I can't stop shivering. This place is so cold. Why don't they turn up the
heat? It's freezing in here. The walls are white and hard and everything is
so bright it hurts my eyes.
They told me the person walking their dog along the road saw me first. They told me it was a she, a blond young woman in her twenties with a border collie. They said I was clinging to the railing, my fingers bloodless and my face deadly white, and screaming uncontrollably. They said that I wouldn't stop crying, that the lady kept trying to calm me down as her dog barked frantically and she phoned the ambulance on her cell.
That's what they say. Me, I don't remember any of this. I don't think I want to.
They found him. They brought him to the hospital--he's in there now. He's inside that room; doctors keep filing in, bringing needles and vials and clipboards, and nobody's come out yet. I'm sitting outside and waiting. And waiting.
I keep thinking: He said he was my problem. Why would he think that? Did I do this to him? Is all of this my fault?
And so the minutes go by. It's late at night; there's barely any noise, just the low hum of chatter and the distant drone of the furnace. A few nurses wander up and down the hall; someone steps off the elevator bearing a huge bouquet of flowers and disappears down the corridor. And I wait.
***
He has schizophrenia. The doctors confirmed it; one of them came out to tell me in a calm, dispassionate voice. I don't remember who it was. Somebody with brown hair and glasses.
I'm sitting outside alone again. They've all disappeared. It's just me, this chair, this hallway, and the open door two steps away. There's no noise coming from inside the room.
Slowly, I get up. My legs ache, so I stretch a little bit. My heels clatter on the tiles, the clicking echoing off the walls. It's a loud sound in the silence and I almost startle myself.
I poke my head around the doorway and peer inside.
He's alive. Bruised, battered, bleeding, pale and broken, but thank God, he's alive. He's awake now, and staring out the window. He doesn't react as I come in.
"Bobby?"
No answer. What did I expect him to say, after all?
"I have to go now, I... I... I just wanted to tell you..."
Everything. Anything. Something to make this all better, something that will break the silence between us, something that will bring you back from the dark, empty world you're lost in.
"I love you." It comes easier than I thought, so I say it again. "Bobby, I love you. I can't help it, even if I tried--you make me love you with everything you do, everything you say. Let me love you, please, let me help you. Please, don't shut me out." But you will. I know you, and I can't accept that. "Don't--don't leave. Don't go where nobody can find you. Come back."
I'm pleading now. I don't care. I just want to reach him.
He doesn't look at me. But as I get up, left with nothing but defeat and frustration, I hear a small strangled noise. I sit back down and hold out a hand, open, with the palm up, ready to receive, ready to accept.
And when he puts his arms around me and buries his face in my shoulder as he holds on for dear life, making those strange little choking sounds, I'm not sure whether to smile or cry.
***
They told me the person walking their dog along the road saw me first. They told me it was a she, a blond young woman in her twenties with a border collie. They said I was clinging to the railing, my fingers bloodless and my face deadly white, and screaming uncontrollably. They said that I wouldn't stop crying, that the lady kept trying to calm me down as her dog barked frantically and she phoned the ambulance on her cell.
That's what they say. Me, I don't remember any of this. I don't think I want to.
They found him. They brought him to the hospital--he's in there now. He's inside that room; doctors keep filing in, bringing needles and vials and clipboards, and nobody's come out yet. I'm sitting outside and waiting. And waiting.
I keep thinking: He said he was my problem. Why would he think that? Did I do this to him? Is all of this my fault?
And so the minutes go by. It's late at night; there's barely any noise, just the low hum of chatter and the distant drone of the furnace. A few nurses wander up and down the hall; someone steps off the elevator bearing a huge bouquet of flowers and disappears down the corridor. And I wait.
***
He has schizophrenia. The doctors confirmed it; one of them came out to tell me in a calm, dispassionate voice. I don't remember who it was. Somebody with brown hair and glasses.
I'm sitting outside alone again. They've all disappeared. It's just me, this chair, this hallway, and the open door two steps away. There's no noise coming from inside the room.
Slowly, I get up. My legs ache, so I stretch a little bit. My heels clatter on the tiles, the clicking echoing off the walls. It's a loud sound in the silence and I almost startle myself.
I poke my head around the doorway and peer inside.
He's alive. Bruised, battered, bleeding, pale and broken, but thank God, he's alive. He's awake now, and staring out the window. He doesn't react as I come in.
"Bobby?"
No answer. What did I expect him to say, after all?
"I have to go now, I... I... I just wanted to tell you..."
Everything. Anything. Something to make this all better, something that will break the silence between us, something that will bring you back from the dark, empty world you're lost in.
"I love you." It comes easier than I thought, so I say it again. "Bobby, I love you. I can't help it, even if I tried--you make me love you with everything you do, everything you say. Let me love you, please, let me help you. Please, don't shut me out." But you will. I know you, and I can't accept that. "Don't--don't leave. Don't go where nobody can find you. Come back."
I'm pleading now. I don't care. I just want to reach him.
He doesn't look at me. But as I get up, left with nothing but defeat and frustration, I hear a small strangled noise. I sit back down and hold out a hand, open, with the palm up, ready to receive, ready to accept.
And when he puts his arms around me and buries his face in my shoulder as he holds on for dear life, making those strange little choking sounds, I'm not sure whether to smile or cry.
***