If I Never Went Home (3 page)

She instinctively covered her face with her hands.

‘I know something of your circumstances,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to hear your version.’

Bea took a deep breath. ‘I went in to see Dr. Martin today like I promised, and she had me brought here.’

‘And you’ve been seeing her every day?’

‘Yes.’

Despite the kindness in his voice she could not bring herself to look at him.

‘In my opinion that means she thinks you’re a high risk.’

‘Not to anyone.’ She peeped up at him. ‘I’d never hurt anyone.’

‘What about yourself? Would you hurt yourself?’

She pushed her chin into her chest and shut her eyes tight.

‘Are you planning to hurt yourself?’

‘I would never hurt anybody. If I hurt myself that’s my affair.’

‘May I call you Beatrice?’

She folded her arms tightly to her chest. ‘Everyone calls me Bea.’

‘Bea, are you planning to kill yourself?’

‘Well, not much chance here. They took away my handbag, my belt. Like I’m some kind of criminal.’

‘Dr. Martin was worried that you might kill yourself today. Was she right to be worried?’

Bea slid her hands under her thighs. ‘I don’t know, okay? I don’t know.’

‘Did you tell her that you were going to kill yourself?’

She massaged her temples. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

‘I can give you a painkiller if it persists.’

‘I’m tired.’

Bea concentrated on the dark space beneath his desk. She desperately wanted to crawl into the cavity and curl up in a tight ball. It looked safe.

‘Bea, do you understand why you’re here?’

‘I don’t belong here,’ she said. ‘I’m not a criminal.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to keep you until we work out what’s been happening.’

‘It’s all a misunderstanding,’ she said with a loud sigh. ‘I feel fine now.’

‘I’ve worked with Dr. Martin for a long time and she’s a solid person. She wouldn’t have taken such drastic action without good reason.’

She shifted in her seat. ‘Always a first time.’

‘What were you doing to make her believe that if you weren’t brought here you would be dead?’

She stared down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t hurt anyone. Please let me go home.’

‘I can’t. From where I stand you are clearly distressed and must be looked after.’

‘Well, that Dr. Singh has already made it clear I’m a disappointment.’

Dr. Payne’s pen fell to the floor. ‘Why would you say that?’ He bent down to retrieve it. ‘Dr. Singh was only doing the basics of checking you in.’

Bea wiped her face with both hands.

‘He made time to let me know I was a disappointment to my family.’

Dr. Payne leant forward.

‘I am sorry, Bea. That should never have happened. Never. I don’t know what he was thinking. I promise you I will deal with it and you will not see him again. You understand that?’

Bea brushed away the tears. ‘How long are you going to keep me locked up?’

The doctor smiled. ‘That depends on you. You have to let me help you.’

‘I want to go home. I’m exhausted.’

‘How’s your sleep?’

‘I get about three or four hours a night.’

‘No one can function properly on that little sleep. I’ll prescribe something to help. And you’re going to need a much higher dose of the anti-depressant than you’re taking now, as well as something to augment it. We can’t do much while there’s a chemical imbalance.’

‘Fine. Whatever. Look, I really need to get home. I have a class to teach in the morning.’

‘You’re not going to be doing any teaching for a while.’

For the first time she looked him in the eye. She felt faint. She touched her cheek. It was ice cold. ‘It’s my job. I need to work.’

‘That’s not possible right now,’ he said, crossing his legs.

‘You don’t understand. My work is all I have left.’

‘Bea, you have a major depressive disorder. When people are that ill they have to let others look after them until they’re better.’

‘But I’m fine. Please. You don’t understand. I’ve grading to do.’

‘It’ll be taken care of.’

‘No, it won’t.’

‘We’ve spoken to your dean. He’s handling it. You’ll go back when you’re well. They only want you to get better.’

‘Everyone knows?’

Dr. Payne did not answer.

Bea burst into tears. ‘Oh God, everyone knows.’

‘There is a high risk you will harm yourself. It’s my job to ensure that doesn’t happen.’

‘I give you my word,’ she sobbed. ‘Please. I want to go home. I don’t belong here. I’m so tired.’

‘I can’t allow you to go home alone. That will only increase your depression. It’s too dangerous.’

Her tears tumbled down. ‘Does anyone else know I’m here?’

He scanned the papers in the file. ‘You haven’t provided us with a next of kin. Do you have family we can call? Parents? Brother? Sister?’

‘No. No one to call.’

‘Are your parents around?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure your family would want to know you’re not well.’

‘Not really.’

He handed her a tissue box. ‘What about siblings?’

‘None.’ She took a tissue and dabbed her eyes. ‘Well, none I know of anyway.’

‘Okay. But I need a name and number in case of emergency. For the record. I won’t contact anyone if you don’t want me to.’ He got up. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a second.’

He returned before she had time to digest the implications of what had been said. ‘I don’t have a bed for you except on a closed ward,’ Dr. Payne explained. ‘It’s not a pleasant environment. Will you be okay to stay here at the Clinic while I sort out a bed, or do you want to go to the ward?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Stay here then. We’ll talk again in the morning.’

She tossed the hair off her shoulders and crossed her legs. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘I’ll be back in the morning once I finish my ward rounds,’ he said and closed his files.

Stay here till tomorrow? The doctor talked as if she’d been booked into an inferior hotel room.
Madam, I’m sorry, but yours was a late booking and we don’t have any free beds tonight. We can offer a temporary one for the night. We’ve checked and you have full coverage, so the expenses will all be taken care of.

It was the other guests who were the real draw, like the man who claimed to be Captain Janeway from the starship
Voyager
. A teenager who had stabbed his mother with a butcher’s knife. The voices in his head made him do it. A drug addict who had tried to jump out of a window on the thirty-ninth floor of a high-rise. An alcoholic who had trashed the family home and put his wife in intensive care. Then there was homeless Archie, a regular, with a passion for starting fires.

No, Ma’am, no other middle-class professionals due in tonight. But you never know. We are prepared for all eventualities. After all, we weren’t expecting you tonight and here you are.
She imagined herself as their lead character, a genuine university professor. Bea doubted they had ever had one of those before in this madhouse.

The duty nurse showed her where to find tea and coffee. The TV was permanently tuned to CNN, avoiding any argument over which channel clients could watch. Her cellphone was taken away. There was no Internet access. She was given a bag to put her clothes in and a medical gown to sleep in.

Who can rest in this fucking hellhole?

Bea settled into a grey plastic chair in the far corner of the lounge and gazed at CNN. She flicked through dated magazines that chronicled the fashions and lives of celebrities. In spite of her exhaustion, she didn’t close her eyes once during the night. A game of musical chairs took place around her as earlier occupants left and were replaced by others, equally troubled. The atmosphere was grim, tense with anticipation.

Sometimes a young overweight woman, wearing a dirty cut-off denim skirt and a pink sweater with a hole in the left sleeve, jumped up from her seat and addressed the room. ‘I never killed myself before, okay?’ she announced to no one in particular. ‘I never did. Why are you all keeping me here? I never killed myself.’ She would scan the room, muttering, and sit back down.

Most of the occupants were processed and transferred to the main hospital or other facilities nearby. A few were released into the care of a parent or partner. The nurse would appear with discharge papers and personal items – bags, coats, scarves, belts, shoelaces. Around one in the morning, a red-eyed boy in his late teens, head in his hands, was collected by a stony-faced man who promised to check him into a detox clinic downtown. ‘Third time lucky,’ the man said.

A loud buzzer meant that someone was being released: the locks clicked open on the thick glass door, the threshold to personal freedom. Bea knew she would not be stepping through that door for a while, but she looked up each time the nurses came in with news of an imminent departure, in case one was carrying her handbag, her coat, her belt.

I’m sorry but it’s all been a terrible mistake, Miss Clark. Please sign here and you’ll be free to leave. A taxi is waiting outside. You should be home in no time. Have a nice evening.

At some point, the dark night sky gave way to heavy grey morning light. A blanket of overnight snow was piled around the long low building. From the window she could see the ambulances and police cars come and go.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘The night duty nurse wrote that you were up all night watching TV,’ said Dr. Payne as they walked from the lounge to his office.

‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘What about the sleeping tablets?’

‘Didn’t take them. You ever slept here? It’s scary, really crazy people coming and going all night. And the sirens. The goddamn sirens.’

‘Yes. It can be intimidating.’ He opened the office door. ‘You had breakfast?’ He ushered her inside as he brushed snowflakes off his collar.

‘Not hungry,’ she replied.

He hung his coat on the back of the door and pulled up a chair next to hers. ‘Let’s not add another layer of problems.’

She pinched her stomach. ‘I could do with losing a few pounds.’

Actually, I haven’t had breakfast either. I’ll get us a couple of bagels and coffee. How do you take your coffee?’

‘I don’t know. Okay, a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Or coffee. You said coffee. A little milk. Whatever. I don’t know.’

While he was out, she surveyed the room. There were two prints on the wall, framed without glass. All doctors’ offices seemed to have the same art. There must be a School Of Art For Medical Facilities, with a code that banned bright colours or complex images and only allowed soothing scenes of pretty flowers and trees that bent to a breeze and blended with dingy cream walls. This office boasted a twinset of pink-and-lavender flowers that could not enliven any interior and had already received the last rites from a thick coat of dust.

‘Bagels and tea.’

His voice startled her.

He sat down and handed her a cup. ‘Hope that’s enough milk.’ He added cream to his coffee and took a sip. ‘Now, what’s been happening that’s knocked you back so badly?’

Bea blew at the tea, watching the steam rise. ‘Nothing.’

‘From your notes, you’ve had outpatient treatment for severe depression. Do you know what triggers it?’

She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘Do we have to talk about this now?’

‘I’m afraid we do,’ he said softly.

She kept her eyes shut tight. ‘Losses,’ she said quietly. ‘The losses keep piling up.’

‘What sort of losses?’

‘Usual stuff.’

‘And in the past, how have you coped?’

She opened her eyes and stared at the specks of dirt on her brown shoes. ‘Meds. Therapy. You know the drill. Talk about your mother for a couple of years.’

‘You haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

She gave him a faint smile. ‘Should’ve been a stand-up comic.’

‘The medication hasn’t helped?’

‘Not really.’

‘But do you take them as prescribed?’

‘When I feel better I usually stop.’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘Self-medication. Naughty, naughty.’

‘I feel like a failure for taking them.’

‘Why?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Bea, a chemical imbalance happens with depression. Willpower can’t correct that. If you had diabetes I doubt you’d be telling me you feel a failure because you have to take drugs to deal with it.’

‘Not the same.’

‘It’s exactly the same. You have to understand that, given your long history of depression, you may have to take meds for a while. It’s not a reflection on your character.’ He paused. ‘Your notes mention a significant relationship ending.’

She crossed her arms tight across her chest, holding herself together.

‘You’ve had a lot to deal with lately. When a relationship ends it’s often like a death. That can make people without depression feel terrible.’

‘Whatever.’

‘What is it then?’

Her throat tightened. She tried to hold it back, but a sob escaped. ‘I don’t think things will ever be normal for me,’ she whispered. ‘You know, like having a family.’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘It’s the way I’m made. I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.’

‘Well, that’s something we’ll explore.’

‘Some things just are the way they are,’ she said, turning away to wipe the tears with her sleeve.

‘Talk me through how you came from Trinidad to Boston.’

‘I went to college here. Did my graduate work here and was offered a job on the faculty. So I’m here by default really.’

‘How long’s that?’

‘Ten years.’ She thought about the cold outside that she had never become accustomed to. Ten Bostonian winters had attacked and retreated. She did not think she could survive this current onslaught.

‘You like Boston? Have you got a good network?’

‘It’s okay, I guess.’ She shrugged. ‘I have a few friends.’ She picked up a bagel, and put it back down without taking a bite. ‘It’s not home.’

‘Home is Trinidad?’

‘Sort of. Not sure.’

‘Why not?’

‘Been away too long. Never felt I belonged anyway.’ She sat on her hands, staring at the floor. ‘Never fitted in.’

‘Why?’

‘Always felt I was on the outside. It’s easier in Boston. There’s no pretence that I’ll ever belong.’

Dr. Payne placed his empty coffee cup on the desk. ‘All the time we’ve been talking, you’ve been staring at the floor. Is there a reason you won’t look at me?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Her hands blocked her face and she burst into tears.

‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked

‘I don’t belong here,’ she whispered through the tears. ‘I don’t belong here.’

‘No. You don’t belong here.’ He paused. ‘But you do need help. Look at me.’

‘I want to go home. Need some rest. This place is a prison.’

He nudged a box of tissues into her hand. ‘You will get better.’

‘You don’t know that.’ She slammed the box of tissues on the desk and hugged her knees. ‘I’ve felt like this before. I can’t keep living like this from one episode to another. I just can’t.’

He tapped a pen on his desk. ‘We’re going to figure out the right medication. But it takes time. Unfortunately these drugs take a few weeks to kick in.’

Between sobs she blurted out, ‘Don’t believe you. No more. You don’t know what it’s like. No hope.’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I don’t want any more hope.’

‘You don’t think you will get better?’

‘No, I don’t. And what drags me down is not the depression but the hope each time that this is the last time I’ll ever go through this pain.’

‘You’re right. I can’t promise you’ll never have another acute episode. But there’s a high probability that with the right medication and appropriate therapy you will get well. And I don’t mean the therapy where you sit and talk about your mother for ages.’

Bea wished he would leave and hoped he would stay.

Dr. Payne explained that he wanted to admit her to a small hospital nearby where she would have the right medication and therapy. He mentioned something called mindfulness. But she was past caring. She begged to be allowed home. Dr. Payne was unyielding: she could go voluntarily or he would have to make her. It was time to let others help.

The room overwhelmed her as if an invisible toxic gas had been released. The poison of sadness. They sat facing each other in silence. The seconds ticked into minutes. Bea slipped further inside herself, longing to evaporate. Slowly she looked up. Dr. Payne’s blue eyes stared intently at her.

‘Bea, do you know how powerful your feelings are right now? I think you still want to kill yourself. But you have doubts, don’t you?’

Through the tears she whispered, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Agree to the hospital care. I don’t want to send you there involuntarily.’

‘How long will I have to stay?’

‘Depends. A few weeks. We’ll see how it goes.’

‘I can’t even decide whether to have tea or coffee.’

‘Then let me help.’

He walked to the other side of the desk and started writing in her folder. He explained that an ambulance would take her to the hospital and he would come later to check on her. Bea telephoned her landlady, Mrs. Harris, who agreed to pack a bag of the things she would need and to drop it off. The hospital, St. Anthony’s, was in a nearby suburb called Somerville.

‘Don’t be scared,’ Dr. Payne said. ‘It’s a place where you can get better.’

She wiped damp palms over her tear-stained face and almost managed a smile.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

‘I’m Catholic. St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost things. Lost things. Lost souls. Seems appropriate.’

She went back to the lounge, slumped into the grey plastic chair she had used the previous night, and waited for her name to be called.