Maybe I Will (17 page)

When I woke up, someone was in the corner of my hospital room whispering with my parents. I still felt groggy.
Very relaxed. No pain.
I strained to hear what they were talking about, but could only make out a few words here and there. I shot straight up in bed when I heard the words “involuntary commitment.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. A piercing pain shot through my head and exploded on my forehead. I reached up and felt a huge mass of flesh pulsating above my eyebrows. I lay back down and forced myself to breathe.

Mom came over to my bedside and stroked my temples. “Do you know where you are?”

“The hospital?”

Mom nodded. “Do you remember what happened?”

I tried to piece it all together. “My notebook,” I said.

Mom nodded again. “Don't worry,” she cooed. “We'll get your notebook back.”

“But the detective . . . ”

Mom patted my hand. “We won't be dealing with that detective anymore.”

Dad came over by the bed, too, but he didn't say anything. They were holding my hands, but I felt myself floating away. Not back to sleep exactly—more like off to Neverland.

Neverland without Tiger Lily. I could hear the beating drums. Bam-BAM-buh, Bam-BAM-buh, Bam-BAM-buh. It sounds like a single word echoing through the forest: BeTRAYed. BeTRAYed. BeTRAYed.

I am Peter Pan. Tiger Lily betrayed me. Never again will I call on Tiger Lily. Never again will she send for Peter Pan. This is a tragedy, but I have seen many tragedies in Neverland and forgotten them all.

Demand me nothing. What you know, you know.
From this time forth I never will speak a word.

—Othello
, Act V, Scene ii, Lines 303-304

I
DON'T KNOW
how long I slept. Doc was there when I woke up. They got me a can of Sprite and let me order some food. Once I was fully awake and settled in, Mom and Dad said we needed to talk.

“About what?” I asked.

Doc stepped forward. “About the alcohol that was in your system when you arrived at the hospital, Sandy.”

My skin tingled and my hands began to shake.
Oh, yeah . . . I drank the rest of that vodka last night.
It was all coming back to me.
I wish I had some more waiting for me at home . . .

Dad looked grim. “Where did you get it?”

I didn't answer. Instead, I closed my eyes, knowing Mom wouldn't let Dad cross-examine me at the hospital if she thought I was too tired or in pain. I reached up and ran my fingers gingerly across my forehead, wincing when I reached the bump just to add effect.

Mom jumped in to save me. “That's not important right now, Bill.” She turned to me. “I want to know why you're still drinking, Sandy. What were you thinking?”

Doc shushed them both. “I would recommend that we give Sandy some space and time to reflect on those questions. My primary concern is how we keep Sandy from drinking again once the doctor signs the discharge papers tomorrow.”

I wanted to tell them that was easy. I really was all out of vodka now. I wasn't going to steal anymore. I wanted nothing more to do with the police.
I'm just not cut out to be a criminal. I can't take it.
At the same time, I found myself going through lists of people who might be willing to buy more for me so I wouldn't have to steal it.
It's not like I really need it. How many weeks did I go without taking a single drink? I just want to keep a bottle around for security, to calm my nerves, just in case.
The more I thought about it the more obsessed I became with devising a fool-proof plan to get more alcohol.

I realized Doc was still talking, but I had no idea what she'd been saying. I tried to focus again on her words.

“Just a couple of days,” she was saying. “We need to find the right balance and make sure you're stabilized.”

“A couple of days where?” I asked, still clueless as to where this was going.

“There's a unit connected to the hospital here,” said Doc. “We'll start you on a mild sedative, deal with any flashbacks, and begin to address the stressors that seem to provoke relapse.”

Provoke relapse? Flashbacks? A mild sedative?
I shook my head to clear my thoughts.
What had I heard them saying before?
I foraged through the fog in my mind.
Involuntary commitment. They think I'm crazy!

I turned over onto my side, hiding my face from Doc and my parents.
They think I'm crazy. Aaron assaults me, the police attack me, my friends abandon me. Why? Because I'm crazy. I thought they were crazy, but they're all just fine. I'm the one who's crazy.

“We don't have to decide right now,” Mom said. “Let's give Sandy a chance to eat and rest and see what tomorrow brings.”

“True,” agreed Doc. “I would hope that we can go the voluntary route rather than involuntary, but we still have some time before Sandy's discharged.”

“Food service,” a voice called from the hallway.

“Bring it in,” Dad answered. I could hear him shuffling papers and then pulling the bed table over to me.

“I need to go now, but I can come back this evening, Sandy,” said Doc. “We can talk more then.”

“Thanks, Erin,” Mom said. “I'll call you if there are any changes or updates.”

Dad was busy setting up my meal tray for me. “Here you go, Sandy. You'll feel better after you eat something.” I ignored him.

Mom must have checked her phone. “Five messages,” she said softly. “I need to make a few more calls.”

“Go ahead,” said Dad. “I'll stay right here until you get back.”

Mom came over to the bed and kissed the side of my head before she left. “I won't be gone too long,” she promised. I ignored her, too.

After several minutes of silence, Dad quietly asked if I was awake. If he thought I was asleep, he wouldn't know I was ignoring him.

“I'm awake,” I garbled just loud enough to be sure he could hear me.

“Well, your food is here whenever you want it.” I heard the metal hasps on his briefcase pop open. “I got you a new spiral notebook, too. And a couple of pens. I know it's not the notebook you asked for, but at least you'll have a notebook. It was the best I could find in the gift shop downstairs.”

I didn't say anything. I heard him sit down in a chair by the window.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked.

I really wanted to say something now, just so he'd know I wasn't trying to ignore him anymore, but I couldn't think of any-thing to say. Several minutes passed. I moved slightly so that I could sneak a peek at him to see what he was doing. He was leaned back with his head against the wall and his eyes closed. I waited until finally his breathing fell into the relaxed steady pattern that meant he was asleep.

I poked at my food. Three words circled in my mind, gradually moving in toward the kill:
Betrayed. Alone. Insane.
I put down my fork and picked up the notebook and one of the pens. I scribbled and crossed out and scribbled again until I'd written a poem of sorts.
It needs a title.
I wrote the question that was weighing heavy on my mind in capital letters across a clean sheet of paper:

I did feel a little better somehow after chasing the question out of my head and onto the paper where I could examine it more closely, more objectively. The words on paper felt less threatening than the voices in my head.

Voices in your head?
Doc's voice had joined the cast of characters living in my mind.
Yes, Doc, I have voices in my head, and yours is now one of them. Why should my parents pay for me to visit your office when I can visit you for free in my head?

But you never know what I might say in real life.

True. But you never know how much of what you actually say is what I actually hear.

Sandy, sometimes I think you're just trying to mess with my mind, to keep me from messing with yours.

The best defense is a good offense, right, Doc?

You are so right.

I hear ya, Doc. When you're talking like that, I hear ya.

You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty
if you deny your griefs to your friends.

—Hamlet
, Act III, Scene iii, Lines 352-353

W
HEN
D
OC RETURNED
that evening, she asked to talk with me alone. Mom and Dad went to get some dinner. Doc just stood at the end of my bed waiting to see if I'd say anything, I guess.

Finally, I just asked her flat out, “You think I'm crazy, don't you?”

Doc shook her head. “Not at all, Sandy. You may be the sanest kid I've ever worked with.” She pointed to a chair. “Mind if I have a seat?”

“Whatever,” I said. I lightly stroked the lump on my forehead. “If you don't think I'm crazy, then why do you want to put me in a nut house?”

“It's not a nut house. It's a safe place where we can get you some tools to deal with the stress of going back to school. And there are some things we need to process together before you're ready to go home with your parents.”

I started fiddling with the controls on my bed. “Like what?”

“Like how to keep you from drinking.”

“Well, that shouldn't be a problem. I'm really all out of vodka now,” I confessed, “and I don't know how I'd get any more without breaking my promise not to steal or lie. I raised the head of my bed up as far as it could go until it was like sitting in the upright position of an airplane seat.

“I'm glad to hear you're serious about those promises you made to your parents.”

I nodded. I reclined my head to about a 45 degree angle and raised up the foot of my bed. I felt like an astronaut in a space ship ready to launch. I closed my eyes.
In 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . Blast off!
I opened my eyes. I wasn't going anywhere. Neither was Doc. I sighed.

“Are you experiencing any cravings or anxiety at the moment?”

“Anxiety, I guess,” I reached for my forehead again. “I mean, I just got beat up by a cop who was supposed to be helping me, and now I'm stuck in a hospital bed. That makes me a little anxious.”

Doc was just sitting there with her hands folded calmly in her lap. She wasn't taking any notes or anything.

“You aren't recording this, are you?” I asked.

“No, Sandy, I'm not. I just need to talk to you to get a better sense of how you're really doing.”

“I'm doing just fine,” I shot back.

“Are you willing to spend a couple of days here so we can do a more complete examination and have you attend some counseling sessions?” Doc asked.

I hesitated. “What kind of counseling sessions?”

“Some individual, but also some family sessions, some group sessions with other teenagers, and maybe even a session with some
of your friends, just to let them know what's going on and how to help you through this difficult time.”

“What friends?” I asked. I started moving the bed up and down again. Doc watched me without saying anything about it.

“Your parents suggested Troy, Cassie, Shanika, and Hector.”

I shook my head. “Not Hector. And I wouldn't put Cassie and Shanika in the same room together, either, if I were you.” Awkward silence. “I'm just saying . . . “ I shook my head again and let the words trailed off.
What am I trying to say? That I'm not sure any of them are really my friends anymore? If they aren't . . . do I even have any friends?
I stared up at Doc.

“No problem,” Doc replied. “We're not going to do anything you're uncomfortable with.”

“Really?” I asked. “What if I say ‘no' to the whole examination and extended stay? Are you going to let me go home?”

“I can't promise you that,” Doc said. “It will be up to your parents and the psychiatrist if you don't agree to stay on your own.”

“So you're just here to convince me I should stay willingly?” I could feel my red-eyed monster starting to rouse a bit.
So we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I'm sure the hard way is more interesting.
“What's in it for me if I agree?”

“Good question,” Doc said.

She's just trying to buy some time. There's nothing in it for you.

“If you go voluntarily, we can put you in the step-down unit which gives you additional freedom and privileges.” Doc leaned forward and pointed to the notebook on my bed table. “Have you written anything in your new notebook?”

I grabbed it instinctively.

“Your writing is a really good thing, Sandy. It seems to be both a release and a way to help you process what you're thinking and
feeling.” She settled back in the chair. “I got to read everything you wrote in your other notebook. It's a big part of my belief that you're really not crazy.”

I clutched the notebook to my chest and thought about all the people who had read what I wrote in the other notebook. Mr. Conaway gave it to the guidance counselor; the guidance counselor gave a copy to the police; the police showed the copy to Mom, and then Mom took the notebook from me and gave it to them.
And now I'll probably never get it back.

“Would you be willing to share what you're writing with me?” Doc asked.

I think I really am crazy. How can it be that the only person I feel like I might be able to trust right now is Erin TheRapist?