by Calia Read
She fixed the strap of her purse and ran a hand down her hair, like she was getting ready for a show. If you really thought about it, she was. The minute she stepped outside of this room, she was live. She had the main role of being Lana’s loving mom. It took a lot of work for her to get into character.
The door slammed behind her. I flattened myself against the wall but there was no need, Lana’s mom never once looked my way. She walked ahead, head held high, her heels echoing in the hallway.
I looked back in the room.
Lana was staring at the television. She appeared unaffected by her mom, but I noticed the slight tremor in her hands.
Her dad didn’t get up from his chair. He was close enough to her that his knees pressed against her bed.
“Your doctor said that you should be out of here in a few days,” her dad said.
Lana just nodded.
“You’ll just have to see a therapist a few times a week, but everything can go back to normal. And when I mean normal, I mean you back home… where you should be.”
Lana glanced at her dad. “What?”
“You need to be at home, where your mom and I can watch you and make sure that this never happens again.”
She blinked, and when her eyes focused on her dad, there was nothing but revulsion in her gaze. I knew it was the first time Lana was openly rejecting her dad.
I didn’t know why she chose that moment to be the time. Maybe last night’s attempt had not only put her to the brink of death, but it had also made her fears disappear.
“Fuck you,” she whispered coldly.
His head tilted to the side, as if he had heard her wrong. “What did you say?”
“I said, fuck you. I did what I did because of you.” She looked down at her bed. “Now get out.”
“Your mother and I are trying to help.”
“Mom left the room a few minutes ago because she couldn’t look at me. She doesn’t want to help, and neither do you. Get out.”
Her dad didn’t appear to be in any rush. His cheeks were flushed, undoubtedly from anger and embarrassment. He stared at his daughter, his eyes filled with unearned hate. His daughter stared back at him, her eyes blank and unflinching.
“I can press this button,” Lana said, “and a nurse will be here within minutes.”
Her dad stood up.
I hurried away from her room. A few seconds later I heard the door creak open. Footsteps sounded. Her dad didn’t scurry away like her mom did. He waited for a few moments, leaning against the wall, staring down at the waxed floor thoughtfully before he pulled out his phone.
“Tim, how are you? It’s Michael. Listen,” her dad cleared his throat and started to walk down the hall, “I need a favor from you…”
I wanted to follow behind him and listen to every single word. The nurse had just stepped into Lana’s room. She would take her blood pressure, check her temperature, and ask if Lana needed anything. I’d be back in plenty of time to slip into Lana’s room and finally be able to talk with her, but I stayed where I was and watched her dad walk further away, until he turned the corner and disappeared.
Something was up his sleeve. I didn’t know what, but I knew it had to involve Lana. I knew that Lana’s parents were desperate to hide her suicide attempt as quickly as possible.
The nurse finally left the room. I walked in after her and softly closed the door behind me. Lana kept her eyes glued to the television. It was a re-run of an old sitcom, complete with a laugh track, houses that never got dirty and a household that hugged every chance they got.
“I wish my problems could be solved in thirty minutes or less,” Lana said quietly.
“Me too,” I sighed and curled up at the edge of her bed, acting like this wasn’t a hospital room that smelled like disinfectant, but her room back in her apartment that smelled like lilacs. I watched the show for a few seconds before I looked over at Lana. “How are you?”
“If I told you I was okay, or fine, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you the truth.” She swallowed. “I feel terrible.”
I looked Lana over. Her face, that normally looked so smooth and clean, was pale, almost translucent, with a sheen of sweat around her forehead and upper lip. Her lips were chapped. She had the prettiest hair. Pin-straight and silky, like a child’s. It ran down the length of her back, stopping at her waist. The ends were always neatly trimmed. But today her hair was messy, pulled back into a lopsided ponytail. The worst part was her wrists. They were heavily bandaged, lying on the bed like dead weights.
“I think the pain is stronger now,” she said gravely.
I stood up, thinking that she needed a nurse or doctor to come into the room and help her. “What?”
She held up her bandaged wrists, staring at them with a mixture of resentment and sadness. “My pain. It’s stronger. I think the pain has been in my body for too long. I could keep cutting away at my skin, but it will never matter.” She stared me straight in the eye. “The pain’s never gonna leave.”
I slowly sat back down.
What could I say to that?
I tried to think of some inspirational quote. Something, anything that would give her hope. I had nothing.
We both knew that.
Her hand dropped heavily onto the bed.
“For a second though, it was bliss,” she confessed. “I know that’s fucked up to say. It’s the truth, though. I thought for a second that all my problems were going away. But for each drop of blood I lost, gallons of pain were waiting to fill me back up.”
“I wish I knew what to say,” I said sadly. “But nothing I say will ever make it right.”
“I’m not asking for you to make it right. No one can.”
“So what happens from here?” I asked.
“I don’t know. My doctor keeps saying that I’m leaving in a few days so my parents can help me ‘recover’.”
I flinched.
She smirked. “Ironic, right?”
“You’re not going home with them, are you?”
“No,” Lana said firmly.
I opened my mouth to voice my opinion.
“Can I just have a moment alone, please?” Lana said.
“Sure.” I stood up and said good-bye even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. The door shut behind me. I sagged against it, my hands on my knees, taking deep breaths.
I left moments later. My legs were shaking and it felt like I was going to collapse at any moment. I quickened my pace. The elevator was in sight, but it felt like I was in a fun house. It became further and further away until it felt like I was never going to reach it.
I started to run, but the hallway became narrow and longer, stretching for miles. Nurses and visiting family members were all around. I could hear their hushed voices. I’m sure every single one of them had their own problems to deal with, but I would’ve done anything at that moment to trade lives with them.
I realized then that seeing Lana being raped created a small crack in my sanity. Each event after that made the crack spread. A network of veins appeared, making me fragile. I was finally starting to shatter. Everything was catching up to me and I broke into millions of pieces.
I crumbled to the ground and screamed, trying to erase Lana’s words.
“The pain’s never gonna leave.”
Her voice kept getting stronger and the world slowly faded to black.
When I woke up, I was at Fairfax.
The clock on Dr. Rutledge’s desk clicks. Much like the monitors did at the hospital. I stare at Dr. Rutledge, waiting for a new, radical change to happen.
Here it is.
Here’s my story. It’s out in the open and there’s nothing left for me to say. So what happens now?
Will I slowly transform back into the person I once was? Or maybe Dr. Rutledge will snap her fingers and I’ll realize this has all been a dream.
I don’t care what really happens as long as something happens.
We sit there, staring at each other. The clock continues to click and I start to become impatient. I deserve, no, earned this change. So where is it?
“Do you get it now?” I ask impatiently.
Dr. Rutledge nods. “I do.”
My eyes narrow. “Please don’t humor me.”
“I’m not. I understand you went through a terrible situation.”
“If you understand then explain to me why I’m here. Tell me how someone who was just trying to help her friend ends up in a mental institution.”
Rutledge continues to look at me, saying nothing, offering me nothing.
“I didn’t try to kill myself. That was Lana.” I jerk my sleeves up and hold both wrists out. “See? No scars. Nothing.”
She looks down at my wrists. My pale, scar-free wrists.
“See?” I’m practically shoving them at her. “See those veins? I know I have blood in them and I know I have a soul inside of me and I know I have a life worth living. Although… right now it’s not much. But I know I have it.”
She looks away from my flawless wrists and into my eyes. I drop my arms and sit back down. We’re surrounded in silence. Except for that clock. That stupid fucking clock. I want to pick it up and smash it into pieces. I rub my temples.
“Tell me,” I beg. “Please tell me why I’m here.”
She drops her pen onto her desk. She leans forward and says in a gentle, yet firm voice, “You’re here because you broke down. Everything with Lana was too much to take.”
“That doesn’t warrant someone who’s been completely normal and healthy to be sent here,” I argue.
She smiles sadly. “When someone has the breakdown you had, and experienced what you did, it does.”
My lips quiver. I feel foolish. I feel ashamed. And that is ridiculous. “I want to go home,” I say.
Is home even home anymore? Will my parents let me come back?
“No. You’re not ready to be released yet.”
I drop my head into my hands. Weep or scream? I don’t know. I wait for the big, knotted ball to burst free from my throat, but nothing happens.
“What are you feeling, Naomi?”
“I feel like I just took one step forward, and twenty steps back,” I say into my hands.
“You think you’re getting nowhere?”
I nod and look at her, blinking back tears of frustration.
“I just want answers,” I say hopelessly.
“As much as we want it to happen in a flash, that’s not the way it works.”
My eyes flutter shut and I listen to her, feeling rejected.
“Tomorrow’s a new day.”
I’m tired of new days and the fresh new optimism that comes with it, because hours later, when the sun sets, it steals my optimism and it’s back to feeling so alone.
Mary opens the door. My session is up. Dr. Rutledge says she’ll see me tomorrow. She gives me one of her uplifting smiles.
I don’t tell her what I’m feeling or thinking. I just stand up and walk out the door with Mary.
“Dr. Rutledge, may I have word?”
I lift my head. Dr. Woods, Naomi’s old psychiatrist, is standing in the doorway.
Tim Woods is 58 years old, with black hair that’s peppered with gray. Lines are forming around his eyes and, not surprisingly, around his lips. He never smiles. He is straight to the point—a factual kind of person. He’s at the end of his career, biding his time until he can retire. Maybe he once cared, but he doesn’t now.
It’s a fleeting thought, but I wonder if this career will siphon the determination out of me like it has Tim Woods. Will I too stop caring?
I shut the medical textbook in front of me and wave him in. “Of course.”
He glances at my book. “Were you busy?”
“Not at all.”
Tim takes a seat. I hardly speak to Dr. Woods so seeing him in my office is a surprise, to say the least.
“What can I help you with?” I say with a smile.
His fingers drum on the armrest. His eyes are somber. My smile starts to fade and my stomach starts to churn. Something’s wrong.
“I wanted to talk to you about Naomi Carradine.”
My gaze drifts to her file sitting on the corner of my desk. In the upper, right hand corner her name is written in black marker: CARRADINE, NAOMI.
“What about her?” I ask, my eyes on her file.
“I thought you should know that her mother signed her out of Fairfax.”
My head lifts slowly. I stare at Tim with disbelief. Did I just hear him right?
Tim watches me, his fingers steepled against his lips.
“What?” I ask faintly.
“As of today, Naomi is no longer a patient of Fairfax.”
Four years of college.
Four years of medical school.
Four years of residency.
Hours upon hours of studying. I trudged through all those years remembering why I wanted to be a psychiatrist: to help people.
Before I came to Fairfax I worked for a small private practice for two years. I would see moms stretched thin. A few teenagers down and in a hormonal rut they couldn’t get out of. There was nothing over the top. The opportunity to work here was by chance and I took it, anxious to show what I was really capable of.
I didn’t know what being a psychiatrist was until I arrived here. Until I took Naomi Carradine on as a patient. Every time I looked at Naomi, I saw a girl that when she looked in the mirror she saw nothing but darkness. I couldn’t ignore that.
“Why?” All I can come up with are one-word questions. I see all the progress that Naomi’s been making and it makes me feel sick to think that’s all been a waste.
Tim shrugs. “Her parents believe that her medications will be of more help.”
“You don’t agree with that, do you?”
“She’s getting better,” he argues weakly.
“She is. But not good enough to leave!” I explode. So unexpected. So unlike me. But my patience has snapped in half. “My sessions were going somewhere. She was so close to having a breakthrough. A few more sessions and she could’ve been released within six months.”
“Her mother doesn’t want a few more sessions. Time’s up.”
Dr. Woods watches me carefully. I stare down at my desk.
“I’ve barely had her,” I say quietly. “We were just now getting to the root of the problems!”
“We’re not against Naomi. We—”
My head shoots up. I pounce on his words. “Who’s we?”
Tim balks. “Me and her parents.”
I’ve been so focused on Naomi leaving that I didn’t even think how Tim even knew she was leaving.
“When did you speak with them?”
“I spoke to them just yesterday.”
“About what?” I fire back.
“I’m not your patient, Dr. Rutledge. There is no need to talk to me like one.”
“But she’s no longer your patient.”
“I understand that. But I felt her parents had a right to know what’s going on,” he says with a sharp edge to his voice.
“Absolutely. But if they wanted to know her progress they could call and talk to me. I would’ve gladly updated them on everything.” I looked him in the eye. “You’re not her doctor. It wasn’t your place.”
Tim gives me a hard look. “I spoke with them because, quite honestly, you’re too close to Naomi.”
“Excuse me?” I say very slowly.
“You seem to have a gray area with her. You are entirely too involved. You—”
“I know what you mean,” I say impatiently. “Don’t diagnose me.”
“Perhaps someone should, though. It’s very simple: You never become attached to your patients. You’re supposed to be the doctor in this situation, but you ignored that. You felt for this girl and cared for her when all you have to do is treat her and let her be on her way.”
When I leave at the end of the day, I make sure to
leave my work in my office. But Naomi’s voice echoes in my head all the way home. Her face flashes through my mind as I eat dinner and get ready for bed. When I’m lying in bed, I see her file with her name printed in the right hand corner in clear, black letters on my ceiling.
Those letters start to mesh together and I lay there, hoping that they’ll stop moving and reveal the answer to Naomi’s problem.
Clearly that’s just me, though. Tim Woods has no such problem. He sits here with such ease, handing out biting insults like it’s candy.
“I’m trying to be good doctor to her,” I say.
“What about her ‘weekend pass’ last weekend? Were you being a good doctor then?”
I sit up straighter in my chair. “What?”
“Why weren’t her parents notified?”
“Is this why she was released, because I gave her a small break?”
“Naomi is not allowed to take a weekend pass. She can’t sign in and out of Fairfax. That decision isn’t hers to make. Yet you allowed her to sign herself out and Lachlan Halstead to pick her up.”
“She’s a patient. Not a prisoner.”
Dr. Woods’ lips are in a thin line. His disapproval is apparent. I suppose I broke some moral code for doctors by hiding the weekend pass from her parents. They put her in our care, but were supposed to be notified if she was leaving Fairfax. No matter how short the time was. But I can’t feel guilt over what I did. I know it was the right thing. Naomi came back from her weekend pass with a bright light in her eye. She was recharged. It was a boost that she needed.
“How did her parents even find out?” I ask suspiciously. “Wait,” I hold up a hand, “let me guess. You told them?”
Tim says nothing. In fact, the longer we talk, the more uncomfortable he becomes: shifting in his seat, adjusting his glasses every few seconds, clearing his throat like he’s trying to get something out. My eyes narrow on him.
“What do you know that I don’t?” I ask quietly.
“Nothing,” he says, his voice stiff and cold.
Liar, I think.
“Come on,” I coax. “Tell me the truth. Tell me why you accuse me of being too close to my patient, yet you take it upon yourself to call her parents and update them on everything that I’m doing. Again, this is with my patient.”
