Something Wicked (23 page)

I ignore her.

“Of course, you’ll have to pay for the car.”

I don’t answer.

“What did you take from work?”

Ughh … Let me not wake up again.

I pass in and out of sleep for what feels like days. I hear patients around me mumbling and shouting and yelping and groaning. I don’t even know if it’s day or night; there are no windows and the lights stay on all the time. But it doesn’t matter really, because I’m so exhausted all I do is sleep. Then, when I sneak open an eye, I see my mother on the chair drinking coffee, and I know it’s morning.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully.

Is it a day later? I try to curl my lips into a smile. I feel them crack.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

How am I feeling? I am feeling nothing. After throwing up for so long, all feeling has erupted out of me. I think it came out of my mouth—all those black thoughts of death and anger and Michael and Mom. And now I just sort of feel empty. I’m achy and sore and just … broken.

I shrug a shoulder in response, unsure if she sees it or not from under the sheet.

“Well, just rest. And let me know if you want anything.”

Before I have a chance to speak, the curtain opens and a woman appears at the base of my bed. She’s tall and really pretty: blond hair, perfect bone structure, deep blue eyes.

“Hello, Melissa, Ms. Sullivan,” she says in a professional tone, and reaches a hand out to greet my mother.“I’m Claire Macbeth. I’m the social worker in charge of your case. I’m here to answer any questions and to begin a safety plan for you, Melissa.”

“Thanks,” my mom replies.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what’s happening here. Let me tell you about our procedure. Melissa, you were told this when you first came in, but you probably don’t remember. You’ve been admitted to the emergency department due to a drug overdose. You were barely conscious and had a weak heartbeat when you were brought in by your friend. We gave you a nasal tube and activated charcoal to aspirate the contents of your stomach. A potentially life-threatening combination of drugs were screened in your system, which quite possibly could have led to cardiac arrest had you not been admitted.” As she speaks, her beauty changes to ice and her blue eyes fade to a colourless grey. I turn and look away. Too many words. “You might be angry at your friend now, but it’s possible she saved your life,” she continues. “We gave you some medicine, so you’ll be feeling quite groggy for a while. We also did an internal exam and took some blood to check for anything of concern. In terms of demission procedure, first a child and youth counsellor will come and ask you some questions. And then the psychiatrist will make her assessment.”

“So, not much longer, then?” my mom asks. I look back at the woman to hear her answer.

“That’s correct,” she says in a clipped voice. She backs her way out through the curtain. “Hang in there, Melissa.” And then she’s gone.

At
least a few hours later, the curtain opens again and a spiky-blond-haired guy in his mid-twenties appears at the base of my bed. I quickly close my eyes to pretend I’m asleep. “Hi, Melissa, Ms. Sullivan. I’m Warren, a CYC—that’s child and youth counsellor—here at the hospital. I’m here to ask Melissa a few questions. But first, before I begin, do either one of you have any questions for me? I know you’ve been in here a long time, and it’s not the most calming environment.”

I don’t move.

“We’ve been in emergency for too long. It’s too noisy. How much longer?” I hear annoyance in my mom’s voice.

“I apologize, Ms. Sullivan. We’re just waiting for the psychiatrist to make her assessment.”

“So, not much longer, then?”

“Hopefully not. It’ll depend on her assessment. When I go back upstairs, I’ll check in on her again to make sure she’s on her way.”

“Okay. Then I’ll leave you two alone,” my mom says, and I feel a squeeze on my foot below the sheet. “Do you want anything, Hon?”

I keep my eyes shut.

“No? Okay, then. I’ll be back later.”

“Hi, Melissa. Can I sit on the edge of your bed?” Warren asks, like he knows I’m faking sleeping.

I raise a hand and gesture “whatever,” then I feel the mattress dip.

“I know you’re not feeling great now, Melissa. I know the medicine we gave you makes you feel strange, and you don’t feel like talking about anything. But to be honest, the sooner we get through these questions, the sooner you can get out of
this place. So I’m going to ask you to sit up and give me just fifteen minutes of your time. Then you can go back to sleep again. I promise.”

I wait a bit, half considering his proposal and half trying to muster the strength to lift up my throbbing head.

“Can you sit up, please?” he asks, a little more firmly.

I lift my head and push my way up to a sitting position.

“Thanks,” he says when I finally reposition myself and stare out at him from empty eyes.“Now, I’m going to ask you lots of things. Some questions will seem strange and others will feel really personal. Try your best to answer as many as you can. What you say is confidential, so your mom won’t know. The information is for the psychiatrist’s assessment.”

He starts right away, asking me tons of questions and writing down my answers. Who do you live with? Do you share a room? Do you have access to a gun? Do you have friends? Have you had sex? What are your grades like? Have you ever tried to kill yourself? Have you ever thought about it? Have you ever been pregnant? Do you take drugs? Marijuana? Cocaine? Heroin? Sedatives? Glue? Can you sleep at night? Do you have an appetite? Would you care if you died? Who would care if you died? Do you know why you are here? What do you want to do after high school?

It goes on forever, but this doesn’t seem to bother me. I just answer the questions, one after the other. I tell him the truth. I don’t care what he knows. And I tell him everything except for what happened with Giovanni.

“This last one is my favourite,” Warren says, finally putting down his clipboard. “If you could make three wishes, what would they be?”

“I don’t make wishes.”

“If you had to.”

“Okay. Off the top of my head? I wish I could go home. I
wish for twenty million dollars. And …” I look at him. “I wish you’d go away?”

Warren taps his pen against the page and closes the binder. “Got it,” he says, winking. “I’m done. Thanks for hanging in there.”

Warren returns a while later and introduces me to the psychiatrist. She’s a middle-aged, nerdy lady with a whispery, soft voice. She explains to me that she’s just here to talk about what happened and assess my current state of well-being. She gives me a fresh hospital gown to put on and then I have to follow her down the hallway and into this little room with two chairs and a desk and a window looking into the nurses’ station. She asks me lots of the same questions as Warren, only she goes more into my mom and Bradley and my counselling with Eric. Somehow, she even gets me to tell her about Michael, which at this point I don’t care about keeping a secret anymore. I just want him over with. I want him out of my mind.

By the kinds of questions she keeps asking me, I can tell she thinks I tried to kill myself. Then finally she comes right out and asks it. “Melissa, do you think there’s a possibility that you took these drugs on purpose? Did you know that this amount of drugs had the potential to kill you?”

“You mean did I try to commit suicide?”

“Yes,” she answers with a warm and open expression.

I think a little. “I don’t know,” I say. And it’s the truth. I mean, I don’t remember thinking,
I want to die.
But then again, I must have known that taking so much could be deadly.

“Well, I think that’s something we should explore a little more, then.” She says she’s going to recommend that I stay on the “unit” for some observation time, and she’ll make
a referral to a psychiatrist for when I get out to see about

medication.

“You think I’m depressed?” I ask.

“I think it’s a possibility, Melissa,” she says gently. “I think you have a lot going on in your life, and that in some ways you’re doing a great job at coping, or maybe masking the sadness. But I think, given this last incident, your fights with peers, your recent breakup, and your family stress … it’s enough to constitute concern.”

“I don’t feel depressed,” I reflect.

“Depression isn’t always just being sad. It comes in a lot of shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s anger or apathy. Or sometimes it shows itself through the coping mechanisms, like drugs and alcohol or criminal activity.”

Now that she’s talking about depression, I get scared. I don’t want to take any pills. “I’m not going to do it again,” I assure her, as if that will change anything now.

“That’s good to hear, Melissa. I really hope not.” She smiles and then gets up, indicating our time is up. “I hope to have a chance to meet with you one more time before you go home.”

I’m back in my bed in the emergency room, almost asleep, and my mom is reading a magazine on the chair when the social worker returns with a youngish woman. “Hello,” the ice queen social worker says, “this is Alexis, one of the CYCs from the fourth floor.”

“Hi there!” she says cheerfully, waving at my mom and me.

The ice queen turns to my mom. “So, we are accepting your request for an ASU bed for Melissa here at the hospital.” Then she turns to me. “We feel your ongoing risk-taking behaviour, Melissa, constitutes a significant threat to your own safety.”

She moves in closer to my mom and lowers her voice slightly, as if I’m not going to hear. “Since there’s a history of aggression and threatening behaviour toward others, as well as a history of high-risk activities such as sex and substance abuse and possible suicide, we feel there is just reason to admit Melissa for a few days for a period of assessment, stabilization, diagnostic evaluation, and long-term planning. That way, she can see a psychiatrist and you can have the support from the crisis team.”

She didn’t need to bother lowering her voice because even though I heard each word, they strung together as just one foggy blur in my ears. “Melissa.” She reaches out and puts her cold, bony fingers on my thigh. “We want to keep you safe for the next few days. We’re here to help you.” And then, without a goodbye, she’s gone.