ANNASOPHIA
After getting Alexandra admitted to a private room on suicide watch, Soshanna sticks by me like cellophane on molded Jello. The admitting nurse speaks in a monotone that anesthetizes my attention. Snapshots pop of Alexandra wild-eyed, spittle spraying, profanities escalating. When we finish the family and personal history questionnaire, the nurse offers more coffee or water, adding the doctor should arrive any minute.
“Let’s take a bio break,” Soshanna suggests.
“What if the doctor comes?” I glance down the short hallway a few feet from our chairs.
She squeezes my arm. “We’ll take turns in the john. He won’t leave.”
Can I walk that far? My foot’s numb. No feeling at all. I dig my nails into my palms. “I should check with Ari. First.”
Fear swamps my brain. Memories crowd out everything but fragments of Alexandra’s increasing aggression … her lack of empathy even before the murder … her impulsivity … uncontrollable anger. Not typical adolescent acting out. Closer to borderline—I jump to my feet, feeling no pain at all. Don’t go there. Don’t. Go. There.
“I need to call Ari.”
“Okay.” Soshanna smiles a smile so gentle I know she hasn’t lost patience with me. Yet.
Tell her. Borderline personality disorder. “I’ll go to the restroom first.”
“I’ll wait here.” She’s a mother reassuring her child on the first day of kindergarten.
“Thank you.” I fumble for her hand, but she takes me in a hug so unforced I feel the tears come before she tucks my chin into her shoulder, pressing the back of my head, letting me weep, rocking me gently, saying nothing in words but conveying through touch that I am not alone.
When my nose clogs up, and I can’t breathe, I step back. She produces a small packet of tissues, offers it to me, and drops her hands at her sides. I blow my nose too hard, increasing the pressure in my ears, feeling lightheaded and disoriented.
“I won’t insult you by saying everything will be all right,” Soshanna says.
Most people would’ve followed this statement with but. Soshanna does not.
“That’s always the hardest part in ER. Telling the patient and family and friends the prognosis is grim. Less than optimal is my bullshit fallback.”
Not BPD. Please not …
“Sorry.” Soshanna purses her lips. “I can’t spout clichés—even to make you feel better.”
“Nothing will make me feel better right now.” Except that Alexandra’s symptoms don’t mean BPD.
“How about we got her admitted to Hill View? How about they won’t dope her up with uppers and downers and anti-psychotics until they do a full assessment? How about she’s safe?”
What if they decide she’s BPD? I lock my jaw.
“You don’t have to agree. Remember, my real name is Mary Sunshine.” She beams one of those smiles that loosens the vise pinching my heart.
“Don’t your patients also call you Doctor Straight Shooter?”
Without breaking eye contact, she says, “They do.”
“Give me the sunshine intravenously and the straight shooting directly into my brain. Deal?”
“Deal.” She flaps her fingers toward the restrooms. “You have three, four minutes to get in and get out before I pee my pants.”
“Okay, okay. I get the message. No bawling in the toilet.”
And I don’t cry. Instead, I use a minute to splash cold water on my puffy red face. I stare in the mirror over the lavatory and shudder. Thank God, I can’t see Alexandra for at least twenty-four hours. I’ve scared myself mindless, but I’d scare her to death.
The admitting physician, Dr. Luis Dario doesn’t scare me to death, but his appearance and body odor bring me close to vomiting. Hands clammy as death, I stare. My heart pounds in my ears. My mind fights for logic—for what I’ve learned in med school and in the ER. I run through a mental list as I stare at his extended hand. His long, elegant fingers remind me of the hands that once abused my body during endless sexual humiliations.
Ridiculous. My hand trembles at my side. I slam the door on memories trying to escape. Think. Rationally. You know doctors and med students deprived of sleep often experience temporary hallucinations. The end of a meaningful relationship or death often triggers temporary delusions. Too much alcohol can cause temporary sensory dysfunction.
Don’t forget the mental breakdown of your oldest child.
Shaking his hand is like shaking hands with a corpse. My mouth’s so dry my tongue’s stuck to the roof. Temporary sensory dysfunction… temporary is the key. The phrase and borderline personality disorder loop in my brain. Dr. Dario’s lips move, his words silenced by the gears grinding in my brain. Where’s Soshanna?
I blurt, “I’m feeling a little … disoriented right now. I’d like to wait for my friend.”
“Of course.” He frowns. “You do look pale. May I get you a bottle of water?”
“Please.” Any excuse to create distance. “Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you.”
The pulse in his carotid speeds up, but he pushes away from the polished, paper-free desk. “Why don’t you sit on the sofa? Get more comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
A good idea except I don’t trust my legs. “Thank you.”
His footsteps are inaudible on the thick Persian carpet. I count to ten and turn in the chair. He’s nowhere in sight. I stand, and my legs let me know at once they aren’t reliable. The chair catches me as I fall backward.
With perfect timing, Soshanna reappears. “Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I called—”
“Soshanna, I’m a mess.” I snatch her hand and squeeze her fingers so tight she flinches. “I swear I just saw Michael’s ghost.”
“Oh, honey.” She sits on the chair’s arm. “It’s stress. Right now your BP’s probably in the stratosphere. Your carotid’s—”
“Don’t go doctor on me, Soshanna. I know about stress. I know about temporary hallucinations. I tell you Dr. Dario could be Michael reincarnated.”
She bites her bottom lip.
“Fine. Don’t believe me. I should be sharing a room with Alexandra. Which is why I won’t tell you he even smells like Michael.”
“You know smells are the most common triggers for memory.”
“I want another doctor.” I withdraw my hand and tap my foot. “I can’t work with Dario.”
“AnnaSophia, be reason—”
Shaking my head, I jab a finger at her nose. “I’ll think of Michael every second I’m with Dario. So will Alexandra. No way he can treat her.”
“Here’s your water, Miz Romanov.”
Soshanna stands. Introducing herself, she takes the water. “Dr. Dario, may I speak with you in private—on behalf of Alexandra and her mother?”