It’s Going to Get Messy

ARTIE YELLED INTO HER COM UNIT FOR TEAM 2.

“Get in here and bring the med kit! Now!”

Artie’s hands trembled as she attempted to shake Smythe back to consciousness. A few feet away, she could see a bottle of pills sitting on her bedside table. She quickly dropped to her knees next to Smythe and checked for a pulse.

Smythe lay crumpled and frighteningly still on her bedroom floor, her breathing extremely slow and shallow. Artie struggled to stand up, grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, and soaked it with cold water. Returning to the bedroom, Artie yelled.

“Damn it, Smythe, wake up!”

Her ribs throbbing with her every movement, she turned Smythe over. Straddling her, she squeezed water from the soaked washcloth onto Smythe’s face.

“Smythe, c’mon, wake up! Damn it, don’t you die on me! WAKE UP! Please, baby. Please!”

Without warning, Smythe took in a deep halted breath. She could hear Artie barking orders to her team.

“Ar… ee—” Smythe mumbled, unable to fully speak.

“Smythe, baby, come back to me. C’mon baby, it’s going to be alright. Come back to me.”

Tears filled Artie’s eyes.

How could I have not seen this coming—

Smythe’s eyes slowly slit open. In a moment, the sweet hope of endless darkness gave way to agonizing light.

“Why, why…” Smythe mumbled before the darkness returned.

Team 2 entered the bedroom with a medical kit, and Dennis surveyed the scene.

“Boss?”

“I think she took a bunch of pills, Dennis.”

Dennis scanned the bedroom. He spotted the remnants of a bottle on Smythe’s bedside table. He quickly walked over and picked up the bottle.

“Muscle relaxers. Do you know how many?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve never even seen that bottle! She’s breathing, but—”

“Let’s get her into the bathroom under a cold shower. We’ve got some ipecac in the kit,” Dennis said.

He walked over to the Smythe and bent low to one side of her, gently moving Artie out of the way. Dennis knelt beside Smythe, pulled out a bottle from the medical kit and opened the top. He raised her head and shoulders so that her torso rested on his chest and arm.

“Open up, Smythe.”

Smythe’s eyes slit open again. Dennis poured some of the ipecac syrup into her mouth. He watched for just a few moments as Smythe resisted swallowing the liquid. Once he was assured she had ingested most of it, her poured again, forcing her to swallow it.

“You’re gonna be alright, Daniels. Hang in there.” He looked at Artie. “We need to get her into the bathroom. It’s going to get messy.”

Dennis gently picked her up and carried her out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. As he lifted her from the floor, Smythe began to vomit violently, thick yellow foam spewing onto Dennis’ crisp white shirt and her own pants. Artie came in from behind him and gingerly climbed into the tub, sitting on the back edge. Dennis carefully set Smythe into the tub, resting her torso against Artie before turning on the shower. The water was freezing cold. He slowly directed the shower nozzle onto Smythe’s body and watched her carefully.

“Oh god,” Artie gasped in pain, her body tensing to the cold water.

Smythe opened her glazed eyes, dazed and confused.

“Turn off,” Smythe mumbled. “P-please turn off.”

“No, baby, not until you come back to me fully. C’mon. Stay with me. That’s it.”

Dennis took off of his vomit-splattered shirt. He balled it up and walked into the kitchen, opened the door to the laundry room, and placed the shirt into the washer. When he returned to the bathroom, Smythe, although groggy, continued to vomit but slowly became more alert.

“Grab some towels, will you?” Artie asked. “For yourself, and for her.”

Dennis opened the bathroom closet door and found a couple of towels and placed them on the floor next to the bathtub. He continued to observe Smythe, looking for any additional signs of medical distress.

As Smythe started to come to, grief was the only thing she could feel, and she began to sob. She sobbed so hard, she vomited again.

“Why would she do that? Why?” Smythe slurred.

Dennis noticed Smythe began to shiver and turned the water from cold to lukewarm. Both he and Artie tended to her for several minutes, working to bring her to full consciousness. Once awake enough, Smythe slowly began to follow Artie’s commands. She leaned forward as Artie instructed. She could wiggle her feet, raise her floppy arms, her eyes lost a little of their glassy look, and she could cry. Dennis sighed and nodded his head before he turned off the shower head.

“We got her back, boss.”

“C’mon, baby, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

“She may need to vomit some more, Artie.”

“I know, but I need to get her out of these clothes. Give us the room. I’ll call you if I need help.”

Artie’s ribs resisted her every movement. Wrenching pain seared through her rib cage as she struggled to remove Smythe’s wet clothes. Her eyes moist with tears, she turned the shower back on, and, ignoring her own agony, slowly, painstakingly washed Smythe’s head and body. Smythe continued to vomit, and each time, Artie soothed her.

“That’s it, baby. Get it all out. That’s it.”

Her body shivering from the ordeal, Smythe remained quiet, her eyes staring straight ahead of her. Once she was bathed, Artie assisted Smythe out of the shower. Numb to all else except the tender touch of Artie, Smythe leaned weakly against her and allowed Artie to gently dry her body.

While Artie continued to attend to Smythe in the bathroom, Dennis started the washer to clean his shirt, cleaned the hallway of vomit, found two sets of sweatpants and T-shirts in Smythe’s dresser and left them outside the bathroom door.

After she was dressed, Team 2 helped Smythe into her bed. Dennis stared at the bottle of muscle relaxers, before removing the them and placing the bottle in Artie’s duffle bag for safe keeping. The team remained quiet and kept a silent vigil over Smythe until Artie had taken her own shower, changed her medical dressing, and put on the clothes Dennis had left for her. Standing in the kitchen, Artie looked down at her phone she now held in her swollen hand.

“I’m going to order take out for all us. How does Thai sound?”

“Yeah, boss, sounds great.”

Artie let out a jagged sigh. “I’m hoping that whatever residual medication remaining in her system will be counteracted by the absorption of some food.”

A team member looked back toward Smythe’s bedroom. “It was close.”

“Yeah. It was.” Lost in thought, Artie stared past her team member toward Smythe.

Sensing her team looking in her direction, Artie spoke again, her voice commanding. “Thanks for your quick response this evening. Set up a perimeter outside of the complex until Team 3 returns and then rotate every two hours until your relief arrives.” She surveyed Dennis, who stood standing in the hallway.

“Go home, Dennis. And tell your wife it wasn’t me who stripped you from your shirt,” Artie said, smiling at him.

“Copy that, boss,” Dennis said with a smirk. “It’s in the wash. I’ll pick it up in the morning.”

Artie accompanied her team to the door and secured it behind them. She walked wearily back into Smythe’s bedroom and stood in the doorway, observing her before walking in the room. Expressionless, Smythe lay face up in bed. Artie gingerly sat next to her.

“What happened, baby?” Artie quietly asked.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh. What happened?” Artie whispered.

“A letter. She gave me a letter… that my dad wrote… a poison pen letter from him, accusing me of being mentally ill. He denied everything, Artie. He only accused.”

Smythe could only stare past Artie, lost in her own pain.

“Baby, talk to me.”

“Why do you call me baby?” Smythe whispered.

“It’s my term for you; a term of love.”

Smythe looked away from Artie.

“Don’t love me, Artie. Not after this.”

Artie attempted to reach for her hand, but Smythe felt the gentle touch and withdrew it from Artie’s reach.

“Baby, you’re what my heart wants and needs. And you are totally worth loving. You’ve got to know, this is only a moment, and I really want to understand the tipping point.”

“How could you love someone that is mentally ill?”

“What? Who told you—is that… who told you that?”

Artie’s jaw began to ache, her eyes laser focused upon Smythe.

“Both of my parents… it’s all finally come to a head.” Smythe sighed. “My mom gave me a letter from my dad. He wrote it, I guess, once I told my mom about what happened when I was a kid. She had some sort of conversation with him, and he basically accused me of being sick.”

Smythe snickered. “Of course, she believed him—but my body knows the truth. My memories don’t lie—yet here I sit, doubting my sanity,” she mumbled.

“My great-grandma would say they placed a curse on you. Is that what drove this—being called mentally ill?”

Her speech still slurred, Smythe responded. “Yeah. I am, aren’t I? I’ve heard it all my life, off and on. It’s like they used it as a weapon. I didn’t know any better.” Smythe tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes. Her only desire was to crawl back into the silence of darkness rather than endure the cacophony of her thoughts and the rollercoaster of the accompanying emotions.

In an instant moment of clarity, Artie now understood the thing which had infested Smythe for so long—the one that had driven Smythe into emotional seclusion.

“It’s been the thing she’s held over you,” Artie said, almost as though thinking out loud.

“It has, and she just had to get the last word in, I guess. She’s been cleaning out all of Dad’s stuff, and old stuff of hers. She’s been saying she doesn’t want my sisters and I to have this big house to empty out.”

“I’m not following.”

“So, she finds this letter in his armoire. She evidently read it and held onto it. On the six-month anniversary of his death, she gives it to me. Why?”

Artie remained quiet.

“My mom is aging. She had my younger sisters and me later than a lot of women from her generation. Today, I listened as she gave her opinions about every manner of events happening in the world. She seems so set in her ways, and even said she doesn’t want to change. She just doesn’t. There was anger in her voice. Then she gave me the letter. Even though we didn’t talk about the letter, I suppose she made up a story about what the letter means, and that’s that. Just like all of us, I guess—we all make up stories about others. But then again, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“What I think doesn’t matter. You know I believe you.”

“What child grows up afraid of her father? Not every man, just her father. What child grows up trying to tell the truth, but keeps getting shut down and told she is crazy? What child becomes physically ill and shakes inside whenever childhood sexual abuse is brought up? I couldn’t watch movies about it or hear someone else’s story without being physically afraid. I remember I would just shut down. I felt such intense panic. I still can’t watch those kinds of movies.

“It’s why I didn’t go into social work. I just couldn’t emotionally handle all of the abuse stories I knew I would come into contact with. I was just a kid who was searching for a way out—who felt so alone. So afraid of her own shadow and afraid of others.”

Smythe slowly began to sob. Artie crawled onto the other side of the bed and pulled Smythe to her chest. Smythe cried long enough that her stomach began to ache.

“I just want this pain in my soul to die, Artie. I can’t take the pain anymore. AM I MENTALLY ILL??!” Smythe screamed. “AM ?!”

Artie’s eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe I should just say I am a liar and a cheat. Will say anything, do anything…” seethed Smythe.

“You know that’s not true,” Artie whispered into Smythe’s ear.

“Why?”

“Who did your mother know him to be?”

“What do you mean? How did she describe him?” Smythe asked.

“Yes.”

“She said he was a liar. That he made a habit of telling untruths all of their adult life. She said she wanted to divorce him but never got up enough courage to do it. At least, that’s what she told me before he died.”

“So, at some point, she chose to live in a world full of his lies,” Artie summarized.

“Yes, I guess. Artie, I feel like God is angry with me. I feel like I’ve come back to this brick wall. That everything I am trying to manifest in my life just won’t happen. Success, abundance, love. It feels like it’s slipping away—and at my own hands. It’s as though I’m being punished somehow.”

Artie again remained quiet for a time. She held Smythe in her arms, feeling each tear that fell onto her T-shirt. Finally, she spoke quietly, holding back her own tears for the woman who had stolen her heart.

“You’ve come to a crossroads, baby. I know it well. You either have to believe in you, or you will die, right along with your dreams and all the talent you hold within you. I can’t make you believe in yourself. No one can; not even God.

“I don’t know why your mother would be so cruel as to deliver that letter to you on the anniversary of his death, if at all. She could have, should have, just thrown it out. What mother would do that to her child? To a grown daughter who sacrificed so much for both of them these last few years; what would fuel such a need to hurt you like that?” Artie questioned.

“I don’t know—but again, these are the stories we tell ourselves, I guess. Maybe she wasn’t thinking. Maybe it was her way of clearing the air—at least for her. I just didn’t bite. I didn’t read it in front of her. And she didn’t ask that I did.”

“My sense is that there is a trauma within her that she has not yet named.”

“I dunno. There was more to the letter, but Mom held it back, I think. He had started the letter stating it was in three parts. I don’t know what part of the letter it was that I read, but the letter wasn’t complete.”

“Where’s the letter now?” Artie asked.

“In my car. Please, please don’t read it.”

“I don’t want to read it, baby. It’s not for me to read, nor was it for you to read either. Listen to me. There are thousands of men who seem innocent. They appear as kind, caring men and fathers. Yet, they have done despicable things to their daughters and even their sons; and some of those same kids have taken their lives. They never recovered.

“Their mothers—seemingly kind, strong, even stoic women—feign hurt and choose to believe their men over their own flesh and blood. I don’t pretend to understand why. But I do know that if you choose to, you can recover from this. But it will require that you believe in you.”

“I don’t feel strong right now, Artie. I don’t seem to have the will to fight against this. I feel this horrific heartache, and I don’t know how to recover from this.”

“One moment at a time.”

“I’m tired of being in pain. I’m just so tired.”

“You’ve been in pain for a long time now, baby. And you have carried this weight with you for decades,” Artie said, kissing Smythe’s forehead.

“What do I do?”

“Stay alive, take a breath, and stay right here.”

“I just need for my head to shut up. That’s all I want—I want my head to shut up. I want to be healthy, and I don’t feel like it right now. I want to love you, because I do, but I don’t—”

“Start there, baby. Love me right where you are. Give us another day together.” Artie gently kissed the top of Smythe’s forehead again, pressing her cheek against her head.

“I don’t know if I can ever go back and visit. I don’t want to talk to her anymore. I don’t want to visit her anymore, but in my heart of hearts, I know I will.”

“You have that right.”

“But her health wanes in and out. All of the rest of my siblings are scattered across the country. She has no one else.”

“But she really doesn’t have you, either. You know, we’ve had a lot of ‘where would we each love to live’ conversations. We even talked about moving out of the country once the trial is over, me to Switzerland and you to the Pacific Northwest or to Canada. There was always a hesitation when you thought about leaving here. How do you feel about that now?”

“Like it’s the thing I need to do. Up until now, whenever I have fantasized about leaving the US, I’ve felt really guilty. How could I leave her behind? But then I would think, well, she’s choosing to stay here. She doesn’t have to. Now I think, yeah, I could leave without feeling guilty in the slightest. I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m angry or not. I love her deeply, Artie, I really do. And I know, on some deep level she loves me too, but I can’t do this with her anymore.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I know you will continue to call her every night to check in on her and hide your feelings about giving you that letter, although I wish you wouldn’t. You’ll go by every weekend and spend one if not two almost full days with her, though I wish you wouldn’t. How about you skip this coming weekend? Do something for you. We have a week before we head to your friends’ wedding. Let her spend a couple of weekends alone.”

“Right now, that sounds like heaven,” Smythe said with a sigh.

“Good, you need some quality time away from her. Choose in favor of you.”

Smythe nuzzled her head into Artie’s shoulder. Artie held her tenderly and began to hum. It was the last thing Smythe remembered hearing before drifting off to sleep.