She looks at me and then over my shoulder. I know in that moment that she must really like me if she’s entrusting me with her favorite patient. “He’s a painter, did you know that? I’ve been badgering him to paint something every day for the last three months.” She looks back at me. “Today he painted something,” she says quietly. “I have to assume it had something to do with you.”
I freeze in place, and I let her words sink in. Doubt creeps up into my mind, black and inky. “It’s probably just a coincidence.”
Darcy stares at me while she folds. “I don’t think so. One look at that painting, and baby, that was all you.”
Chapter Seventeen
PRESENT
I clutch my tan cardigan tightly against my body as I walk into the building. Vermont is experiencing an unusually cold spring day today, and I’m still not used to living in a place with seasons—aka carrying outerwear whenever there’s a chance for unpredictable weather.
Cecelia greets me, ushering a polite hello. I get the feeling she doesn’t like having me around. I say hello back before I walk down the hall and into the employee lounge. I see Emma texting on the couch, and I plop down next to her, though I have to remind myself that we’re not best friends yet. I don’t want to come off as too clingy.
“Morning,” I chirp, sipping the coffee in my to-go mug. I tried switching to tea, but it just didn’t do the trick.
“You’re awfully chipper for seven thirty,” she groans, taking a big gulp of coffee.
“Not a morning person?”
“Not really. Dealing with crazy people all day doesn’t help.” Darcy walks over—I didn’t see her behind the door of the refrigerator—and she smacks Emma on the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper. “Ow, Mom!”
“Don’t say crazy.” I stifle a laugh, and Darcy hands me a manila folder. “Marlin, here is Mr. Rivera’s chart. All you have to do is note any personality changes, aside from the normal moodiness, open the blinds, and help him however necessary. You may have to help him into the wheelchair.”
I nod. “Okay.” I take the folder, clutching it like I would clutch a million dollars. Everything about Sebastian is in here, and though it’s against protocol, I really want to read it.
“Sebastian is the woooorst,” Emma grunts. “He yelled at me the other day because I was too loud putting away his clothes. Chauvinistic asshole.”
I look away, because on the one hand, I want to fervently defend him, but on the other hand, I would be the crazy one if I did that.
“Sebastian is having a hard time,” Darcy pipes up. “Give him a break.”
“Poor little rich boy,” Emma retorts.
“He’s rich?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent.
Emma blows out a loud breath of air and whistles. “Room nine is the suite of this place. Three grand a month, not including food and private care, both of which his parents pay additional money for.”
“Emma,” Darcy warns, smacking her again with the newspaper. “Enough.”
I had no idea about his parents, but then again, I’m sure there’s plenty I don’t know about him.
“I’ll see you guys later,” I say, letting myself out of the room.
I walk down the hall, passing Lily’s room, Mr. Kringle’s room, and finally stopping in front of Sebastian’s room. My heart is racing, causing me to sweat slightly.
I knock three times, gently, and silence greets me on the other side. I open the door anyways.
The room is dark, just like yesterday, and I hear Sebastian shifting in his bed. I set his chart on the dresser and walk over to the window. I never noticed before, but his room is quite bigger than the others, and nicer in a lot of ways. For instance, his window overlooks the river, and he has a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. I pull the curtains back, letting the light from the grey morning in. I crack the window open. It’s a bit stuffy in here.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice proper. He doesn’t answer, but as I slide the curtains to either side, I hear him sit up. “How did you sleep?” I turn around, and he’s watching me raptly. There is pure hatred in his stare, and I feel goose bumps erupt on my skin. “Darcy is just fetching your medicine. I’ll bring your breakfast shortly. Do you need help into your chair?”
I try to avoid looking anywhere but his face, but I can’t help it. He’s shirtless, again, and his shaggy hair is unkempt. He needs a haircut and a proper shave, desperately. Even still, he takes my breath away. I let my eyes run down his chest and then back up to his face. I want to reach out and stroke his jaw, nibble his earlobe, eat Wendy’s together…
“Do you like the color of baby poop or something?” he asks, his voice hard.
“Excuse me?” I look down at my cardigan—sure enough, it’s light brown, and now that he mentioned it, I guess it does faintly resemble baby poop.
“First, the dress with all of the poopy colors. Then yesterday, with the brown sweater—”
“It was mustard yellow,” I retort defensively. He continues.
“And then today, this…” He gestures to the air around me, making a circle. “You resemble baby poop.”
I cross my arms, slightly affronted. “At least I don’t have the whole Unabomber thing going on,” I say, mimicking his gesture and making a circle around his head from where I stand.
“Do you insult all of your patients?” he asks, no hint of a smile on his face.
“Do you insult all of the workers?” I snap.
“I really don’t like you,” he chides matter-of-factly.
“I really don’t like you either, so we’re even.”
“How about we just don’t talk?” he suggests.
I nod vehemently. “I think that’s a fantastic plan.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
I realize I’m breathing heavily from our arguing, so I take a deep breath and uncross my arms. I’m about to say something snarky when he interrupts me.
“Can you leave now?” he asks, annoyed.
I push aside every memory I have of him and stare at the man before me, placing my hands on my hips. He is pissing me the hell off, and quite frankly, it’s hard to imagine the dreamy guy I’d seen in my dreams is the same man before me.
This man right here in front of me is a pain in my ass. Right now, all I want to do is punch him in the nuts.
I throw my hands up in the air in surrender. “I’m gone,” I hiss, and then I turn on my heel and leave.
“You need to help me into my chair,” he calls out after me, and I stop mid-step. I slowly rotate on my heel and walk back inside.
Damn. I really wanted to make a dramatic exit.
“Fine,” I say, exasperated, even though I know he can do it himself. “I have no idea why Darcy thought us working together would be a good idea,” I say, walking over to him. I place my arm underneath his, lifting him slightly, or as much as I can.
He doesn’t budge.
“I’ll just do it myself,” he answers, and I squeeze my lips together.
“Very well.” I look around the room one more time before I leave. I swallow and take a deep breath. Fighting with him won’t get either of us anywhere. I shouldn’t let his sulkiness get to me. I need to be the bigger person. “Darcy said you painted something yesterday. Can I see it?” I’ve been restlessly curious about that painting since yesterday. One look at that painting, and baby, that was all you.
He looks up at me, his eyes wide in shock. And then anger. Again, he doesn’t grace me with an answer. Instead, he lurches forward and slides into his chair with ease. Then he rolls himself into the bathroom.
“When you bring my breakfast, I’ll need help changing into my clothes.” He slams the door shut, and I’m left gripping the edge of his bed tightly. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, and I want to find that painting and destroy it, like he’s destroying my heart right now.
Chauvinistic asshole is right.
*
My hands are shaking when I brin
g his tray of food into his room. Darcy informed me that she’s already given him his medication, and I’m to stay until he finishes most of his breakfast. Apparently, the medicine only works with food.
I wonder if the medicine turns him into a dickhole, too.
The door is slightly ajar when I walk in. He’s drying off his hair with a towel. I stop, unsure if I should approach him or hold back by the door.
“I don’t bite,” he says, and it takes me a second to realize he’s mimicking my words from two days ago.
“Note to self: showering gives you a sense of humor.”
He whips around and glares at me. “Note to self: my new nurse thinks she’s funny, but who is she kidding?” He turns back around, his back to me, and continues to dry his hair. It’s for the best, because I’m the color of a beet right now.
“I’m not a nurse. I’m a volunteer.” I feel my lip quiver, and I bite it. I set his tray down on his bed, a little too hard. His apple juice slops over the side, but I don’t care. If he were nicer, I’d wipe it up for him. He’s not an invalid. He can wipe the juice up himself.
“Have a good day,” I say, standing straight and upright. I can’t let him know that he’s getting to me. He doesn’t answer, so I turn around and walk out the door.
“Did you bump your head sometime in the last twenty minutes? You have to help me into my clothes,” he yells.
I groan, and I don’t even try to hide it. I plaster on a smile and walk back in.
“Of course. How could I forget?” My voice is saccharinely sweet—mockingly sweet. I hope he notices.
He’s facing me now, and he just rolls his eyes. I try not to get distracted by the single droplet of water running from the tip of his hair and onto his chest. I walk over to him, and he smells good for someone with such an acrid attitude.
“Here,” I say, grabbing a shirt from the drawer. He doesn’t need help with that; he throws it over his head and then nudges his neck to his bare legs. He’s only wearing boxers.
“Shorts are in the drawer. I can’t wear pants with the cast.” He looks just as uncomfortable as I feel. I grab a pair of dark jean shorts. “Not those,” he growls. I hide my irritation and grab a pair of tan corduroy shorts. “Not those either,” he says, and when I look up, he’s smiling—SMILING!—and watching me with glee. What a fucking tool.
I slam the pants on the ground and stand. “If you’re going to be picky, you can dress yourself. I know you’re just trying to humiliate me, but I’m tougher than I look.”
“Oh really?” he says, still smiling. He’s stroking his jaw and looking at me carefully. “Because you’re bright red.”
I sigh and close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose in the process. “Do you not want my help? Because I can go.”
“Then by all means, go!” He waves his arms and gestures for me to leave.
In one big harrumph, I stomp out of the room with my hands on my hips. I want to punch something, most likely his face, and I don’t care if he’s depressed or moody or suicidal. He’s a jerk, and he knows exactly how to push my buttons. All I tried to do was help. If he doesn’t want my help, then fine.
I walk into the employee lounge, and Emma is heating something up in the microwave. I plop on the couch and sigh loudly.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, coming to sit next to me a minute later. She’s eating what looks to be a delicious breakfast burrito. My stomach grumbles. I wish I’d had more than some granola and a banana for breakfast. I’m still fuming, so I only give her one word.
“Sebastian.”
She nods, chewing slowly. “Ahh, I see. Say no more,” she says between bites.
I wrap my arms around my chest. “Is he so unhappy that he has to insult and humiliate me at every chance?”
“I suppose so.”
“Was he always like this?” My voice is pleading, and Emma gives me a funny look. I have to know. Is the old Sebastian in there somewhere, hidden underneath the monster?
“Well,” she says, finishing her burrito and wiping her hands on her jeans. I can’t help but smile. She’s such a slob. “In high school, he was always the weird kid.”
My eyes go wide. “You guys went to high school together?”
She nods. “Yeah. He was a year ahead of me, but we were friends. Freaks and geeks,” she adds, laughing. I see a sad smile begin to appear on her lips. “The first couple of years of college were good for him. He went to Williams College in Massachusetts. Anyways, he studied abroad in Florence his junior year, and I think he got homesick. His classmates eventually had an intervention, and they sent him home. He never went back to college. It went downhill from there, and we sort of lost touch after that.”
I look down at my hands solemnly. Not only did we never meet, but both of our lives are worse off because of it. If we’d found each other sooner, things might be different now.
So, so different. I place my hand on my stomach, remembering what it felt like to be pregnant, remembering Sebastian’s smile, remembering how happy our life felt.
“That’s too bad,” I say, looking up at Emma.
“Yeah. But it doesn’t excuse his behavior. We have plenty of depressed people roaming around these halls, and they’re all perfectly agreeable.”
“Like me,” I mutter. It slips out, but the instant I say it, I don’t regret it. It’s now or never, and I have a feeling it’ll come up eventually.
She studies me in surprise. “Depression? Huh. I never would’ve guessed. You’re the perfect example of an agreeable depressed person,” she laughs.
“It’s true. I am lovely. But three months ago, I was a wreck.”
“What’s your story?” Emma asks, reaching down to the coffee table for her mug.
I sigh and wring my hands together. As I begin to tell my story, she nods ardently, like she’s already invested in my story. When I finish, she’s staring at me in awe.
“Three months ago? You’ve got your shit together, woman. But seriously, are you okay? Do you need me to reserve a room for you here?”
I burst out laughing. “I’m okay now. Honestly, I think it was a mix of my situation and not being on medication. I feel normal now—even-keeled, balanced. Happy, even.”
“I have a question,” Emma says slowly. “Why Brattleboro?”
Oy. This is a question I dreaded. I just shrug. “I honestly don’t know. I dreamt about Vermont when I was in the hospital,” I add, not giving away too many details, “and I feel like it was a sign.” I shrug again. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed to admit the truth. Maybe because it might make me sound like a lunatic.
Emma nods and smiles. “I like you. You’ve been through hell and back, and yet you’re so… hopeful. You’re optimistic.”
“I have to be,” I say timidly. “I never used to be. But what do we have if we don’t have hope?”
“Try telling Sebastian that,” she says, standing. “I don’t think the guy’s felt an ounce of hope in a really long time.”
Chapter Eighteen
PRESENT
After my first week is over, I feel like I’ve learned a few things about life as a volunteer.
First, it doesn’t matter how I treat Sebastian… he will inevitably bark orders at me and try to intimidate me in any way that he can. I think it’s some sort of defense mechanism; I think he’s attempting to push me away. Though I try to remain calm and professional, on an occasion or two, I’ve hidden in a bathroom stall and cried.
Secondly, Emma and Darcy are angels for dealing with the crazy shit that goes on at Brattleboro Retreat on a daily basis: food being flung, new patients arriving every day, angry outbursts, MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder—I’m looking at you, David/Hubert) and general malaise of the rest of the staff (Cecelia is the laziest person I know). Emma can be snarky, but I can tell that she genuinely cares for her patients, just like her mother.
Thirdly, there are three distinct cliques here, which is both hilarious and sad. The first group is the popular girls
. This includes Lily (addiction), Dana (anorexia nervosa), and Dina (bulimia nervosa), and Angela (addiction). The second group is the schizophrenics, which includes Mr. Kringle and two other middle-aged men, both of which I’ve never met. They prefer to stick together, and they’re all very sweet and nice. The third group is the outcasts.
You could say Sebastian is a part of this group, but he generally prefers to be alone and sticks to himself. There are a couple of other people with chronic depression or anxiety, and one woman around my age with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My days are certainly interesting but very fulfilling.
After I leave on Friday afternoon, I drive back to my downtown studio. I already love it here, and even though aspects of the retreat are tough (Sebastian), I am finally starting to find my groove.
I change out of my work clothes and into some running clothes. I haven’t practiced yoga since the day of the incident, but I do run and meditate daily. Today I’m jogging over to the local coffee shop to see if I can acquire a paying job. The bills have to be paid somehow.
I start out slow, dodging the people I encounter on the sidewalk. After the first light, I pick up the pace, breathing in the warm air and trying to keep my smile in check. My ponytail swishes behind me, and I’m starting to feel strong and lean from my daily runs.
Downtown Brattleboro (if it could even be considered “downtown”) is the epitome of quaint, and I feel lucky to live here. Awnings, vintage stores, coffee shops, record shops, and co-ops line the street, as well as the guy selling homemade raw honey. It’s very primal here, in a farmhouse, homestead kind of way, and the complete opposite of San Clemente. Everyone here makes his or her own jam, and it seems like everyone is an artisan of some kind. I’ve never seen so many blown-glass shops in my life.
A few blocks later, I’m ducking under the quaint blue awning of Mocha Jean’s Coffee. A few people are scattered around tables, but for the most part, it’s empty for two o’clock on a Friday afternoon.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 13
