WHITE WALLS (13 page)

Then depression overwhelmed me all over again.

In the passing weeks I’ve only see Dr. Watson six times. And he'd acted even more distant than before.

He'd check my vitals, but never look into my eyes. Then he'd simply say, “You're recovering well, Adelaide. I'd estimate that you'll be out of here in a few weeks.”

But the thought of leaving terrifies me.

Before, I was so certain that I could make it on my own. I convinced myself that even if I had to live on the streets it would be better than my morning meds, straightjacket, and room with four white, padded walls. Doubt creeps into my mind like a vagrant thief on a darkened night and now I'm not so sure. Where will I go? What will I do? How will I survive on my own? I have no money. No job. No place to live. I can't even drive a car.

Maybe my rash escape from Oakhill wasn't that smart at all.

My thoughts come to a halt when my door opens and Dr. Watson enters. My body tenses immediately and my eyes are centered on his. But like usual he won't look at me. His eyes are cast downward. As he takes my pulse, I keep my gaze steady, willing him to look me in the eye, but he doesn't.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Carmichael,” he greets me formally, but without an ounce of friendliness in his tone.

The rejection stings.

Throbs.

Consumes me like a dull, throbbing ache in my side.

I'm not even good enough for him to make eye contact with me. That thought reminds me of living all those years with Daddy all over again. In Daddy's eyes I was never good enough, nothing I ever did was good enough, and I could never try hard enough. The memory of slaps to the face, kicks to the gut, and the malicious words spit out at my expense brings tears to my eyes.

I hastily wipe the tears away as they roll down my cheeks before Dr. Watson can notice. Not that he would anyway. Like I said before, he hasn't looked me in the eye in weeks.

I don't understand what the big deal is. I don't understand why he disregards the need for assertiveness. I haven't asked him anything inappropriate or even tried to get personal. The least he can do is be friendly. I've only had two friends my entire life, Aurora and Damien. I think it would be nice to have another.

I decide not to return the greeting. Not because I want to be rude or because I'm angry, but because I feel indifferent about the way he treats me. Part of me is curious about him and I wonder if there's more to him than his chilly disposition and alarmingly handsome features. Perhaps there's a disturbed part of him, he'd like to keep other from seeing. Or perhaps he's painfully shy. The sound of his beautiful baritone voice cuts into my wandering thoughts. “What will you do with your new freedom, Adelaide?”

My mouth hangs open, so surprised that he's actually making conversation and now I can't even answer him. “I, I—” I just can't get the words out.

“You have no plans, then?” I lift my head and notice him staring at me. Heat rises to my cheeks because of the intensity in his stare. His eyes are vibrant today. A wild bronze color. I'm captivated and a volt of excitement pumps though me because he's looking at me—no—he's staring at me like I’m the only girl he's ever seen before. I can't find words. This happens a lot when he's around me. Sometimes it feels like he reaches inside of my throat and snatches the words from my voice box.

I know my behavior around him is mostly my nerves getting the best of me, but still. I wasn't ever this nervous around D—no, I scold myself for almost saying his name. I can't say it anymore. I can't think about it anymore. I can't think about him anymore. At least not right now. I'm already emotional. It will be too much.

I know myself.

I won't be able to handle it.
 

What I want to tell Dr. Watson is about everything I had planned when I escaped. I want to tell him about swimming in the ocean, riding a horse, leaning to drive, but I don't mention any of that. Instead I mumble, “I'm not sure.”

“Not sure, he repeats, but the words come out shaky. Uncertain. “What do you mean by that?”

I break my eyes away from his and stare at my fingers. “I mean I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I leave here.”

Dr. Watson takes me by the hand and eases me to a lying down position. His touch scorches my skin and I inhale a deep breath and hold it. The scorch from his fingertips climbs up my arms and trails down my legs. I feel warm everywhere. “You mean you didn't have a plan when you broke out of the Oakhill Institution?”

“Did the police tell you that?” I ask, glancing up, eagerly awaiting his answer.

But he skips over his answer and changes the subject. “Your vitals are good--”

“I know,” I tell him, interrupting. “And let me guess, I'll be out of here in a few weeks.”

A half-smile curls on his lips and he runs his fingers along his jaw line. Amusement flashes in his eyes and then they shift back and forth across my face before narrowing. “Are you mocking me, Ms. Carmichael?”

“No,” I say. But in a way I kind of was. Sometimes I wonder if he's aware of the way he comes off. All broody, rigid, and mysterious. Then I wonder about what it might be like to see him laugh. Or beam radiantly. In my mind I imagine that his whole face illuminates when he radiates a genuine smile and thinking about it makes my insides jumpy. The beauty of it, even the pretend image of Dr. Watson beaming in my mind, is breathtaking. “And don't call me Ms. Carmichael.” His eyes steel at my attempt in being bold. “I prefer Adelaide or—” I suck the nickname back into my throat before I can spit it out. There are only two people who ever called me, Addy. Both of them are now deceased, and their deaths' tore my heart in half.

Sent me into a world of pain and deep, dark despair.

Drove to me to insanity.

That nickname will always remind me of the worst time in my life. So I decide I'll be completely okay with never having anyone call me Addy ever again. I continue with, “Adelaide is fine.”

Dr. Watson nods attentively. “Very well then, Adelaide.” He pivots quickly and walks to the door. His long fingers skim the metal handle and he looks at me one last time before making his exit. “For a second, I thought you were going to tell me address you by some silly nickname.”

I almost gasp, but contain myself and say, “No. I wasn't.”

“Good.” His voice drops a level. “I'm not fond of using nicknames.”

“Neither am I,” I say.

At least not anymore.

Chapter Eighteen

~After~

Dr. Watson is sleeping in my room again.

I haven't had any nightmares in weeks, but here he is, slumped over in a chair on the side of my bed, his elbow propped up on the metal arm of the plastic chair, his head propped up in his hand. For a second, I just stare at him. He looks completely different when he sleeps. The cold, controlled demeanor is gone. His perfectly proportioned face is relaxed. He looks almost...almost... like he's at peace.

I can't stand the thought of waking him, but my legs are restless and my insomnia has refused to let me get more than two hours of sleep at a time. I've been up in intervals since ten o'clock. Part of me thinks this is because my body has finally healed and the other part of me knows it’s anxiety.

They're letting me out tomorrow.

I've been here for 4 weeks and all day the staff has been telling me that I get to go home tomorrow.

The funny thing is; I don't have a home.

I don't even have a pair of shoes.

Sliding out of my bed, I take my time placing each foot on the cold tile floor, careful not to make even the slightest amount of noise. I grab the metal pole that has my IV bag connected to it and pull on it slowly, wincing every time one of the wheels lets out a tiny squeak. I pick up a cord that's wrapped around one of the wheels, and begin to back up when I feel warm hands on my waist and hot breath against my ear. “What are you doing?”

I jump, let go of the pole and clutch my chest. My heart races, pounding against my fingertips and I let out a sigh as I stare up at an upset looking Dr. Watson. Funny, I prefer his peaceful, sleeping look. “I can't sleep,” I tell him. “I was just going to go for a walk.”

He huffs and lifts an eyebrow. “By yourself?”

“Yes, by myself.” I roll my eyes. “Is it that absurd that I'd want to take a walk by myself?”

“Given what you've been through in the last month, yes, it is.”

“Dr. Watson, the nurses have had me up and walking on my own for weeks now. They've let me walk the halls alone. I promise you, I'll be fine.”

“Nonsense.” He tucks his right arm through my left one. “I'll go with you.”

“I can go myself,” I insist. Something tells me this man isn't used to people telling him no. Another part of me knows that people are usually following his orders not the other way round.

I've had some time to observe the inner workings of this hospital and I've witnessed the rest of the staff members treat the doctors like Gods. They always check with the doctors before signing off on a chart. Or the nurses swoon, giggling in quiet voices whenever they walk past. The doctors hold all the power here. But I assume it’s like that in all the other hospitals. After all, they are saving people's lives.

“You're not going by yourself, Adelaide. I will accompany you. I don't want to hear another word about it.”Dr. Watson reaches behind himself and hooks his fingers around my IV stand, and then he circles it in a half-crescent, keeping it level with his left side. The tube connected to my arm pulls a little at first, but once we start moving it doesn't pull anymore.

Dr. Watson guides me out the door, his hand on the small of my back, and then takes my arm again once we're in the hall. There are a few nurses working the midnight shift and a tall, leggy blonde is propped up against the reception desk, conversing with a short, petite brunette. Both are pretty, but the blonde stand out to me. Her flaxen hair shines beneath the bright lights in the hall and in spots it looks like there are glittering strands of gold in it. Her lips are plump, full, and light pink in color. Her eyes are cat-like, the color bordering between light brown and hazel. As far as her figure goes, let’s just say, she's curved in all the right places. She whispers something to the brunette as we pass then giggles flirtatiously, batting her long lashes. “Hi Elijah,” she says in a sultry voice. “Oops.” Another giggle. “I mean, Dr. Watson.”

My eyes find Dr. Watson's and I'm puzzled by his reaction to this woman. He nods politely in her direction, says, “Good Evening, Gretchen.” Then his head snaps straight and he gazes down the long hall in front of him. It's like he's oblivious to the fact that she has eyes for him.

When I decide we're far enough down the hall that we're out of hearing range I speak up. “That woman was very striking,” I mention casually.

Dr. Watson peers down at me, making eye contact. “Gretchen, yes. She is attractive.”

I stare up at his face and notice the length of his full, thick black lashes surrounding the droplets of honey he has for eyes. They curl up like they're smathered with mascara and I told back the urge to touch them. “She likes you.”

“I know,” he says as a proud smirk appears on his lips.

My eyes widen. I'm taken aback by his arrogance. I've been around this man more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. He's been brooding. Cold. Distant. Even mysterious. But never arrogant. I wasn't sure he had it in him. “Well forgive my observation then,” I say trying not to sound haughty. But I suspect my reply comes out haughty anyway.

For the first time ever, he flashes me a smile that touches his eyes and a flicker of amusement resides in their amber waves. “I've upset you,” he says, making an assumption.

“No,” I say. “You didn't upset me.”

He studies my face, hard. It's like he's trying to see what goes on behind my eyes. He's trying to figure out the inner workings of my soul. “You're not a very good liar, Adelaide.”

“I'm not—” I try to insist for a second, but give up. “You didn't upset me. I was more disappointed. I never pegged you as the arrogant type. I don't think it's a very becoming quality.”

He frowns and lifts his head, staring straight forward. “Adelaide, I am not arrogant. I am self-assured. There is a difference.”

He was starting to relax a minute ago and my comment has brought back the cold, moody Dr. Watson. I should have kept my mouth shut. I enjoyed having him open up to me a little bit. “Are you always this closed off?”