Schasm (Schasm Series) (17 page)

“Alex, are you there?" I ask. My voice is raspy. “I can’t see you.” As the words come out of my mouth, my memory kicks in.

He’s not here; I left him back in the good part of my life.

How long have I been unconscious?

I feel another hand on my shoulder. “Chloe, can you hear me?” The voice is smooth and calm, like a lullaby.

I'm scared to try and talk again after the pain I just felt. Somewhere near me, I hear a whisper between the voices of my parents. “Did she just say Alex?” It’s my mother.

“Sounded like it.” My father responds in an equal whisper.

No…they can’t know about Alex.

Another hand reaches out and grabs mine. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Chloe.”

I don’t recognize the voice, but I squeeze anyway.

“She squeezed my hand." The man's volume grows.

"Her hearing is going to be okay?” my father’s voice interrupts excitedly. I don’t ever recall hearing him sound like that before. His outburst startles me, and I hear a loud and fast beeping noise.

The stupid heart monitor again.

“Chloe?” A sweet, unfamiliar voice calls out to me. I can see clearly enough to tell there’s a young nurse with large, doll-like blue eyes and light-brown hair that’s pulled back into a tight ponytail standing beside me. She places her hand on my shoulder. “I’m Charlie, and I’ve been your nurse for the past two weeks. I’m here to help you get better.” Her smile is warm and comforting, until I realize…

Two weeks?

My heart is pounding so loud that I can hear the beating in my ears. I had been out for two days when I arrived in San Diego. Alex and I went to Paris the next day, making it three days, and I left that same day.

Then I slept for another week and a half.

Alex must be so worried about me. Our whole plan of being back together in three days never happened. This wasn't part of the plan. I need to get back to him so he knows I’m okay. I’ll have to wait until I get the rest of my senses back, since I don’t want to slip back into a coma. I don't think.

Or maybe I do.

I'm not sure how I’m going to make it another three days without seeing him.

I look around the room, now wishing I hadn’t. My parents and a handful of doctors are hovering over me as if I were a science experiment.

“Mother?” I call out.

“Chloe?” she asks. ”Can you talk?”

“It hurts.” I moan. “A lot.”

She sits down on the bed, moving her face in closer. Her beady eyes are glaring into mine. Her head shakes pathetically back and forth. “What did you do?” she sing-songs.

Anger radiates through me. “I fell out of the shower…slipped on the bathroom floor and hit my head on the shower door,” I say in a wavering voice.

She gets up from the bed and walks over to her purse, retrieves her compact and returns. “And what about the slashes across the back of your neck? Where did those come from?” she asks, flipping open the mirror. She holds it sideways next to my face so I can see a part of my neck.

I shudder at the gruesome site. It's jagged, about five inches long and a half of an inch wide. It's red and puffy and there are stitches lining both sides of the wound. If it has in fact been two weeks and it still looks that bad, I can't imagine how horrible it looked when it actually happened.

“I must have hit the towel rack on the way down.” My lie, sounds like a lie and I can already tell this isn’t going to end well. There isn’t much I can do in my state.

She snaps the mirror closed. “Chloe, there was grass and dirt covering your wound. Did you get that in the shower, too?” her nose flaring between each of her breathes.

I’ve already said too much. “Mother, it hurts too much to talk.” I let out an exaggerated groan.

One of the nurses rushes to my side and informs my mother that she has asked enough questions for now. “She needs to rest now.” My mother walks away and approaches the doctor who is examining some papers.

She must think my ears aren’t working, but I can hear her whisper, “Is it okay to tell her now?”

Is it okay to tell me what?

“Yes, she should be stable enough,” the doctor says as he marks something down on one of the papers clamped to the clipboard.

My mother walks back over to me very slowly. The look in her eyes is chilling. "Are you taking me home?" I ask, hoping the answer will be yes. I already know it won’t be.

She leans in closely and adjusts my gown, pulling the collar shut as if she truly cares about me at all. I know she’s just tidying me up like she does everything else. “I’m sorry, Chloe. You’re not coming home.”

"What?" It hurts to speak as loudly as I just did.

The doctor walks up to my mother's side and places his arm around her shoulder. “Chloe, we’re concerned about your safety…you’ve hurt yourself now. We’re going to have you stay here in the hospital for a little while, so we can make sure you’re okay.” His voice is superficial and glib. “It’s just until we can figure out how to make you better.”

I look past them and over to my father sitting in a chair against the window. His elbows are resting on his knees and his face is buried in his hands. “You don’t have anything to say about this?” I ask him. She’s the one who deserves my anger, but he’s the one who gets the brunt of it. He stays silent.

I look at my mother and the doctor. They’re faking the soft, sympathetic looks. “I do not need to
get better.
I’m out of my coma. I’m fine now. Can you not you see that?" I shake my head. "Why are you doing this to me?”

“The coma isn’t the problem, Chloe…how you ended up in a coma at all is the problem." She sighs. "The doctors performed extensive testing to stimulate activity in your brain…”

Her words float above me.

Oh God.

They actually went through with it.

I didn’t wake up fast enough with that stupid drug. My stomach is churning. What if my drifting is gone now?

What if I won’t ever see Alex again?

I gnash my teeth and snarl at the woman who claims to be my mother but who knows nothing of the concept. She doesn’t deserve the title. “Marie," I say, using her first name in a degrading manor. “Listen to me one more time:
I fell in the bathroom
. That’s it.”

“So you say, dear.”

“And now you’re committing me to a mental institution because of it.” I want her to know the bottom line of what she’s doing to me.

She walks around to the side of the bed to put herself back in my vision. “Chloe, we both know you didn’t just ‘fall in the bathroom’. We’re going to get you fixed up once and for all. But to do that you need to stay here for a little while.” She lays her frigid hand on mine, playing it up for everyone in the room.

My hand is restrained. I can’t even rip it out of her touch. “So you’re just going to leave me here and then forget about me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her. “Like Uncle James?”

Her eyes snap open, but she catches herself before she says anything incriminating. Instead, she moves her hand and brushes the loose strands of hair off of my cheek and behind my ear. I cringe at her touch. “No… we’re allowed to visit on the weekends, and we
will
be here.” She walks over to the chair to pick up her purse. “We want to help you get better, dear. It’s what we all want for you.”

I can’t even believe what I’m hearing right now. I always knew in the back of my mind that as soon as she figured out how to get rid of me, she would.

She reaches over and cradles my chin in her fingers. “I need you to focus on getting better so you can come home someday.” I’d like to rip that sweet, phony smile right off of her face.

My father stands up, keeping his head down to avoid looking at me, and follows her to the door like a leashed animal. Seeing him now, I can’t believe he was ever a strong enough man to stand up to her. He was a professional—a school counselor, no less, trained in relating to children. And once upon a time, I was daddy’s girl. My mother crushed the life out of him, just like she’s trying to do with me.

“I hate you," I say. "I hope you have nightmares about what you’ve done. And as far as visiting me goes…don’t. I’d rather rot here all alone than have to deal with you anymore.” Tears trickle down my face, and I can't even wipe them away. I hate that she was able to make me cry. Even more, I hate that I’ve let her see my tears.

She stops in the doorway, turns and looks at me with a strange combination of satisfaction and artificial sympathy. “Good night, Chloe,” she says, as if what I’ve told her has had no impact. “I’ll be back in a bit with some of your things.”

My father opens the door and walks out ahead of her. As she follows, I spit in her direction. The door slams and my head pounds.

I let the tears flow. I feel so helpless and alone. I just want to see Alex. I have to get out of here. I know I’ve been warned not to do it so soon after waking up, but I’ll have to take my chances drifting.

I pull at my restraints, trying to loosen them a bit and get more comfortable. As soon as I do, a nurse barges through the door yelling, “I need backup.”

“I’m just trying to get them to not cut into my skin,” I tell her.

She doesn’t listen. She just pushes my chest down flat against the bed with all of her weight. “I’m not…trying…” I realize I’m yelling at her.

Three other staff members run in through the door, reacting to the nurse’s shouts. “We have a code purple here. Code purple,” she yells louder, urging the help to hurry

“
Get off of me!
” I shriek.

Six more hands pin me down to clamp five additional restraints over my limbs and midsection. With the sound of each buckle, I feel a set of hands release from my body. I see a nurse inject something into the IV bag. An icy sensation flows up my arm, making me cold and tired at the same time. Within seconds, I go numb and light-headed. I feel no happiness, no sadness, and no anger. I feel nothing.

It’s kind of nice, actually.

Time seems to pass, as I lie still in my bed, strapped down, leaving me nothing to do other than to stare up at the ceiling.

But I don’t drift.

I can’t.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

COLD ADJUSTMENTS

IT COULD HAVE BEEN MINUTES
or even days that I’ve been here. I’m slowly starting to feel things again…everything all at once. An overwhelming rush of sadness, anger and loneliness brings tears that I don’t think will stop anytime soon.

Suddenly, I’m scared.

Nurse Charlie appears for the first time since I woke up from my coma. “How are you doing, Chloe?” she asks. She seems nice, but I don’t want it from her.

“Take these restraints off," I yell. "They hurt." I try to wriggle my wrists free, but I can't move at all.

“Sure, I can unlatch these. But you need to promise me you won’t try to pull the needle out of your arm again.” Her voice is calm and sweet.

I feel myself calm down a bit too. “I didn’t try to pull anything out. I was just trying to get comfortable. My hands were already clamped down, right?”

She slowly nods, pulls the restraints off and pushes the button on the side of the bed to help me sit up. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to be kept in the bed, but we still need to monitor you,” she says. She begins switching out the bag on my IV. “We need to make sure that you don’t hurt yourself. You could hit your head and fall back into a coma.” She throws the old empty bag into the trash and peels her gloves off. “We’re just going to monitor you for a little while longer—a day, maybe. If it looks like everything is okay, we’ll remove the wires.

I look at the IV. “And that?”

“We’ll continue the medication orally.”

“I’d rather not be on any medication at all though,” I counter.

“But that’s why we’re here, hon. We’ll work with you every day, so eventually you won’t need the medication anymore. That’s the goal.” Her voice is full of encouragement.

I have a different goal in mind.

“I’ll settle for having these needles out of my arm, then.”

“Tomorrow, Chloe. Like I just said.” Her tone is suddenly stern.

I’m well aware of what arguing with anyone inside of these walls will do, so I let it go.

“Dinner will be here in about a half an hour. I’ll be back to check on you soon after that.” Charlie leaves, and I’m alone again.

I wonder what Alex is doing right now, and Celia. They must be worried sick about me. I would do anything to see both of them again.

My door creaks open, and a young man in his early twenties rolls in a cart with three trays on it. He drags my rollaway table out from underneath the TV and pulls it over to sit right above my lap. He lays the tray on the table. Dinner is a slice of burned meat, sweet potatoes, and peas. “Just like home,” I tell him. He doesn’t respond.

I hardly eat any of it. I just lay and watch the TV spew useless game shows at me.

I want to drift. I want to go back to Alex. But now is not the time.

Charlie makes her way back into my room and sits down on the blue leather armchair next to my bed. She crosses her legs and clasps her hands together over her lap. “How are we doing?” she asks.

“Well, I don’t know about you, Charlie, but I’m bored.” I’m sure the condescension comes through loud and clear, but I don’t care. “I’d like to get up and walk around. Is there a common place here where the other crazies hang out and plot their revolution?”

She tilts her chin and grimaces. “Chloe,
no one
here is crazy." She places her petite hand over my arm. "Everyone is just special in his or her own way. We do, in fact, have a very nice room where everyone gets together. There’s even a piano.”

I don’t know why she thinks a piano would make me feel better. I look down and fidget with the hem of my shirt. “May I go tonight?” I feel like a child asking my parent if I can go play outside. It's degrading.

And it’s exactly what I’m used to doing with my mother.

She stands up and pulls the IV stand away from the bed, untangling the cords. “Your IV is on wheels, so you’ll just need to be careful not to snag it on anything." Her words float like a breeze over my head as she makes her way over to the sink. "Before you go, I need to give you your medication, okay?”