Better With Ben

by Casey McMillin

  The fall seemed to take forever, and as she went down she thought it might be happening slowly enough to be prevented. She was just too far off balance to recover, though. Her left hand was the first thing to hit the ground, followed by her right.

  Only, the right hand hadn't landed on the ground. It landed… oh God, it landed on the girl's leg. "Shit!" Taylor exclaimed as she immediately scrambled to her feet. She only touched the leg for the briefest of seconds, but she easily recalled what it felt like. This was no manikin. It was a real body. If she hadn't known it before, she knew it now. She felt an overwhelming wave of nausea and adrenaline that, had it not been for the shooting pain going up her left arm, would have doubled her over. The pain actually made her think clearer.

  She knew she had to get out of there.

  "Shit, shit, shit, shit. Holy shit." The words just tumbled out of her mouth unconsciously as she ran out of the shed. She descended the few front steps and ran several feet onto the grass, saying, "Shit, shit, shit," the whole time. She could think of nothing else but the image of the girl she'd just been staring at. She stopped running once she got out onto the lawn, and glanced back at the shed, half-expecting something to be chasing her. Nothing was behind her except the open door.

  She only stopped for a second before continuing toward the restaurant. She had no idea what she'd say when she got there, but she knew she had to run to where people were—people who could hear what she was saying—people who were alive.

  As she got close to the kitchen door, she noticed one of the other food-prep guys. He was standing there finishing a cigarette.

  "I think I just found a dead body," Taylor said. She was breathless and the words came out stiffly like she didn't know how to talk right. "Dead body," she repeated. She had cottonmouth, and she was reasonably sure by the guy's confused expression that the words she'd just tried to speak were unintelligible. She used a finger to point in the direction of the shed. "Body. I saw a girl's body. It's in the shed. It's not moving. There's a girl in there."

  Had any of that come out of her mouth? He was still looking at her with that same confused expression, and she was in such a time warp that every second felt like a thousand years. Was she even speaking English? She pointed again at the shed—more frustrated this time. "A body," she repeated. She pronounced the words slowly, feeling the whole time that her body had no business doing things like talking.

  "I heard you," he said.

  What was that guy's name, anyway? What's it matter?

  "What do I do?" Taylor asked.

  Just then, Gina came outside. "Oh, good, you're here. Bonnie told me to come look for you. Did you find those trays?" Her face turned serious. "What's wrong?"

  "A body," the guy said. There was a slight edge of sarcasm to his voice that made it sound like he was making fun of Taylor for repeating it so many times. She noticed it, but didn't give a flying flip.

  "I found a fuckin' body just now in the shed," she said to Gina. Taylor's still-breathless voice combined with the earnestness of her expression made Gina listen intently. She reached out to put a hand on Taylor's shoulder, and Taylor fell into her arms weeping.

  Gina looked at the guy. "What's going on?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "She ran up mumbling about dead bodies in the shed."

  "Not dead bodies," Taylor said. "One dead body." She still clung to Gina who stiffly patted her for comfort.

  Gina pushed her to arm's length when the words sunk in. She regarded Taylor with an extremely serious, almost pleading expression. "Are you kidding around right now?"

  Taylor shook her head, a little relieved that, unlike the smoker guy, Gina seemed to understand the seriousness of the situation.

  "You seriously found a dead body just now?"

  Tears ran down Taylor's face as she nodded. "It's a girl."

  Gina cut the guy a nasty look for being so unaffected as she dug in the back pocket of her pants to retrieve her phone. She dialed 911 as Taylor leaned over and began puking all over the ground.

  The next half-hour passed in an absolute blur. It hit Taylor at one point during the whole thing that she didn't know what became of the wedding reception. She didn't care. One second, she was watching the contents of her stomach spill out onto the gravel, and the next, she was sitting on a stretcher with several people standing around her. She didn't think she'd passed out for a long time or anything, but there were definitely moments of the last little while where her consciousness was touch and go.

  Her heart felt like it was going a million miles an hour even though she was sitting down. She realized, looking at the paramedic who had two fingers on her wrist to check her pulse, that apparently she wasn't the only one who thought there might be a problem with her pulse. The thought made her dizzy again. She began to see spots in her vision. She had the distinct impression that her heart, in spite of beating like crazy, could not adequately pump blood to her extremities.

  Why in the world am I losing consciousness? Why is my heart not working right? Am I poisoned? The body. I saw a dead body. Is that what did this to me? Can seeing a dead body kill you? I'm pretty sure I've been poisoned or something. Do these people know about the body?

  "I found something in that shed," she said. "I don't know if it's real, but there's a girl in the—"

  "They know all about it Miss Soren," said the same paramedic who was checking her pulse. Taylor glanced down at her wrist. The lady still had two fingers on it. How long does it take to check a fucking pulse around here? "They're taking care of all that," the paramedic continued. "Right now I'm just here to make sure you're doing okay."

  Taylor looked up, and the paramedic glanced at her with caring smile. "You're understandably a bit shaken up, but you seem to be okay. Can you tell me if you're having any pain?"

  Taylor wrestled with whether or not she should confess the heart trouble she was having. If the paramedic hadn't detected any trouble when she was checking her pulse, then maybe she shouldn't draw attention to it. But, good grief my heart just can't seem to pump enough blood.

  "I just don't feel very good," Taylor said. Her words, to her own ears, sounded like they were coming from some distant source.

  "You're okay Miss Soren," she heard the woman's voice say. Her eyes were closed as she tried to concentrate on getting her heart to pump blood. "You're just a little shaken up right now, but everything's going to be okay."

  Taylor felt the relieving distraction of a cold compress being pressed against her forehead, and she reached up instinctually to grab it. She sucked air through her teeth at the sting that went up her left hand and arm when she tried to use it.

  "What happened?" the paramedic asked.

  Taylor looked up at her. "My hand," she said. "I think I might have hurt it."

  "This one?" The paramedic gently took Taylor's shaking hand from the cold compress as Taylor nodded in agreement. It was obvious that Taylor was shaken, and the paramedic was glad to have the excuse to go ahead and get her out of there before she was exposed to any more of the crime scene chaos. "You know what?" the paramedic said sweetly. "We're gonna go ahead and take you in for a few X-rays. If the police need to talk to you, they can just come on over to the hospital."

  "Are the police here?" Taylor asked. The paramedic nodded. "Is it real?"

  "Is what real?"

  "The girl. Was that a real girl in there?"

  The paramedic stared at her for a few long seconds and then nodded again solemnly.

  "Is she alive?"

  The paramedic shook her head sadly.

  Taylor's face contorted with tears, and she heard at least two people speak at the same time. Gina said, "It's okay, Tay, you did a good thing," and the paramedic said, "We're taking her in to look at this arm. Tell Detective James she'll be at Sacred Heart."

  "He's not gonna be happy with that," said a plain-clothes officer that was standing nearby. Taylor knew he was a cop by the badge that was clipped on his belt.

  "She's got a broken a
rm," the paramedic said in a stern voice. Then she gave Taylor a sly wink the cop couldn't see. "Her friend already told you everything that happened. She just stumbled upon it. Detective James can come see her at the hospital, but we're bringing her in."

  Taylor was glad to hear that she was going to a hospital. Hopefully, they could find out why her heart wasn't working right. They loaded the stretcher into an ambulance and took her away in it. She could see Gina's worried face as they were closing the ambulance door and she tried through the haze to give her friend a reassuring smile.

  Chapter 3

  Taylor's arm was indeed broken. The X-ray showed a hairline fracture near her wrist. It was eight o'clock in the evening and she'd been in the hospital for hours being monitored and questioned.

  The first few hours were an epic whirlwind. She'd never had an anxiety attack before, and was completely freaking amazed at how something that was supposedly psychiatric had symptoms that were so very physical.

  The psychiatric doctor who'd come in to evaluate her was currently in her room. It was the second time he'd come in. He wanted to come back after the police were done with their questioning to make sure Taylor was holding up okay.

  "But I literally couldn't keep myself from passing out," Taylor said. It was something she'd remarked on several times during their previous conversation, but it was still hard for her to believe that everything she'd been feeling was only a result of panic.

  Prior to today, she thought she was immune to panic. Cool as a cucumber.

  The doctor smiled. "These types of attacks produce physical symptoms that are very real," he said, "and they're actually quite common."

  Taylor shook her head and let out a disapproving sound. "I'm not trying to have that happen to me on a regular basis," she said. "Since it happened once, does that mean that it's gonna happen again?" She gestured to her chest with a hand. "Because even right now I'm feeling a little… you know…"

  Dr. Harlow smiled reassuringly. "It's common to feel that it'll happen again," he said. "Did you do okay when the police came in?"

  "A few times I felt like I was on the verge of losing it, but I told myself it was all in my head, and even if I did have a heart attack, I was right here in the hospital where they could put me back together."

  He smiled and made a note on his clipboard.

  "I was so scared that if I got all worked up they'd think I had something to do with it, so I told myself I had no other option but to fake it."

  He wore a sweet expression that Taylor found relief in. She took a deep breath, hoping her lungs could hold oxygen.

  "I'm really encouraged that you were able to reason with yourself when you felt the symptoms starting." He stared at her with concern. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about? I'd like you to see someone for a little while once you leave the hospital, but is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest while you're here with me?"

  "Are you saying I have to see someone or it's just an option?" she asked. "Is there something wrong with me?"

  He smiled and shook his head, and Taylor tried to get a look at the clipboard he was holding.

  "Of course not," he said. "You handled everything beautifully. I just wanted you to know you have options once you're out of here. Don't be surprised if you have a little trouble digesting everything."

  Taylor glanced at the clipboard again. "You can't tell anyone things we talked about, can you? Because the police made a special point of saying they're not gonna release my name."

  He shook his head earnestly. "Definitely not, Taylor. That's why I'm the only one from the hospital who's interviewed you. We're sensitive to our patients in situations like these. I assure you everything is classified."

  "Is the person who did this gonna try to hurt me? You know, for finding her? Will he try to find out who did it?" The thought had been tormenting her ever since the panic attack was over. She'd already mentioned it to him once, but the fear was so consuming that she just had to run it past him again.

  "Fears like this are expected in your situation," he said. "But I can assure you that you're information is classified."

  "Yeah, but what about all the people who know I'm the one who found it? People at the restaurant, and the paramedic, and all the cops, and you? I mean, if someone asks enough questions, they can find out anything."

  "The perpetrator knew it was going to be found when he or she left it in such an obvious place," he said.

  She shot him a confused look because she'd never considered that. Her expression turned circumspect as she put a hand on her chest. "Is it normal for it to start up like this when I get to thinking about stuff I'm scared of?" she asked.

  He wore a patient half-smile "Taylor, I know you said you didn't want me to write you a prescription, but I'd be happy to go ahead and give you one just in case you get home and find that it wasn't as easy as you hoped."

  She thought about it, but really hesitated to get started on some kind of medication she'd have to take forever. "I just need you to tell me that it's normal for it to start up again like this." She concentrated on the feeling she was having—the feeling that her heart couldn't adequately pump blood.

  "It's normal," he said.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to control her heart rate by sheer will. She was reasonably sure that she could control the panic symptoms as long as she was certain that they were just psychological and she wasn't actually in danger of stopping her own heart with her thoughts. "Will that medicine help me in the middle of an attack?" she asked. "Like if I have one I can't control?"

  "Yes. But technically a sugar pill would help you in the middle of an attack if you think it's helping."

  Taylor just couldn't fathom that the very real physical stuff she was feeling was a result of something in her brain. For the last however many hours she'd gone back and forth between worrying about the dead girl and worrying about her own body. She was worrying constantly, which was a feeling she wasn't accustomed to. She learned at a very early age to stay away from the news, and basically lived her life in a drama-free bubble. She was the kind of person who tried to see the positive in every situation. She was the one people came to when they needed a pep talk. Taylor did not usually succumb being bummed, and the hours-long stretch of heaviness left her feeling exhausted and hopeless.

  "Taylor, I'm gonna go ahead and leave this with you," he said. He scribbled down a few words on a notepad and tore off the top sheet. It was a prescription for whatever drug was supposed to help with anxiety. "I think they're planning on keeping you overnight, but I might not get to speak with you again before you're discharged, so I'll also leave the name of a person you can see if you have a hard time controlling the symptoms, or if you just want to talk."

  "I think I'll just try to work through it on my own. I'm really not the type who goes to a therapist," she said.

  "I know, but I'm leaving you the information just in case. If I didn't, they'd tell me I wasn't doing my job."

  "Are you sure they're making me spend the night? Why? My arm's fine, ortho's already been in here. They said I'll just need to wear the cast for four weeks."

  "I'm not positive about them wanting to keep you. I was going to recommend it, but if you don't want to—" he cut off, sort of waiting to see Taylor's reaction.

  "I think I'd rather go home," she said. "I guess I just feel like the longer I stay here…" She shrugged. "I don't know. It just feels like a reporter is gonna walk in any second with a camera in my face and ask for an interview. I think I just want to get home and act like none of this ever happened."

  "I can promise you that no one will be coming in to interview you, but I also understand wanting to get back to your normal routine." He paused and shrugged with a little smirk. "And if ortho's been here and they say you're good to go, then…"

  She smiled back at him, loving the fact that he was smart enough to know that the last thing she wanted at that moment was to be treated like she was fragi
le.

  "Are they gonna tell me when they find out something about the girl?"

  "What is it you want to know?"

  Taylor wanted to know when they caught the guy and if he said anything about wanting to hunt down the girl who found the body, but the doctor's question made her ask herself if there was anything else she wanted to know about the girl. She wondered if the police already knew anything about her, and if so, did she really want the information?

  "I don't think I really want to know anything other than making sure they catch whoever did it."

  "I'm sure they'll assign you a case worker to answer any questions you might have," he said. "They probably listed someone you can contact on the paperwork they left with you."

  Dr. Harlow pointed to the bedside table at a handful of papers the detective left with her. Then he looked at Taylor. They were silent for a few seconds. "You'll be fine," he said. "You're a strong one." He put the papers on the food tray that was positioned near the head of her bed. "Here's some more paperwork for you," he said, smiling. He used a fingertip to tap the small rectangular pieces on top. "This is the prescription and the number of the doctor I was telling you about. And you should know that everything would be confidential."

  "Thank you," Taylor said with an air of finality that made the doctor think she might just hop up and start putting her shoes on.

  "I'm not sure when they'll be ready to discharge you," he said.

  "I think I can just leave whenever I want to," Taylor said, looking down at her attire. Surely, if she were officially a hospital patient she'd be wearing a hospital gown, which she wasn't. "I don't think I'm even technically checked-in," she said. "They just put me in a private room since the police needed to question me."