Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5 In Her Wake (9 page)

Chapter 14

May 2010

If I started to go bald, I’d just shave my head. I guess he’s not exactly bald, but that hairline bought a one-way ticket and it’s well on its way. I give him ten years before he’s polishing his scalp.

“Hello? Trent?”

I blink several times, trying to focus on the doctor’s words. “Sorry, what?”

He gives me a patient smile. “How are you feeling today?”

“Tired,” I croak. A stomach pump for alcohol poisoning, serious oxygen therapy for carbon monoxide poisoning, and a slew of tests and psychological assessments has left me exhausted. Now I’ve got a mess of medication pumping through my veins. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been in this room, but I’ve been asleep most of that time.

Apparently, my dad came home from work minutes after I lost consciousness and, when he searched the house and couldn’t find me, some gut-churning sixth sense told him to check the garage.

He couldn’t get a pulse.

In my drunken stupor, I tried to kill myself. And I almost succeeded.

When I woke up in a hospital—again—with my mom holding my hand, tears in her eyes—again—and realized what I had done—again—I agreed to everything my dad started insisting upon, including an intense inpatient program. That’s how I’ve ended up in this sunny-colored private Chicago cell.

It’s not a cell, really. Though I haven’t seen the rest of the facility yet, I’m guessing it’s pretty nice.

“Your body has been through the ringer. You’ll adjust. Ironically enough, I’m not a big fan of medicating, but I think, given the depth of your depression, you’ll benefit from a small chemical reset.”

Depression. That’s what I keep hearing.

“So . . .” Dr. Stayner begins pacing, his arms over his chest, “you dropped out of college, quit the football team, broke up with your high school sweetheart, your parents are divorcing. And you spend excessive amounts of time in your mother’s basement, isolating yourself with work.”

“That about covers it,” I mutter.

“It’s been a long downward spiral for you.” He pierces me with his stare. “Do you want to get better? Because that is a requirement for my inpatient program.”

I’m betting this is the same opening spiel that he gives everyone. I don’t mind, though, because the answer is simple. “Yes.” I’m thinking clearly enough now—without scotch coursing through my veins, polluting my thoughts, amplifying my emotions—and I know that I don’t have a choice. I’ve hit rock bottom and something has to change. It
has
to get better. I just don’t think it’s possible.

He slaps his hands together, like something’s settled. His eyes twinkle with genuine excitement. “Good! We’ll start therapy in the morning. Give you a swift kick in the ass, down the road to recovery. Until then, get some rest.” He strolls briskly out of the room without another word, leaving me frowning at the door. My dad said that he’s the best. I guess we’ll see if the best is good enough.

■ ■ ■

My eyes follow the baseball as it sails up to nearly touch the spackled ceiling and then back down, landing in Dr. Stayner’s hand with a soft thud.

Up and down.

Up and down.

“So, is ending your life something you gave a lot of thought to?”

I sigh, taking in his modest navy-blue carpeted office. Pretty much what you’d expect from a shrink: a desk, a few chairs, some framed certificates, and lots of books. “Honestly? No. I mean . . . I don’t know how many nights I wished I’d gone to bed and simply not woken up, but I wasn’t really planning on anything.”

He nods like he understands. Does he, really? Or does that answer just fit the textbook definition of depression? “But that night . . .” he prods.

“That night . . .” I pick through my foggy recollection. Most of my thoughts veer toward the same thing nowadays anyway, so it’s not hard to pinpoint. “I started thinking about how fucked up everything is, how many people I’ve hurt, and how I’ll never escape this feeling. How maybe I wasn’t meant to live. Then I thought it’d be a good idea to down half a bottle of scotch.”

“A depressant cocktail to amplify your deep depression. That worked out well, didn’t it . . .” The ball goes up and down. Oddly enough, it makes the entire conversation feel that much more casual. Like we’re not talking about how I tried to kill myself. I wonder if that’s a shrink technique. “How’d you end up in the car?”

An image of Kacey’s face hits me. I’m not willing to bring her name into this conversation yet. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I carry her around in my phone. Maybe because I don’t want to admit that I sat outside her house. I definitely don’t want to admit what happened at that frat party. “I started wondering if being in a car will always be uncomfortable.” That’s one thing Kacey and I seem to have in common, though her phobia is on an entirely different level.

He kicks his feet up onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “And what made you put the hose in the exhaust and start the car?”

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

“What does it feel like?”

How can I possibly describe what’s going on inside me? I don’t think there’s any way to do it justice. But I try. “Like I’ve been wandering along an old dirt road for two years with no end in sight. Not a soul around me.” Again, Kacey’s face flashes through my mind. The feel of her mouth against mine, her arms wrapped around mine, her body wanting mine. For her, it was just another drunken night, another moment’s respite from her misery. For me, it was something deeper. On this endless, isolated journey, it was a momentary connection with the only other person to walk away from the accident. And it reminded me of what I’ll never have again, because who the hell would want to be stuck on this lonely road with me?

When I glance up, Dr. Stayner’s blue-gray eyes are dissecting me. Not in a “this idiot’s going to pay for my kitchen reno” way; in a way that’s full of compassion. I swallow against the forming lump. “So how are you gonna fix me?”

“Oh, I can’t fix you, Trent. I’ll take all the credit, mind you. It’s a great boost to my ego. But
you
have to fix you.”

Curiosity overcomes me. “You know my real name isn’t Trent, right?”

“Yes, your parents filled me in on your history.”

“So why are you calling me Trent? Do you agree that I should have changed my name?”

He shrugs. “Who do you want to be?”

“Not Cole Reynolds.”

“Then I guess that makes you Trent Emerson, now doesn’t it?” He tosses the ball a few more times. “I had a patient once. His name was Benny Flanagan, but he insisted that we call him Fidel Castro.”

I can’t stifle my snort. “What did you—”

“Fidel Castro.” He chuckles. “Fiddy, for short. He had some very serious identity issues. But, eventually he remembered that he was Benny Flanagan.”

“And what if I don’t ever want to go back to being Cole Reynolds again?”

“What if you can’t?” Dr. Stayner counters without missing a beat.

I frown. Is that a trick question?

He slaps the ball on his desk with a hard thud. “That’s what this is all about. You can’t go back. You can’t change what happened. You can’t resurrect the dead. You can only find ways to help yourself come to terms with it all. That’s the only way you’ll ever move on. What do you, Cole, Trent—whoever you want to be—need in order to move on? Because we can change where your future is heading. That’s why you’re here. We all want you to have a long and happy future.”

“Okay . . .” What he’s saying makes sense. To be honest, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. But when Dr. Stayner says it, I feel like he’s giving me the permission that I can’t give myself. “So, how am I going to fix myself?”

His feet slide unceremoniously off the desk. “Well, first and foremost, by remembering that you’re human.”

■ ■ ■

For a glorified mental hospital, this isn’t so bad. It’s not what I ever imagined a place like this to be. There are definitely no lunatics ranting about the end of the world or the army of voices in their heads. There are a lot of really nice people in private rooms and smiling staff to get you whatever you need; there’s a gym that I’ve spent a good deal of time in; there’s a small yard with oak trees and tiny purple flowers waking up after a long winter, and wooden benches you can sit on to enjoy the spring air.

Of course, I assume that not every place is like this. I’m sure my parents are paying for these niceties. I’ll be working double-time to pay them back for this, whether they like it or not.

“Beautiful day.”

I shield my eyes against the sun as a woman takes a seat, adjusting her long, brown ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s nice to feel the sun again.” I grin to myself, realizing that I actually meant that.

“I’m Sheila.” She holds a hand out, her eyes crinkling at the corners with her smile. I can’t help but notice the pink slashes along the wrist that lies on her lap. “How long have you been here?”

“Almost two weeks. You?”

“Six weeks.”

“That’s a long time.”

“That’s a long time to deal with Dr. Stayner,” she corrects, and we both share a chuckle. She pauses. “What are you in for?” She asks it so casually, proving to me that her time here has probably been well spent.

Two weeks ago, I couldn’t care less about some stranger’s plight or telling her about mine, because I’d been so swallowed up by my own turmoil that I didn’t believe anything was going to get me out of it. But if my time in group therapy sessions has taught me anything, it’s that talking about the accident and the aftermath with people who understand
does
actually help. And every single person in that session does understand. Or, at least, they can empathize. They don’t know Sasha and Derek, and they may not have been in a car accident, but some personal hardship has landed them here. And they don’t judge me, because doing that quickly leads them to judging themselves.

In a room with these people, holding hands with all of our demons, I feel a sense of peace.

That’s why I tell Sheila everything. I even tell her about Kacey, things I haven’t admitted to Stayner. Not all the gritty details, but I think enough to make her see how much Kacey has come to mean to me.

How much I hope that she’s all right.

That’s my only regret, being in this place. There’s no internet, no cell phones. No way for me to make sure that Kacey makes it home at night.

Sheila listens through the entire story, twirling the wedding band around her finger absently. And when it’s her turn to talk, she takes a deep breath. And tells me about her eleven-month-old daughter, Claire, and how she turned her attention away from the happy, splashing baby sitting in a turtle pool with four inches of water for no more than ten seconds—she swears—while saying goodbye to guests.

And how Claire must have tried to get up but fell into the water.

And how Sheila found her, facedown and eerily still.

By the time she’s done, my chest is heavy to the point of pain.

“I’m really sorry.”

She smiles sadly, her gaze drifting out over the park-like setting. “So am I. I think I’ve said that word a thousand times. My husband hasn’t forgiven me. He says he has, but I see it in his eyes. I don’t blame him. I can’t forgive myself either. I never will. But I think it’d help if I had forgiveness from him.”

Silence settles over us.

And I ponder what it would be like to have Kacey’s forgiveness. Would it lessen the burden of this weight just a little?

Would that be something too selfish to ask for?

■ ■ ■

“You made an incredibly stupid mistake,” Dr. Stayner confirms matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks. We’ve been over this already.” Four weeks in group therapy sessions and private chats with the renowned doctor have taught me that I can say and do whatever I want without insulting or offending him. He seems to think the same applies to him with his patients.

“Imagine being Captain Edward J. Smith.” My puzzled brow earns an eye roll. “The guy who plowed the unsinkable ship into an iceberg and sank it? Killing fifteen hundred people? Making world history?” His eyes are wide with disbelief. “You kids, these days . . . What do they teach you?”

I never know what I’m walking into when I step into Dr. Stayner’s office.

“He ignored several warnings about the icebergs. Why? No one knows for sure. I’m guessing that he
assumed
that the builders were right and the ship was indestructible. Maybe he a
ssumed
that a ship that size would simply cut through an iceberg. Whatever the reason, he was responsible for that ship and that ship didn’t change course. Because of his actions, or inactions, all those people died. Because of a
mistake
. Something that every human being makes.”

Now I think I know where he’s going with this. But maybe not. Stayner tends to go off on tangents now and again.

“You assumed that your friend was fine to drive because he’d never get behind the wheel drunk, just like you’d never get behind the wheel knowingly drunk, right?”

“Never,” I answer without hesitation. I knew Sasha as well as I know myself.

“And he probably seemed fine to you at the time, because you yourself were drunk, and because you wanted to get home to study.” He shrugs. “And because simple human nature operates under an ‘it won’t ever happen to me’ mentality.”

“Stop making excuses for me.” We’ve been dancing this dance for a while now, where he tells me that I can’t hold myself responsible and I tell him that I am responsible and no psychological mumbo jumbo will change that.

“I’m not making excuses for you. I’m just stating facts. Giving you reasons. The fact is, you didn’t mean to hand keys over to your drunk friend. If you had known he was drunk, you probably would have waited and then driven yourself. Right?”

“Right, but—”

“And the fact is you didn’t
intentionally
drink too much.”

“Right, but that doesn’t change that I did it.”

“That’s right. You did it. And you can’t undo it. But your friend Sasha also asked you for the keys. And your friend Derek was perfectly capable of putting his seat belt on. So was Sasha. That was a choice they made—or didn’t make—and they paid for it with their lives.”