Waiting for Fitz

by Spencer Hyde

  “You still didn’t answer the first question, Doc. Is he okay?”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s resting. He’s back on his medication, and will likely be returning to us in a week or two. Not before then.”

  I was angry. That was far too long. I wanted to talk to Fitz.

  I wanted to tell him that every story worth its salt had some form of loss and guilt and regret. It’s how the characters react to that loss that speaks to their nature as a hero. Fitz acted like a hero. Sure, maybe it wasn’t conventional, but what on earth did convention have to do with meaning?

  I thought about the unanswered essay question on my desk: What are the characters waiting for, and why is it significant that it/he/she never shows up? I thought of Morris’s lesson plans and the plays I had marked up that were waiting for my return. I still didn’t have an answer for the absurd playwrights, but I knew how I’d respond to the hero’s journey question on the exam.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” I said. “Pretend like nothing happened? Return to group meetings and behavioral therapy with Ramirez and movies on Monday night?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, scribbling in his folder.

  “What does that mean? I mean, we all know doctors aren’t known for their abundant clarity, but that was especially vague, Doc.”

  Doc snatched up his phone and clicked a few buttons and then said, “Have her come in,” before settling back in his chair and adjusting his glasses. He folded his hands over his stomach and waited. The quiet in that moment was awkward and made me feel uneasy, so I picked up the stress ball and started gouging the eyes.

  Mom walked in, smiling that awkward smile of “Hey, I knew something earlier but didn’t think it was the right time to tell you.” You know the one.

  “Are we having a family therapy session?” I said.

  I wasn’t trying to be a smart aleck, though I’m sure it sounded that way.

  “No. Well, sort of,” said Doc.

  “Wow. So clear today, Doc. It’s like you’ve reached an entirely new level of profundity.”

  “Good word,” said Doc.

  “Thanks,” I said. I wished I was wearing my new grammar sweatshirt. “So what are we doing?”

  Mom sat down right as I asked Doc that question.

  “I’ve asked your mother here so we can discuss outpatient status,” said Doc.

  “Outpatient?” I repeated.

  “It means you get to come home, Addie,” said Mom.

  She was so happy that I didn’t want to break the spell.

  “What about the others?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

  “You’re all on separate paths, Addie,” said Doc. “You’re welcome to come back during visiting hours. Maybe we can set aside some time on a Sunday so you can talk with them about where you are at in your treatment. I think that could be inspiring.”

  “That would be nice,” said Mom.

  I bit my lower lip and took a deep breath. I could visit, sure, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to go back to the life I had left behind just months earlier.

  I stared at the stress ball and tapped my feet in unison and waited for Doc to start scribbling in his folder, but he didn’t. He just stared at me over the tops of those stupid horn-rimmed glasses and waited.

  “Outpatient?” I said again.

  “You’ll see me twice a week,” he said. “We’ll keep testing new medications. However, I don’t believe staying in the ward is going to change the treatment path. And frankly, I think the fewer distractions, the better. In fact, I recommend you two get away from Seattle for a few days, if you can. The space could do you some good, Addie, and could provide a respite from your rituals, if even for a short time. Again, it’s worth a try. And you’ll also have some distance from this situation, which is hypersensitive, as you know. I’m sure your obsessions are in hyperdrive at the moment.”

  “A lot of ‘hypers’ there, Doc,” I said, blinking in an alternating pattern with the shadows of the blinds hanging behind him. He was right. I was overdoing things, but I couldn’t help it. Not really. Not when every thought came back to Fitz. I knew he meant Fitz when he said “distractions.” He didn’t have to hide behind semantics. That was my job.

  I sat back and put my hand on Mom’s and realized that no matter what I said, I was going home. It would be nice to be home in my comfortable surroundings, but I was also afraid. If I left the ward, would I still be as focused on figuring myself out? Would I be eager to test myself, to grow and discover and learn? Possibly, but I knew it wouldn’t be in the same way. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.

  Mom helped me gather my things, and Martha made sure I left before Group Talk got out. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Tabor. I wasn’t too cut up about that, but it seemed like even those people I didn’t get along with held some place in my life. Like I was still trying to carve out little spaces for everybody to have a place in my heart. Maybe there wasn’t enough room.

  “Semester’s almost over,” said Mom. “But I talked with Principal Abner, and he said you can return to classes and work on the rest of your credits over the winter break, if you feel up to it.”

  “How many weeks until then?”

  “Only a few,” she said. “But like the doctor said, I don’t want you sitting around and stewing in your obsessive thoughts.” She put her finger on my forehead.

  “Gross.”

  “Gross? These are motherly hands,” she said, putting both her hands on my face and squeezing my cheeks, making me laugh.

  The parking garage was freezing. Outside was freezing. Winter had really arrived, and I was shivering by the time we got to the car.

  “No, I feel gross. I just want to shower and sleep in my own bed and not think about any of this. It’s too much.”

  “Then just relax and go to sleep, Addie,” she said as we stepped into the car and the engine turned in the quiet outside. The heater ticked in the cold, and warm air began to flow around my feet. I kicked my seat back, and we zoomed away from the hospital, from a small dot on the line of my life, a blip that maybe could grow to mean a lot more to me in the future. I wasn’t sure.

  We bumped our way over the freeway and dropped into the streets near Puget Sound. At a stop sign near our house, I saw this gorgeous yellow bird perched atop the thin, metal edge.

  “Do you think maybe we could take a short trip before I go back to school? Just you and me? Like Doc said?” I asked.

  Mom eased the car into our driveway. The old brick house looked so small and quaint set against the mansions on either side, but I liked our little alcove of peace and harmony.

  “Of course, honey,” she said. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  I started tapping on my knee, careful not to overdo it. I worried that if Mom saw that my OCD was still strong, she might call off the idea of a trip in favor of staying home and visiting Doc more often.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “I just know I want to go see this one bird I heard about.”

  “A bird?”

  “It’s called a Kirtland’s warbler. Supposed to be the prettiest bird out there.”

  Mom smiled and killed the ignition. The engine ticked in the garage as it cooled. I walked inside and dropped my things on the kitchen counter like I had ten thousand other times when returning from school or work. I walked through the study and ran my finger along all the spines of the books in their rows that spanned the wall. I thought of Leah and her whale book and her buzz cut and how, if she were here, she’d say it was time to enjoy the greener grass and eat it too. The thought made me smile.

  I returned to the kitchen and squatted down when I heard Duck’s toenails scraping against the wood floor as he tried to stay on his feet. He was so excited, and it made me smile. Duck almost knocked me over when he leapt up on
to me, slobbering on me and licking my face. It was odd, really, that I had to wash for almost everything, but Duck’s slobber never bothered me. Maybe because he’s family.

  I walked around the back of our house with Duck, throwing a small stick and bumping up against the pine trees to shake the snow from the limbs. I thought of the bristlecone pines I’d seen on Mount Washington and the way the branches turned in on themselves. In that moment, I knew how that felt. Shame wrapped its relentless fingers around my stomach and squeezed. How could I leave my friends in the ward like that and just move on with my life? How could I take Duck on a walk like my world hadn’t been completely tilted?

  Duck’s paws left divots in the snow where shadows began to pool. After we walked through the backyard for a while, we cut through our neighbors’ yards and came out two houses down. No fences—it was that kind of neighborhood. We walked back onto the street. The houses were close together, but the backyards of the cul-de-sac all lined the edge of the forest area, so we all had a lot of room behind the packed closeness up front. There were bright front doors, and Christmas lights were starting to dot the rain gutters. Everything felt so familiar.

  I stopped to count the lights on three different strands on three different houses before returning home. Back inside, I built a fire in the fireplace and let Duck rest on my lap as the wood hissed and popped. Mom was baking something in the kitchen and kept yelling something about proving time and proper lamination of dough like she was on The Great British Baking Show.

  It felt like I’d simply stepped outside of myself for a moment, only to return home filled with new ideas and hopes and eager to find out more about who I was and what I was becoming. I wanted to read and stare into that fire and forget all the memories I kept stored, the memories I revisited from the hospital, the memories and obsessions I revisited all too often when I was alone. I needed a distraction, as they say. They say a lot, don’t they?

  I fell asleep near the fire with Duck, and when I woke up, I took a long shower and then got on my computer and started researching the nesting grounds of the Kirtland’s warbler. If I couldn’t be in the ward with my friends—with Fitz—I’d have to find a different way to connect. I remembered Fitz mentioning Michigan, which helped. I figured Mom would be okay with something in the country. It didn’t hurt to look, anyway.

  The wind pushed against the tall trees outside my bedroom. Gray clouds swirled above, and a light shivering snow attempted to stick on the concrete near the street. More flakes began to amass and descend in bunches. Snow was upon us again.

  I read more about the birds, and I found out where they lived and when we could see them. The birds were only in Michigan from May to July before they migrated elsewhere. So I researched where they went after that, and my heart sank. It was impossible. Mom would never go for it. Michigan was asking a lot, but a trip to the birds’ winter habitat would require a bit of pathos, a bit of pathetic appeal, a bit of magic, plus a mask I rarely put on. Hint: begging.

  I stepped outside again because I worried that if I stayed in my room I might get stuck in a whirlpool of rituals and lose the courage I needed to talk to Mom about what I wanted to do. This time I went without Duck, and I stood against the brick wall of the house and watched the snow fall and the trees sway and felt the quiet settle around me. I looked at the slush at my feet and saw separation in the water, like oil trying to mix with the snowmelt. I leaned my head back until my nose touched the fur-lined edge of my puffy jacket hood and watched my breath plume above me in rings.

  I thought of Fitz and the hospital and Leah again. I wondered if she was doing all right. I hoped Didi was telling her more of his detailed, believable conquests. And Junior’s presence was large enough to cast away fear at times, so I pictured him standing tall next to her.

  I watched the snow stick to my jacket and blew at the flakes on my shoulder. They didn’t budge. I breathed warm air into my hands and thought about how to phrase the question to Mom before walking back inside and being encircled again by warmth.

  Mom was reading in the living room with the fire still going, the dry-crack of winter splitting each log. It looked cozy. I wanted to run back upstairs, grab my plays for Morris’s class, and crawl under Mom’s blanket with her to read by the fire. But I didn’t do that. I also wanted to run to the kitchen and wash my hands, but I didn’t do that either. This was more important.

  “I know where I want to go,” I said.

  “Shoot,” she said, resting her book on her lap and removing her glasses.

  Maybe it was the reflection of the firelight, or because she wasn’t wearing any makeup, or because I’d just put her through quite a lot, but she looked so old in that moment, like the years were sticking.

  “The Bahamas,” I said, smiling broadly.

  She tilted her head back and laughed. “Oh, Addie,” she said, resting her head against one hand, glancing my way, “Addie, Addie, Addie.”

  I hated when she did that, the whole repeat-my-name thing. It usually came before a “no,” so I braced myself for a letdown. It was a reasonable answer, though, so I couldn’t get mad at her for that.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Well, Doc did say we should leave the city and visit an island nation or a coral-based archipelago somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean with a population of around four hundred thousand and an annual gross domestic product of somewhere near nine billion dollars.”

  She laughed again. “Been doing a little research, dear?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  Mom stared into the fire for what seemed like five whole minutes. I heard Duck in the kitchen sigh before repositioning himself on his dog bed, then he started to snore.

  “Well . . .”

  I gave her an expectant look, both of our faces set aglow by the flames. “Yeah?”

  “If you want to use your senior trip on this, I guess that’s okay,” she said.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, smiling broadly. “Maybe he did mention a coral-based archipelago and I just missed it or something.”

  I about lost it. I ran and hugged her and then started off to my room, but returned quickly to hug her again and then ran outside, which had worked before as a substitute for my rituals, and then hurried back to the fire again and hugged her one more time. I was breathing heavy and wet from running through the snow without a jacket, but I felt wonderful.

  “I’ll start looking for tickets,” I said, smiling so big that I felt it in my toes. Mom wouldn’t stop looking at me.

  “I’ll need some time, please,” she said. “I’ll have to work some things out.” She stared at me with an unfamiliar look.

  “What? Quit looking at me like that,” I said.

  “You’re so beautiful, Addie.”

  “Ugh. Stop. You’re beautiful too. Whatever.”

  Twelve

  For the entire next week I lived my life in story and language. I lost myself in words, in the paths carved by language, in the abrupt turn of the L, the wandering track of the S, in the way the sounds of the sentences built bridges over my obsessions into a world where I only heard characters speaking instead of my own thoughts. Anything to keep me from thinking of my friends in the ward and the fact that I wasn’t with them.

  Doc was not allowing me any contact—trust me, I’d called his secretary, like, a hundred times a day until Doc and Mom had a private chat, and then Mom told me I had to leave it alone for a while.

  So I went back to story, waiting for Mom to give the all-clear on our trip, and read about elephant graveyards. The legend is that older elephants wander off from a group because they know they’re going to die. The truth is that when elephants die, the other elephants wait around and pick up their friend’s bones and walk around with them for a while before moving on.

  That made me think of the whale bones on th
e island, of lying with Fitz in the heart of the skeleton as we stared into the sky. I couldn’t escape those memories. Nor did I want to. Just one whale rib bone was longer than my body and Fitz’s body end to end.

  Mom peeked her head around the doorframe of my bedroom. “I found a buyer. Come on.”

  I set down the play I was reading—The Real Thing—and stood up. “What?”

  “Let’s go,” Mom said.

  I hurried down the stairs past Duck, and as I hit the last step, I realized it was the fastest I’d descended the stairs in years. I was too caught up in the moment to celebrate, but I definitely took note. Duck was asleep at the bottom like one of those Pompeii figures frozen beneath glass in a state of suspension like, forever.

  In minutes, Mom and I were circling parking spaces near Puget Sound, the sky a wash of gray.

  “Did you know it takes, like, eight seconds for water to hit us after it drops from the clouds?”

  “Not long enough,” she said. “What about snow?”

  “Jury’s still out.”

  “So you don’t know.”

  “Whatever. Where are we going?”

  “To pay for the Bahamas,” she said.

  “Did you sell me to a seedy gang of Canadian traffickers? Mounties with malice?”

  “It would make the trip to the beach a little quieter. I doubt they’d take you, though. Too smug.”

  “What about my passport?”

  “Still good from when we went to Italy a few years ago.”

  Mom had taken her students on a study abroad to Florence when I was thirteen years old. I’d loved that trip because I’d gotten to see my mother in her element—animated, teaching students, soaking in the history of the place, of the people. I still remember seeing Michelangelo’s David and wondering how he’d seen such perfection in a block of marble. How he’d chipped away the rough edges; the truth laid bare.

  “What about your job?”

  “I had some time off saved up. And Principal Abner understands.”

  It started to snow softly as we stepped out of the car and walked up a side hill right near a small inlet where a gorgeous heron sat on a rotting piling beyond some old stone crumbling into the water. The heron took off as we turned, and we watched it fly away until Mom nudged my elbow.