After grabbing a new mask and fitting it over my face, I follow him to the PT room. It smells like rubber, old sweat, and dried bleach. Other patients are working on various exercises to regain whatever skill they lost. Most of them are wrinkly old men. One of them wears a Vietnam Veteran hat.
Ricky leads me directly to a treadmill in the far corner. A bank of mirrors lines the wall so I get to watch myself work out. Yay.
For good measure, he breaks out a disinfecting wipe and cleans off the handholds and controls of the treadmill. “Have you been doing laps around the unit?”
“Every couple of hours.”
“How many circles do you do?”
“Five.”
He nods. “Good. Hop on.”
I plant my feet on either side of the belt and grip the handholds for balance. Air stutters in my lungs. I’m out of breath and I haven’t started exercising yet. This should go well.
Ricky presses a few buttons, selecting a circuit. “Gonna walk uphill today.”
The motor’s whine joins the other machines. The belt whips to life, winding around the track in a blur. I set my right foot on first, then my left. It starts off slow and increases to the designated speed.
At five minutes, the hydraulics elevate the platform to simulate walking uphill.
I follow along, a good little gerbil. Walking, but getting nowhere. Kind of the story of my life.
It doesn’t take long to generate a burn in my calves and hamstrings. I’m huffing pretty hard, too. The mask holds in too much heat. Sweat breaks out all over my body. My palms sweat, slicking the handholds.
I pray for the next phase of the program, the part where the incline reduces so I can walk on a flat surface. My lungs hurt from expanding more than they’re used to. I try to take steadier breaths. The wires in my sternum should hold, but it seems like their edges are tugging apart. My oh-so-helpful brain conjures images of them popping open and my heart leaping out to plop lifeless on the belt.
“How you doing?” Ricky watches me from the treadmill’s side. He’s holding a clipboard and pen, ready to catalogue my stats.
“Fantastic.” I pant. A drop of sweat trickles into my eye. It burns and I try, unsuccessfully, to rub it out.
“Let’s check your heart rate. Grab the sensors.”
I wrap my fingers around the handles on either side of the control panel. The screen flickers and a little heart pulses in the right corner like a cursor. After a few seconds, my heart rate pops up.
“One-twenty-seven. Good.” Ricky scratches the number down on his tracking sheet.
I jerk my head up and down a couple times. My heart thumps wildly against my sternum. My pulse rushes through my ears like an out of control tidal wave. Heat encases my body. The room starts to swirl. Before the surgery, this all added up to a warning that my heart was about to trip into an unstable rhythm and if I didn’t heed it, I could collapse.
I squeeze the handles, mentally strangling my worry. This heart can handle the challenge.
If that were true, then the encroaching shroud of blackness shouldn’t be descending over my eyes.
Something’s wrong. I need to stop. Get off this hellish contraption. I must quit … or I’m going to die.
“I need a break.” I desperately want to punch the stop button, but if I let go of the handles, I’ll lose my balance and fall. My heavy feet slam on the belt, a compliment to my pounding heart. Ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom. I drag my toe with every step as if I’m walking through wet concrete.
My heart rate spikes up to one-forty-one. The darkness at the corners of my vision spreads.
“Deep breaths. You can do this. No pain, no gain.” Ricky watches it, his dark hawk-like eyes trained on the number.
“I can’t.” My mouth is dry, but the air behind my mask is humid. Salty sweat coats my upper lip. I lick it away as I huff and puff. Air snags in my throat, like brittle leaves scratching along a sidewalk. My knees wobble. “Please.”
Ricky presses his mouth into a thin line. “Tough it out, Adam. Thirty seconds.”
“I’m going to pass out.” I take deep breaths, but can’t get enough oxygen in my lungs. My legs shake from fatigue.
I trip over my toe and drop to my knees. The belt keeps looping. I slide down the track onto my stomach, then land prone on the floor. Something crunches in my breastbone. I gurgle out a scream.
Ricky slaps the stop button, but the belt skids along my chin. All my weight is pressed on my upper torso—against the incision Dr. Jervis so expertly carved into my body. My arms are sprawled wide as if I’m about to take flight. I flap them, completely useless.
Ricky is at my side, kneeling. He places a hand on my left shoulder. “You okay?”
I press my cheek against the cold tile floor. “Can’t … move.”
“Roll on your side.”
“C-can’t … ”
“Yes, you can. Pull your arms in, tighten your abs, and roll.” He bends my left elbow so my arm is parallel with my side.
I mirror him with my right arm. “Careful, something popped in my chest.”
“It’s okay. You’re fine.” He slides a hand under my shoulder and hip and pries me over.
I groan with the movement. “Something’s not right. The wires broke.” My voice is shrill from panic.
Ricky lifts my shirt. “Everything looks good. Where’d you feel the popping?”
“There has to be something wrong.” My shirt is in the way. I can’t tell if my wound is open or if shards of my breastbone are peeking through my skin. I lift my head and point a shaky finger just above my stomach. Intense burning radiates out from the spot—the point of impact.
Ricky hefts me upright so I’m sitting up. He angles me toward the mirror. “Nothing’s damaged. See?”
I stare at my reflection. My scrawny, pale, hyperventilating, bug-eyed reflection. Such a coward.
The wrinkled faces of the old guys are turned toward me too. They study me through their milky cataracts, their dentures hanging loose in their gaping mouths. The elderly peanut gallery is getting a front row view of me, the pansy-assed weakling who can’t handle five minutes on a treadmill.
“I think we’ve had enough for today.” Ricky pats my back.
He’s right. I’ve had enough. Of everything. I rip the mask off and run my fingers along the incision line. Dozens of stitches pucker my skin. None of them have torn. No wires stick out of my body. The burning that had me in such panic eases. I’m okay.
And I’m chicken shit.
Wait until Shaw hears about this.
* * *
Shaw doesn’t visit during our normal session time the next day. At first, I’m relieved. Then as the hours push on, my stomach starts to writhe with anticipation, much like swirling clouds on the edge of a hurricane.
Sure enough, she arrives after dinner, when Mum’s there. It’s a good plan. Mum will back Shaw up, for sure.
“I heard you had a panic attack in PT yesterday.” Of course it’s the first thing out of Shaw’s mouth.
“He refuses to talk about it,” Mum sets her Kindle aside and slides to the edge of her cot.
All evening she’s lobbed fiery arrows at me—sometimes in the guise of small talk and sometimes not—in hopes of breeching my outer walls. I’ve resisted, but it’s come with a heavy price. My appetite refuses to return. I can’t focus on homework. Nothing interests me on TV. I can’t focus on the Maugham book I’m reading. (Perhaps too late, I’ve abandoned Frankenstein in the hopes of leaving visions of the doctor’s monster behind.)
“Nothing happened. Let’s just forget about it.” I rest the back of my head on the wall, clutching my heart pillow to my chest, the silly little thing I have to carry around as a reminder not to use my arms too much lest I actually do and pop open my wounds. It’s my shield, my plate of armor. I’ve been reluctant to set it down since my fall. Wind lashes the window, howling against the sill. A slight shift of air brus
hes my side. Gooseflesh erupts along my arms. I should’ve wrapped a blanket around myself, but then again the cold from sitting in the windowsill gives me something to focus on besides my traitorous body.
Mum stands. “I’ll leave you two alone. Do you want anything from the cafeteria?”
I try not to gape at her. She’s leaving me alone with Shaw. No double confrontation. Shocker. “No.”
“I think you should join us for session today.” Dr. Shaw gestures for Mum to sit.
“Really?” Mum eases onto the cot, her brow warped into a questioning arch.
Back to two against one. I slump and let my feet dangle over the sill’s edge. My knees are sore from crashing to the floor. “I don’t want to meet with you anymore, remember?”
Shaw gives a surprised laugh. It has to be part of her act—for Mum. She knows exactly how I feel about therapy so the chuckle isn’t for my benefit. “You have to be in treatment. It’s part of the program.”
Mum folds her hands in her lap, but sits so straight it’s like a metal rod is lodged in her spine. “He told you he wanted to stop therapy?”
I curl my fingers around the sill’s ledge. Shaw hadn’t told Mum already?
Shaw dips her chin. “Yes.”
“Why, Adam?” Mum picks at a fingernail.
“You guys think I’m not making any progress anyway, so what’s the difference?” I say.
“I’m not giving up simply because you want to.” Shaw, so confident, so matter of fact.
One battering ram of a sentence brings down the outer wall of my fortress.
“Doctor Shaw is right. You need treatment more than ever.” On cue, Mum backs Shaw up.
“I don’t need the two of you ganging up on me.” I rub my finger along the stitches of my heart pillow. They’re rough, like the sutures in my chest.
“Why do you think we’re against you? We’re trying to help you, but all you do is shut us out.” Mum goes for the center gate.
“Maybe I need to be left alone for a while instead of constantly being—” I pause, catching myself.
Shaw crosses her arms. She hasn’t taken off her coat yet. “Constantly being what?”
I suck on my lip ring.
Mum mirrors her by folding her arms across her chest. “Answer the question.”
I can’t handle a battle on two fronts. “Nothing.”
“See? There he goes again.” Mum smacks her thigh.
“It must be so frustrating, Lisa.”
I glare at Shaw, but she’s giving Mum her undivided attention.
Mum’s forehead furrows. “Very. It makes me so … upset to see him come so far and yet be so … unhappy. Why is this happening?”
Shaw sets her purse on the bedside table and sits. She crosses her ankles and tucks her feet to the side, all formal and proper. Except for the side slit in her skirt that gives me an arrhythmia-inducing view of her thigh. “When depression takes hold it can be extremely difficult to pluck it out.”
She talks about it like it’s a wart or parasite that needs excavating. It’s more than that. It’s a part of me, indistinguishable from normal Adam. To separate us would mean destroying me. If a whole me can even be teased out of this mess I’ve become.
Mum abandons her cot to sit on the windowsill. She clamps her hands over mine, looking me straight in the eye. “Please, Adam. Come back to us. Leave the pit of darkness you’re drowning in and live.”
My inner defenses, fatigued from constant erosion, flee. A rush of emotion swells until my entire body shakes with it. Heat rushes to my face. Tears explode from my eyes. “You think I want to feel this way? That I want to carry around this … this … ” I stumble in the dark, grasping at the rubble of my fortress, which in reality is my prison, digging my fingernails into the dirt. I’ve sentenced myself to this hell and locked myself away. In my own head. And there’s no key to unlock the door. No chance of escape.
“This what, honey?” Mum’s grip tightens.
“I can’t get out myself. Help me.” My voice is thick with exhaustion and surrender.
Mum turns to Shaw. “Tell us what to do, doctor.”
Shaw uncrosses her ankles and slowly stands. A satisfied tic to her mouth spreads into a full smile as Mum delivers me to her without a fight.
Chapter Twelve
Darby
It’s day two of Darby being alone in a small room. I’m about ready to bug out.
Mom and Dad stay away like I ask. The nurses and aids check on me a few times, but they’re in and out to check my vital signs, comment on the food I’m not eating, and remind me to shower.
Mostly I’m waiting for Dr. Shaw to come back. She said she’d help me and then she’d disappeared. Maybe I dreamed her up.
I slide off my bed and peek out the window. Outside, light and dark fight. Black sky argues with yellow office windows. Red, yellow, and green stoplights yell at blue neon signs hanging over the stores’ front doors. Headlights from the steady flow of cars slap the wet road. Rain flecks over the whole scene like static on a TV screen.
I climb back into bed and tug a lock of hair apart from the rest, dividing it into three sections. It only takes a few seconds to braid it, so I get busy sectioning off and twisting strands until half my head is in loose, half-unraveling twists.
“I like the new look.”
I startle.
Shaw leans against the wall with her arms folded across her chest. Her hair is down. Loose curls touch her shoulders. It softens her sharp cheekbones and pointed chin. I could never hope to be as beautiful as her. She’s like art. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I tousle my hair to undo the braids. “Just messing around. Not a lot to do here.”
My gaze lands on the pile of lonely art supplies dumped in the corner. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I picked up a brush again.
She takes off her pea coat. Her cream cable knit sweater compliments her porcelain skin and her skinny jeans highlight how slim and tall she is.
God, it’s like she’s stepped out of Vogue. I, on the other hand, could barely make the cut for some heroin-junky-busted-for-shoplifting-crime-bulletin-photo on the local police Facebook page.
She twists her mouth to the side. “Have you left your room at all?”
“No.”
“Well that’s terrible.”
I snort.
“Would you like to get out of here for a while?”
I stare at the doorway. Do I deserve it? “I don’t know.”
“You have a jacket?”
“In the closet.”
“Get dressed.” She twirls her coat like a bull fighter and slides her arms in the sleeves.
“I, uh … ”
“Come on. We won’t be breaking any rules, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She fastens her buttons. “I’ll wait outside for you.”
I sit there, stunned, as Shaw shuts the door behind her. A smile plays at my mouth. She’s really serious about going outside.
I lower my feet to the floor. The tiles are cold on my bare feet. I pad to the closet next to the mini-bathroom—with the locker-sized shower—and open the door. Mom organized what she brought—a couple shirts and sweatshirts on the left, jeans in the middle, and underwear, bras, and socks in a mesh bag on the right. A pair of boots and sneakers wait neatly on the floor. Not one piece is stain-free, all wearing paint or turpentine.
I grab jeans and a zippered sweatshirt so I don’t have to tug anything over my c-collar and dress quickly. The smell of fabric softener and home mixes with the bleach-y hospital scent. For a fraction of a second, I get a flash of my old life, pre-accident. A life where I plot revenge against a know-it-all cheerleader, doodle in my notebook during school, and party hard at the club. In that life, Daniel is always there to swoop in and save me from crashing and burning.
My safety net is gone now.
I open the door and take the first step out of my hospital room turned
jail cell.
Shaw’s talking to a nurse by the nursing station. Rosa. Her laughter pulls a small smile from me even though I have no idea what’s funny.
Rosa catches me walking up to Shaw. The lights rimming the station along the ceiling reflect off her glasses. “Oh my goodness, she’s out of her room!”
Shaw turns to me. “Darby, I’m glad you decided to join me.”
I tuck a loose chunk of hair behind my ear. “Yeah.”
“It’s chilly out. You might want to layer. Do you have a hat?”
I’d tip my chin up to glare at her, but my neck brace stops me so I lean back instead. “I don’t need you to act like my Mom.”
She raises her hands in surrender. “Not my intention.”
I tug the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. “Let’s get out of here.”
Shaw flashes her perfect teeth. “As you wish.”
Rosa leans over the counter. “Have her back in an hour?”
“Of course.” Shaw waves goodbye to Rosa and we’re on our way to the elevator.
My stomach flops on the ride down. I haven’t been outside since the accident. Thankfully, the hallways are nearly empty as we walk to the front entrance. Only a couple people rush along the sidewalk, collars turned up and heads ducked against the chilly rain.
An icy breeze blows, shoving cold air into my lungs. Even my skin tingles. It’s not painful, though. It’s refreshing after so many days of stale hospital air.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Shaw says in my ear.
“Yeah.” There’s a lightness to my voice I haven’t heard in weeks. Despite myself, I’m enjoying this. I pause. Am I supposed to be liking this?
Shaw and I duck out of the way of a woman with a giant umbrella. Seriously, she could fit a bus under that thing.
Shaw hooks an arm through mine so I don’t step into a pothole. I hadn’t noticed it and if I’d fallen … well, it wouldn’t have been pretty, even with the c-collar to protect me.
“Thanks.”
She squeezes my arm. “Anytime. Where would you like to go?”
I lift my hood. Not too many options. A cafe across the street. Yuck. Or the sandwich shop between a pharmacy and bank. Generic. “I don’t care.”
Under My Skin Page 11
