“Jess, no one blames you. No one could have known. You did nothing wrong. No one blames you,” he repeats as he moves to sit beside me on the bed, pulling me into his open arms.
The dam won’t stop. The truths just keep flooding my senses.
Pulling back slightly, I relay more of the memories I tried so hard to lock away. “I remember meeting you. I remember it now. It wasn’t Cass and mom who had come back from the police station; it was mom and Rogan. Mom took Rogan so he could give his statement on what he remembered. You came home to try to get me to talk, but I was already gone, huh?
“Why did I think there was a stalker? What kind of sick mind creates a stalker to hide behind instead of dealing with . . . with . . . with a death in the family?” I’ve said it once already, I can’t say it again, I may never be able to say it again. I obviously haven’t been ready to deal with it before now.
Cass is gone. My sister is gone. What am I going to do without her? I silently beg for an answer.
“Jess, it was your way of coping. You created a reality in which you were the victim, not Cass. It was your mind’s way of taking the burden you felt you deserved. You were trying to make amends to your belief that what happened was your fault, but it wasn’t your fault. You have to believe me here, it was a devastating tragedy that no one could have stopped, least of all you.”
Not stopping to take in his words, I let the rants continue. Why stop now? “I remember getting so angry at Rogan. He kept trying to help me through Luke’s death, but nothing he did made me feel any better. It was because I wasn’t dealing with what I was really upset about, huh? No one was going to be able to help me until I admitted the truth, ‘the truth shall set you free,’ right?” I ask sardonically.
“Basically,” Bruce concedes. “You were angry at everyone associated with Cass. The doctors think that’s why you took so quickly to me since I had nothing to do with the family.”
“That makes sense I guess. So was I ever abducted? Or is that a lie, too?”
The pity in his eyes is answer enough.
“Wow, I really went all out with this delusion. Talk about not dealing with your issues.” I try for a laugh, but a mangled snort is what comes out instead.
“We all deal in our own way. Yes, you may have been elaborate in the way you dealt, but that was only because of the incredible amount of guilt you felt burdened with; everything your mind thought up was another piece of the punishment pie, if you will, adding more and more until the day when you wouldn’t be able to take anymore, when the final piece of the pie would be the hard snap back to reality. Life sucks, doesn’t it?” he jokes, nudging his elbow into my side.
A smile tears through my lips despite my lack of anything remotely resembling happiness.
“Why Rogan? Why the stalker, and why did Rogan have to die? I love him more than life. Why would I turn away from him? Why not turn toward him?”
“The doctors believe he was your sister’s replacement in your mind. You had to lose someone close to you to cope in some capacity, and he was the next love of your life, so to speak, after your sister.
“We were all afraid things would crumble after the funeral. Instead, it only seemed to solidify your beliefs. Rogan knew he couldn’t show up, so he made sure his mom stayed with you for comfort. None of us knew if that was going to be a good or bad thing, but we also knew she had to be there since, to you, it was her son’s funeral.
“When I picked you up from the church and we went to the pond, you were so upset it took everything in me to keep from telling you Rogan wasn’t really dead, that you could be with him if you would let your mind allow it. I knew that wouldn’t be fair, though. You really did have to come to this on your own. Do you remember anything else?”
Pinching the skin between my eyes, I attempt to relieve the pounding in my head while also attempting to recall more of my buried memories. I remember Alex. Did that even happen? Bruce wouldn’t have known about that, so I can’t very well ask him to confirm or deny that piece of the mystery.
What else? What else? What about Kyle and Rachel? “I remember people, but now I don’t know where I know them from. I’m beginning to doubt that I know them at all,” I share honestly.
“Well, let me see if I can help out. What are their names?”
“It’s Ky—” The door swinging open stops me mid-sentence, or rather who walks in stops me mid-sentence, Kyle, with Rachel at his side. Making my eyes blink faster than the shutter of a camera does nothing to change the image in front of me. I know because no matter how many times I try to make the picture change, the fact that Kyle appears to be my doctor and Rachel my nurse isn’t fading away. What the hell have I done with myself?
“You were going to say Kyle and Rachel?” Bruce questions, already knowing my answer to be yes.
“If you don’t mind, Bruce, I think I’ll take this one,” Kyle interjects. Bruce doesn’t leave my side as Kyle, or should I say Dr. Warren as his name tag reminds me, takes the vacant seat in front of me.
“I guess you’ve figured it out that I’m your doctor, Rachel is your nurse, and you’re currently being hospitalized in connection with your mind’s inability to rationalize reality with the reality you’ve created and been living in for the past three years. Do you understand so far?” His eyes are encouraging, not judging me, seeming legitimately to want to help me.
I manage a nod.
“Good,” he starts after another assessing moment, ensuring I’m keeping up I assume. “When you first came here, you were in a pretty bad place. It was clear you needed to make a human connection with someone outside of your mind’s network of acceptable people. That’s where Rachel and I came in.
“We stayed with you when we could, spoke with you about topics that would be relevant to a young woman, and slowly you began coming out of your self-imposed shell.
“The hospital has a social every couple of months that we told you about. You seemed eager to go, to get out and about with others, but when the time came, your mind shut back down; you just weren’t ready yet. I think mayb—”
“Stop!” I shout before he can continue. There was never a college party I was going to be going to, but instead a ‘social’ at a mental hospital?
My head feels like it’s splitting into a million pieces. I’m not going to be able to endure this pain much longer, but before I succumb to it, I have to get out the question nipping the back of my brain.
The room is silent. All eyes are on me, waiting for me to speak. What is she going to say? the likely question forefront in their fully functioning, well adapted brains. “How long have I been here? And where is here?”
If any of you out there have wondered if there’s an audible noise when eyes blink, the answer is an emphatic yes! Three pairs of eyes blink in unison—the only sound in the room being those blinking eyes—a silent dare being challenged among the three of them on who gets to tell the loon the depressing realities of her pathetic life.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three breaths.
Go.
“This is Clear View Mental Hospital, and you’ve been with us for about two and a half years now,” Kyle takes the plunge, answering the questions everyone clearly dreaded answering.
Two and a half years? What the hell? The room is silent. I feel eyes on me, waiting for me to break, or react, or something. I can’t worry about that now, though. All I can think is of the almost three years I’ve just had taken out from me in less than three seconds.
For the first time since I woke, I take in my surroundings. There’s the bed I’m sitting on, a worn chair, a picture of a girl by a horse, and a window with . . . wait a minute, a girl by a horse?
Pushing myself off the bed, I walk the short distance to the picture to examine it closer. It’s not just some girl standing by a horse, it’s me as a little girl next to a friend’s horse when I was eight. Why of all pictures is this one here?
I take a moment to focus on the window
. It isn’t very large, but what’s more important to note is that it has bars on it, effectively locking me into this small, stark white cell of a room. The walls suddenly feel like they’re closing in on me. The white taking over, the bars of the window restraining me from leaving, the horse in the picture rearing its large mane in my direction as if to tell me it’s free while I’m confined. It lives in the open where I belong while I’m in this place trapped like an animal.
My head! Oh, my head! The ringing in my ears is so painful, the lights so bright, the nausea building from within too much to fight. Leaning on the wall for support does little for me except afford me the luxury of sliding down to the floor instead of falling face-first, vomit rising as I go.
I could say lying in my own vomit after having collapsed to the floor of a mental hospital would be a low point in my life, for me, though, it’s almost like a new beginning, a day with a memory I can hold onto from start to finish. I know it isn’t the best memory to have, but I’m treasuring it for what it is—a reminder that I’m not too far gone to hold onto an event, register it to memory, then call on that memory for validation that the event happened. It’s the small things honestly. I never realized how small an event could be to be significant. As it turns out, every event is significant. Who knew?
As I’m being carted by wheelchair to the washroom to be cleaned up, a question for Bruce pops into my head that I just have to know the answer to. “Hang on, Doc. Hey, Bruce?”
“Yeah? What’s up, Jess?” He bounds to me from his seated position on my bed.
I can’t help but smile up at him. He and I may not have gone through all that I thought we had, our bonding may only be in my head, but I know he’s a genuine guy, a good guy who I’m lucky to have in my life. My question will confirm unequivocally whether he and I are as close as I believe us to be.
“Come down here,” I whisper conspiratorially, hooking my index finger into the air near his face to coax him nearer to me. I probably should have thought this through better. Poor guy has to smell my nasty vomit-covered self up close and personal. Despite this fact, he still bows in front of me. “Do you, or did you ever, have a cupid tattoo on your bum?”
“Oh God,” he says loudly, followed by a slap to the forehead. “I guess some things stuck with you. I don’t know why it couldn’t have been something better, but okay. Yes, I did have a cupid tattoo on my bum. Happy now?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Thank you very much for not taking that memory away from me,” I say with humor, though I’m quite serious. It’s a fun memory, a fun memory that’s a real memory. With a squeeze on the shoulder, Bruce is to my back as I’m pushed away to the washroom.
Kyle pushes me out the door and into the hallway where I’m immediately passed off to another nurse who’s going to help me clean up. Before I go, looking back to Kyle, I ask, “So we’ve never been friends, not you nor Rachel? You were never interested in me, never asked me to go out with you?”
I know it’s masochistic to want to know the answer. I know that what he says isn’t going to make me feel any better about this situation, but the feeling of his touch, the sound of his voice, the way he looked at me are so real I can’t get past it. How could I have created such an elaborate alternate reality? One where Kyle took center stage, one where the possibility of new beginnings was more than possible? It was happening to me in that very moment.
He bends on one knee, coming in direct contact with my face. I see the look I know, the look I shouldn’t be familiar with, the look that I know I’ve seen before, though, saying, “Jess, I’ve known you for a while now, but only in the doctor/patient capacity. Our relationship has never been anything more. Now, I have to go. Amber here will take you to get cleaned up, okay?” he questions without waiting for an answer. I’m looking at his back before a response has formed on my lips. Why did he run away like that?
Chapter Nineteen
Present day . . .
I don’t see nor hear from Kyle again, or Rachel, or Bruce, or Rogan for that matter. I learned from my new doctor that Kyle and Rachel went on vacation. The timing seemed strange, but who am I to say when someone should or shouldn’t take a vacation. I’m sure they had it planned before I made my miraculous recovery.
Bruce is working a case, so he’ll be away for a couple of weeks, and I guess Rogan had to take care of a relative out of state. I’m not saying I feel abandoned, but well, I kind of do. Mom hasn’t even come back, supposedly buried in work since her boss quit and she took over his position.
This doctor isn’t helping my mood any. In fact, the very sight of him makes me want to bash his head into the concrete walls of my room. He’s the stereotypical shrink, tall, lanky, receding hairline, bowtie wearing, dweeb. I swear if he straightens the papers on his clipboard or adjusts the blinds on my window one more time I’m following through with my threat of death.
Ugh, I hate shrinks! I don’t deserve to be in here! So I may be a little loopy; if I were a celebrity, they would just call me eccentric. If I were a celebrity, you know damn well I’d never have been locked up like a criminal!
“Jess.” Finally, it speaks! “Why do you think you’re in here?”
Glad he didn’t disappoint; he really is one of those doctors! Through glaring eyes, I inform him that I think it would be best if he told me since I apparently have no grasp on life, my life to be exact. His approving look at my answer makes me hate him even more. I thought he would get angry at my smartass answer and leave. The Cosmos have failed me once more.
The only sound bouncing off the walls at the moment is that of his pen scratching the clipboard in his hand. I know he’s writing about me, most likely what I just said, so I wait until his pen rests in his lap before raising my brows as a dare for him to ask me another asinine question. He doesn’t disappoint.
“We all care about your well-being, Jess. We just want to make sure you’re safe both physically and mentally from yourself.”
“You think I’m going to hurt myself?” I ask incredulously.
“Haven’t you already?”
Typical doctor response, answer a question with a question. “I’m not going to hurt myself!” I proclaim. “Yes, apparently I’ve found a disturbing coping technique, but that doesn’t make me crazy or suicidal, okay? I’m fine now,” I huff. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” I say in a low voice. “I just want to go home, so tell me what I have to do to make that happen, Doc.”
I won’t bore you with the details of the remainder of our session; suffice it to say there’s little I can do to speed up my release. “My mind will tell me when I’m ready.” That’s an official quote from the good doctor. The way he explained it is that I mentally self-mutilated myself. I tore apart the pieces of my life in a vain attempt to assuage my guilt over Cass’s death. It was my self-imposed punishment.
When I’m alone, my thoughts run rampant. I run over events I could swear happened; the way I felt during those events, the things I said in response to something someone said, waiting in line at the coffee shop, texting Bruce at all hours of the night, especially after two in the morning; the excitement I felt when I was around Kyle, the way he made me feel like everything was new and fresh, like I could be renewed, that I wasn’t dead despite feeling otherwise.
This can’t have all been in my head. That just doesn’t make any sense. Something isn’t right, but how do I make anyone believe me when they would know if I were making this up, they would have been alongside me during it all.
I’m seen by the doctor every day for two weeks straight. If that’s supposed to help my sanity, I can assure you, it doesn’t. I hate seeing him every morning. I hate it even more that once he’s gone, once the room is silent but for my breath once more, I want him back.
In the beginning, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes my life would pass before me—the life I apparently never lived. This made for a great insomniac inducer. Sleep eluded me until I was put on medication to treat it. That had the oppo
site effect, then I could barely stay awake. Narcolepsy became my middle name. I was incoherent at best; at worst I was a breathing cadaver, an oxymoron, I know; just think zombie. My doses have been adjusted letting my mind relax, though that does little for the quality of my sleep. Memories of my life before now refuse to relent to the life I lead now.
Glancing at the red lights on my digital clock next to my head, I see it’s 2:08 in the morning. I must have fallen asleep. I wish I had a phone so I could text Bruce. I miss him so much. I miss our talks, the ease with which we spoke to one another, the way he understood me when no one else seemed to; I miss it all.
It’s 11:09 in the morning now. My session with the doc ended about ten minutes ago, leaving me alone once again. Looking out the window from the chair I sit in, I imagine what the sun would feel like on my skin, what the air would feel like weaving through my hair, and what the world would sound like outside these walls. I imagine using real utensils, real dishes, and an actual ceramic coffee cup. I’m not allowed those things. I guess they still don’t believe I won’t hurt myself, so instead, I get plastic everything.
Lost in my despair, I fail to hear the door open or a human enter.
“Penny for your thought?”
Startled, I nearly jump from my chair, gasping until I comprehend who spoke. “Bruce!” I shout, while launching myself into his open arms. “Oh, I thought you were never going to come back! Everyone has left me here. Everyone has forgotten about me. I feel like I’m dying, Bruce. You have to get me out of here!” I beg.
“Shh, shh, now, just calm down. That’s why I’m here actually. I can’t take you home just yet, but I’m working with the doctor to hurry things along. Your cooperating with the doctor like you have been is working in our favor. Just hang in for a little while longer. Okay? I promise it will be soon.”
With my arms still linked behind his back, I pull back enough to see the honesty in his eyes; he really is going to get me out of this place, I believe that. “Okay, Bruce. Whatever you say, I’ll do. Just don’t leave me here, don’t forget about me,” I cry into his chest.
Stolen Page 23
