Chapter 13

 

The hospital was creaking at the seams.

Stretcher after stretcher poured in without relenting and the staff worked at a frenzy to deal with the overwhelming levels of injured, some moaning, some screaming and others so quiet only the worst seemed possible. Andy vaguely heard something regarding a road traffic accident but, in truth, he was consumed by his own miserable situation. He had been here for an absolute age already, although due to the lack of windows, the brightly lit emergency department gave no clue as to the status of the dawn. Hawkins, the accompanying police officer, had left after ten minutes or so, something Andy found strange as he was here on the demand of the police. To be checked for crazy.

Andy buried his head in his hands, although he didn’t weep. There was nothing left, only shriveled self-contempt. Grandpa was cooling at the mortuary while the morticians sharpened scalpels and prepared for the formalities of carrying out a postmortem on his rotting corpse. Meanwhile Andy waited for the psychiatrist, the doctor who would decide his fate. He closed his eyes and wobbled, then opened them, rubbed the fatigue away. He was glad, in a way, of the battlefield around him. The doctors and nurses were frenzied, focused only on the physically sick, not the mentally infirm. He went unnoticed and this didn’t hurt. Anonymity protected him from his scolding shame.

Andy looked away when a screaming woman came too close, her bloodied face a mask of tortured agony. He saw maggots eating Grandpa.

“Andrew Rowly.”

He blinked.

The nurse wore dark overalls and he was maybe forty, but it was hard to tell through the fatigue in his appearance. His facial expression revealed a complexity of competing problems.

Andy stood, his legs trembling. If only the ground could swallow him whole.

“Are you on your own?”

Andy nodded and ignored the deeper implication of this question.

“Come with me.” The nurse motioned to a corridor that twisted out of sight. He gave an anxious glance to a small boy on a gurney. The boy was missing a chunk of flesh from his bloodied leg. It looked like a shark bite, from Grandpa’s mako perhaps. A busying troop of nurses closed in and the boy disappeared.

Nerves chewed at Andy’s belly.

“Was it the bus crash?”

The nurse looked at him blankly. “No. Two cars on the motorway. One of the drivers was drunk.” He paused. “Bus crash?”

Andy’s flesh began to creep. “Umm, yes, earlier tonight. Near Hal’s Place. Not far from here.”

The nurse shrugged. “Nothing’s come in.”

Andy stared at him, horrified. Had he imagined it?

The nurse offered a reassuring smile. “Well, to be honest, I’ve been on a patient transfer and I only got back half an hour ago. I might have missed it. Anyone you know involved? I could find out?”

Andy shook his head.

“Lucky you,” the nurse said. He motioned for Andy to wait as another bloodied body was wheeled past by frantic-looking staff.

Andy nervously watched them race away. It wasn’t the bloodshed that unsettled him. It was the concept of death. In the hospital death never seemed far away. He shuddered then noticed a side room with a partially open door. A body lay on top of a bed. It was rigid, familiar and grotesque. Andy’s heart sank.

Mr. Masters stared into eternity with one broken eye. The other was retracted in his head. His lips were dark with traces of blue.

“You okay?” The nurse laid a hand on his shoulder. Andy stared at him dizzily then back to Mr. Masters. A medic in a dark-green overall had drawn a curtain around the bed. Andy couldn’t be certain of what he had seen. He shook as the old doubts returned. Was he crazy? Was that it?

Disoriented, Andy looked back to the nurse who waited for a reply. He managed a nod, although in truth he wasn’t sure what he nodded to.

“Good. Follow me then.” The nurse directed Andy inside a small office. “Wait in here. Doctor’s on her way.”

Andy did so, his world lurching. He glanced around, his head aching. He struggled to take in his environment at first, but knew that if he kept still and concentrated then calmness would eventually find him. And it did. The tension soon left him and the blur before his eyes took shape.

The office was messier than he would have expected, the desk hardly visible beneath the clutter. There were papers, some pens, a scribbled on notepad, and a couple of empty coffee cups. Behind the desk was a large notice board eclipsing the widest of the magnolia-colored walls. It was littered with pamphlets and flyers depicting a variety of medical schemes offered by a trust. His gaze couldn’t settle on any one thing and so much detail aggravated the pain in his head. As such he was grateful when the door shut with a thump and the contents of the room immediately lost importance. A middle-aged woman in a creased suit stood over him. She was instantly familiar.

“It’s Andrew isn’t it? I’m Dr. Weller.”

Dr. Weller. She had seen him before, a few years ago. He remembered then, like some valve had opened inside his head. She sat in the seat nearest to the exit, either to block his route, or to make sure she could get out if she needed to. She held a manila folder in one hand and, with the other, she gestured for Andy to sit on the opposite side of the desk, which he did without a word. The room seemed a few feet smaller on either side.

Dr. Weller smiled at him kindly. “It’s been a while, Andrew.”

“You can call me Andy,” he said then, in spite of everything, stifled a grin. He was reminded of when he first met Nor.

Dr. Weller nodded. She didn’t acknowledge his smile, but the pen in her hand, formally upright, relaxed to a slight angle. She began to tap it unconsciously, opened the manila folder on the desk and read whatever was written on the first page. When she looked up, the kindness in her smile seemed more functional than before.

“Andy, I want to talk about your grandfather. Will that be okay with you?”

He nodded.

“I’ve spoken with PC Hawkins. I want you to understand that this is a safe place. I’m only interested in your wellbeing. You can talk to me, so be honest. If you are truthful then I believe I can help you. Do you understand?”

Her eyes widened and Andy saw concern reflected in them, even if only on a professional level. The wound inside gaped. Is that what his mum might have looked like if she had been there to tell him Grandpa had died? He imagined tears on her cheeks, her leaning closer to hold him.

“Andy?”

He nodded again, quicker than before. His eyes felt wet, his throat ached as if a noose tightened against the soft skin of his neck.

“You have been through an awful lot. I have to make sure you’re going to be okay, that you have the means to leave this hospital and not come to any harm.”

Or harm anyone else. He could see it in those wide eyes, just a little fear. He had been living with a dead body, after all.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

Andy stared at her. No words came. He had no desire to speak.

“Stupid question, eh? Try and tell me, Andy, explain to me how you feel?”

Andy felt the slightest anger, but it was distant. He met Dr. Weller’s stare. He imagined her as a glacier, a frozen waterfall. He gave a long blink. He would paint her as an impenetrable place, cold and slippery.

“It doesn’t feel real,” he managed quietly. “Nothing feels real to me.”

Dr. Weller nodded and wrote on her pad.

“Forty milligrams of Prozac,” she muttered to herself then looked back to Andy. “Are the tablets helping?”

Andy didn’t answer.

Dr Weller arched an eyebrow. “Are you taking them?”

He slumped back in the chair. Tears came. “I–I can hardly remember. I don’t even know how long Grandpa’s been dead for. I–I...”

Dr. Weller tilted her head sympathetically. She pushed the manila folder away from herself and placed the pen down.

“It’s okay,” she said slowly. “Death affects everyone, Andy. It hurts to lose our loved ones. Grief can be one of the most destructive forces we encounter in our lives. This is perfectly normal.” She paused as he composed himself. “You lived alone with your grandfather, yes?”

Andy nodded distractedly. The mention of Grandpa felt like a knife in the belly. The maggots were back, writhing.

“Can you remember why you take Prozac, Andy?”

He stared at her dully. Part of him wanted to tell her something, anything to placate her. But he didn’t. He could guess, but he couldn’t remember exactly what was wrong with him.

Dr. Weller nodded. “Extreme trauma can have this effect, particularly on people suffering with types of depression. Again this is a normal reaction.”

The grip on Andy’s thorax lessened.

“You’ve been following a course of medication for two years to help with a type of disorder known as depersonalization. Your history notes persistent symptoms of dissociation, of feeling isolated, of questioning reality. Life can feel like a dream. Is this fair to say?”

Andy nodded. He felt exposed, as if the doctor could see through him. It wasn’t helpful. He gripped his hands together to stop them shaking.

“What you’ve told me is consistent with these symptoms.” Dr. Weller sighed, collected the folder and the pen, and noted something down. “The treatment seemed to be working. Hmm... I’ve read the notes from your GP, Dr. Grant, and he states that you’ve enrolled at Aquinas College? So you were getting beyond the agoraphobia before you lost your grandfather?”

“Yes,” Andy said, his throat dry. He pictured Dr. Grant. The doctor was older than time, with a huge mole on his cheek that had thick black hairs sprouting from it.

“It is not uncommon that experiencing a loss like this could set you back a few steps, Andy, but there’s no reason for me to believe this state is permanent. We call it fugue and it is temporary. You will feel better.”

“Thank you,” he said. It was a distant hope, but he needed it, needed something positive to cling to. Shards of memories were returning and none of them were good. He remembered missing the final year at school through his illness. He had lost weight, hardly spoke to anyone. Grandpa let him paint the Emerald Forest because he could hardly leave his room. Even the sunlight had hurt him. He recalled taking the tablets. They had tasted sweet on his tongue but felt bitter in his gut. Colors swirled in his head and he gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself. He knew then he had been broken long before Grandpa fell sick.

Dr. Weller flicked through her notes. If she noticed the turmoil writhing beneath Andy’s skin she didn’t acknowledge it. She tapped her pen again. Andy could see she was deliberating on what to do with him. She nodded to herself and placed the file on the desk.

“You’re eighteen, so child protection services don’t apply. That said, it might be best to keep you in for a few days while I establish the extent of your trauma and while I review the dosage of your medication–”

“No,” he blurted.

The surprise on Dr. Weller’s face was obvious. It hardened into a stoical expression.

Anxiety reared in him. “Please don’t keep me in here.”

Dr. Weller sat back and the pen bounced in her fingers again. She pursed her lips, wrestled with something. “Why don’t you want to stay, Andy?”

He thought of Nor. “I–I–don’t want to be here, I’m going to a concert. I can’t be here.”

Dr. Weller put the pen down. “It isn’t that simple, Andy. You were living with a dead body–”

“I didn’t hurt him. I’d never hurt Grandpa!”

Dr. Weller gestured with her open palms to calm him down. “There’s no suggestion that you did, Andy, but your reaction to this trauma is...unusual at best.”

“Please. I don’t want to miss this.” he hesitated. “I feel like I’ve waited years for this. Please, doctor!”

Dr. Weller looked away, then back at him. “It’s a good sign that you want to go to a concert. I don’t doubt that. But where would you stay tonight, if not here? Who would be there?”

Andy thought of his house on the hill, the dark sitting room, of maggots wriggling in the cracks of the armchair and of the Emerald Forest being smothered by the darkness. Dr. Weller saw it in his expression. She started to stand.

“Wait!” he pleaded.

She hesitated.

“There’s someone,” Andy said quietly.

“Go on.”

“Her name is Nor.”