Descendant

by LJ Amodeo

  Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . ..

  I awoke to the faint sounds of hospital devices registering my vitals, while I lay wearily beneath bleached linens that covered my icy skin. In contrast, a warm sensation trickled through the veins in my arm. I didn’t have any strength to move my arm, or any other part of my aching body, for that matter. Moments earlier, it seemed my mother frantically cried for help. Now, as I lay in a hospital bed, I was poked and prodded by the medical staff. In the distance, I could make out the sounds of voices whispering. These voices were not the voices in my head, but of two silhouettes standing at the foot of my bed. My eyes fluttered open—then closed. I sighed in frustration, trying desperately to focus.

  I forced my eyes open with every bit of strength I had in me. Through muddled vision, I blinked away the blur from my eyes to focus on them. It was difficult to make out what they were saying or who they were. Gathering all my strength, I forced out a sound that resembled the chirp of a newborn warbler.

  “Mom,” I barely muttered. I strained to get their attention and a better look at the two figures standing at the foot of my bed.

  The soft vibration of their voices suddenly stopped, bringing their focused attention to me. The thinner one walked slowly to my bedside holding a crumpled tissue in her hand. The other slipped out into the corridor. I could feel a small bandage on my head. I sensed my mother’s fragile hand holding mine.

  “Sweetie, I’m right here.” She whispered faintly in my ear.

  “Mom, what happened?” I asked weakly.

  “I’m not sure what happened. By the time I got to your room, you were. . .you weren’t responding.” I heard her choke back a sob. I blinked my eyes, hoping to understand what happened to me earlier.

  “What did the doctor say? Does he know what happened?”

  “The doctors are still running some tests, and they’ll want to do more brain scans. They are not sure of the problem yet or how you may have fractured your rib”My rib? I thought.

  She tried to search for the right words to say.

  “Beth, did you fall?”

  “No. I don’t remember falling.” I responded through shallow breaths.

  “How long has this been going on? Why haven’t you told me about the headaches?” she asked despondently. I wanted to explain myself, wanted to confess that it wasn’t only headaches that tormented my head, but voices, visions, memories. Mom continued, “Dr. Miller wants to continue observing you. He asked me to admit you so he can monitor your symptoms. I. . .also asked Father Eddie to come see you.” She whispered softly, caressing my hair.

  “Father Ed?” I stared at her puzzled for a moment.How could a priest help me? I thought to myself. “They could fix this, right? The doctors could give me medicine to make me better?” I stuttered with glint hope in my heart. Her soft brown eyes blinked away moisture that had started to mount in their corners.

  My head spun, and my stomach turned,, feeling dizzy and feverish at the idea of staying in the hospital overnight.What happens next? Will I ever be the same, or will I battle these headaches and demons for the rest of my life?

  “Mom?” I whispered. “Will I be okay?” A single tear rolled down my cheek, as my heart slammed inside my chest. She squeezed my hand and nodded yes. She could not find the words to put my mind at ease.

  I closed my eyes, while she wiped away my tears.

  The throbbing in my head was a little less tender when I woke up the next morning, as was my rib. I opened my eyes easily this time, admiring the vibrant rays of the sun shining through the oversized windows. Beautiful flower arrangements from mom and Freddie decorated the blue painted windowsill. The distinct aroma of lilac scented the air. Strangely enough, I felt stronger than ever, with a renewed determination to live without encumbrance.

  An exuberant nurse walked into the room to check my vitals. I glanced at her name tag that was pinned above her large bosom. It read DEBORAH, RN.

  “Good morning, Miss Morgan. You are looking well today. I’m sure your mother will be delighted to see how nicely you are recovering. You gave her quite the scare, young lady! And your handsome boyfriend sat by your bedside all night since you’ve arrived. He is a darling boy and he brought those lovely flowers for you.” she sang in a pitchy Gaelic brogue, pointing to the lilacs. I smiled politely.Boyfriend? She must be mistaken. She must be referring to Freddie. She slowly brought the bed up to a sitting position. I looked toward the door of my infirmary. It wasn’t as austere as I thought hospital rooms would be -the room was, in fact, warm, comfortable, and brightly lit.

  A tall and attractive gentleman, with a white lab coat stitched with the nameDr. R. Millerwalked into the room. He held a chart in his manicured hands.

  “Hello, Elizabeth. I’m Dr. Roger Miller.” He said, in a gentle voice. “How are you doing today?” he asked with a sensitive smile on his face.

  “Much better. My head isn’t hurting as much.”

  “That’s good news.” he said, sitting at the edge of my bed. “I’d like to ask you how long this has been going on. Do you remember when it started?” he asked.

  “The headaches started toward the end of the summer.”

  “Besides the headaches, is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Any other symptoms?”

  My heart beat rapidly. I stirred nervously from under the sheets wondering if the brain scans showed any evidence of the voices and images that haunted me. For my mother’s sake, and my own, I would deny it. I would not let him know that I had an ability to hear the voices, for they’d mistake it as being insane.

  “No. Nothing,” I replied tensely.

  “You are not blacking out or having fainting spells?”

  “No. This was the first time.”

  “Did you fall or get into an accident recently?”

  “No.” I responded.

  “I’m not sure what may have caused your fractured rib, but all right then. I’ve prescribed two medications to help treat your symptoms: one is a corticosteroid, which is an anti-inflammatory for the headaches, and the other is Olanzapine. I am waiting for the brain scan results to come in, and when they do I will discuss it further with your mother. Once I receive the results, I will have a better idea of your diagnosis and how to treat it. I’d like to keep you for a couple of more days of observation; schedule another EEG and a tomography—make sure your blood counts levels stabilize and Dr. Bates will be in to speak with you before you are discharged. If he feels you are well enough to go home, I will discharge you by the weekend. However, I would like to see you back in my office in one week. We’ll run some more tests just as a precaution.” He courtly smiled at me and walked out of the room. I leaned my head back against the pillow.

  “Beth?” I heard a familiar voice calling. I looked up to see my mom smiling at me.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She kissed my forehead. “Hi, Baby. I’ve been worried about you!”

  “I’m okay, Mom. You don’t have to worry.” A sudden feeling of guilt surfaced. I’d never

  mentioned these painful episodes to my mom before this fateful incident, and I felt ashamed about it.

  “I may be discharged for the weekend,” I said, masking my guilt.

  "I heard. I spoke with Dr. Miller out in the hall."

  "How's Prince?" I asked, diverting our conversation.

  "Prince really misses you, Beth. He sits by the front window waiting for you to come home." I could see her fighting back tears. I missed my furry friend, too, and couldn't wait to finally wake up from this nightmare and go home.

  Visiting hours were over at 9:00 PM. As the sun set, the twilight sky turned exceptionally beautiful. It stretched across the horizon in deep metallic hues, each star detailed by the moon’s radiant glow reflecting off the mountainous backdrop.

  I sat quietly at the edge of the bed looking out of the window, watching brazen stars shoot across the black sky. Lilacs from Freddie shimmered on my windowsill against the velvet night sky. I took a deep breath whe
n my lungs painfully seized inhaling a sweet and familiar aroma. Not the sweet, sensual smell of lilacs, but gardenias.

  An incredible image reflected off the window pane. I knew this presence stood quietly watching me, waiting for me to turn toward him. His compelling scent coaxed me to turn and face the door. A soft light streaming from the corridor delicately illuminated his shadow, making it impossible for me to see his face clearly. If I weren’t imagining this moment, the glow of light adorned an outline of illustrious, translucent wings. I could do nothing but stare at him, too fascinated to move or speak. In this trying hour, I thought about my existence, wondering if being in the presence of this beautiful angel meant that I had already died. Questioning if I was somewhere between life and death, ready to receive my judgment, my eternal sentence.Could this be my final hour?Had this angel of death come to claim me?EGO sum vestri patronus,a voice whispered in my ear. I didn’t flinch, nor was I frightened, this time. I had become accustomed to the voices that spoke to me. At times they were comforting.

  “Forgive me,” the stranger’s tender voice verbalized. “I have the wrong room.” He walked away, leaving me immobilized in his lingering fragrance—a scent that was so riveting, it had become my obsession next to music.

  In the late night hours, the silence was broken by voices that echoed through the halls. These were not the voices in my head, but subdued sobs coming from the room next to mine, grieving for a loved one lost, leaving a family distraught and mourning. I closed my eyes brokenheartedly, and fell asleep to the woeful echoes of an inconsolable family for the loss of their beloved mother. I was thankful that it wasn’t my mother grieving for me. I didn’t want to think about the idea of dying. All I wanted was to live my life as a normal seventeen year old. Without the headaches. Without visions. Without voices.

  Mom was at the hospital by early Friday morning. She had a bag of clean clothes and a jacket for me to change into. I sat up in bed, waiting for her to return to the room after speaking with Dr. Miller, but instead another doctor entered the room. The red stitching on his lab coat read Dr. Seth Bates, Chief Adolescent Psychiatrist.

  “Elizabeth, I am Dr. Bates. How we doing this morning?” he asked reaching for my hand. His grip was cold and hard, matching his beady eyes.

  “I’m OK,” I said, already weary of his visit.

  “Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “No.” I shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

  “When did you first begin to suffer with headaches?”

  “Late summer. August, I think.”

  “Has your Mom taken you to see a doctor for them or is this your first time treating them?”

  “No.”

  “No she hasn’t, or no it’s not your first time?” he replied a bit surprised.

  “I . . . I never told her about them.” I answered the doctor, looking down at my swaying legs.

  “Did you keep it from her because you were afraid or because they were mild headaches?”

  “Both,” I responded, still looking away.

  “Hmm, I see,” he replied, scribbling notes on his pad. “How is school going for you this year?” He asked watching my legs sway a bit faster. He was making me nervous.

  “School is school.” I said, looking toward the door, wanting my mother to walk in.

  “Do you participate in any strenuous after-school activities? Perhaps that will explain the fractured rib.”

  “I run on the track team.” I replied.

  Dr. Bates stared coldly. “Have you fallen or injured yourself during practice or meets?”

  “No.” I replied quickly. The doctor narrowed his beady eyes at me.

  "What do you do during your leisure time when you are not in school?"

  “I run, play the piano, do some gardening work for my neighbor and volunteer at a music school for special needs children.”

  “How about friends? Do you do things with your friends on weekends? Maybe rough play. You know, kids horsing-around?”

  “Uh-uh! Not really. I don’t have many friends.”

  "Why is that?” he asked.

  I replied with a shrug of my shoulders.

  “Is it because you’re shy or you don’t feel people are–trustworthy?" he asked blankly.

  Trust. Trust was definitely an issue for me since the one person I believed I could always rely on left me. If there were any people worth trusting in life, it should be parents. Parents should never let their children down, hurt or destroy what would become the rest of their lives. Not intentionally, anyway. So I considered the doctor’s question for a moment. My mother never felt that anyone was trustworthy, but when I was younger, I wanted to trust. I wanted to believe that people were good. As I got older, however, I became weary of trusting. I knew Freddie as the most honorable person I had ever met in my life. And there has never been anyone else I could say the same for.

  “Yes, I believe people are trustworthy,” I finally answered after giving the question some thought.

  “Then tell me who you trust and why?” he asked jotting some notes on his pad.

  “Trust.” again I repositioned myself as Dr. Bates observed me from the top of his spectacles.

  “Yes. What is it that you look for in someone you consider trustworthy.”

  “I don’t know. Someone who won’t judge me, I guess.”

  “Do you feel people are judging you?”

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what this psyche evaluation had to do with my headaches or broken rib. The doctor’s questions about my mental health began to irk me and scare me, too.

  “I don’t know. Can I just go home now?” I asked impatiently.

  “As soon as we are done.” He smiled politely. "How much do you care what others think of you?" he asked, again taking notes on his writing pad.

  “I don’t care. I never did. Whatever they say about me doesn’t bother me,” I answered in a huff.

  “Who arethey, Elizabeth?” he whispered calmly.

  “What does it matter whothey are!” I muttered, as my patience began to flare.

  The doctor paused from his writing, removing his glasses to look directly at me.

  “Look, Elizabeth, I am not here to judge you. I am here for practical and medical purposes, and most evaluations include background questions that evaluate your history of mental and physical health and your life’s situations. Now we can make this easy, or we can admit you to my floor and evaluate you over the next several days. Which will it be?” He smiled curtly.

  “Sorry,” I replied, ashamed of myself. “Hospitals make me nervous.” I shifted again. Dr. Bates did not seem the least impressed with my excuse so I continued. “There’s a girl at school, who for the longest time has made fun of me, calling me a freak or loser. I never did anything for her to hate me.”

  “Why do you think she calls you a freak?” he asked and resumed taking notes.

  It was difficult for me to answer his question without raising a red flag. When Sophie first moved to town, like Sam, I thought she wanted to be my friend and I let her in on just a bit of my secret, but immediately denied and regretted it. However, if I told him, too, about the voices and hauntings at night, he might want to admit me to the thirteenth floor for further evaluations. Yet I wanted desperately to know why I had these encounters with the paranormal world. Why they taunted me for years, showing me signs and whispering words I could not understand. Was there meaning behind my madness? Was there a reason they spoke to me? I yearned to know.

  “If you’d like my help, Elizabeth, you need to be honest with me. Are we clear on that?”

  I nodded yes before spilling my life’s darkest secret, withholding some truth. “I used to hear voices.”

  The doctor’s satisfied grin gave me chills. He sat back wanting to know more. It was too late. I invited him into my world and could not turn back. God forgive me, but I had to lie.

  “When did you hear these voices?”

  “When I was younger.”

  “D
o you still hear them now?”

  “No. They stopped when I was about eleven years old. I haven’t heard them since.” I fibbed.

  “What did the voices say to you?”

  “I’m not sure. Just a bunch of words I didn’t understand.”

  “Were their words in English?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And other times, what were they speaking?”

  “Not sure. I was young. I thought it was just my imagination, and now I believe it was,” I replied to try and save myself from further interrogations.

  “Did these voices ever show you images?” he asked, still writing.

  “You mean pictures?”

  “Yes, pictures, symbols, signs?”

  “No. Never.” I lied again. “Dr. Bates, what does this have to do with my headaches?” I began nervously twisting the sheet on the bed. I didn’t like where this was going. Was he suggesting I was crazy or suffered of some sort of mental breakdown like my mother had? Or worse, like my father?

  “Just an evaluation, Miss Morgan. We must rule out the possibility of mental illness,” he said, tucking his pen away. When he stood up, I was confused.Mental illness? Me? Could he be right?When Dr. Bates’s interrogations were finally over, I let out a long sigh of relief . “It was a pleasure meeting you. If you ever need to talk about the voices, please have your Mom give me a call. Here’s my card. I will fill out the discharge papers for you. Take care, oh, and I’d like to see you in six months’ time.” He grinned and walked out of the room.

  Thirty minutes had passed when Mom entered the room; her expression weary.

  “Ready?” she asked, forcing an unnatural smile on her face.

  “Yes,” I replied uneasily. She helped me dress and grabbed the rest of my belongings before leaving the room.

  Her car was already parked in front of the entry doors of Webber Memorial Hospital. I got into the passenger side slowly and Mom tenderly shut the door for me. She nearly ran around the car to get into the driver’s seat. The engine came to life with a soft hum vibrating through the car.

  The drive home was a quiet one. Mom glanced over at me every so often with an uneasy smile, as if she wanted to say something to me. She clutched her fingers tightly around the steering wheel with her free hand, and with the other, she held mine the entire ride home. Noticeably, she let herself go. Her hair needed to be dyed to cover up the multiplying strands of grays. Upon receiving the notice of dad’s death several months ago, Mom had lost weight and lacked interest in attire. Normally, she dressed nicely and went for a manicure every weekend before work. Looking at her now, things had changed. Maybe she was still hurting or tired of working so hard to make ends meet. Perhaps lonely. Who knew? I looked out the window thinking about what the doctor may have said that had her upset.