“That’s because you laid into me the minute I walked in the door.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No. No, I can’t.”
They looked at each other.
“How was the surgery?” Isabel asked.
“It sucked, if you must know. And now both my boobs are sore. I don’t know why they both are since they only worked on one. But thanks for asking.”
“Casey, I know I screwed up. It kills me that I let you down. You have every right to be pissed off at me. I’m pissed off at me, too. I don’t know why I’m such a terrible friend. I don’t mean to be. I love you like a sister. I would do anything for you—don’t make that face. I would. Something happens when work calls me. I can’t explain it. It’s like work overrides everything else in my brain. Like I don’t have room for anything else but work. I wish it weren’t true but it is.”
Isabel started to cry but continued through tears.
“I am so sorry. I hate that I let you down. I will never forgive myself for this. For all of it. Please forgive me. Please?”
“Aw, Iz. Don’t cry,” Casey said from the bed. “I’d hug you if I could but I’m afraid I’d ooze pus.”
Casey had wanted her to laugh but she couldn’t. On the contrary, Isabel’s sobs became three-dimensional.
“I know you’re sorry,” Casey sighed. “I’m sorry I was so tough on you just now. I understand how important your job is to you. I’ve always known you’re really kick-ass driven. You get that from your father, if you want my opinion. You’ve always tried to work as hard as he did. That’s your model. And your mother. Well, let’s just say that I get where your perfectionism comes from. And I respect that, don’t get me wrong. But somewhere you’ve got to take a break and have a life outside of work. That’s something you didn’t see your dad do so maybe you don’t know how to juggle it all. But try, okay? For me?”
“I promise. I will. I love you, Casey.”
“I love you, too, kid.”
Eleven
“What are you thinking about?” Dr. Seidler was assigned to Isabel when she entered Three Breezes days ago. Though her perfect posture and severe haircut suggest an aloof personality, Dr. Seidler’s hands more than cancel out the implication of cruelty. They are long delicate hands punctuated with ribbons of veins that add to their character and grace. Isabel can do nothing but stare at them.
“Isabel?”
Silence.
“I realize it’s been quite an adjustment to get used to life here at the hospital and I’ve chalked our last two sessions up to being quiet times for you to be contemplative,” Dr. Seidler continues. “But we do need to work together—you and I—if you’d let me help you. I guess what I’m saying is, you have to let me in, Isabel.”
“What do you want from me?” Isabel asks, reluctantly looking up from the hands.
“I don’t want anything from you. I want to help you. Let’s start by looking at why you’re really here.”
Jesus. Why are you here? Why are you here? I’m so sick of that question! I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t belong here. Look at me: do I have bandages on my arm to keep me from scratching? Do I babble incessantly about bullshit? Do I sit all day staring into outer space? I don’t belong here. Just give me my privileges and let me go down the driveway, for God’s sake.
Dr. Seidler’s stare is unwavering.
Okay, I’ll blink first if that’s what you want.
“I’m here because I want to kill myself,” she shrugs.
“Why? Why do you feel you can’t live any longer?”
“Um, I don’t know.” Isabel feels like a third grader.
“This isn’t a quiz, you know. It’s not like there’s a right or wrong answer to the question. I’m just curious.” The therapist looks at Isabel’s file and reads from it.
“You mentioned when you first got here that you felt like you were disappointing everyone in your life. Like you couldn’t stay on the treadmill at work and keep everyone else happy. Is that how you feel? You couldn’t make everyone happy so you might as well kill yourself?”
“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous,” answers Isabel. “Which, I assume, is your point. But it’s not that simple. I feel like I’m being pulled in every direction.”
“What about today? Do you feel suicidal?”
Grounds privileges. The driveway.
Isabel is torn between telling the truth and risking a doctor’s recommendation that she stay hospitalized, or lying in order to be free of this place. “Um, well, no. Not like before.”
“What does that mean exactly? ‘Not like before’?”
“Well, I don’t think about it like I did a few days ago. When I got here,” she continues the lie. “I mean, I can actually think about next week, whereas before I couldn’t see that far into the future. I figured I’d be dead by then.”
Tell her. Tell her how you only buy single rolls of individually wrapped toilet paper. Buying in bulk would be a waste. Tell her.
“So now you can see living? At least another week, or a few days or what?”
“Yeah, I guess so. A few days…”
Tell her.
“What about Christmas?”
“As in Christmas of this year?” Isabel knows where this is going and is confronted with the truth dilemma again.
“Yep. The Christmas that comes in a few months. Can you picture yourself celebrating Christmas?”
She’s got me.
“No.”
“You can’t picture Christmas?”
“No.”
“It’s okay, Isabel. You don’t have to feel crestfallen about that. You’ve only been here a short time. We don’t expect miracles. Patients aren’t expected to go from suicidal ideation to long-range planning in that short period of time. It’s okay.”
Isabel begins to cry.
“Can you tell me why you’re crying?”
Through her tears Isabel’s voice cracks. “I want to get out of here.”
“I hear this is highly upsetting to you,” Dr. Seidler says, trying to soothe her. “But as I told you yesterday, I am going to recommend to my colleagues that you stay with us a little while longer. That will help you in the long run.”
Isabel can barely hear her. Her depression is floating away, disappearing like