by M. Pierce
"Ah, fuck," he groaned.
Violent shivers racked him.
I caught his hand and squeezed it.
"Matt," I said helplessly.
He seemed to be struggling with himself. After a space, he pulled himself to his feet.
"We have to... g-go to the hospital," he said. He searched my eyes, which were the size of plates. "It's okay, Hannah, b-but we h-have to go. Th-this is withdrawal."
Matt's grip on my hand was weak.
His words sank in slowly.
Alcohol withdrawal. I should have guessed, but I had never witnessed it. I had no idea. God, I didn't know a single real alcoholic.
Until Matt.
"Yeah, okay," I said. I needed to be strong right now. I needed to be calm. "Okay, the—"
"Get m-me in the c-car," Matt prompted, lurching toward the doorway. "Your ph-phone. Geneva General."
Matt's anxiety was contagious. My heart began to hammer and my hands shook. At least I had something to do besides hover and panic.
I helped Matt through the cabin and out onto the porch. He vomited over the rail.
He was still wearing boxers and those sad old slippers. I couldn't look at the slippers. I could not break down right now.
I boosted him into the car as best I could. Matt slumped in the seat. I dashed back to the cabin for my flip-flops and purse.
Geneva General Hospital was less than four miles away. I propped my phone on my thigh and studied the directions as I backed up the drive too fast, thwacking branches. I squeezed Matt's shoulder.
"It's okay now," I said. "We'll be there in eight minutes. Five minutes. I love you, Matt."
If Matt heard me, he gave no indication. He was crumpled against the car door. He flinched with each bump in the road and his shallow breath hitched, but I wasn't about to slow down. I drove like hell, swerving and spraying gravel. My headlights bobbed crazily in the morning dark.
"It's okay," I kept saying, "it's okay," staring between my phone and the road. Fuck the dark. Fuck these road signs!
"Here!" I turned sharply onto North Street. Matt swayed. "Sorry, I—" I glanced at Matt and slammed on the brakes. My scream filled the car. Matt was convulsing, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his arms and legs jerking spastically.
I floored the gas. The tires screeched.
By the time we reached the hospital Matt had stopped seizing. I didn't know which was worse—the spasms or this death-like stillness.
Another seizure shook him as I hurtled out of the SUV. I sprinted past the ambulance bay. Eerie white light lit everything. Oh god, thank god, thank god for this place. I realized I was praying as I ran. God, don't take him! God, please, he's mine!
I burst into the ER.
I must have said the right words, explained things right. All I could hear was my fear grinding and screaming. My heart was in the car with Matt.
I led the paramedics outside and watched as they dragged him onto a stretcher. His beautiful body was lifeless. Then he started to seize.
Strangers surrounded the stretcher. I tried to get to Matt. They ran the stretcher into the hospital and I rushed after them. I collided with a nurse.
"My boyfriend!" I shrieked, reaching after him. My boyfriend?
"Hun, listen to me." The nurse held my shoulders. No way could I get past this lady; she was solid and Germanic. "We need you here right now. What's your name?"
"Hannah. Hannah Catalano."
I glanced around for the first time. An old man and a younger couple sat in the lobby. All three pairs of eyes were on me.
"Okay hun, what's your boyfriend's name? Did he bring ID?" The nurse led me behind the front desk. Right, this was the desk clerk. I'd just seen her, and I nearly climbed over her desk screaming about Matt.
I dropped into a bony aluminum chair and hugged myself. Matt, oh god, Matt.
For the next fifteen minutes, I fielded questions and filled out paperwork, half of which I couldn't complete. Every other question was a reminder of how little I knew about Matt.
At least I wasn't bawling. Fear and hollow dread held back my tears.
"What are they doing? Can they stop the seizures? Is—"
The nurse rebuffed my questions with more of her own.
"He's very dehydrated. Do you know how long he's been drinking? How many times has he detoxed in the past?"
I don't know. I don't know. I don't know!
Detoxed in the past...
I remembered the way Matt's hand shook when I made him pour out his last bottle. I wanted to scream. He knew this would happen, didn't he? He'd been down this road before, probably more than once.
Around six, the nurse released me.
"I'll call you in as soon as he's stable," she promised.
I shambled into the lobby.
People came and went. The fluorescent lights hummed steadily.
I Googled alcohol withdrawal on my phone and skimmed the results.
Life-threatening condition.
Drinking heavily for weeks.
Agitation, seizure, delirium tremens... can be fatal.
When I held Matt last night and he came into my hand—was it the last time? And if I lost him now, how was I supposed to live?
I scrolled through my contacts.
Mom, dad, Chrissy, Jay, Pam, Nate.
I should call Nate. Where was he anyway? Maybe he spent the night in Geneva, though I doubted it. He probably drove home and passed out.
"Hannah?"
The desk clerk smiled down at me.
"You can go see him now. Down the hall, he's in the first bed on the left."
My terror burbled back up.
"Thanks," I said. I grabbed my things and jogged down the hall to the ICU. I blinked rapidly against the sanitized whiteness of the hospital. Everywhere I looked I saw monitors and beds and curtains. I heard low voices and a periodic groan. Doctors and nurses moved to and fro purposefully, ignoring me.
First bed on the left.
No one stopped me as I slipped into the curtained-off space.
Matt lay on a hospital bed, the head inclined. Velcro straps tethered his wrists and ankles to the rails. He had an IV in one arm, a catheter in the other. His drip bag was half empty. He was asleep, or maybe unconscious. A monitor blipped his stats.
I swallowed and crept closer. The weight of sorrow crushed my chest. I made this happen. I made him pour out all his alcohol. I made his system fly into panic. I made him start drinking in the first place.
Someone had dressed him in a pale gown with blue spots and socks with rubber paw-shaped grips. A tube snaked out of under his gown. I touched his chest.
"Matt?" I whispered, but I knew he couldn't hear me.
There was a pamphlet by his bed: PHYSICAL RESTRAINTS AND YOUR RIGHTS.
I kept one hand on Matt's body as I found my phone and made a call.
I listened to the ringtone.
Just when I thought no one would answer, I heard a click, then Nate's groggy voice.
"Hi Hannah, everything okay?"
I began to sob.
CHAPTER 27
Matt
_____
NATE SET THE plush manatee on my chest and I touched it reluctantly.
It was velvet soft with black plastic eyes. I stroked it as I glared at the wall.
"A stuffed animal." I smirked. "What does she think I am, a child?"
Nate shrugged.
"I can't say as to that, though you do a damn good job of acting like one."
Nate was being brusquer than usual. Than ever, actually. I hugged the stuffed animal to my chest.
"What the fuck is your problem? You've been a shit all week. I'm lying in a hospital bed, cut me some slack."
Nate dropped into the chair by my bed and steepled his fingers. He looked at my untouched tray of breakfast.
"I would like to know how you propose to get out of here without eating, Matt."
"I have no appetite. You can Google withdrawal. It's kind of a
common symptom."
Nate sighed through his nose. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. God, if he didn't look like a longsuffering saint right now. I rolled my eyes.
"You know," I said, "you could just send Hannah in here unannounced and try to get her to feed me. That sounds like exactly the kind of humiliating thing you'd put me through."
"Don't think I haven't tried, Matt. Unfortunately, she was so crushed when I told her you didn't want to see her that it would be ridiculous to try to send her in now."
"I don't want her to see me. There's a fucking difference."
"Oh, tell that to her!" Nate rose and began to pace. I had never seen him so agitated. He was always the calm one, the kind one. "Besides, she's done enough of my dirty work."
Dirty work. That hurt.
"I'll see her when I'm out of here," I mumbled. "When I can get out of this damn gown and shave, feel more like myself."
"You and your god-forsaken pride. I'm pretty sure she's seen you at your worst."
"Yeah, thanks to you," I snapped.
Nate and I glared at one another. My fucking asshole of a brother. Freshly showered, in a tailored suit, he definitely had the upper hand. I played with the manatee's flippers.
"I had no other choice, Matt. And you know what? She worked. I'm only sorry I dragged the poor girl into this. You pulled a gun on her, you insane son of a bitch."
I winced. Mm, so Hannah told him about the gun.
"Yes, she told me about that," Nate said, weirdly prescient. "And before you ask, I have your gun. And you're not getting it back."
"Is she here?"
"Oh yes, as usual, she's sitting out in the lobby like a goddamn orphan. She wanted to deliver that to you personally." Nate jabbed a finger at my manatee.
"Don't touch her," I said.
"Excuse me?" Nate's eyes flared.
"What have you guys been doing?"
"Cleaning up your mess. Taking care of your rabbit. Packing your belongings."
I nodded vaguely. So, my stay at the cabin was over. I was going home, but home to where? Home to uncle or home to Denver? Or would Nate try to ship me off to a rehab facility? I felt strangely neutral on the matter.
In fact, I couldn't think of a damn thing I wanted, besides Hannah. And even Hannah was unknown territory. The thought of her filled me with embarrassment and guilt.
"Can I leave?" I said.
"Eat your breakfast."
Only Nate could talk to me like that. Only Nate could make me feel like a child.
I pulled the tray over and began to poke at the omelet I'd ordered. I thought of Hannah sitting in the lobby, waiting for Nate. Waiting for me. A spike of anxiety melted under my meds. Fuck, I was heavily medicated. It had been five days since I arrived at the hospital. I had my own room and I was off the IV, but the nurses and doctors still watched me vigilantly.
My omelet was cold and rubbery. I scooped another piece into my mouth. I tucked my manatee under my arm and looked at Nate.
I wasn't trying to look pitiful, but I must have, because his expression had done a one-eighty.
"God damnit, Matt." He came to me and clasped the back of my neck, leaning in and pressing his forehead to mine. He smelled like cologne and autumn. Like the outside world. My big brother. I shut my eyes against the prick of tears.
"Why am I so fucked up," I whispered.
"Hey little guy, you're not fucked up." He stroked my neck. "I love you buddy, your brother loves you."
My throat constricted. Was he trying to make me cry? I squeezed the manatee.
"And Hannah loves you, Matt. She really loves you. Can't you see that?"
Nate straightened and turned away suddenly. He brought a hand to his face.
"We're bringing you home today." He cleared his throat and got control of his voice. "You need to make a meaningful effort with your breakfast, show that your system is bouncing back. The doctor is going to check you. The psychiatrist wants to check you out, too. Be nice, okay? And you have to promise to take your discharge meds, whatever they are."
"I promise, I will." I chewed another mealy bite of omelet.
"Alright buddy. When they're through with you, I'll fill out the discharge paperwork. I've brought you some clothes, too."
Another swell of panic ebbed in my chest. My blood was pure Librium. I was thinking about the clothes I had at the cabin. I didn't have much. When I packed in August, I wasn't worried about looking good. But now? Now I was going to see Hannah.
"Warm clothes?" I ventured.
Nate was at the door. He must have heard the anxiety in my voice.
"A few things of mine." He smiled back at me. "And a razor."
My doctor was a young Indian man. I saw him once or twice a day. He called me Mr. Sky and had a knowledgeable and pleasant bedside manner.
"You have eaten your breakfast, Mr. Sky. This is good."
I smiled and nodded. It was true; I had cleared the hateful tray with its processed omelet, bland cup of fruit, orange juice, milk, and toast. And I felt sick to my stomach.
Dr. Parikh listened to my heart and looked in my eyes.
"Mr. Sky, you must be continuing to take the Librium for seven days. I will prescribe for you a tapered dose. You will be having seizures if you do not take it. You must not be drinking."
"I won't be drinking," I promised.
The doctor spared me any further admonitions. We shook hands.
"You must be taking care of yourself, Mr. Sky."
The psychiatrist on call was a tall woman with papery skin and gray-blond hair. She lowered the rail and perched on the edge of my bed.
"Will you consider moving from here to an inpatient rehab?" she said. "I strongly recommend it. We have connections with New Mercies. Their thirty-day inpatient treatment program gives you the best chance to stay sober as you transition."
Be nice, Nate had said. I rubbed my mouth to keep from smirking.
"I'm fine," I said. Right, I'm awesome—I just detoxed for the hundred time and I'm lying here clinging to a stuffed manatee from my lover whom I refuse to see.
My lover.
I closed my eyes. The night Hannah appeared in the cabin and pulled me off... it was lost in a haze of alcohol. I remembered the pleasure, though. God damn, that girl...
"Matthew? Are you feeling alright?"
I glared at the psychiatrist.
I opened my mouth to threaten her with my uncle's lawyer, a New Yorker who razed lives like it was his job (it was), and then clenched my teeth. Be nice.
"I have good support from family and friends," I said. "I won't be drinking."
The psychiatrist hassled me for the next ten minutes. She asked if I felt suicidal. She even asked if I felt homicidal. Thank god she didn't know about the gun incident. She reviewed my medications and the tapered Librium dose.
"When you sign the release of information form, we'll fax your notes to your psychiatrist in Denver. You should schedule a follow-up with him as soon as you get back."
"Sure," I said. Fuck. I was going to be drugged dumb for the next week, maybe longer.
Finally she left.
Nate returned, beaming. He said the doctor and psychiatrist had okayed my release. He left a duffel bag of clothes at the end of my bed.
"Come on out when you're ready. I'll be just outside."
God, I could have kissed him. He'd lent me a dark gray pair of Armani Collezioni corduroys and a forest green V-neck cashmere sweater. I changed quickly, luxuriating in the feel of real clothes against my skin.
In the bathroom, I had to grip the counter. The room tilted like a skiff on chop, then righted itself. Damn, I was weak. And I didn't look so hot. I shaved and avoided my reflection as much as possible. He wasn't helping psych me up to see Hannah.
Nothing was helping.
I held the plush manatee and sat on the edge of my bed. I must have sat there for a good chunk of time because Nate appeared, smiling uncertainly at me.
"Hey buddy, looking
good."
"Oh, yeah. Thanks." I smoothed a hand down my shirtfront.
"You got everything?" He picked up the duffel bag and scouted around. He glanced at the manatee clutched in my hand. "Got your little friend there?"
"Yeah."
"Paperwork's done, I just need your signature."
"Okay."
I stood carefully. Nate wrapped an arm around my shoulder and led me out. I don't know if I was ever more grateful. I scribbled my name on two papers and the nurse behind the desk wished me luck. Nate guided me to the lobby. I stared at the tiles.
"Here he is!" Nate announced with forced cheer. I didn't look up. In the high shine on the floor, I saw a shape approaching. Fuck, I was still wearing my hospital bracelet. I yanked at it.
Hannah's feet—shearling boots—poked into view. I glanced at Nate. He'd moved off, but he was watching us with open curiosity.
Hannah touched my arm. I met her eyes quickly. Dark, liquid, full of concern.
"Thanks," I said, lifting the manatee.
Shame pressed down on me like the weight of the world.
"Do you like it?"
Hannah cupped her hands around my hands. A memory flickered in the dark: Hannah lowering the gun.
"Yeah, it's soft..."
We stood like that for a while, me fiddling with the manatee and Hannah stroking my hands and wrists. A familiar electricity passed between us. Skin to skin.
Nate, probably having established that I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic, ushered us outside. Cold air swirled around me. I sucked in a stinging lungful. October on the east coast... so alive. I wished for a clear head, but no such luck—our first stop was the pharmacy.
We picked up my meds and Nate made me take the first dose in the parking lot. He bought a Sprite from a vending machine, popped it open, and placed the correct pill in my hand. I tried to angle myself away from the car.
"Hannah's watching," I hissed.
"Take it."
I swallowed the pill and shoved the soda back at Nate.
"You might try making eye contact with her," he said.
"I am trying."
I climbed into the back of Nate's car and Hannah smiled at me. I smiled in her direction.
Laurence was in his cage on the front passenger seat. He shuffled uncertainly as the car moved. There was, Nate explained, no need for us to go back to the cabin. He and Hannah had packed everything and cleaned the place.
