Rachel's voice haunts me night and day. All I had to do was tell her I'd be with her and she'd be alive. She said I hurt her, all this time I thought she was wrong but maybe she was right. She didn't drive me to kill myself, it was the other way around. I'm the bad guy.
I've barely moved all week; sometimes I'm in my bed, sometimes I'm my wheelchair by the window. Today I'm sat staring out at the trees. Nurses come in and out, they come to change the dressing on my leg or sometimes they come just to check on me and ask me if I'm okay. Of course, I'm not okay. Moms come to see me at the weekend, they sit with me for a few hours. They tried to get me talking at first, but they gave up. I'm a lost cause.
One day, my new doctor comes into my room. Regardless of the fact that all of our conversations so far have been one-sided, I do like him. He's not the kind of doctor I'd expect in a place like this; he doesn't wear a shirt and white coat, instead, he wears blue jeans and a cable knit sweater. He has hipster glasses that sit on the end of his nose, he never looks through them. I think he wears them because they make him look clever. As he walks in and sits down on the armchair next to me, he carries a white paper bag that rattles with the slightest movement.
"This is your new prescription," He tells me as opens the bag and pulls our four orange pill bottles, one by one. "These will help you sleep. These are anti-depressants. These are for your anxiety and these-," He looks at the last bottle. "These are going to help you be more honest." I look at him, how can a drug make me do that? "We've talked a couple of times in the week you've been here, well I've talked, but I don't know if you've listened. Patients here aren't supposed to have visitors other than parents until the third week, but I think it may help you." I look at him. "Your sister is coming in." The door knocks. "That'll be her." He gets up and opens the door, but I don't look. I stare at the trees as they sway side to side with the wind.
"Hi," Callie's soft voice emerges from behind me.
"Callie, right? I'm Dr. Hastings, it's a pleasure to meet you." I feel her hand touch my shoulder and she comes and sits next to me. "You guys talk, I'll be right back." He doesn't close the door, I'm almost certain he hasn't left at all. Callie stares at me, so I stare back, still no direct eye contact.
"We miss you. The house feels empty." She pauses, waiting for a response. "Brandon's back home. He said it didn't feel right being away from all of us, he said families should be together as much as they can." She's trying to get me to say I'll be home soon too. "What's it like here?" I think a one-word answer would be enough for her to know I'm still in here, but I don't know if I am. Callie sniffles and quickly wipes tears away from her face, she forces a smile. "I brought you some of your things from home." She unzips her backpack. "You were reading this right?" She pulls out the book that AJ gave me and sets it down on the table. "And the pajamas Mariana gave you," She holds up the silky blue pajamas that I wore the first real night I stayed at the Fosters. She folds them carefully as if they might crumble in her hands. I see her glance over to the door, confirming my thought of Dr. Hastings watching us. "And this is the shirt I gave you." She talks as if I've forgotten; it's the maroon panda shirt that I wore almost every day until moms bought me some clothes of my own, how could I forget anything that happens at home? Every day with my family was always so beautiful, if at times tragic.
Next, she pulls a blanket out of the bag. The yellow woolen throw was in the living room before I moved in, but mama wrapped it around me that night I showed up on the doorstep. And since then I haven't been able to sleep without it. She lays it over my cold legs, covered in bandages and scars, and immediately I feel a familiar flood of relaxation take over me. I touch the soft fabric, reminded of the nights I actually managed to sleep. "I just wanted to make sure you don't forget that you do have a home, and it's full of people who love you." I finally look her in the eye. "I know that places like this can make you feel like you're never gonna get out. But you are." She touches my hand, waits another moment for a response, and then walks out. She stops by the door for a second to talk to Dr. Hastings.
"That's the most responsive she's ever been," He says.
"Responsive? She didn't say a word."
"She made eye contact, and her reaction when you gave her the blanket, it was enough for now," He assures her.
"When will she talk to someone?"
"In her own time, thank you for coming, Callie."
"Thanks for letting me." I hear her walk away.
I sit by the window for the rest of the day, trying to sort through my mind but it's like when you try to remember something, and things keep distracting you, old memories. Usually, they're good memories. Not for me, I see Rachel jumping, I see her digging the knife into my leg, I see her face when she was in juvie, but I don't just see her, I feel her around me. The scariest memories are the ones of John, I feel his presence too. But the worst part is that sometimes I can't tell his presence apart from Rachels anymore. They have both hurt me. In different ways, yes, but it's almost like they were trying to make me feel the same way. And I can't figure out what that feeling is.
"Gracie?" My shoulder is tapped one morning, it's the nurse. "You have another visitor." She says softly, her voice implies that she's sweet and that I should trust her, but her nurse uniform screams, 'You're crazy'.
"Hi." I feel my bed tilt slightly, but I lay still, staring at the wall. "Your moms told me what happened with that girl." It's Freddie. "Sucks." Understatement. "They told me everything actually, I hope that's okay." He takes a breath. "I've been a place like this before, it was pretty scary. But I got better, not completely, but I got out." I roll onto my back, and I look at him, "I can't stay, but I just wanted to see you. I wanted to make sure you're okay, but I know you're not, and that's fine. You don't have to be okay yet. But you will be." He squeezes my hand before leaving.
"Your brother seems to care about you a lot," Dr. Hastings says, he was watching me again "And you care about him too?" I've known him for only a matter of weeks, but yes, I do care about him. "I'd like us to try something." I sit up, ready to let him do his usual psychobabble. "No, lie down and take this." He hands me a pen and sits down in the armchair across from my bed. "Now." He slips a notepad under my right hand. "Close your eyes, and do your best to empty your mind, I know it's hard but just do your best." I obey his orders.
I lay still for about fifteen minutes. He doesn't say a word, I focus on my breathing, trying to empty my mind as he said. "Okay, let your hand connect with your head, and write something, anything." I let my hand start to scribble. "Good, now that's a feeling," He moves my hand down, "Now write why you think that feeling is valid." My hand hovers. "It doesn't have to be one word; it could be a phrase." I hear the pen scratching against the paper as I write. "Write why it's invalid, then another reason you think it's valid, then one more reason that it's invalid." My hand starts writing away rapidly until it comes to an abrupt stop. "Open your eyes."
As my eyes become unstuck, tears fall down my cheeks. I feel overwhelmed with emotion, sadness, fear, even heartbreak. A simple three-minute mind exercise has messed my head up more, but somehow, it's better because now I know where things are, I can start to organize the mess.
"Do you know what you wrote?" I sit up and look down at the notepad that's now in his hands. "For your feeling, you wrote guilt." I've scribbled like a child. "So, you feel guilty?" I nod my head slowly. "You wrote 'my fault', then you wrote a name." He looks up at me over his pretentious glasses. "Rachel." I squirm at her name, worried I might vomit. "The girl who hurt you?" I nod again, trying to stifle the tears. "You wrote 'me' next; you believe you're the reason she did what she did?" I nod one more time. "And John," He reads. With that, the walls I've built around me come crashing down. Every brick hitting me before they fall around my feet. "Tell me what you're feeling right now." He leans forward, he knows he's got to me.
"Wrong," I whisper in a pitifully frail voice. "I feel wrong. And dirty."
"Good," I look at him with perplexity. How is this good? How is anything good? "Why do you feel wrong?" I turn away from him and pull the sheets up over my shoulders. Dr. Hastings takes the hint and walks out.
