"Why did you try to kill yourself?" the psychiatrist asked. Joe almost laughed, her question was so stupid. She knew. Everyone knew.
"Why not ask my parents?"
"They already told me their side. I'm interested in yours now."
"What did they tell you?"
She sighed and crossed her legs. Joe felt slightly sorry for her; he had not given any of the therapists his mother and father had tried to get him to talk to any courtesy, although they had all been sympathetic. He didn't want to talk about it. That was all. He wanted out of the room he'd been imprisoned in for almost a week, out of this hospital, back in his dorm where at least he could think in silence. Nurses checked on him every fifteen minutes, and his parents hardly ever left. And everywhere he looked some kind-faced do-gooder was urging him to talk. He had never been good at discussing his emotions, and he couldn't begin to try now, not when there was so much going on inside him he was unable to try to understand.
Frank always knew; one look at my face and he could tell me everything I felt. Why can't anyone else see it? Why can't Frank just speak for me?
"They told me that you lost your brother."
"I didn't."
She raised her eyebrows and made a note on her pad. "You didn't?"
"No. It's not like I woke up one morning and, whoops! where's Frank? I must have left him in my other pants or in my locker. I didn't misplace him."
"He's gone..."
"Don't say 'gone' either. That sounds like he's on a trip. He didn't 'leave' or 'cross over' or any of that stuff."
"Well, what should I say, Mr. Hardy? His death?"
Joe flinched inwardly at the 'd-word.' He never had gotten used to it. "His murder."
"Fine. You are unable to deal with your brother's murder."
"Of course I'm unable to 'deal with my brother's murder.' Now, I could deal with Frank's murderer, but the two-word verb 'deal with' requires a person to be the object of—"
"Mr. Hardy, sarcasm is just a façade you have built up to hide your feelings."
"Who's being sarcastic? I'm sharing feelings here. It makes me angry when people don't understand what they're talking about. They just throw around common terms without realizing that they're making no sense."
The doctor sighed. "Mr. Hardy..."
"Joe."
"Joe. You need to manage your grief, not bury it with alcohol or drugs or drinking—"
"Maybe I like those things."
"I'm going to recommend you see a psychologist and go on medication."
"So you want me to hide my grief behind prescription pills."
"I want you to stop hiding. Face reality. Frank is dead. You are not. You have to keep going. You can't give up because you lose someone."
"Why not?"
"Because it's cowardly."
She was trying to draw a reaction out of him, get him worked up to 'being brave' or 'toughing it out.' This was proof she had spoken to his father; he'd told his sons this since they were little.
"It's cowardly to drive a van into a telephone pole at eighty miles an hour? It's cowardly to pop pills you've never heard of in your mouth on top of a bottle of straight vodka? It's cowardly to take a knife and carve your brother's name in your arm until you almost bleed to death? Could you do those things?"
"I don't need releases like that. I face my weaknesses head on."
"I face them too. My way. Which doesn't include 'deep breaths' and 'stress management.'" Joe got angrily to his feet. "We're done here. I'm going home."
"Your parents won't sign you out."
"They don't need to. I'm eighteen."
"When you're twenty-one you can make your own healthcare decisions."
"I've already made my own. I'm getting out of here."
"Wait..."
He slammed the door to her office in his face. He did feel sorry for her now; for anyone who was stuck trying to save a psycho like himself. But he had to escape. He couldn't breathe in these white white corridors with the white white floors and the white white lights. They made him colder than he already was.
I belong here, though, on the psyche ward. I am crazy. First trying to self-destruct, then hallucinating Frank when I woke up...oh well, probably just another crazy dream. Still...
Joe shivered and glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to find his brother behind him. But there was only the empty hallway.
"Honey?"
He spun around and found himself face-to-face with his parents. He'd almost walked right into his mother. "How was it?"
He just shook his head and shut the door to his room in their faces.
