by Maggi Myers
As if he can hear my thoughts, he glances over his shoulder and meets my eyes. I smile and give him a small wave.
I’m here, Tate. You’re not alone.
comfort of strangers
We sit in silence as we eat our sandwiches. I miss the playfulness of our earlier conversation. I nibble at my sandwich and watch Tate study his food. I know this trick, the “pretend to be focused on anything else” tactic; hell, I practically invented it. The longer he ponders his corned beef on rye, the more excuses he’ll find not to talk. The way his shoulders are slumped forward and his head dropped, I know he’s already close to folding in on himself, shoving everyone else out.
“Did I do okay?” I interrupt his retreat. “If you don’t like corned beef, I’ll trade you. I’ve got turkey and Swiss on wheat.” I smile innocently as he glances up from his plate. So it’s slightly gnawed on. Whatever. It’s small talk.
“Corned beef is great, thank you.” He gives me a tight smile. I miss the dimples. “How is Lily?” he asks nonchalantly.
I chew slowly, buying time to consider my answer. I could answer him honestly, and head down a rabbit hole that has nothing to do with him, or I could be a complete hypocrite and avoid talking about her at all. I’m weighing my options carefully when he cuts in, “It’s not easy, is it?”
“What’s not easy?” I ask.
“Talking about it.” He even uses air quotes to mark the point.
Well, crap. Touché.
“It’s tricky. It doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth talking about.” I sigh, shaking my head at my total lack of eloquence. “I don’t know if that makes any sense …” I let my words trail off. This is exactly what I mean; walking naked through the hospital atrium sounds easier than talking about Lily.
“Yeah.” He nods his agreement and picks at a chip on his plate. “It makes perfect sense.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” I offer. “You tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me. If it comes up, all the better.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter, but my heart is boxing with my rib cage. I just want him to keep talking.
“Okay.” He clears his throat and licks his lips. I blush. I blush?
Get a grip, Caroline.
“Deal.” He extends his hand across the table. I take his hand in mine and we shake on it.
“Deal,” I say, “but you have to start; you already know that I have a daughter and drink skinny vanilla lattes.”
I wait for him to say something. He sits across from me, stoic, pensive, and silent.
“Tate, you don’t have to say anything.” I backpedal. “I’m sorry if I was pushy, I—”
He interrupts my apology. “I have a twin sister,” he blurts out.
Well, that’s a start.
“Who’s older?” I ask. I’m so keenly focused on Tate, I reach for my chips with my right arm. Tate’s gaze follows the movement of my quavering hand. I concentrate on holding on to the chip and getting it to my mouth without dropping it. My heart and my rib cage are in a full-out MMA battle at this point. I know I’m red-faced with embarrassment; I can feel the heat pulsing under my cheeks. Tate’s eyes lift from my hand, locking with mine. There’s no pity, just curiosity. I wait for him to say something. Anything.
“Tarryn,” he says. His eyes never leave mine, holding me captive with their caramel warmth.
“Huh?”
“Huh”? Caroline speak pretty.
“Tarryn.” He smiles, flashing his dimples. “My sister—she’s three minutes older than me. Tell me something random about yourself.”
I start to squirm under his penetrating stare. When he finally looks away, my words find me.
“Random?” My life has become so singularly driven, I don’t know what to say that doesn’t involve Lily. I search the coffers of my memory for some interest that’s somewhat current. There’s nothing.
“What’s your favorite TV show?” he offers. “This is important, because if you say The Bachelorette or Real Housewives of Scranton, I don’t know if we can be friends.” He chuckles and leans back in his chair, waiting for me to—what? Proclaim my undying devotion to reality TV?
“Scranton, Ohio? Seriously?” I tease. Lucky for Tate, I’m vehemently opposed to the exploitation of women so desperate for a date, they duke it out over one dickless moron on national television.
“Don’t deflect; you know what I mean,” he says, eyeing me suspiciously. “Wait! You don’t really watch that, do you?” The look of mock horror that crosses his face cracks me up.
“No way.” I laugh. “Sons of Anarchy.”
“Sons of Anarchy,” he repeats.
“SAMCRO, baby.”
“Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original.” He nods his head and looks at me in wonder. “Marry me?” A playful smile stretches across his face. Of course he’s kidding, but I still blush scarlet. “You’re too good to be true.”
“Oh, please, I’m a calamity.” I wave off his bewilderment and force myself to sit still.
“Your first concert?” Tate leans his arms on the table, waiting with rapt interest.
“Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble.” The words shoot out of me like rapid gunfire.
Charming, Calamity Caroline.
Tate laughs at my awkward display even as his forehead crinkles with surprise. I give an impish grin and shrug my shoulders. What can I say? It was a strange “first” for a twelve-year-old, but I was always a peculiar girl. I used to bask in my nonconformity, but now I just feel … well … odd.
“Aren’t you too young to have seen him in concert?” he asks. There is an ease to his demeanor that I envy. He’s relaxed and completely chill, while I’m strung higher than a kite. I can’t help it; I want him to think that I’m a cool chick, good friend material. Yet all I seem to do is emphasize my lack of finesse.
Sophisticated and demure I’m not. Comical and graceless I am. Yoda, my subconscious is, hmm?
I glance across the table, and it’s my turn to watch in wonder as Tate continues to eat his lunch, entirely unaffected by my spectacle.
All worried for nothing, I am. Gah! Enough, Caroline. Focus. Focus. Focus.
“I was twelve. Charles, my big brother, got saddled with babysitting me that night, so he brought me along. SRV’s copter crashed later that summer. Such a waste.” I shake my head and make a mental note to call my brother tomorrow. I miss him. Our relationship has been tough since Peter and I separated. They were good friends; I know it’s hard for him not to feel like he has to take sides. The irony is, there are no sides. There are no bad guys, only a crappy set of circumstances.
“You’re one cool chick, Caroline.” Tate’s words raise goose bumps all the way up through my scalp. I feel my mouth drop as I stare in disbelief.
“What?” He looks at me, confused.
“Nothing, it’s just I was mentally berating myself for my inelegance,” I admit. “My gift, grace is not.”
Unable to contain himself a minute more, Tate throws his head back and bursts open with laughter. His guffaws draw attention from across the courtyard. People are staring at us like we’re on display at the zoo. This only serves to make me laugh too, when typically I’d be under the table by now. However, this is a stellar moment in the growth of Caroline Hunter. My satisfaction in making Tate laugh trumps my fear of being ridiculous. Perhaps there is hope for me after all.
“Patience you must have, my young Padawan.” I’ll give him credit; he tries to say it with a straight face, but he’s laughing so hard, tears pool in his eyes. The sound rumbles from deep in his chest; it’s pure delight, unapologetic mirth, and is absolutely infectious.
“You’re mocking me!” I feign distress, clutching my hand to my heart. In truth, I’m rather pleased with myself. There’s more than one way to skin this cat, and Tate doesn’t want to talk about who’s on the seventh floor. That’s fine by me; I’m willing to bide my time and wait him out.
He takes a couple of deep breaths to calm h
imself before he answers. “Never.” He places his hand over his own heart, and grabs my hand with the other. “You don’t know how badly I needed to laugh like that. Thank you.”
“My work here is done,” I proclaim to our courtyard audience, with a dramatic wave of my hand. “Now, it’s your turn to share some randomness.”
He lets go of my hand and rubs it over his head. “Okay, I’ll try to stick with the theme here. Favorite TV show? Sons of Anarchy. No kidding. First concert? Toad the Wet Sprocket. Inner dialogue narrator? Dirty Harry.”
“You’re not pulling my leg about SOA?”
“True story. Scout’s honor,” he promises. “I have a little crush on Maggie Siff.”
I wasn’t expecting that at all. She plays the pediatric surgeon / old lady of the motorcycle club, and she is badass. Not your typical Hollywood cookie-cutter beauty, either. I adore her. I’m also a big fan of Toad the Wet Sprocket. I think I need to revisit the theory that Tate is a mind reader.
“Well, I have to say you’re a bit of an anomaly, Tate.” I begin to clean up our table. He tips his head and studies me. “What?” I ask.
“Seriously, what’s with the vocabulary?”
Tate’s question catches me off guard. I’m stupefied. How’s that for vocabulary?
“Inelegance, anomaly, discomfiture … That’s more than dabbling. People get lazy with words these days. I like that you’re not.” He shrugs.
“Thanks.” I beam. He may not know it, but he’s just paid me the best compliment in the world. I love words. I miss them.
“Once upon a time, I was an acquisitions editor.” I sigh wistfully. “Now I’m a full-time mommy.” I try not to let the disappointment show. “Speaking of, it’s time I get back to Lily.”
The look on Tate’s face halts my reverie midsentence. His eyebrows are all askew: one’s arched high, the other dipped low across a squinty eye. I find my own eyebrow rising, wondering what he’s thinking.
“Are you married?” he asks nonchalantly.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m separated.” It doesn’t get easier to say. Even as charming as my stranger may be, I still feel like a failure saying it.
“You said you were a stay-at-home mom.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I was curious …” His words stumble to a halt as he struggles with what to say next.
I want to reassure him, and it shocks me. I haven’t needed to explain my custody arrangement, or lack of it, to anyone, and yet I find myself caring very much what Tate thinks. “I haven’t worked out the logistics with my ex yet, but when Lily starts school in the fall, I’ll try freelance editing part-time. Maybe twenty or so hours a week. We’ll see.” I try not to think about all of the change ahead, or the fact that I haven’t worked in five years. Tate watches me, concern etched in his expression.
“I’m sorry; I assumed,” Tate apologizes. The eyebrows are back, meeting in the middle, tipping up toward his hairline. His look is slightly pained and sheepish; I can’t help but grin. I bet he could hold an entire conversation solely with the position of his eyebrows.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “It’s all good; it’s just a lot of change, you know?”
“I imagine it is,” he agrees.
“Has anyone ever mentioned you have astonishingly expressive eyebrows?” I ask.
“Nice segue.” He grins. “I’ve got to get back, too. Can I walk you to the elevator?”
I rock back and forth on my heels as we stand in the lobby waiting for the elevator to whisk us back up to the Neurology wing. I don’t want to dive back into reality yet; I like the way I feel when I’m talking with Tate. He thinks I’m funny and interesting. Maybe I’m being selfish, but it’s nice to be the center of attention.
Tate pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and I find myself grabbing it out of his hands. He tilts his head and looks at me. I smile and bring up his contact list, tilting the screen for his approval. I’m not sure where this capricious Caroline came from, but I like her. She dances along the fringe of my subconscious, urging me to be bold.
“Can I?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” he says with a grin. The look gives him a boyish playfulness. I bump my shoulder into his and smile back.
I busy myself with typing my information into Tate’s phone and hand it back to him just as the elevator chimes. The car is empty this time; it’s just the two of us marinating in silence as it ascends. We are both casting sideways glances, but neither of us says a word. All of our playful banter fades as we’re swept farther away from the courtyard and closer to the lives that await us above.
“Tate?” I wait for him to lift his gaze to mine. “If you ever want to talk, about anything, you can call me anytime.” I let out a shaky breath, wondering if he will.
“Thank you, Caroline.” He sighs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to talk to.”
The elevator jerks to a stop on the seventh floor. The doors open in a mechanical yawn, beckoning Tate to the sterile surgical floor outside. There’s a pregnant pause where neither of us moves, our eyes locked on the open doors and the goodbye it signifies. In a swift and unexpected movement, Tate sweeps me into a gentle hug. I press my cheek into his chest and wrap my arms around his waist. Tears prick the backs of my eyelids. I want so badly to help him. Focusing, I minister every ounce of compassion I can, willing it to seep into him where our bodies touch.
“Anytime,” I whisper. “I meant it.” Reluctantly, I let him go when the elevator doors threaten to close again. Tate steps off, offering me a weak smile that breaks something in me. Perhaps it’s the familiarity of his bravery in the face of his grief, or maybe it’s the vulnerability he shared with me. Empathy flows through my blood, pushing my own pain to the surface. I force the tips of my lips to turn up, even as my heart drops. I hold the plastered grin on my face until the doors close, and only then allow the tears to flow freely.
my little girl
The moment I step off the elevator into the EMU, I can feel that something is wrong. There’s an unnatural stillness on the floor, a void where sound and movement should be mingling. By the time the phenomenon registers in my brain, the silence is pierced by Lily’s scream. The sound of her fear echoes in my own voice as I sprint down the hallway, yelling, “Lily!”
When I round the corner I find Lily thrashing madly in her bed. Audrey is at her side, trying desperately to console her. Chelsea’s presence in the room sends my heart beating in erratic frenzy. Call it a mother’s intuition, but there was something about her I didn’t trust the first time we met. I wish my instincts had been wrong. I watch in terror when Chelsea’s eyes meet mine as she tries to hide the soft restraints in her hand.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Chelsea?” I keep my voice even, letting only my eyes reflect my murderous intent. Lily’s face is sweaty and red with rage. I get it. I feel exactly the same way. Audrey moves to sweep away a strand of hair that’s stuck to Lily’s forehead, but she shrieks and swats at Audrey’s hand.
“Clearly you can see that Lily is out of control,” Chelsea says. She motions toward Audrey and Lily with her free hand and tucks her contraband behind her back with the other.
“What did you do?” I cry out. There’s no way Lily got this way on her own. She’s not self-injurious, and she’s been doing so well in behavioral therapy.
The hurried steps of soft-soled shoes turn my attention to the door. Dr. Baker hustles into the room, evaluating the scene unfolding. She looks at me sympathetically, but then quickly shifts her focus to Lily. She tentatively approaches the bedside while she assesses the tantrum with a keen eye.
“How long has she been like this?” Dr. Baker addresses the room, never taking her eyes off of Lily.
Audrey checks her watch. “Fifteen minutes,” she murmurs softly. Both doctor and nurse understand the need to read Lily’s level of tolerance and are careful not to upset her further by making sudden movements or raising their voices. Everyone understands th
is but Chelsea, who sees fit to start defending herself in loud, irritated bursts.
“Dr. Baker, I called the code green because the patient struck me and I couldn’t get her to comply with the soft restraints.” She punctuates her statement by revealing the Velcro cuffs she intends to use on my girl. Over my dead body.
“You called a code green?” My heart stops beating. Code greens are for violent patients who are a threat to the staff and themselves. They aren’t for five-year-old little girls.
“That was a gross abuse of authority,” Dr. Baker scolds. “You’re trained to use nonviolent crisis intervention to de-escalate these situations, not default to using restraints.”
I want to kiss Dr. Baker. Tears of gratitude mix with my frustration. They silently fall while I listen to her belittle Chelsea.
“Doctor, all I did was come to check on a loose lead,” Chelsea says. She shifts nervously, crossing her arms.
“Did you read her chart first?” The calm of my tone doesn’t betray the seething fury inside. I grab the metal clipboard from the foot of Lily’s bed and start to recite her diagnosis. “Sensory Processing Disorder. Noted tactile defensiveness.”
“Excuse me?” Chelsea sneers.
“It’s a patient’s chart,” I say. “When you read them beforehand, you learn things like, ‘is fearful of strangers. Doesn’t like to be touched.’ ” I point out each bullet in the patient orders.
Dr. Baker’s attempts to soothe Lily are met with more maniacal thrashing. I watch in horror as Lily starts to beat her head against the bedrail. Dr. Baker grabs a pillow to place in front of Lily to soften her blows, and addresses Audrey in a whispered flurry. What I can make out threatens to buckle my knees: point zero five milligrams of haloperidol. Haldol. They want to give Lily an antipsychotic. Before I can protest, Audrey nods at Dr. Baker and runs from the room, shoving Chelsea along with her.
“Wait,” I plead. “No!” I rush to replace Audrey at Lily’s bedside, wanting to sweep her into my arms and whisk her away from this nightmare.
“Caroline, I need you listen to me very carefully.” Dr. Baker’s voice is stern but gentle. She waits for me to look at her, locking my eyes with hers. “Lily is hurting herself. None of us wants her to do real damage. Haloperidol is the quickest and safest way for me to protect her right now. Do you understand?”
