. Hawkins.

  Flip wonders why she wore such a low-cut top. He thinks it’s a new top. He knows he’s never seen her wear it. She is dressed up. She got dressed up.

  “Good, Lynn. Of course you were. But you need to tell Mr. Mellis. Not me. Turn and face him. Tell him how you feel.”

  She turns to Flip. Moisture wells in the corners of her eyes.

  “When I found you there, I was scared. Frantic.” The tears are coming now, but her face and voice are steady. “I saw the mess all over the kitchen. I knew something was wrong. I was getting angry, trying to keep the kids out of the paint and set down the bags and keep Mom from barging in, because I was afraid of what she might find. And then when I turned the corner . . .” Her voice breaks, then gets higher and louder as she continues. “I saw you there. With that belt around your neck. Twisting.” She has trouble catching her breath, her face slick with tears. She sobs silently, shudders, and holds her hands over her face.

  “Are you hearing this, Mr. Mellis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you offer your wife a Kleenex, Mr. Mellis?”

  Flip is offended that the doctor presumes to tell him what to do, knows he is right, and feels guilty he didn’t think of it himself. He twitches and drops the Kleenex again, then starts to extract himself from the chair, but the doctor is out of his chair and beside Lynn, offering the tissues, a comforting hand on her back, and speaking to her reassuringly before Flip has a chance to react.

  “Okay, Lynn. I know it’s been hard. I understand your concern for your children and your husband and your mother. All the emotions of thinking your husband might be dead. Finding out he tried to kill himself. You’ve had so much to deal with. You’ve been so strong. It’s okay to let it out now.” The doctor continues to rub Lynn’s back and speak soothingly as her breathing slows and her tears subside.

  “Yes,” Flip says. He moves to her other side and pats Lynn’s back too. “It’s okay,” he says. His hand touches the doctor’s, and they both jerk away.

  Lynn sits up a little and gives Flip a cold look through red, wet eyes. The doctor returns to his chair and writes some more. Flip stretches his hand toward Lynn, wiggles his fingers so she will take his hand. She looks away and straightens her clothes, fluffs her hair and gently dabs the corners of her eyes, runs the tips of her fingers under her eyes to check for mascara.

  “Lynn,” the doctor says. “Do you have anything you’d like to say to Flip?”

  “I would like to say something,” Flip says. He shoves back into his chair with a loud squelching sound. “It was the chair,” he explains.

  “Let’s
let Lynn finish, Mr. Mellis. You’ll have your chance in a moment. But your wife is making good progress here.”

  Flip nods. He looks back at Lynn, she’s so beautiful. This is the woman he married. He loves her so much. He wants to make things right for her, wants to get things back on track, to tell her right now. But he waits. He defers to the doctor’s professional opinion that she needs to talk.

  “Flip,” she says. She blots her eyes again and carefully wipes the tip of her nose. “I can’t deal with seeing you like this anymore. I can’t handle it. I can’t handle it and keep our family rolling. I just can’t handle it.”

  “I know, baby,” Flip says very supportively.

  “Shush,” she says. “Let me finish.” He nods again. She takes a deep breath. “I think you need to move out until you get your life together. I can’t take care of you, the house, and the kids. It’s too much. I think you need to move out.”

  “But,” Flip says. There’s a pressure in his chest like he’s swallowed a boiled egg without chewing. He feels panic rise, he can’t catch his breath, the top of his scalp is hot and tingly, and his face feels hot and flushed.

  “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I talked it over with the kids. They understand.” Lynn begins to cry again.

  “What? Can’t we talk about this? You already told the kids? I really think things are going to be better now. I really do.” He tries to stand but the chair still has him and he tumbles sideways onto the floor. His hips pop loose and he knee-walks toward her. “Don’t do this. Please. Not now. Please. Things are going to be better. I promise.”

  “I am not doing this by choice, Flip,” she cries. “It’s the only thing I can do. It’s all I know how to do. I don’t know what else I can do. Don’t put this on me. I’m out of choices. You left me no choice.”