Cameron and the Girls (17 page)

And telling off Mrs. Owens the way we did?

Laughter.

Can't I please stay?

So this is what it's like to feel real pain. My heart is wrenched and I grab at my chest. Is this normal? Is this what I want in my life? “I can't,” I say. “I wish I could keep you, but I can't. That other guy, he's taking over.”

Oh, Cam. Sometimes you have to take the bad with the good.

From out of nowhere, I see a little peephole of light deep in my brain. “They tell me you're just a voice I hear in my head,” I say.

I hear her sweet laughter again.

That's so funny, isn't it? I mean, when you and I both know different.

“We do?”

You and I both know that you're a voice in my head.

I still can't take this in. My mind flails from one idea to another.

You make me stronger, Cam. I can't live this life without you.

“But, no. It's not . . .” But she may be right. Who am I to say? Maybe I had it entirely backwards all along. Maybe I was right before about my dad and the whole family, my whole life, not being real. I shake my head. Does this guessing never stop?

Cameron. I don't want us to die. Please.

One recognizes the finality of this moment. One has chosen well. We all must find our own places.

“But it still hurts,” I say.

I hear The Girl's sadness and feel like I've betrayed my best friend. Feel my own failure. I realize it's now or never. If I don't do something now, I may never get out alive.

I step down from the table and open the door. True to his word, Dr. Simons is standing right outside it. The rest of my family is grouped not far away. I guess they won't make the same mistake twice at this hospital. Dr. Simons comes in and takes the cap off the syringe.

“You ready?” he says.

I nod and close my eyes, thinking about love and understanding and the ups and downs of my life. Then I feel a touch on the back of my neck, and fingers caress me. Her fingers. I reach out and grab Dr. Simons's arm and hold tightly. There is a slight pinprick, and then I feel a thick solution infiltrating the muscle in my arm. But unlike in the past, I'm calmer now as it works its way inside me.

“I love you,” I say, but I hear nothing back.

T
hey
have me on the fifth floor at Saint John's again. It's the loony bin, but they call it Five West. That's so it won't hurt our feelings. And believe me, they're all about feelings here. I share a room with two other guys, but they're way out of it, so we don't talk much.

They tell me it's three days later and that I've been sedated most of that time. I feel logy, but I'm mostly awake and I can follow what's going on on the TV overhead. My brain is back to the way it's felt for most of the time since all this started. Cobwebby. There is a tiny militiaman at every neuron, making sure nothing and nobody gets through. Since we are supposedly the type that can never control our feelings, they make sure no big unmanageable ones ever crop up.

I'm up now, wearing a stupid gown. At least they let me put on my boxers underneath. I look in the mirror and see a stranger. My hair is stiff and stands straight up like shaved wheat. My teeth are protected by a thick coat of ugly film. It is in this fine state that I greet Dr. Simons.

He's as cheerful as ever. “Okay, then,” he says. “I see the patient has swum up to consciousness.” His white coat flows around him like swirling snow as he hurries into the room. “You feeling okay?”

I shrug. “How am I supposed to feel?”

“Good, good,” he says. “Listen, I think we'll be letting you go home in a couple of days. How's that sound?”

I twirl my finger in the air.

“Good, good. Well, we can talk about all this later. For now, you're making a good recovery, and that's what we're most concerned about. Anything else?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me about Nina.”

“Ah yes, Nina,” he says, his eyebrows curving down. But then they do an immediate uplift. “You know about confidentiality, Cameron.”

One of those little brain guards must have been asleep on the job because upon hearing this, I feel a rush of pleasure. “She's alive, then?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

We both know what he's really saying. “Thank you,” I say.

“A little later, your parents are coming,” he says. “I want us all to talk.”

“Okay.”

“In case you wanted to go for a little walk on the ward,” he says, “room five-oh-eight has some interesting elements to it.”

When he's gone, I reach under the bed with one foot and pull out my slippers. Snuggling into them, I venture out into the hall. There is a quiet hum all around. It's not like a regular floor; here people don't need clanging surprises. I immediately walk down and check out the numbers on the doors: 511, 510, 509. I stop in front of 508. The door is slightly ajar, and I can see shadows moving around inside. I'm about to knock, but the door swings open and a young woman in a pale blue uniform comes out carrying plastic trays. She sets them on a cart near the door.

“Is it okay to go inside?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. “She's awake and she's the only one in there.”

Nina's sitting up against the pillows, brushing her hair, and the first thing I notice is how pink her face is compared with when I last saw her.

“I was wondering when you would stop by.”

“I'm here too,” I say.

“Yeah, I can see that.” She sets down the brush, and some of the thin strands of her hair try to go with it.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“For what? You didn't do anything.”

“But I should have—”

“Listen, Cam, it's demeaning to try to convince me I can't make up my own mind. It was my idea to do what I did. Not yours.”

This is not going the way I thought it might, so I find a chair and sit down at the side of her bed.

“I'm back on the meds,” I say.

“Yeah.” She licks at her lips and adds, “So am I. So much for going our own way.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish you didn't take so many.”

She starts brushing her hair again.

“I saw all my voices at the table in my house,” I say.

She turns to look out the window. “I don't think I want to share war stories about your psychosis.”

“I'm just saying.” I start to feel shaky, so I stand up. She runs the brush once more through her hair. “Well, I guess I'll see you,” I say.

“Did the doc give you a discharge date?”

“A couple of days. How about you?”

She shrugs. “He hasn't said. He wants me to go to these gross-out groups, but I don't think I will.”

“Yeah. Well, hold out for what you think is right.” I raise my fist and shake it.

“Cameron, I need to tell you something,” she says. She takes in a deep breath. “The time with you, even when it got a little crazy, was the best I've ever had.”

“But look what you did to yourself,” I remind her.

“So you can imagine what the rest of my life's been like.” She bites her lip.

I've got to learn this from Nina, this knack of taking life for what it is. “Can I come back and visit while we're both still here?” I ask.

A trace of a smile plays on her lips. “Sure,” she says. “And we can lock the door and let them try to break us up.” Then she turns away and stares out the window again. But before I'm out the door, I hear her say, “I want you to practice this. It's
N-i-n-a.
Nina. That's my name. Remember it.”

 

True to his word, Dr. Simons has the family all grouped together later that afternoon. Even Beth is there, but she looks nervous to be on this particular floor.

“Well, I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief,” Dr. Simons says. “We've dodged a bullet this time.”

“Can we please not use gun metaphors?” says my mom.

“Sorry,” Dr. Simons says. “First off, do you have any questions?”

He's looking at me, but it's my dad who answers. “We'd like to know what the future holds.”

“Excellent question,” Dr. Simons says, rubbing his hands together. “And I wish I had an excellent answer. The truth is, with the kind of disease Cameron has, it's possible that he will continue to have short-term episodes for an indefinite period of time. But it's also possible that at a certain age, he could stop having episodes.”

“Isn't that good news?” my mom says to me.

I shrug. It's about the hundredth time I've heard this, and I'm not as happy as my mom seems to be.

“I'm stressing the word
possible,
” Dr. Simons says.

But I don't hear anything else. Dr. Simons once told me that I need to learn the difference between a vision and a fantasy, and while sitting there, I wonder if Dr. Simons needs to learn the same thing.

 

In two days I'm back home. There's no good answer to how I'm feeling. It all looks pretty much the same. In the car, I thought they might have put up ribbons or a
WELCOME HOME, CAMERON
sign, but it was a no-go on that one.

I sit down on my bed and dangle my hands between my legs. It's weird and doesn't make much sense. Do you put an alcoholic right back in the bar? Do you put a drug addict back out on the street? Do you put a crazy kid back in the same old house?

I hear two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs, and I quickly check to make sure I'm presentable. Mom and Dad are at the door. Dad is so tall that I can't see his hair. Mom comes to his shoulder. Both of them have that look on their face.

“Nothing,” I say. “You guys did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, Cam,” my mom says, and she starts to break loose from Dad and rush over to me, but he holds on tight. “I don't think anybody did anything wrong.”

She looks like she's ready to yak about it till morning, so I throw up the stop sign that is my hand. “Mom, Dad. Please. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

“But Cam.”

“No, I mean it. I'm just who I am. What happens to me is just me.”

“But sweetie, you have to take the meds.”

“I'll take the damn meds,” I say. “But all the rest is just a waste of time. I don't want to waste my time anymore.”

“Good boy,” Dad says.

I look at him. I'll bet semipro football was a lot easier than facing a son like me. “I just don't want to be the lost kid in the family anymore. I'm tired of it. Can't I just be Cameron? I'll do what I have to do, but I want you guys to leave me alone.”

“But Cam,” my mom says carefully.

“I know,” I say. “Can I be trusted?”

“Well?” she says.

“Probably not,” I say.

My mom sighs deeply and rests her head against my dad again. “I wish you could be.”

“Mom,” I complain. “Come on. It was a joke.”

“Is this funny?”

I have to think for a moment. “It may not be so funny, but how ridiculous is it that I, Cameron Galloway, a generally nice guy, gets stuck with a disease like this?”

“That's a mouthful,” Dad says.

“I'll just have to be more vigilant,” Mom says. “I'll need to check on you more and—”

I snap and say, “I guess you'll do what you have to do. But for now, I know what I have to do. In two weeks I'll be fifteen. You have no idea what I've done or what I've seen. If you did, well, you'd probably freak out or something. But I have a life. Do you hear that? I have a life and that's the way it's got to be.” Out in the hall, I hear Beth snicker.

I can see that both Mom and Dad are just dying to say something, but they know better. Mom finally comes over and kisses the top of my head. Dad gives me a little nod and they're gone.

Just before their feet hit the last stair, Beth cracks open the door. “It's okay,” I say. “It's all clear.”

Beth has her head down as if she felt guilty about something. “I just have to say one thing,” she says.

“I already know,” I say. “And I forgive you for turning me in.”

“Not that,” she says. “I just wanted to say that when I saw the look on your face when you walked by me at the hospital, I kind of liked it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, it was like no Cameron I'd ever seen before. You looked like you knew what you were doing.”

“I was completely nuts, Beth.”

“Still, though.”

I look up at her and smile. “Bethie, be careful. This could be catching.”

“There. That's what I'm talking about. You're different. That's what I mean.”

When she's gone, I get under the covers with my clothes on. Now if my parents came into my room, they'd think I was losing it again. How many guys my age accidentally fall asleep with all their clothes on? Plenty. But people don't chase those guys around with a needle filled with happy juice. The problem is, once people think a certain way about you, it's hard to get it out of their heads. It's hard to ever just be a regular guy. Everybody will always be waiting for something bad to happen. I wish it were different, but it's not.

But I think I know now what a real life is about. You can't almost get run over by a log train and not get a glimpse into something wild and imaginative. My disease may come back once in a while, but now I know I can do things I never thought I could do before, and that makes me happy. So happy, in fact, that I ease myself out of bed, grab something from my bedside table, and go to the door of my room. Opening it, I stick out my ears to see if they can pick up any noises. It sounds like the coast is clear.

It's part of my plan. It may not make sense, but I have to do this. I tiptoe down to the bathroom and lock myself in. I snap on the buzzing fluorescent light and shake a pill into my hand. I stare at it, all proud and victorious. I pick it up and flush the toilet. I can imagine the pill getting scared, latching on to my finger, and calling for help. I smile. It needs to know who the boss is. I hold it out over the swirling water and make my decision. It's one I'm going to make every day. Before the water stops gurgling, I place the pill on my tongue and swallow it. My brain needs it right now to function.