by Clara Martin
“The doctor is here for you.” She motioned me down the hall.
I followed reluctantly. The nurse motioned me into the office where the doctor was waiting and shut the door behind me. I sat, smoothing my hospital gown.
“Good morning, Eileen,” the doctor said, adjusting her spectacles. She was an Indian woman, short, with wrinkled skin and short hair. “I’m Dr. Gupta. I’ve read your file,” she said noncommittally.
“I don’t need to be here.”
“I think you do,” she said. “Eileen, you’re schizophrenic, you’re off your medication, and your boyfriend –”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend, then, and his friends say you’ve been talking to thin air. They told me a little bit about what you went through in fae lands –”
I gaped at her. “You talked to them?”
She nodded. “Eileen, I’m an expert on schizophrenia. I don’t work at this hospital. Your…ex…boyfriend spent all night arranging for me to come here. I usually work in Washington, DC, at the VA.” She paused. “Anything you tell me is, of course, confidential. I won’t repeat it to him. But he is very, very invested in getting you well.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “I’m fine. They told me I’m fine –”
“Who told you you were fine, Eileen?” Dr. Gupta asked, leaning in.
“My friends. They came to me when Faolain had me imprisoned.” I shivered. “I thought he was going to rape me.”
“Eileen,” Dr. Gupta said gently, “I’d like to put you back on antipsychotics. You were already on Clozaril, correct?” I nodded. “I’ll put you back on that, then,” she murmured, turning to her computer, “and raise the dosage.” She typed something. “Now,” she added, “there’s an art therapy group in half an hour – why don’t you go to that?”
“Not interested,” I snapped, standing to leave.
“Eileen, you’re in the hospital anyway. You’ve been through a terribly traumatic time. You have nothing else to do. Why don’t you just go? What do you have to lose?”
I walked out of the office without answering, slamming the door behind me. Then Istomped down the hall to my room,lay down on my bed, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Eileen,” Emma said next to me, “you’re making a good decision. Don’t go to the art therapy group. You’ll just regret it.”
Joe appeared next to her. “Nothing good ever comes from trusting people,” he whispered.
“I know,” I whispered back. I turned on my side and curled up in a ball.
I lay there for a while, letting time pass. Eventually a nurse stuck her head in the room. “Art therapy time!” she said cheerfully. “Why don’t you come!”
“I don’t want to,” I said dully.
“It’ll be good for you.”
I sat up. “Who are you to say what’s good for me and what’s not?”
The nurse sighed. “You don’t have to do anything, but just come check it out.” She shrugged. “Or don’t. It’s your choice.” She left quietly.
I stared at the empty door. Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed and padded after her. She smiled as I joined her.
“I won’t do anything,” I said huffily.
“You won’t have to,” she assured me. “But doesn’t it feel good just to move?”
I sat, watching the art therapy class. The teacher, a tall, slender, blonde woman, moved gracefully among the other patients, pointing out details here and there. She stopped when she came to me. “Don’t you want to paint?” she asked me.
I shook my head.
“You can paint anything you want,” she said.
I frowned, my mind flashing back to Faolain’s face. “The only thing I want to paint, I want to destroy,” I said frankly.
The teacher smiled. “That’s perfectly fine”. She handed me a piece of paper and directed me to an empty spot. “You can rip it up afterwards,” she said cheerfully. I shook my head and picked up a paintbrush.
I painted for an hour, losing myself in the fine details of Faolain’s face. I painted my rage, my hate, my powerlessness. I painted my fear. When I was done, I sat there, panting. The teacher came over and scrutinized it.
“That’s very good,” she said. “You have a talent for painting. Have you studied art?”
“No,” I said quietly. “I took a few classes in college, but…I was always told it was a waste of time. The Army ROTC program I was in discouraged it.” I fingered the paintbrush thoughtfully.
“Well, your painting certainly doesn’t show that,” she said, patting my hand. “What will you do with it?”
I took the painting by the corners and deliberately ripped it in half. “Can I take it with me?” I asked. “I want to look at it again.”
“Of course,” the teacher said, smiling. “Quite a powerful work.”
I gave her a tiny smile in answer.
A nurse appeared at the door. “Eileen? Visiting hours just began. A man – a Charles Talbot – is here to visit you.” She paused. “Would you like to see him?”
“No. Never again,” I said shortly.
She nodded. “I’ll let him know.” She turned to walk away.
“Wait,” I said. I looked at the picture I’d just ripped up. “Yes,” I said slowly. Yes, I’ll see him. Once.”
The nurse smiled. She moved to one side, and I saw Charles standing there. He was smiling softly, and his eyes… I blinked. They couldn’t have been full of tears.
“Eileen,” he said softly. He moved forward and caught my hand in his.
“Charles,” I said coolly. I removed my hand. “I agreed to see you. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you.”
“No,” he said, his voice sad. “I’m just – Eileen, I’m glad to see you.”
“I’m glad to see you, too, Charles,” I said quietly. We stood there awkwardly for a few moments before he coughed.
“Maybe we should sit down,” he suggested.
“We can use the TV room.” I picked up my ripped picture and led the way, conscious of my hospital gown and the way his eyes lingered on it. “Sorry about the gown,” I snapped without looking at him. “I wasn’t given a lot of choice.”
“Eileen.” Charles sounded anguished. “I didn’t mean – Eileen, I’m sorry.”
I shook my head without saying anything. We reached the TV room and sat down. I smoothed the gown over my legs.
“So,” he said, sounding a little awkward, “how have you been?”
“Peachy,” I said drily. “How have you been?”
He ran his hand over his face. “Exhausted.” He leaned forward. “I’ve been reaching out to the NVRA. Catching up with them. Reaching out to Maria Santos – you know her – to update her with intelligence –“
“Who is Maria Santos?” I asked, frowning.
Charles laughed. “She’d kill me if I told you,” he murmured, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “But – and I will deny it if she asks – she might work for a highly secretive agency in the United States government.”
“I thought she worked for the police!”
“She does .” He smiled. “Officially.”
“Charles,” I said, slowly, “Who funds the NVRA?”
He laughed. “You’ve stumbled on our deep, dark secret. We are absolutely not a branch of the U.S. government.” He paused. “There’s a lot of pro-fae sentiment that floats around in certain branches. We’re far too controversial for it. But we are…affiliated.” He shrugged.
“Affiliated,” I repeated.
“Affiliated.” He smiled. “Comes in handy when we want to hire new people.” He winked at me. I didn’t smile back.
“Charles – I was fired.”
He grew serious. Reaching out, he took my hand. “Eileen, I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “I talked to Garrett and Anna. You were. They were going to give you the news in person when you got back –”
I pulled my hand from his and held it up. “That’s the second job I’ve been fired from,�
� I said with an unconvincing laugh. “Good Lord. I’m never going to find a job I can stick it out in.”
Charles took my hand again. “Eileen, you lost your job for doing the right thing. Or trying to. I’d disagree that it was the smart thing – you put yourself in considerable danger – but you were trying to save me and my team.” He took a deep breath. “That’s loyalty.”
I looked at him sharply. “Charles, don’t stand by me out of some misplaced sense that you owe me.”
Heleaped to his feet. “You damned woman,” he growled. “I want you. I want you so badly I’m about to explode into pieces.” I stared at him from where I sat. Charles reached for me and pulled me up by my shoulders. “Waiting,” he said, his voice trembling, “is driving me out of my mind.” He leaned over and gently planted a kiss on my cheek. “And that,” he grumbled, “is all I can do while you’re in the hospital.” He gently lowered me back into my seat. I stared at him while he sat back down;he looked tormented.
“Charles,” I said quietly, “I don’t know what happens now.”
He leaned in close. “I tell you what happens,” he said ferociously. “You get better. I called your mother, by the way – she and your brother are driving up to see you. Then you get out of the hospital. Then we go to dinner. Then we go from there. There’s no pressure, Eileen. I care about you. I care about you a lot.” He reached out and gently stroked my cheek. I closed my eyes, letting myself enjoy the feeling of his touch. “Let’s just enjoy our time together,” he whispered. I nodded slowly.
“Can I stop being your ex-boyfriend?he asked hopefully. “It’s been a miserable twenty-four hours.”
I sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. I’m sorry. Ish..” As his eyes lit up, I added, “I still don’t think I need to be here, though.”
“My heart, please just listen to your doctor. Take your medication. Have you had your first dose yet?” I shook my head. “All right. Then take your medicine and just – just see if things change. All right?” I sighed and nodded.
A nurse appeared at the door of the TV room. “Visiting hours are over,” she called softly. Charles rose and extended his hand to me. I gripped it and allowed him to lift me to my feet. He looked at me, his eyes bright.
“I have such an amazing girlfriend,” he said softly. “Strong. Beautiful. Brave. Willing to run into danger to save me. I’m a lucky man.”
I leaned forward and gave him a gentle kiss on the mouth. He drew back in surprise.
“I’m lucky, too,” I said with difficulty. The pieces of my painting fluttered to the ground. Charles saw them and leaned down to pick them up. He frowned when he saw Faolain’s face, ripped up.
“I did art therapy when I returned from Afghanistan for the first time,” he said quietly. “It helped me. Eileen, please – promise me you’ll use what this hospital has to offer. Promise me.”
I sighed. “I promise, Charles. I’m still not happy about it. But I promise.”
The nurse appeared at the door again and scowled. “Sir, visiting hours are over. You need to leave so Eileen can get some lunch.”
“I understand.” Charles leaned in and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you soon, Eileen.”
“See you soon,” I echoed, watching ashe walked away.
“It’s a bad idea,” Emma said, appearing next to me. “He’s not to be trusted.”
Joe appeared in front of me. “He’s not to be trusted,” he echoed
I sighed. “I don’t know what to believe,” I said numbly.
The nurse who had shown Charles out came around the corner, frowning. “Problem?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
She smiled knowingly. “Take your medicine at the end of the day. Don’t make any major decisions until you do. It’ll all look clearer then.” I nodded slowly.
“It’s lunchtime,” she said softly. “You’ll eat here, in the TV room. After that, we have group.”
“Group?” I asked, blinking.
“Yes, group therapy.” She smiled slightly. “You might find it helpful.”
I opened my mouth to refuse – then I remembered my promise to Charles. “Fine,” I said, feeling a strange mix of defeated and hopeful. The nurse gave me a larger smile and walked away.
“What a lucky man, indeed,” Eamon said sarcastically from behind me.
I turned to see him surrounded again by golden fire. “I notice,” he added, “that you failed to mention our bond.”
“Oh, go away,” I muttered, looking around to make sure we were alone.
“It’s a wise choice. Charles can be very… possessive.”
“This,” I said angrily, gesturing at him, “is not my fault!”
“No.” He laughed. “It’s my fault. And I’m certainly not sorry for it, either.”He drew closer to me. “Charles,” he murmured, “may have scruples about kissing a sick woman. I, however, do not.” He bent down and kissed me fiercely. I gasped. I could feel his lips against mine, powerful, demanding. I jerked back and pushed him off me.
“Go. Away.”
He bowed gracefully. “As the lady commands.” He vanished.
“Eileen?” I turned around. The nurse who’d walked Charles out was standing behind me, watching me with a worried look on her face. “Eileen, are you all right?”
“Just peachy,” I snapped. I stormed past her. “I’m taking a shower. I’ll skip lunch today.”
“Eileen –” she began, but I walked down the hall and into my room, slamming the door shut behind me. I went in the bathroom and turned onthe shower. I stripped off the hospital gown and stood under the water, eyes closed.
About fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Room check!” A voice called.
“I’m in the shower!” I called back.
A nurse stuck his head in. “I need to see you,” he said apologetically. He scribbled something on his clipboard and left.
“Of all the intrusive, dehumanizing…” I called him a half-dozen names as I finished my shower. I stepped out, toweled off, and looked distastefully at the hospital gown. I pulled it back on and sighed. It was probably time for group. I wouldn’t have bothered going, but I’d promised Charles. Damn Charles.
I walked into the TV room to find group had already started. About ten people were sitting in a circle. A woman with a clipboard – clipboards seemed ubiquitous around here was sitting at the head.
“Hello,” she said brightly upon seeing me. “Are you here to join us? Welcome. Pull up a chair and introduce yourself!”
“Hello,” I said awkwardly, pulling up a chair. “My name’s Eileen.” I looked at the social worker, who nodded encouragingly.
“Hello, Eileen,” she said. The others echoed her. “Tell us a little about yourself. What brings you to the hospital?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “I’m not sure myself. My boyfriend said I was hallucinating. I don’t think I was.”
A woman next to me stirred. “Do you have schizophrenia?” she asked.
“Yeah, I do,” I said, looking at her. She was in her forties, with stringy hair and tired eyes.
“I do, too. My husband, Goddess rest his soul, had to commit me a time or two himself.” She laughed. “I hated it at the time, but I was usually grateful when I got out.” She paused. “Had your first dose of medication yet?”
“No,” I said slowly.
“Don’t make any big decisions until you go on the medication.”
“Well, I already decided not to break up with him,” I said, feeling embarrassed.
She laughed, slapping her knee. “That’s a good decision! Means you trust him. But honey, trust me. I had my first psychotic break at twenty-one. I’ve been in and out of mental hospitals ever since…mostly because I couldn’t stay on the medicine. I’d start feeling better and go off it. I’m guessing that’s what happened to you.”
I shook my head but didn’t answer.
She laughed. “Whatever. Either way, trust me. You never know you’re hallucinating
when you’re seriously ill.”
I nodded slowly.
“Lovely,” the social worker chirped. “Now, today I’d like to talk about anxiety. Where do we hold anxiety in our bodies?”
We all looked at each other. “I hold it in my shoulders,” said the woman who’d spoken to me.
“My head hurts,” a man across from me volunteered.
“Excellent!” The social worker beamed. “Now, how does it affect you?”
As they talked, my thoughts drifted back to Faolain pinning me against the wall; to Faolain, at the embassy, pinning my feet to the ground; to fighting Faolain all those days ago at McConnell Consultants. I thought back further, to when I’d received my brain injury in the Army while trying so desperately to defend my soldier.
“Eileen?” The social worker’s voice broke through my thoughts. I touched my cheeks and felt wetness there. “Eileen,” she said gently, “how does anxiety affect you?”
I jumped out of my chair. “I have to go,” I said quickly and half-ran out of the room. The social worker didn’t call after me.
I got to my room and shut the door, collapsing on the bed. I put my hands to my face and scrubbed them fiercely across it. The memories just wouldn’t stop coming. Go away, I thought fiercely. Just go away.
“They won’t go away,” Eamon said from across me. He was sitting on the bed, golden fire crackling, looking at me with – was that sympathy? He reached over and gently touched me on the foot. “Those are powerful memories, Eileen. They can’t be exorcised by simply willing them away.”
“How did you know what I was thinking?” I demanded, propping myself up on my elbows.
He laughed. “I guessed. I have some experience with trauma, Eileen, and I timed my intervention in Faolain’s rooms very carefully – I knew what he would try.” A shadow passed over his face.
“I don’t understandwhy you care.”
“I do believe that I already explained it. You’re strategically important, yes, and I care about you.” He smirked. “We sons of the king have good taste, indeed”
He became a little more solemn. “My guess, Eileen, is that you’re developing PTSD – post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s no surprise, after everything you’ve been through.”
