What did I just do? “Mom?”
It doesn’t matter. It’s over.
“Oh, Ellery,” she says, wringing that towel within an inch of its life. They both stare at me carefully trying to assess my stability, I suppose.
“You need to pack some things. We should get you to the hospital.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m a danger to myself?” I snap. “You’re going to believe Colter’s word over mine?”
Dr. Lamboni pinches his nose with his fingers, then turns his hard gaze on me. “Yes, I believe him.”
I jerk up from the chair and Dr. Lamboni and Mom rise quickly, as if they need to catch me if I run. This is how my life is going to be from now on. Someone always watching.
“I’ll help you pack,” Mom says in a somber tone.
I turn to her and crease my eyes like I do when I need her to believe me. “Mom, Colter’s lying. Can’t you see he’s turning you all against me?”
She closes her eyes and a small tear slips down her cheek. “Do you want me to pack for you?” she says in a strained voice.
My shoulders drop and I admit defeat for the moment. “No, I can do it.”
The stairs don’t sink when I step on them. Real life has snapped back, and it’s worse than the horror of the ground sinking. Mom follows me up the stairs and watches while I pack my life into a small pink and white suitcase—I never got a new one after I went to Disney World in fourth grade.
How could Colter betray me? I’ll give you till Halloween, he’d said. Perhaps he always was going to tell. Maybe he doesn’t even love me. This was all a big ruse to get me help, get him his salvation and deny mine. I wish it wasn’t too late to take my heart back from him.
Carrying my pink suitcase, I walk out with Dr. Lamboni and Mom, and head to the unknown.
50
The hospital is the scariest place on earth, I’m convinced. It’s where people go to die. How can that be anything but horrid? Because I didn’t actually slit my wrists, we’ve been waiting for an hour and a half to get a room. I’m told once I’m in there a psychiatrist will evaluate the level of suicide-ness I have. As if there are categories. Today I feel a quarter suicidal, part suicidal, half normal. It’s insulting. All of it.
I’m on my second Dr Pepper when the nurse finds us and directs us to a room on the same floor. We walk in and it reminds me of my room at home—stark and naked, but it smells like bleach and whatever detergent they use for the sheets . . . and my mom. She smells the same when I hug her.
The nurse is young, maybe twenty-three, and she’s in light blue scrubs with rubber duckies on them. My mom has the same kind. “You can take a seat in the chair if you want. Dr. Chambers is just going to ask you a few questions.”
Dr. Lamboni whispers something to the nurse and she leaves. He nears the doorway. “I’m going to leave, but I’ll just be down the hall. I have another patient who needs to see me.” He smiles at me; it’s sincere and it makes me squirm in my chair. He knows a lot about me that no one else does. When someone holds your deepest secrets like that, it makes you uneasy when you’re around them, like they will tell at any moment. “Dr. Chambers is great. You’re in good hands,” he says, then leaves.
Mom finally takes a seat in the other chair in the room, leaving the hospital bed vacant. “Do you want me to get you something to eat?”
“No, I’m fine.”
She grabs onto the sides of the recliner. “You’re not fine. How long has this been going on?” she asks softly, kneading the fabric of the chair between her fingers.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Ellery, dammit!” she yells, rising up from the chair, her breath heavy. I flinch at her tone. “Don’t lie to me.”
Resist her. If you tell the truth they’ll keep you here forever.
“I don’t know.”
“Ellery,” she growls.
“A while.”
“I don’t know what to say. I should have seen it. I’m sorry.”
“Mom, it’s not your fault,” I snap, not wanting to, but I can’t help it. I’m so angry I don’t know how not to snap at people right now. It’s as if the anger has captured and possessed me.
The doctor comes in soon after and takes a seat across from me while Mom heads out to get her fourth cup of coffee. He’s a small man, thinning hair, bow tie with red stripes on it. He grabs a legal pad and writes something down.
“Are you going to harm yourself?” he asks, his pen poised.
“No.”
I mean, what else can I say? Um, yes. I’d like to do it with that tongue depressor. Do you think it pierces skin?
“Are you going to hurt others?”
“No,” I snap.
“Have you made any plans to harm yourself in the future?”
“No.”