I know what Mom and Daddy want to do. And I won’t go. My throat starts beating hard, blood racing through me, chattering like it is saying all the words I’m not.
I also know Drew will come to visit again. Every time he’s here, the thin membrane between me and the world stretches a little more. I need him here. I wish he could just be with me all the time, his steady presence like an anchor.
Saying that is impossible, of course. The minute I say a single word, the dam breaks. Already, I feel like every finger, every toe, every elbow, every part of me that can be used is holding back leaks in the dam of emotion inside me.
Saying a word would be a sonic boom.
And the rush of water will drown me.
Tap tap tap.
I slow my breathing and turn my body slightly away from the door, knowing it’s Drew. I saw him go into the conference room with Daddy and Mom and the doctors. They’re all worried about me. My shoulder is healing nicely, but the nightmares won’t leave.
And then there’s the fact that I’ve disappointed Drew.
I haven’t been there for him. I know how hard this has been for him. Stellan, John and Blaine released the video of their attack on Drew just as he was detained, when they kidnapped me. I know because a nurse’s aide left the television on in my room and I changed the channel. Three hours of cable news and eventually you see everything.
They can’t put me on a news blackout here. Daddy and Mom tried, I’m sure, but Dr. Belzan stepped in.
I’m sorry, I think, as Drew slowly walks into the room. He’s breathing fast, the sound raspy and full. It’s an emotional sound, and for some reason my skin goes hot, then cold. I’m clammy under the sheet and blanket, like I have the chills.
“Lindsay.” He crosses the room quickly, his hard-soled shoes going clack-clack-clack in three steps, the scrape of chair legs against the tile, and then --
Oh, sweet God.
He takes my hand in his.
Other than medical personnel working on me, and a single hug from Mom and Daddy the first day I woke up, no one has touched me. All Drew does is hold his flat palm under mine. His hands are rough, hot, and dry like thick parchment paper. He places my hand, palm down, on his.
And then he waits.
Doesn’t say a word.
All the words are, of course, crammed into my body, blood screaming, skin singing, bones vibrating, every part working in concert like a symphony.
And my heart is the big bass drum.
I can’t live like this.
“It’s been eight days, Lindsay,” he finally says, his voice measured, his words respectful and soft. “Eight days since I failed you.”
I frown. No. No, you didn’t.
My breath quickens, the sound like wildfire ripping across a drought-ravaged plain. Over and over, seconds tick by, the sound amplified in my ears as if it accumulates.
And still, Drew waits.
“I know where you are, baby. I know how close you are to reaching out. I know you asked for me last night.”
I sigh. I freeze.
“You don’t have to say a word. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Lindsay. I’m here when you’re ready. But I have to tell you that your parents don’t see it the same way. They’re talking about sending you back to the Island.”
I start to shake. I’m not surprised. It occurred to me, but hearing Drew say it makes it real.
“I’m not here to talk about that, though. I won’t push. They might, but I won’t. I am just going to sit here and when you want me, squeeze my hand. If you want me to go, push it off. That’s it. A simple choice. All yours.”
I open my eyes to slits, just enough to look down at my outstretched body. I feel so naked, so cold. I’m not, though. I’m warm and covered, cared for and whole.
I know I am.
But I don’t feel like I am.
That’s the problem.
They say madness is a state where you’re disconnected from reality. Where the mind makes you see what isn’t there.
I don’t see anything unreal.
My problem is the opposite.
I can’t actually see what’s really there. Can’t feel it. I’ve lost my emotional imagination. The colorful internal landscape of hope and dreams, of imagined realities in the future, of goals and aspirations and smiles and forward thinking is just...gone.
Like me.
I’m not here.
How can I reach for Drew if I’m not here?
Drew leans over me. He’s trying to get me to open my eyes. I want to. I even will them open, but they stay shut, the impulse to open slamming against my skin, building up like a muscle spasm, releasing with a sigh. I have two selves warring inside me. Maybe more.
“Let me tell you a story.” As he speaks, his warm breath fills the space between us. I smell coffee and mint. My tongue goes wet, memory a two-faced friend, as I find myself tasting him.
If I lay here and don’t move, he’ll go away. He has to.
But if I move, if I just reach out enough, if I confess I don’t know what to do next, how to breathe next, how to be in whatever “next” is, then...what?
What will he do?
What will I do?
“Four years ago,” he says in a voice that makes it clear this is the beginning of a longish tale, “I woke up in a hospital room. My mom was asleep on the chair across from my bed. It was nighttime, and I had all these tubes in me. No broken bones. Just bruises and torn...well, I was torn up.” His voice drops on the last words.
He doesn’t elaborate.
Doesn’t need to.
“I was drugged up and dehydrated, and I panicked. Where were you? I needed to get back to you. My memory flooded, like a tsunami rushing in, like a wave of adrenaline I rode without a surfboard. It crashed into me, drowning me, and I started ripping out needles and sensors, even as the room spun.” He lets out a huff of air. “In my mind, I was trying to get to you. Find you. Save you.”
I hold my breath.
“Mom screamed for help and they pinned me down, shot me full of something that knocked me out. I guess I kept screaming your name. No one knew what had happened at that point – at least, my parents didn’t know. The video of your – of what they did to you -- showed up later.” He shifts in his chair, his hand moving slightly.