Waiting for Fitz

by Spencer Hyde

  Martha walked back and knelt next to Fitz. “You gonna be okay, sweetie?”

  “Fine. Sorry, Martha,” he said. He stood and picked up the chair he’d kicked.

  “Don’t say sorry to me. I don’t understand this movie either. Sometimes hearing those Germans talk makes me want to kick a chair too,” she said. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m good. I’m good. Sorry for the outburst.”

  “Quit apologizing,” she said. “Just sit down and enjoy the movie, if you can. Maybe I’ll sneak you guys some candy next time. Shame we can’t eat more here. Stupid rules,” she said, turning to go back to her chair at the front of the room.

  Fitz sat down, and I could tell he was uncomfortable.

  “It’s whatever,” he said. “I mean . . .” He sighed and blew out a long breath in a way that seemed to calm him. “I mean, Toby tries to tell me lies about my past or lies about myself and who I am. And I don’t like it. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine. I thought you were supposed to joke with them,” I said, worried I was overstepping a bit too soon.

  “Toby’s a jerk. He likes to tell lies, and some of them are kind of funny, but ultimately they tick me off because I don’t want to think like that. You didn’t hear anybody make a joke, did you?”

  “Nope. I’ve never met a Toby I liked,” I said.

  Fitz’s smile told me he didn’t want to talk about Toby.

  “Who’s Quentin?” I said.

  “What?”

  “You apologized to Quentin after you got mad at Toby.”

  Fitz looked uneasy. “He’s just another voice.”

  I didn’t feel like he was telling the truth. I didn’t know of any country singers with the first or last name of Quentin.

  I turned back to the movie but pulled my hand back to my lap because I was feeling a bit uneasy. We let the movie fill the space between us. I was able to allow myself time away from my mind, time I could devote to getting lost in the movie. That rarely happened.

  As the movie neared its end, I rubbed my stomach and leaned forward. Doc had me on these new pills that were already making me sick, and only a few weeks in. Oh, and hungry. I’d already gained three pounds, at least. Doc wouldn’t weigh me or let me weigh myself, but I felt heavier, plumper, more bloated and large.

  Just because I had a good reason for my plumpness didn’t mean I was excited about it. Whatever. I wasn’t getting all that big, but I didn’t like that my body was hanging on to everything I ate.

  When the movie ended, Fitz leaned into me and whispered, “Not your typical movie, huh?”

  “Not even close,” I said.

  He waited a beat before speaking again. “So what masks are we wearing, Addie? Are we tragic characters or comic characters? What does our journey look like? Maybe you’re the protagonist, and I’m the anti-guy?”

  “You mean antagonist?”

  “Whatever,” he said. “What does our story look like? We’re all just acting, right?”

  “I don’t know where the line is anymore,” I said.

  “What line?”

  “Between the authentic me and the acting me. Maybe it doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s all acting. Maybe it’s just a successive line of masks that we put on and take off as we enter or exit the various stages of life—pun intended.”

  “Where do I fit in your story arc? Maybe you should just let me write it. I’m kind of an expert at anything I set my mind to,” said Fitz.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “But based on your arrogance, I’d say you’re exhibiting classic signs of the tragic character. It will be your downfall, you know? Aristotle made that pretty clear.”

  The credits rolled. Fitz looked like he had something else to say to me, but just then Martha ushered us out the door, each of us to our own room for the evening.

  I was overjoyed with the early bedtime because the pills I was on made me sleepy. I was gaining weight and needed more sleep. What a wonderful journey! Who doesn’t love gaining weight, and on hospital food to boot! Whatever. Laugh so you don’t cry—that was probably some stupid quote hanging somewhere in those halls, although it wasn’t all that inspirational.

  I stared up at the ceiling after turning out my light. Moonlight hit the wall by my bed with laddered light. I was lucky enough to have a small window in the corner of my room overlooking the city. Most rooms didn’t have any windows at all. But I wasn’t a risk for breaking it, I guess.

  I thought about Fitz and asked myself why I found him so intriguing, and why I’d even imagine that a relationship with him was possible. We were in a psychiatric ward of all places. And even if and when we did get out, how stable would that relationship be? I’d be dating numerous people at once. I liked a challenge, but that seemed a bit much. And who was I to claim stability? I could barely keep both eyes open or my thoughts focused on one thing for any extended period of time.

  My heart sped up, and I looked at my watch and spent the next hour counting the beats in sets of seven.

  I heard something scratch at the floor near my door and turned to see a small square of paper, folded into a tight block. I leapt from the bed and picked it up and opened it. I turned on my light, but immediately heard Martha shout “Lights out!” from down the hall and turned it back off, grimacing. What a stickler. Maybe she wasn’t my favorite.

  I knew it had to be from Fitz because, well, who else would write me a note and slide it under my door? I was friends with Didi, but not like that. Junior would’ve just punched a hole in my door and yelled whatever he was thinking. Leah was too shy for that kind of thing.

  Thinking about Leah made me sad. She was so little. Not like I was some retired sixty-year-old reminiscing about my many years of life, but there was something tender about having to deal with heavy stuff at Leah’s age. I mean, at what age do we really understand death? Does anybody? She had come so close to it that she probably knew more about it than I did, like her life was touching the truth because the exterior had been rubbed off by her closeness to whatever comes next. I couldn’t imagine diving that low and coming back to tell the story—like spelunking in a massive, sinuous cave only to return to the top with the news that things go much deeper than originally thought.

  I heard Martha in the hallway shuffling around on her rolling chair. Probably reading one of her romance novels, I thought. I stepped into the moonlight thrown from the small window and opened the note.

  All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Will you help me break out of this place, fellow player? Y/N

  —The Tragic Character

  I knew Fitz was joking about breaking out. I hoped he was. But quoting Mr. Shakes to me—that was a smart move. That was speaking my language.

  But the more I thought about it, the more it sounded kind of nice—maybe Fitz and I could walk to the Cinerama on Fourth Street and watch some old Kurosawa film or something and get sushi with my friends from high school, Emily and Paige, though I was sure they’d both already forgotten about me at that point.

  Friends are like that—out of sight, out of mind. Well, I still thought about them, but I was certain they weren’t worried about me. I mean, Mom hadn’t mentioned them asking about me or anything. I didn’t even have a freaking cell phone so I couldn’t keep up with anyone or anything. That first month, I found it super annoying, being phoneless and all. Maybe I would bring that up during Parent Visit weekend. I was without a mobile. I had no mobility.

  But I really had no reason to leave. I mean, Mom visited every week, and the doctors were trying to help me. Why would I want to leave? Maybe Fitz was tired of being confined in such a hopeless place for two years. I wasn’t sure. I guess if it came down to happiness then it made sense. I mean, if he wasn’t happy, there would be no point to anything. Life is about finding and keeping happiness. Or it should be. For some
reason, that made me think of Ulysses and his bag of winds and how, like, Fitz was maybe waiting on Aeolus, and the only wind not in the bag was the one that would carry him home.

  Anyway, it took me two more hours to fall asleep. I kept thinking what two years in this place would do to my mind, to my hope, to my own bag of winds. Maybe I’d be totally cured. Maybe I’d get worse. Maybe I’d end up questioning myself to the point I no longer recognized the stage or who my fellow actors were or what act we were performing or if the director was actually directing or quietly backing away to work on another, more important, project. Maybe I’d do anything to get out.

  I used the bathroom three more times, and then Martha wouldn’t allow me out anymore so I had to count my heartbeats for an entire hour. I also counted the number of times I cleared my throat and tapped my fingers on the cold rail of the bed frame. Despite the niggling urge to get more sevens and fewer threes, I eventually stopped.

  I imagined myself a great blue whale, but not because I was gaining weight—c’mon, that’s messed up. But as I counted and listened, I wondered if anybody could hear my heartbeat outside of my room, the valves opening and closing inside my chest like little doors of possibility.

  Four

  I saw the stack of new plays on Riddle’s desk and broke into a big smile. I think Doc thought it was for him. I didn’t mind though because Doc was a good guy, far as I could tell. I was excited at the prospect of new reading material, so I began blinking rapidly. I hated when the ticks manifested in Doc’s presence. But I couldn’t help it. And it’s not like I needed another reason for ticks. My mind had been racing since I woke because of Fitz’s note. I had it in the pocket of my sweatpants, and I kept turning it over in my palm. It was all sweaty and gross, and the edges were bending in on themselves, but I kept turning it and counting the turns.

  Was Doc aware I had the note? No. Nobody knew.

  “Seems like we’re having a good morning,” he said. “And it seems like our ticks are still present.”

  Doctors have this really annoying way of using the first-person plural, the royal we, making it sound like they are a part of the journey in the same way as every patient. It’s so bogus. They say things like, “How are we doing this week?” I hoped that annoying habit carried over into Doc’s life. Like, I hope he talked to his dog and was like, “We really do need a bath, don’t we?” or “Boy, we really made a mess on the lawn, didn’t we, little guy?”

  “That’s well put, Doc,” I said. “How are we doing with our ticks? We seem to be working on them, but we also seem to be gaining some weight because of our pills, don’t we?” I said, grabbing my stomach and slouching into the chair.

  I flashed Doc a sardonic half grin and then saw the smiley-faced stress ball on the desk near my knees. It was a good break from turning the note in my pocket. I wiped my sweaty palm on my sweatshirt before grabbing the stress ball. I started gouging the eyes, as usual, the squishy material molding around my fingers and slowly indenting and refilling as my fingers moved. I really wanted to wash my hands because of the note, but I convinced myself that I was transferring that bad energy to the stress ball, and it worked, at least for a while.

  Doc just looked at me over his horn-rimmed glasses. They must issue those at med school graduation to every person picking up a certificate. It was such a doctorish look. He even opened my file at the same time, not even needing to look down anymore. It’s like the papers were attached to his hands. He probably slept with his files near his bed, under his pillow, stacked and used as a bedside table. The files had become an extension of his body. Like, completely.

  In that moment, I imagined myself some kind of hero breaking out from the now-somewhat-familiar world of the hospital, grabbing a sword or something on the way out, and fighting the evil in my life that towered over me like some monster. I’d be a total badass and do it all on my own. Every good story needs adventure, right? And there has to be some sort of goal, something the main character wants. That’s what Dr. Morris’s lessons were saying, anyway. But what did I want? Maybe my dilemma was the fact that I had no idea what I wanted. I wasn’t sure how to resolve that kind of paradox.

  Anyway, I had finished Waiting for Godot, so getting new reading material was perfect timing. Parent Visit was also later that week, and I was pretty excited to see Mom. I had to have things to look forward to or else I got totally lost in the monotony of the psych ward. I thought of hurrying Doc along by ignoring his questions, but that never worked.

  So I relaxed into my chair and got ready for his annoying questions. He had good intentions, of course, but they were still annoying.

  “How would you say your obsessions have been this past week, Addie?”

  Doc awaited my answer with bated breath, pen in hand. I wondered again if he knew about the note. Maybe it was just a regular question that he honestly wanted to know the answer to, but that morning it felt directed at something specific. Whatever. I was paranoid.

  “Average,” I said. “But worse when I’m nervous or excited. So, pretty much the same, I guess. Well, I don’t have to wash my hands as often. Or maybe it’s because I have to ask permission to do it now. I don’t know, but I think it’s better. My morning rituals are significantly less, at least. I’m just playing it by air.”

  “By air?”

  “Just making sure you’re still listening, Doc,” I said, motioning at his files. “It’s like Pascal’s Wager.”

  “Go on.”

  “So this Pascal guy, this philosopher, says that if you believe in God and God exists, the result is goodness or heaven or whatever. If you believe and He doesn’t exist, no harm done. If you disbelieve and He doesn’t exist, again, it doesn’t matter. But if you don’t believe and God does exist, that’s bad news for you. We’re all just wagering on what to believe.”

  Doc was writing away, scribbling down everything I said. “And what does this wager have to do with you? What does it have to do with today?”

  “It has everything to do with me, Doc,” I said. “If it turns out that my rituals indeed do save my mother or Duck or even you from death, then it’s worth the time and pain and grueling slog, right? That’s how I wager. I’m a betting girl. I have to be.”

  Doc continued to write. I wondered how often he went back and read his notes, or if it was just to prove he was doing something in his office each day when his boss asked for proof he hadn’t just been playing Covert Warfare all day or something, the gaming console hidden under his desk and a headset stashed in a desk drawer next to the Cheetos and Mountain Dew.

  I bet Doc loved video games. I figured he was a deadeye with a steady hand. He certainly had the beard for it.

  I imagined him staying up late and playing online with Dr. Tabor and yelling into his headset stuff like, “Dang it, Tabor! I ran right over that stupid land mine you put down. Tell me where you place them so I don’t blow myself up every freaking time I respawn!” while brushing leftover Cheetos dust from his beard and Tabor responding, “Riddle, our lives are filled with those mines. You must always be looking for them. In the end, didn’t you do that to yourself? Was it really my fault? Or is it easier for you to pass the blame? Are you not just projecting onto me? And didn’t you want to respawn so you could try again, so you could start over and imagine the past never happened?” and then Riddle just losing it and throwing his controller into the screen. Tabor was such a snob.

  But back to reality.

  “Pascal was speaking of God, yes?”

  “Yes, but how can I know OCD from God if my mind is only aware of one set of rules?”

  “Exactly. Let’s change the terms you’ve set for yourself.”

  The rest of the visit went as I expected. Doc brought up the side effects of the medication I was taking, and then asked how I was feeling using one of those stupid charts with the smiley faces. I hate that crap. Can you really sum up your feelings using a cartoo
n image? Not a chance. What a joke.

  “And you’ve been getting along well with the others in the ward, it seems,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked up from the folder. I was worried he was asking about Fitz, and I put my hand back in my pocket and turned the evidence in my palm.

  “Just that. You haven’t complained about your fellow inpatients, so I’m assuming things are going well in that regard.”

  I nodded yes, and he looked back at the folder. I felt nervous, like, maybe I was giving something away I shouldn’t. Like, maybe I was letting on that I was liking them too much or whatever. I didn’t want to be the reason the plan fell apart, even though it wasn’t like there was even a plan yet and even if there was, I hadn’t agreed to help. I just had the note.

  That always happens in movies when the amateur tries to join the crew and show them what she’s made of, right? The rookie always outs the whole crew at the worst possible time because she can’t keep her emotions in check. Whatever. That wouldn’t be me. I was sure of it.

  Doc glanced at the clock on the wall behind me. “Well, I don’t want to keep you any longer. You have Group Talk with Dr. Tabor right after breakfast. Don’t be late—or at least don’t be too late. Make sure you get enough food. Remember, your mother will be visiting right after lunch. Have a great day, Addie. And keep betting on yourself. We’ll get this.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Are those books for me?”

  “Almost forgot. Sorry about that,” he said, spinning around in his ergonomically correct chair and snagging the stack. “Here’s the work from Dr. Morris,” he said, smiling in a doctorly way that felt fake even if he didn’t mean it that way.

  All for show. Just wearing the doctor mask.

  I was aware of Fitz’s note in my sweatpants as I stood to leave Doc’s office with my books in hand.

  I shuffled to another bland breakfast of oatmeal and yogurt and bran muffins. I ate it all because my appetite was monstrous. I was a monster.