Disconnected (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

I'm lying on a stiff bed in a darkened room that smells like bleach. The only light I see comes from the small window in the door. I try to move but my arms and legs are strapped down with thick belts. Dear God! Where am I?

The ticking of the clock is so loud it echoes inside my ears. My mouth is dry and I feel like screaming but I don't have the strength. I hear people walking back and forth outside the room. The shadows bounce off my face as they pass by.

I look down at myself and notice my right arm is all bandaged up. There are railings on the sides of the bed. I'm scared. But I have a sense I know where I am. I've been here before—when I had smoke inhalation.

As I lie here struggling to remember things, my eyes feel so heavy, yet I will myself to keep them open. Just as I think I can't keep my eyes open any longer, a woman walks in.

“Just checking on you, Amelia,” she says with a smile. She's dressed in white and has a clipboard. “My name is Jane and I'll be your nurse till late this afternoon.”

“How did I get here?” I ask in a raspy voice, struggling to move.

“Not sure. I would have to check your file. But you've been here since Saturday night. You tried to hurt yourself, Amelia.” She looks down at her clipboard as if checking my name to see if she has it right.

“What day is it?”

“Today's Monday. You've been here in the Intensive Trauma Unit for two days now.”

“But how? Please let me out of here!”

“Just rest, sweetie. The doctor will be in with you later.” She fills the syringe with some clear liquid and feeds it into my IV drip. The stinging sensation travels up my arm. My whole body tightens up. Then suddenly my eyes close.

***

I hear someone talking outside the room. I'm no longer in restraints, but I am too tired to get up. I have no idea if it's day or night. The clock on the wall reads 6:35 but I don't know if it's morning or evening. The guardrails are still up on the bed. They feel cold to the touch. I can barely wrap my hands around them. My right arm still aches from when I sliced it. My whole body aches too. It's hard to move. Even though I am not strapped in anymore it still feels like I am.

I wonder how I got here in the first place. I wonder if Aunt Rachel even knows I'm here. Was it her that brought me?

The white-coat people in the hall near my door stop and crowd up around the doorway. They soon enter inside the room—three of them all together, whispering softly to each other as they look at their clipboards, until the dark-haired man in the middle speaks.

“Hello there, Amelia. I'm Dr. Delaney and this is Nurse Evans and Assistant Nurse Steller.” He points to either side, where they're standing. “We are here to check on you. So how are you feeling today?” He adjusts his glasses and holds my chart up close to his face.

“I'm tired. I want to go home.” I fidget around a little underneath the sterile sheets.

“Do you know why you're here?” the doctor asks.

“I'm guessing because of this?” I hold up my right hand and feel pain shooting down my arm. I don't even know how deep it is. But from the looks of it, it isn't good. The bandage goes halfway up my arm.

“Well, yes. That is part of it. But we've discovered a few more things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you haven't been fully tested yet in order for us to make a firm clinical diagnosis, but we've discovered some abnormalities with your brain. There seems to be a chemical imbalance. Your blood tests and MRI scans, along with a few other tests we did the last time you were here, indicate you are showing signs of schizophrenia.”

My mind scrabbles around the room. “What does that mean?”

“Well, Amelia, it could mean you might experience a range of symptoms from increasingly odd behavior like disordered thoughts and hallucinations to attempts at suicide.”

I think of the young girl I've been seeing and the magnolia petals disappearing in the wind.

The doctor and the two nurses stand there for a moment or two. I try to think of what they told me the last time I was in the hospital. I don't remember taking any tests. Amelia must have been keeping this from me the whole time.

I start to panic and yell out, “So you mean I'm crazy?” I raise my hands and clamp them down on the bed rail, trying to lift myself up. I desperately want to get out of this bed, but it's too damn difficult. I'm too drugged up with whatever crap they injected in me. “Let me out of here. Let me out of here, now!”

“Amelia, calm down. You need to know that we are all here for you. We need to run some more tests. It seems your symptoms are tied in with another mental disorder.”

“Jesus Christ, how many can I have?” I try to settle down and think this through, but I'm having trouble concentrating with all this anger.

“Again, testing is crucial at this point. It isn't conclusive yet but studies show there's a slight chance of a mental illness called DID, Dissociative Identity Disorder, or more commonly called multiple personalities.”

“How can that be?”

“It's a chemical imbalance in the brain. Something you were born with. It's not your fault. Often times, people with these types of illnesses live their lives undetected. Many people don't even know they have it until something traumatic happens, something that triggers the first episodic break. A divorce, the loss of a job, or death in the family. A traumatic childhood event, perhaps.” The other two staff members look at each other and nod in agreement like it's one big fat conspiracy against me.

“I don't understand. How do you know I have this?”

“Well, Amelia, we've noticed since you were admitted you have been showing signs of an alter personality. This feeling is produced when there's a lack of connection or a feeling that's disconnected from your thoughts.”

“Well, how do you fix it? I mean, isn't there some kind of drug I can take?” I continue to fidget, but it's no use, I'm too weak to move.

“It's a chronic mental illness and there isn't a cure for it, Amelia. I'm sorry. But there are medications you can take for the symptoms—symptoms like depression and anxiety. There's hypnosis and outpatient therapy too.”

“When am I getting out of here? When can I talk to my aunt? I need to know about my grandfather.” My blood is boiling at this point, but I can't seem to get out of this damn bed. I'm helpless and trapped.

“We've been in contact with your Aunt Rachel. She knows exactly what's going on. You can contact her about your grandfather after we move out of the ITU and into Five South.”

“What's Five South?”

“It's our psychiatric floor.”

Hear that Milly? They're going to lock you up because of this. You really did it now.

“Amelia, I know this is hard for you to take right now. But you're not in here forever. Just a week or two to get you back on your feet. Again, let me remind you, there's more testing that needs to be done so we can fully study this situation.”

“A week or two? My God, that is like forever. I don't want to be your guinea pig.”

He looks over my chart as one of the nurses takes my vitals. The doctor then scribbles a few things in my file.

“Settle down, Amelia. The more you relax, the easier it is on all of us. You were really lucky,” he says. “It's good you were brought in before it was too late.”

“I didn't mean to cut that deep, Doctor.” He looks at me like he doesn't believe me. “I was alone when this happened. Who was it that brought me in?”

“Not sure about that. But you're safe now. Just get some rest.”

“And you said my aunt knows?”

“Yes, she was here this morning and is fully aware of what happened to you. She mentioned something about having to go to another floor before she left. So you have her support, Amelia. As you do the entire staff here in the ITU.”

Oh, wow, she must have been going to see Grandpa George. My God, we are both in the same hospital. My mind starts to shift back to when he had his attack.

“So what happens next? I go to this Five South or whatever and then I can get outta here in a week or two? I mean, you're not gonna keep me here, right?”

“Right. It won't be long before you're out of the hospital. But try not to worry about that so much. Just concentrate on getting better and focusing on you. If you need anything, just let the staff know.” He speaks in a matter-of-fact tone as he and his colleagues stand there near the door. “I'll be back to check on you again. Until then, please get some sleep.”

Yeah, easy for you to say, I think to myself. I can barely stand being here already. How am I going to survive this place for the next two weeks?

Chapter Twenty-one

The moon is big and bright and even though I see its grayish craters, I find it flawlessly beautiful. I wish I could think of my imperfections as beautiful. But I am so flawed, there isn't even a word to describe me.

I peer through the window, which is covered with a cage outside, trying not to focus on the metal netting that's laced into the outer glass, but it's too difficult. It's difficult to grasp that I'm in here. And it's difficult to remember anything with all the drugs they're giving me. At least the room is bigger than the one I woke up in, with two twin-sized hospital beds. My roommate is sleeping soundly and as I look at the young woman, I envy her rest. I wish I could sleep like that, but lately I haven't gotten much. And even then my sleep remains lively with vivid dreams I can't explain. I feel stuck—trapped between two worlds—here in this lifeless living and there in the ghostly presence of the dead. Most of my dreams have been of people who have passed on, mainly my parents. I wonder what they think of me now. Utter disappointment, filled with a lot of pain and confusion, comes to mind. Only when the nurses make me pop something or inject something in me am I able to sleep soundly for a while. And even then, it's only for short periods of time.

All the rooms are barren and plain as can be—no TV, no pictures on the walls, nothing. Just plain white walls. Computers and cell phones are strictly forbidden. Even the clocks in the hallways have a cage on them. I'm guessing because of the glass. All things that might prove dangerous are removed from the room. I'm lucky there is a window.

I walk to the open door and glance down the hall. The clock by the nurses' station reads four-thirty a.m. I would walk out of this room right now if I could, but I already tried and was scolded for it. The one aging nurse with white hair told me I can't roam the halls till six a.m. All these rules. All these confinements. I yearn so deeply to be outside, to smell the fresh spring earth and feel the cool breeze. I miss the garden at Aunt Rachel's and its abundant growth, the magnolia tree, and even the marble woman. Now that I think of it, she reminds me of the mysterious girl. If her long stone-colored hair was black and her eyes turned a dark brown, it would be her—the girl I've been seeing. Maybe it is her. Maybe she's an angel. Maybe I'm the one that's dead. I certainly feel that way right now.

I hadn't realized how much I would actually miss the very thought of being outside. I also hadn't realized how much I've taken it for granted. That old saying, “You don't know what you got till it's gone,” really rings true when it happens to you.

I try to relax, but it seems impossible. I haven't heard from Amelia since yesterday and I am getting worried she has left me for good. Even though she's a handful, she's my only friend—the only person I can rely on. And she was right. I am alone. I feel like I have driven everyone away. How can I recover from all of this?

I take a seat and lay myself down on the bed, staring at the ice-cube-looking light fixtures embedded in the ceiling. My thoughts fill the squared sections like water. First it's my grandfather. I wonder how he's doing and if he's okay. I can't get the last image I have of him out of my mind—gasping for breath, nearly turning blue, and his eyes locked onto the ceiling. He was looking up just as I am now. And in certain ways I wish I'd stop breathing too. It would stop everything else—the hurt and pain, the thinking and the doubt filling my mind. But then again, I don't want to give up. I want to get out of here so I can feel the sun touching my skin again. I yearn to step outside and breathe life into my lungs—have it fill me with hope again. In here I am suffocating—feeling closed-in mentally and physically. I don't think I can take this for much longer.

My thoughts continue to bounce off the walls and fill me with tears. I can feel the warm drops stream down the sides of my temples and into my hair. I think of what the doctor said,
from a traumatic childhood event
. I don't remember much of anything of my past. My parents' death? The only recollections I have of my parents are times we'd all gone to the beach or the zoo. My mother was always kissing and hugging me, telling me how much she loved me and that she was so proud. My father, Frank, on the other hand, was barely around. I don't remember much of him at all. Only the late nights when he would come home all drunk, waking my mom and screaming to her about something or another. I have drowned out those memories so deeply in my mind that the well has dried up. There's hardly anything from that point on. Amelia knows. There were things she told me to write in my journal that were so private and secretive that I don't even remember them now.

I try not to think, but the more I struggle not to, the more thoughts flood in. Who was that man Keith who called me? How does he know me? Was he even real?

I think so much, the sun creeps up and warm rays filter through the windows. The diamond-patterned shadows from the cage outside only emphasize how trapped I'm feeling on the inside.

I get out of bed to see what time it is, and already I see people walking around in the halls. It must be six then. But what can I do? Even though I am now allowed to go outside my room, all I want to do is curl up under the covers and fall into the deepest of sleeps. I want to sleep until this is over.

My roommate wrestles around in bed and finally wakes, asking what time it is.

“Not sure, I'm guessing after six,” I tell her. She's older than me, but not by too much. I assume in her late twenties, maybe. She's slender with long blond hair and high cheekbones that protrude from her oval face. If she took her glasses off, you would be able to see her huge blue eyes better. A pretty lady, she is—yet worn-out looking, like she's been around the block a few times. I wonder why she's in here. She looks normal to me. Like someone you'd see in everyday life. Certainly not like the crazy people that you would see on TV.

“So what's your name?” she asks me as she gets out of bed.

“It's Milly, short for…Amelia.”

“Pretty name, I'm Heather. I've only been here a few days. But I'm hoping to get out soon.” She's fluffing up the pillows and making her bed—something my mother used to do all the time. I wonder if she's a mother too.

“Yeah, well, they just moved me up here, so I have no clue as to when I'm leaving. Two weeks they say, but I have a feeling it's going to be longer.”

“Why do you say that? What are you in for? If you don't mind me asking.”

I hesitate a little. Actually I'm a bit surprised she's so bold to ask right away. And as I think about it, I am embarrassed to say. So I tell her something generic. “I had a little accident.”

“I can see that,” she says, pointing to my bandaged arm. “Did you try it too?”

“Try what?” I want to ask, yet I pretty much know what she's implying. I really don't want to get into it. But when she says, the
too
part, my interest piques. “Is that what you're in here for too, you mean?”

“Yes, I tried it a couple weeks back. Pills. I just took the whole bottle. I couldn't take it anymore.” She looks down as if the pills were still inside her belly, or perhaps something else. I haven't a clue as to why she did it, but I can tell by the look on her face she's regretful.

But once she stops talking and silence hits us, I wonder if she thinks I tried it. I really didn't. I just wanted release.

“You know, it's nothing to be ashamed of,” she says, turning around to finish straightening her bed. “To ask for help, that is. We all cry out for help in different ways. The trick is not to hurt yourself doing it.” She gives me a wink.

Somehow when Heather looks at me, she knows. Her eyes show only a fraction of the pain she has endured. Her natural maternal instinct, such as taking care of her side of the room and giving me encouragement, glows within her. I can't help but ask. “Do you have any kids?”

“I have a son who's around your age.”

“Wow, you look so young.”

“Yeah, well thanks. I started young. And then I had my daughter later on.”

“Man, you have a daughter too? How old is she?”

She looks down and tears start to fill in her eyes.

“Oh, no. What is it?” I run to her and ask, “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no….” She shrugs her shoulders and waves her hand. “It's me. I have to control my emotions.” She takes a tissue out of the box on the nightstand. “You know, if it wasn't for that damn boating accident, I wouldn't even be here.” She sniffles a little, trying to control her breathing. “It's funny. I'd probably be making peanut butter-and-strawberry jelly sandwiches for her lunch before she had to go to school.”

She goes on to tell me a little more about the day of her daughter's boating accident. I am surprised she is so candid with me. I can see that even though she mentions this was about five years back, it is still very fresh in her mind. She was never fully able to get over it.

“Look, Heather…I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to upset you like this,” I say to her. Sitting close alongside her, I reach for her hand. “I just want you to know, if you ever need to talk, I want to be there for you.”

“Wow….” She spreads a wide white smile across her face. It's like I said the magic words. “That's really kind of you Milly. Thanks, I appreciate that. Really, I do.”

She sits up again, wiping her tears, and tells me not to worry. She mentions how she's bipolar and that she's still trying to get her mood swings under control. “But the meds seem to have been working…how's your stuff?”

Honestly it's too early to tell. I still feel like a zombie during the day and can't sleep good at night. But I haven't heard Amelia's thoughts running wild in my mind, so I suppose it's working somewhat. “It's okay, I guess.”

Heather gets up off the bed to head to the bathroom. “Breakfast will be soon, maybe we could sit together?” she says from the open doorway.

“Yeah, that would be nice. I'd like that.”

After having such an in-depth conversation with her, I feel that we've hit it off right away. Suddenly, I have the urge to explain myself and why I'm here. I didn't mean to cut that deep. Then without any warning, Amelia slithers into my thoughts telling me,
Yes you did. You meant to. Just admit it, Milly. You tried to kill yourself.