“Wait, what?” Sam shut off the shower, shaking the water out of his ears before poking his head out from behind the curtain. “They actually restrained her?”
“Uh, yeah,” Brady scoffed, even though his face looked dead serious. “Earth to Dr. Philips. Like I said, def-con batshit. They wouldn’t even let me in there to talk to her, because I’m not technically one of her clinicians.”
“Fuck.” That meant she’d probably been in isolation for most of the day. Oh, God, she must be totally freaking out by now. Sam bailed out of the shower, catching the towel Brady threw at him in midair and wrapping it around him as he walked.
“Do me a favor and keep an eye on my other cases,” he called back over his shoulder. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”
Brady followed him, turning his back as Sam got dressed faster than he’d ever gotten dressed in his life.
“Sure thing, bro. But what about rounds?”
“I’m excused from rounds,” Sam told him. He turned for the door, shrugging into his coat as he walked, not bothering to tie his shoes. Screw it. He could tie them in the elevator, while he practiced his speech that would go something along the lines of, ‘Hey, remember when you first came into this hospital, and I promised you I’d take care of you? Well, I’m glad you don’t remember that, because I’m about to totally sell you out for the sake of my career.’
“Whoa,” Brady pressed the elevator button. “You’re excused from rounds?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, as he stepped into the elevator. “All I had to do was agree to convince Viola to commit herself.”
“Shit,” Brady stared. “Well…I guess I’ll see you later then. If you survive.”
The elevator doors closed between them, as Brady stood there shaking his head. Sam glanced at his watch. Rounds would be starting on the third floor any second. He’d give almost anything to be a part of the herd again, instead of facing what he was about to do. Responsibility or not, Brady was right. This was going to suck.
Ten minutes later, he found himself standing outside the door of her room, which still had the ‘Sleeping Beauty, Do Not Disturb’ sign on it. One of the nurses—Candace, probably—had made it for Viola out of pink construction paper, more as a joke than anything else. It was covered with stickers of Disney Princesses. The kind they usually gave to the patients down in Pediatrics. But Viola had laughed and said they should put it up, so she could walk around naked in her room whenever she felt like it.
God, this was going to suck.
After stalling as long as he could, Sam forced himself to open the door. When he saw Viola lying there, wrists strapped to the bed with Velcro straps, his heart nearly broke. Her eyes were open, and she was staring up at the ceiling while tears streamed down her face. It was the first time he’d ever seen her openly cry, but then, she couldn’t wipe her tears away now, even if she wanted to.
“You forgot…to knock,” she sniffled, obviously trying for some semblance of her previous, haughty tone, and failing. Miserably. Closing the door behind him gently, Sam crept toward her.
“Viola, are you alright?”
At the sound of his voice, Viola’s head snapped toward him. She sucked in a loud breath, which immediately turned into a sob. She shut her eyes tightly.
“Sam. Where…the…hell…have you been?”
“I’m so sorry,” he told her, reaching over to grab a tissue from her bedside table. “I was out of town, visiting family.”
He gently dabbed the side of her face, wishing he could untie her from the bed and take her into his arms. She looked so small and fragile, lying there, that it was hard to imagine how he’d once thought she was impervious to emotional weakness. It was also hard to imagine her doing any of the things Mr. Gosselin—or Uncle Jack, or whatever his name was—said she’d done, intentionally and without remorse.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Viola shook her head. “I’m not sure I’d…even know where to start.”
Her aphasia seemed to be getting worse again, but whether it was a result of stress or the symptom of something progressive, Sam couldn’t tell.
“Start at the beginning,” he told her.
“Well…I didn’t take my sleeping pill…last night.” She sniffled, staring up at the ceiling again. “Brady brought it to me, he can tell you if I was acting…normal or not. And when I went to sleep, I dreamed about…the night I…got in my…car…the night I…had the accident.”
“You did?” Sam was surprised that Chakrabarti hadn’t mentioned this. “What happened in the dream?”
“It wasn’t…” she started, then glanced at him once, before continuing. “It wasn’t…a dream. More of a…forgotten memory, I think. I remember…remembered being at the warehouse, waiting for Aiden.” She closed her eyes, as if trying to recall every detail. “It was snowing. There were lots of people. I had a… I ordered a glass of wine. It was terrible.”
“Okay.” Sam tried not to get too excited. She could be manufacturing an entire new memory, or mixing it in with bits of truth. That was the worst thing about patients who might be suffering from delusions. It was sometimes impossible to tell the difference between their reality and everyone else’s. “What happened next?”
“I was waiting for Aiden,” she said again. “Only, he didn’t come.”
She opened her eyes, staring at him for a long moment. “Can you untie…one of my hands, please? My nose itches.”
He smiled, in spite of the situation. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that unless there’s another clinician in the room,” he told her. “But if you want, I can scratch your nose.”
Viola’s face looked positively mutinous, but after a few more seconds, she agreed.
“Okay,” she said. “But use a tissue.”
As gently as he could, Sam balled up a fresh tissue and rubbed it across her nose until she told him to stop. She sniffed resentfully, wiggling her nose like a bunny. It was adorable.
“Anyway,” she continued, “you were there. You came up and asked me a question.”
Sam froze. “And what did I ask you?”
“I can’t remember,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “I think I was too…upset to pay attention.”
Feeling himself blush, Sam couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or relieved. He looked down at her wrist, which was starting to turn red from the restraint. She’d been struggling, he realized.
“Does that hurt?” he lifted her wrist, inspecting it more closely.
Viola shook her head. “Not as much as my pride does. Julia would be proud, though. She said I should…experiment with BDSM. After I got out.” She smiled, and Sam couldn’t help but admire that she was still able to joke, in spite of everything. “Looks like I’m getting a head start.”
“So this dream you had about me,” he cleared his throat. “What else do you remember?”
“Not a dream,” she reminded him sternly. “Memory. Or flashback. Whatever you want to call it. It’s broken into pieces, but it’s real. I swear.”
Sam couldn’t look her in the eye. He wanted to hear her say it. The kiss was real. It happened. Why did it seem so crucial that she was the first one to say it?
“You were waiting for your boyfriend,” he reminded her.
“Right.” She sighed. “Aiden. Well, it turns out that…Aiden and I…basically broke up that night. Only I forgot, because I was in a coma. So when I woke up, he tricked me…into thinking we were still together. Because of that stupid song he said he wrote. About me. But none of that matters now.”
“Why not?” Sam kept his focus on the tip of her nose, afraid if he met her gaze, she’d see the hope in his eyes.
“Because,” she said, and her smile went away. She turned her head toward the vase of roses on the table by the window. “I remembered…something else. Something important. The night…I first woke up? The night that you came…and found me…not breathing?”
“Yeah?”
“Someone cam
e into my room. He tried to…stop me from…breathing. To smother me.”
“What?” Sam wanted so badly to believe she wasn’t a liar, like Mr. Gosselin had said. But if she really believed what she was saying, then things were about to get so much worse for her. And he’d hate to think about that.
“I don’t expect you to…believe me,” she said. “That’s why I’m going…to prove it. But Jacques doesn’t want me to…because I think….” She closed her eyes again, and another sob escaped her chest. “Oh, Sam, I think it was him.”
Sam stood up, and started pacing the room. The job Chakrabarti had tasked him with had just gotten a hundred times harder. But if she was right, and if someone was trying to hurt her, wasn’t a closed ward still the safest place she could possibly be?
“Listen,” Sam said, stopping at the foot of her bed, where she could look at him straight on. “I just came from Chakrabarti’s office. Your Uncle Jack was there, too, and—“
“He is not my uncle,” she hissed.
“Sorry,” Sam corrected himself. “Jacques was there. Because of what happened this morning—and I still don’t really know any of the details, by the way—he convinced Chakrabarti to sign off on a psychiatric hold. That basically means, you’ll be under observation for a 24-hour period.”
“What?” Viola’s face went from anger to panic almost immediately. “No, he can’t do that.”
“Actually,” Sam told her, coming to stand at her side so he could touch her arm reassuringly, “he can. But that’s why I wanted to talk to you first. If you check yourself in for observation, it’ll be that much easier for you to prove that you’re not combative like they said. If you keep calm and explain to the psychiatrist what you remember, like you did to me just now, he’ll have no choice but to discharge you.” He felt the bile rising in his throat as he fed her the best case scenario that felt more like a blatant lie. “Then you’re free to leave the hospital, if that’s what you want.”
Viola squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Oh, Sam.”
“What?” He moved a piece of hair that had fallen across her face. “I mean, I know it’s not ideal, but psych isn’t that bad. You’ll have a private room, and it’ll be quiet. Hell, you’ll have less people barging in on you than you do now.”
“What did they say to you,” she asked quietly, “to get you…to tell me this?”
“Nothing,” he lied. Instantly, his stomach lurched. This was what he’d been dreading. “I really do think it’s the best chance you have. You won’t be put in restraints, and all of our psych docs are really nice. One of the psych interns is even a friend of mine, from school. You’ll be in great hands.”
Sam’s reasons sounded empty. Who was he really trying to convince, a little voice whispered. Viola, or himself?
“You don’t believe that,” she said, looking up at him. “You’re trying to pretend like it’s the right thing…but deep down you know…you caved. It’s just like…the swim team. State. All over again. Plus, the study…you never asked Chocolate Barbie, did you?”
“The swim team?” Sam was thrown that she’d mention such a random event in his life. “Wait a minute, how do you know about that? I don’t remember telling you that.”
Viola ignored his question. “You didn’t ask, did you?”
Sam could perfectly remember every conversation they’d had in the last few weeks, and not once had they talked about him quitting the swim team. Except, for one night, when he’d been sitting in her room, complaining about high school. Back when she’d still been in a coma.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Do you remember me telling you about the state finals? Because that…Viola, that would be huge. If you were aware during your coma….”
He trailed off, trying to grasp the enormity of what that could mean, and failing.
In response to his enthusiasm, Viola only shrugged. “Not sure…Apparently, I’m crazy, remember?”
Finally, Sam understood why she was always so vague about the things she knew, and how she knew them. Who would ever believe her if she said she remembered being lucid during a coma? He certainly wouldn’t have. Except, how else would she be able to come up with those kind of details?
“Viola, you can trust me,” he said, leaning down to look at her, forcing her to make eye contact with him. The look on her face was heartbreaking, like she wanted to believe him, but couldn’t afford to take her chances.
“You said…you’d take care of me.”
Sam had never felt guiltier in his life than he did at that moment. And considering some of the shit that he carried around with him, that was saying something.
“You’re right,” he said, squaring his jaw. “But did you ever think that this might be me taking care of you? Listen, even if you’re not losing your mind, the only way for you to prove it is to talk to a psychiatrist. Tell him what you remember. If it’s real, it can be verified. Then they’ll have to listen to you.”
She looked at him with mistrust. “What if they don’t?”
Sam shook his head. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Viola.”
Viola opened her mouth, a question written across her face. But then her lips shut, and she turned to look at that sad, dead vase of flowers again. When she turned back, her chin was set.
“Promise me,” she said. “Promise me…it will be okay.”
Sam knew he shouldn’t make her any more promises he didn’t have the power to keep. He’d already made her too many, and most of them had turned out badly. But the way she was looking at him now, with all that determination, and all the fear that hid underneath it—how was he supposed to say no?
“Okay,” Sam told her, squeezing her hand. “I promise.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.” –Sigmund Freud
“Please put your belongings in the basket.”
Viola glared across the desk at the frumpy, mannish-looking nurse in white scrubs. Her face had some kind of rash on it, Viola thought, or maybe the psych nurse had just never moisturized a day in her life. While some part of her knew she was being a bitch, the rest of her couldn’t help it. She was scared, and when she was scared she got snarky.
“Don’t you mean…put the lotion…in the basket?” She raised an eyebrow, and dropped her small overnight bag into the plastic laundry basket the psychiatric nurse was holding out.
Behind her, Sam made a noise in his throat—almost like a cough, but she knew he was trying to muffle a laugh.
Turning her head to the side, she fixed him with an over-the-shoulder glare. His face turned immediately contrite.
“You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t even slightly funny.”
The nurse tapped the edge of the basket, drawing Viola’s attention back to her ongoing humiliation. “All your belongings.”
“What?” Viola looked down at herself. Except for her Lululemon yoga pants, bra top and jacket, all she had on was a pair of ballet flats—because Sam had warned her that she wasn’t allowed to have shoes with laces in them. Hello, Shawshank.
“The watch,” the wannabe Nurse Ratched said, pointing to Viola’s wrist. “And the earrings. We don’t allow personal items valued at more than fifty dollars.”
“Oh, the earrings are…fake,” Viola lied, trying to ignore the uncomfortable throat clearing coming from behind her. Obviously, Sam knew that she’d never be caught dead wearing fake anything. “And I can’t give you the watch. It’s…important.”
She didn’t know how else to explain it, especially to some random stranger. But the moment Viola even thought of taking off her watch, her heart began to race and her palms felt damp. She couldn’t afford to lose it. Not again, not now.
The psych nurse, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be swayed even slightly. She held out her hand, with a bored expression on her face.
“I’ll make sure it gets taken straight to security,” she said. Somehow,
Viola had a feeling the nurse would just throw the watch into a drawer with all the other crap she’d taken off of her crazy patients. Viola looked at Sam again, pleading for help, but he only smiled apologetically.
“You’ll get it back,” he said. “You only have to live without it for twenty-four hours, remember?”
Viola swallowed heavily, forcing herself to calm down. The watch wasn’t the only thing she’d be forced to live without. There was also her dignity. And Sam.
Which was stupid, she realized, since neither of those things had really ever been hers. The watch was a gift from her father, and her dignity was an illusion, it seemed. And Sam…well, Sam had a girlfriend now, if the ICU nurses’ gossip could be believed.
“Alright,” she said, looking at the nurse, pleading with her eyes if not her words. “Be careful…with this.”
Slowly, carefully, she undid the clasp and handed over the last piece of her father. A rose gold-plated Cartier Ballon Bleu with a diamond bezel, it was worth so much more to her than its $30,000 price tag. The day Viola’s father had given it to her, she’d gasped and told him how beautiful it was. She’d never forget what he said next. ‘It is more than beautiful, mon chaton. True, it is covered in gold and diamonds. But at its heart, it is made of the strongest steel.’ Then, he’d turned it over. On the inside, there was an engraving in strong, beautiful script. Souffrir sans reddition—suffer without surrender. The words from the Bellerose family crest. ‘This watch,’ he’d told her, ‘is made to endure. No matter what the world around it says, or does. It will never be less than what it is.’
Choking back a sudden rush of tears, Viola handed the watch over. If only her father could see her now. Would he chastise her for letting her life spin so violently out of control, or commend her for maintaining a brave exterior, no matter what? It had gotten to a point where she honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
After removing her diamond studs—because really, compared to everything else she’d lost, they were worth less than nothing—and giving them to the nurse, Viola turned back to Sam.
Wake for Me (Life or Death Series) Page 14
