Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love

by KL Evans

  “She’s probably skinny like that because she found her dad’s leftover meth stash, LOL.”

  “What a waste of tax dollars! The Fort Worth PD shouldn’t have to spend their time trying to save this idiot from jumping off a bridge. If she wants to kill herself, let her. It’s a good thing we’ve got Obamacare to pay for her medical bills! Selfish brat needs to get a job and quit acting a fool. What a leech.”

  Also as was typical, there were a few kind responses.

  “I can’t believe how judgmental some of the people commenting are. How would you act if you were an orphan and basically watching your only remaining family member die?”

  “This poor girl. I’m praying for a miracle for her sister.”

  “I remember hearing about Charlie the meth man. How people can act that way when they’ve got children to take care of is beyond me. I feel so sorry for her.”

  “Mr. McCollum, thank you for this article about Charlie. Those commenting who are so quick to judge her situation don’t know the real Charlie. She’s a very sweet girl and we’ve loved getting to know her, even under such terrible circumstances. The day we took Jade off life-support was extremely hard, but Charlie was so brave in spite of how devastated we all knew she was. She reassured all of us that she was going to work hard to get her future back on track. She wants to make her sister proud. We are looking forward to seeing her do great things with her life.

  Sincerely,

  Ginny Baker, RN, CCRN, JPS Hospital”

  I was reading the comments at work and upon seeing Ginny’s I had to leave for an hour or two. I went to the fountain and sat in silence. I thought about Jade. I thought about Esther. I thought about all those crayon-colored cards and the kids who’d made them. I mostly thought about you and my chest ached.

  I pulled out my phone and stared at Ginny’s comment, finding myself smiling despite the sad, yet inevitable news because, just like her and the other nurses, I had no reason to believe what you’d said to the staff about getting your act together wasn’t the truth. She left the comment two days after the story ran and while sitting at the fountain, I was gripped with an urgency to reach out to you, but I stopped myself mid-dial.

  I want to kick myself for waiting. I tell myself that waiting to call you changed the course of events. I tell myself that calling you sooner, maybe the day the article ran, maybe the day Ginny left the comment, would have made a difference. I have no way of knowing.

  What I know is, I called you at 9 AM on Thursday after I read the comment. You didn’t answer and I tried again right away. I guessed you might have been sleeping. I guessed you may have had a lot of logistical things to deal with in the aftermath of your sister’s death that prevented you from answering. I guessed you didn’t want to talk to me for whatever reason. So I sent a text message and went back to my work.

  By noon, I hadn’t received a response and my preoccupation with the stillness and silence of my phone rendered me useless as far as work was concerned. There was only one thing I should have done and I should have done it immediately after hearing about Jade’s passing.

  I pulled into your driveway at 12:45 and your car was there like it always was. The gray cat was also there like he always was, and it was his behavior that finally clued me into the fact that I had showed up way, way too late.

  He stood on his hind legs, aggressively scratching the front door, hissing and spitting, then pacing in circles while yowling in low, loud bellows. I approached the door and he growled at me before bounding toward me and swatting his paw against my pant leg.

  “Hey!” I hollered at him.

  He hissed and swatted me again.

  “Knock it off!”

  He pounced on my feet and bit my ankle, which caused me to leap toward the front door.

  “You’re such an asshole,” I muttered, knocking on the front door. “Charlie? Charlie, it’s Seth. Can I come in?”

  The grey cat had even less patience that day and lunged toward my ankles again, which forced me to twist the locked knob and shove my shoulder against the door. I told myself it was the necessity to get the cranky, more-than-likely-hungry cat inside that compelled me to unlock the door with the key you gave me.

  He zipped between my legs, bounded into the bedroom, and continued to yowl like I had never before heard him yowl.

  “Charlie?”

  The black and red house was filled with still silence and my eyes lingered on the sign above the kitchen entrance as I made my way through the front door.

  ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE

  The gray cat’s yowling grew deeper and became punctuated with tiny squeaks of what really, really sounded like desperation. The silence was thick with the heady scent of whiskey and I briefly ducked into the kitchen to see if a bottle had shattered on the tile floor, such was the intensity with which the smell of alcohol permeated the small house. Finding nothing, I headed to the bedroom.

  “Charlie?”

  It was the third time I’d seen your small, bare breasts, but the first time I’d ever seen them and you so still. Not even in your corpse-like sleep or passed-out states had you been so deathly still.

  “Charlie.”

  I approached you, averting my eyes from your nakedness to the desk beside the bed. The desk, which had previously been covered with empty soda cans was now covered with the pill bottles from the medicine cabinet. Several of them lay empty on their sides. Several sitting in waiting. The source of the pungent whiskey scent was on the floor next to the bed. A liquor bottle, also on its side; also empty, but most of its contents appeared to be soaking into a small pile of clothes rather than in your stomach along with the dozens and dozens of pills.

  “Charlie.”

  I jumped over the clothing piles and held the side of your face. Your cheeks were pale, but hot and clammy. Next to you lay a small, spiral-bound notebook. On it, a message that was scrawled all over the page. Starting out heavy, dark, and intense and slowly transitioning into a slight, light, shaky hand.

  I love you, Jade. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you. No me without you.

  I thought back to the bar, to the dust on the computer monitor, to your kitchen; the endless scrawling. And it finally clicked.

  NMWY. No me without you.

  “I don’t want to die a virgin.”

  “If Grey gets lost again, I’ll totally freaking kill myself.”

  The dozens of prescription pills in your medicine cabinet. The pills that, I realized now, with the empty bottles littering the table and the bed, had been saved up for one single occasion: when you finally had to, using your own words, kill your sister.

  You’d planned this all along. It was a calculated, premeditated decision. And it was why you completely threw your life away and had a flippant, nonchalant attitude about it.

  I’d seen a lot of disturbing things in my years interviewing people, but this was different. It was twisted and unnatural, and I instantly became sick. From somewhere I don’t know came those eerie, quiet words.

  She’s going to die, Seth. And you’re just going to sit there while it happens.

  I picked up your wrist, finding your pulse and staring at the absurd black nail polish, and counted the thumps. Slow… too slow… but steady. But I knew that wouldn’t last unless I did something, so I patted your cheeks, gently at first, but got no response.

  “Charlie!”

  In a panic, I slapped your face and was immediately overwhelmed with a combination of guilt and adrenaline, and then pulled out my phone.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “She overdosed,” was all I could come up with.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Seth.”

  �
��Okay, Seth, I’m going to send an ambulance. What is your address?”

  After telling the dispatcher the address, I blurted out, “She’s still breathing.”

  “The paramedics are on their way. What did she overdose on, Seth?”

  “A bunch of pills. A bunch of whiskey.”

  “Were you present when she took them?”

  “No, I just got here and found her.”

  “What were the pills, Seth?”

  “I don’t know, a bunch of prescriptions. Antidepressants and sleeping pills and anxiety meds.”

  “How many did she swallow, Seth?”

  “Fuck. I don’t know.” I held your wrist, feeling the light thump of your pulse, staring at the black nail polish. “A lot. There’s a bunch of empty bottles.”

  “And you said she’s still breathing?”

  I leaned forward to hover my cheek above your parted lips. “Yeah. It’s really shallow and labored, but she’s breathing. Should I try to make her throw up?”

  “No, she might choke on her vomit. Turn her onto her side just in case she does. The paramedics should be there any minute. Try to stay calm until they arrive. How old is she?”

  “Twenty-three,” I said, lifting and shifting you onto your side. Your hair draped over your cheek and I brushed it aside. The grey cat paced on the pillow, intermittently pushing his face against the top of your head while he squeaked little squeaks that I could have sworn sounded terrified.

  “Charlie…” the grey cat and I both seemed to be saying. “Charlie… Charlie… Charlie, please wake up.”

  “Is that her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she your wife or girlfriend?”

  “No, she’s—” I paused to think.

  What are you to me, anyway? Countless times you’d called us friends, or not friends, or said, “I love you, Seth McCollum.” Countless times I’d said we’re not friends. I’m just a reporter. You’re just my subject. You’re just a girl in a fountain, a girl in a bar, a girl in a pharmacy, a girl who stole a horse, who stole my car, stole kisses, and begged me to steal her virginity.

  “She’s just—”

  “Hello?” came a man’s voice from the living room.

  “Back here!” I called, while I instinctively grabbed a shirt from the floor and haphazardly covered your breasts in a pointless gesture. The paramedics shoved their way into the room, moved me, the grey cat, and the shirt aside while they worked on you.

  After a flurry of activity, you were strapped to a stretcher and a young man spoke to me.

  “Would you like to ride with her?”

  In a stupor, I stared at your totally unresponsive face as they wheeled you out the front door. “Yeah. She hates ambulances.”

  Before leaving, I refilled the food and water bowls in the bathroom, then reached down to pat the stoic gray cat on the top of his head. He pushed against my palm and squeaked at me.

  “I’ll get her back to you, I promise.” And I told myself he wouldn’t know any better.

  And then, for the second time, I sat in an ambulance, leaning over your face, placing my hand on your clammy, pale forehead, and repeating the words.

  “I’m here, Charlie. I’m here. I know I’m not your sister, but I’m here.”

  Hour Sixteen

  They let me stay with you in the emergency room. You mostly slept, but they managed to rouse you a few times, and during one of which they forced you to choke down a cup of thick, black activated charcoal. They said it was to absorb the toxic combination of pills and liquor, but it simply made you vomit.

  You begged for water.

  They told you no.

  You slurred your words and demanded it.

  They told you no again, wiped your face aggressively, and told you in curt, exasperated tones that you had to drink more of the charcoal.

  You cried. You wailed for the water, for your cat, to go home, for your sister. I sat in a nearby chair with my chin in my palm, wondering why I was still there. Wondering why I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Wondering why I genuinely wanted to be there and felt like there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be right then.

  After they forced more liquid charcoal down your throat, and after they ensured you weren’t going to vomit again, they left us alone, and you continued to cry. I sat on the bed facing you, held your hands, and spoke to you. You looked at me, still sobbing, but abruptly stopped when you appeared to recognize me.

  “Seth McMum,” you mumbled.

  “Charlie.”

  “Seth McMulmum.”

  “I’m right here, Charlie.”

  “C’you take me home?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. You have to stay here.”

  “I don’t want to be here!” You exploded into more sobs, dropping your face into your hands and collapsing forward against me. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.”

  I rubbed your back and swept your hair off your sweaty neck. “I know you don’t, but you need to be here. You made yourself very sick. You can’t go home yet. You have to get all that shit out of your system and then you’ll be able to go home. Probably tomorrow.”

  You continued to sob. As I let you cry for several minutes, a subtle feeling of anger crept up my sternum until I couldn’t contain it any longer, and I firmly lifted your chin and forced you to look at me.

  “Charlie, you should be dead right now.”

  “I knoo-oow…” you wailed.

  “Do you understand me?” I asked, using both hands to hold your face too forcefully. “If I hadn’t showed up at your house when I did, you would be dead right now.”

  Another shade of recognition flashed in your weepy eyes. “You d-d-d-did this?”

  “No, you did this,” I hissed. “I saved you from it.”

  “Wh-wh-wh-why?”

  The anger in my sternum began to agitate me and I shook your face just a bit, but probably too much. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  You squeezed your eyes shut, causing tears to slide down your cheeks and under my palms. “I want Jade. I want Jade. I want Grey.”

  “What about being alive? Don’t you want that?”

  “What’s the p-p-p-point?”

  By then my extremities were tingling with rage and I wanted to throw you across the fucking room in an effort to knock some sense into you. I’d never been so angry at a person in my life, and that could’ve been the aftershocks of such a harrowing discovery at your house. But it could’ve been something else. And that something else is probably what compelled me to not throw you across the room, rather hold you as close to me as humanly possible.

  “I don’t fucking understand you.” Rage tugged at the back of my throat, making me feel like I was on the cusp of anger-fueled tears. “You’re out of your fucking mind. Completely out of your fucking mind.”

  “I want Jade. I want Jade. I want Jade,” you cried into my shirt.

  I shook you again, harder this time. “Well, I want you to realize how fucking stupid you acted today. There’s no excuse for what you did. Jade would be pissed.”

  “You’re beeeng an asshole, Seth McMumum.”

  “No, you are an asshole, Charlie,” I said, gripping your face and forcing you to look at me again. “You’re an asshole. You are such a selfish asshole.”

  And then, for the first time ever, I was the one who kissed you. I tasted the salt from your tears, the chalky, semi-sweet flavor of the charcoal on your lips, and the lingering alcohol on your breath. All of these flavors melded together and my anger continued to swell in waves as I recalled the utterly helpless feeling of finding you essentially dead in your bed; that feeling of fear. I am a grown man and I can’t even remember being that scared as an adult, and that was your fucking fault.

  “You’re so selfish,” I continued to say, continuing to kiss the acutely distressing flavor combination on your lips. “You’re such an asshole. I’m so fucking pissed at you.”

/>   I kissed and rebuked you until you began yawning against my mouth, and there was something about that feeling. You were so tired. You are so tired, Charlie. It’s so obvious. You’re way too young to be this tired. You’re way too young to be this weak. Way too smart. It doesn’t have to be this way and you know it.

  And honestly, I loved that feeling, which felt sick and twisted at the time, but it felt like I could save you. I had found you and called the ambulance and saved you, and I felt like I could save you even more by holding your face against mine while you stretched your mouth open and I kissed the edge of your bottom lip. I loved that feeling and it made me feel like I loved you and like I was supposed to be with you. I was the one who was there. I was the one who saved you, and that had to mean something.

  Of course, you were oblivious to all of this and you fell asleep, leaving me to stay with you, holding your hand, staring at your nail polish. Exactly the way I am right now.

  Hour Seventeen

  And then what?

  Oh yes. Lest I forget, you were furious with me. Furious with the medical team and furious with the entire situation. You were also fuzzy and wobbly and disoriented as a result of some other sedative the medical team gave you, which made you less ferocious than you’d become later.

  Albeit fuzzy, wobbly, and disoriented, you were combative and uncooperative when they attempted to perform a mental health evaluation, and then you were transferred to a psyche ward where you had to stay until a judge decided whether or not to officially commit you.

  At some point, I was allowed to go into your room. This was about two days after the incident. Everyone referred to it as the incident. A vague and polite term for one of the most acutely distressing things I’d ever witnessed, but the incident wasn’t about me and it was something they’d seen so often that it was commonplace in their world; in your new world.