Medicine Man Page 12

  It is.

  But God, it’s so real.

  As real as this gray-eyed man and his rainy smell. As real as this strong chest that I hold onto when I’m standing on my own two unsteady feet.

  “Don’t go. I-I don’t think I can stand.” I swallow, my knees buckling.

  His chest feels tighter than yesterday when he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I fist his shirt in gratitude. “Thank you.”

  Yesterday I was hesitant about my touch. As much as I wanted it, it wasn’t necessary to my very survival. Today, it feels like he’s the only one who can bear this weight – my weight and the weight of my dark thoughts – with his large body and intense eyes.

  So I lean over him, completely, bringing our chests flush together. Or rather, my chest to his ridged abdomen. He lets me, and the breath I take is the lightest one since this morning.

  But there’s still that lingering heaviness. Something solid and bubbling, at the same time. Something that needs to be purged now that he’s here.

  Why does he make me feel this way? That he’ll make everything better just by his presence.

  After a pause, I say, “I went to a funeral once. It was for my mom’s friend. I think I was twelve or something. Do you know what I felt, when I looked at the body?”

  “What?”

  “My mom wouldn’t let me go near it, at first. But I snuck up to it when she wasn’t looking.” I look him in the eye, even though I want to hide my shame. “I was jealous. Of the dead body.”

  I’m waiting for him to frown or throw me a condescending look even though I know he won’t. He’s not like that. And maybe that’s why I’m telling him.

  When he waits for me to talk, staring at me with his calm face and beautiful eyes, I go on. “I thought she had what I wanted. I thought I wanted that. I wanted to be that, the dead body. It was something I was aspiring to. I wanted to achieve death. But I couldn’t let myself have it. I wouldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I focus on the pulse of his neck, the triangle of his throat, as I tighten my fist in his shirt.

  “Because of my mom. Because I just… I can’t bear the thought of leaving her behind.” He’s blurry through the lens of my tears. “The only reason I don’t do it is because I can’t take leaving something behind.”

  A salty drop slides down my cheek before I can stop it. They are like my words today. I can’t stop them from slipping out. “Why’s it so hard? Why’s everything so hard for me? It’s not supposed to be this hard, is it? Getting up from the bed. Freshening up. Going to get breakfast. Eating. Saying hi to people. Smiling. Laughing. It shouldn’t be this hard. It can’t be. It’s me. I’ve got it all wrong somehow. I’ve got everything wrong.”

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

  That’s what I am. I was born wrong. With the wrong kind of blood. In the wrong family.

  “If I wasn’t born, then my mom wouldn’t be so disappointed, you know. She’d have a different daughter. A perfect daughter. She’d throw parties for her. She’d dress her up. And that daughter, she’d appreciate it. I’m not… I don’t… appreciate things… I can’t…”

  My thoughts are breaking up, getting chaotic, but everything screeches to a halt when he puts his hand on me. Or rather just one finger. Thumb on my cheek.

  My gaze skitters to his face and the look he gives me is penetrating.

  So penetrating that all the glaring brightness inside my head seems to be dimming under the shine of his eyes.

  “It’s intimidating. It’s terrifying to fight every second of every day. To wake up, tired and exhausted, knowing that you have to do it all again. It’s easy to give up, isn’t it?” he rasps, his thumb sliding along the single stream of tear.

  His touch, bare minimum as it is, is dimming every other feeling inside me. My lips part and my heart flutters inside my chest.

  The sign that I’m alive. The sign that I can feel his touch.

  I nod, brimming with life and yet, so pliable and submissive. “Yes.”

  “Yeah. It would be so easy to just give up. Not fight.” His voice is hypnotizing, so hypnotizing that I want to sleep wrapped around with it. “You know why we don’t? At least, mostly? Because we’re born fighters. We come into this life, kicking and screaming, bursting with all the energy. There’s no shame in having to fight. There’s no shame in having to kick and scream. There’s no shame in being a warrior. It’s the most honorable thing you can do for yourself. Pick up a sword and fight. Just reach out, Willow, and pick it up. That’s all you have to do. And if someone makes you feel ashamed just for the fact that you’re a fighter, then...” He licks his lips. “Then fuck them.”

  His words are soft, just as his mouth is, but the intensity in them, the vibration, jolts something inside me. It shifts something.

  It’s the sun. Maybe it’s going behind the clouds.

  “You think I’m a warrior?” I whisper, in awe.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  And now, I won’t hurt anymore. I won’t have to hide anymore.

  I can come out.

  Maybe I can really come out.

  I’m safe. He saved me.

  “I must be your dream come true,” I whisper to this gray-eyed hero, the fixer. “All broken and cracked.”

  His thumb flexes over my cheek and I stay still. Still like I’m dead. But the heart inside my chest is beating with probably ten lives.

  “I don’t dream.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have trouble falling asleep, too.”

  I imagine him in his bed, trying to fall asleep at night. Tossing and turning. What kind of a bed does he have? What color sheets? Does the sleep mess up his hair, thicken his stubble?

  My insomnia is medicine-induced. I wonder what his is.

  “What keeps you up?”

  “Recently, the never-ending repairs.”

  I shake my head at him, and his eyes shift to my hair. It’s loose around my shoulders. Since it’s my only asset, I have it long and thick and going down to my waist.

  Does he like it? My silvery strands?

  “I count sheep,” I say instead. “When I couldn’t sleep.”

  But then you fixed it, too.

  He looks into my eyes. “Maybe I should try that.”

  Despite everything, a small smile blooms on my lips. “Did I just cure you? The medicine man?”

  He’s still tracing his thumb along the apple of my cheek. I don’t know if he realizes that. If he realizes that he’s still touching me and I’m still fisting his shirt and our chests are moving in sync. When he breathes out, I breathe in. I’m filling my tired lungs with his air.

  Does he realize that?

  He’s in me, now.

  He studies my smile. “Maybe you did.”

  “I –”

  “Simon?”

  Someone speaks over me and suddenly, all the coziness leaves my body.

  Beth’s standing at the door, taking us in. Me almost wrapped around Dr. Blackwood. Him tracing his thumb on my cheek.

  I’m frozen. Unable to think, unable to do anything.

  But he doesn’t have that problem, because he steps back from me. The click of his wingtips hitting the floor as he moves away makes me jerk.

  “Beth,” he says with a polite nod.

  He’s all calm and composed, when I’m standing here like a frightened animal on shaky, wobbling legs.

  Beth moves her eyes from him to me. “Are you feeling okay, Willow?”

  “Yes…”

  I want to say more but I trail off. What should I even say? I mean, we were a little too close, but it wasn’t as if we were doing anything.

  Does it look bad? Standing intimately close to your psychiatrist, while he wipes your tears off? Is there no one in this whole wide world who’s ever done that?

  “Good. Breakfast’s under way. Yo
u should go join the others.” She smiles, albeit with strain. “Simon, can I speak to you for a second?”

  “Of course,” he murmurs.

  With that, they both walk out of the room and I drop down on my bed. I want to sag and dissolve in my sheets but then I realize something.

  In my unusual bout of talking, which seems to happen only around him, I basically admitted to another human being… that I’ve been thinking about killing myself since I was twelve.

  The only reason I don’t do it is because I can’t take leaving something behind.

  “What were you thinking?” Beth asks, angrily. “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if someone else had walked in?”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me?” I say to her, but I’m focused on the drizzle outside.

  I watch it through the window of my office, annoyed, angry. Fucking frustrated.

  What wouldn’t I give to walk out of here and never look back?

  I knew it was a giant mistake when I took this job. And not for the reasons I thought it would be.

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Beth moving closer. “Simon, this is a hospital. People are up and moving all the time. It’s a miracle no one else saw you.”

  A gust of wind bends the tree, almost breaking it in half. But it snaps right back up. That tree reminds me of someone. Someone with blue eyes and pale skin.

  Abruptly, I turn away from the window. “No one saw me doing what?”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” she snaps. “Stop making everything difficult. I’m trying to look out for you.”

  “Look out for me for what reason? I was doing my job. Or is that not why you hired me?”

  She shakes her head. “You know what people will say.”

  I cross my arms across my chest and shoot her a hard look. “I thought you didn’t believe what people said.”

  She purses her lips and I know it’s coming. Her platitudes. I fist my hands, feeling the crackle of energy go through my knuckles.

  Why doesn’t she leave it alone? I’m doing everything I can to fix it. Fucking everything.

  “What happened at Mass General, with Claire and the rumors… it was unfortunate. It could’ve happened to anyone and yes, that includes you too. I know you think you’re invincible or a god, maybe. But you’re human and you have to be smart, Simon. Joseph has been wanting you here for years. This is your father’s legacy and it’s yours, if you want it…”

  “But?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “The board of directors is taking this as a trial run and I don’t want you to blow it. This is still a hospital. People talk. We have a zero-tolerance policy, but I can’t be there all the time to enforce it. If you are seen hugging a patient, a beautiful, young patient, then there’s not much I can do.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything.”

  “I know you asked to meet with her this week. Again.”

  I narrow my eyes at where she’s going with this. “And?”

  “I’m glad you’re taking an interest in the patients. Joseph has always tried to be involved with them as much as he could. But as you know, sessions and any individual therapy are left up to other trained professionals.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that you can focus on other things. In some in-patient facilities people don’t even get to see their psychiatrist. You don’t have to be so involved.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Simon, is there… Is there anything between the two of –”

  “Beth,” I cut her off, sighing sharply. “Do you really think that I would do something like that with a patient after what I’ve seen?”

  I’ve known Beth all my life. When I was a kid, she’d bring over casseroles when my mother was going through her episodes. My father made himself scarce during such times, especially during such times. And my mother would break just a little more than she already was, every time he wouldn’t come home, choosing to spend his time at Heartstone.

  Beth has seen all this. She and Joseph, Dr. Martin, have been there every step of the miserable way.

  Sadness washes over her face. “Oh, Simon. I –”

  I cut her off again because I can’t take her pity. I’m not that hungry little kid anymore, and neither am I weak and pathetic like my father.

  “Look, I was just doing my job. She’s my patient. I know my boundaries. I’m not my father.”

  I’m better than him.

  At the heel of my words though, I feel something. A softness, as if warmth is still pressing up against me in the shape of a tiny body.

  Her body. Her long, wavy, moon-like hair.

  The only reason I don’t do it is because I can’t take leaving something behind.

  I shove my hands inside my pockets and with them, I shove those nonsensical thoughts away, too.

  “Do you blame us? For what happened to your mom?” Beth asks, tears in her eyes.

  I don’t talk about my mother a lot. The last time I mentioned her was to a twelve-year-old boy, Dean, when I found him at the cemetery.

  “The only person I blame is my dad,” I say, hoping that she walks away now.

  “She was good at pretending, Simon. We all thought she was doing okay. We thought she was in a good place. We had no idea that she was that far gone. We thought we knew her. We did everything to make her happy when your father wasn’t around.” Tears fall down her cheeks. “But then, maybe we didn’t. I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for not… doing enough.”

  That’s what I think about too.

  Did I do enough? Was I there for her enough? If I was, then why did she do what she did?

  Why did she leave me behind?

  I spent a lot of time thinking about that. I’d replay all the moments, all the things we did together, my mother and me. How I’d quit everything to be with her, so she never felt alone. How I’d stay up all night if I had to because she couldn’t sleep.

  I did everything that a good son would do. Everything.

  Over the years, I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t me. It was him. He killed her. Not her illness. Not the meds.

  Him.

  And I was left behind.

  I wonder if she thought about me in those final moments. If she thought about her son and how she was leaving him behind.

  “It wasn’t your fault. It was his fault,” I say with gritted teeth. “He was the one she wanted, and he wasn’t there. He was a fraud, my father. People think he’s this legendary doctor, saving everyone, when he couldn’t save his wife. He couldn’t even stand her and her illness. And my mom knew that. If it weren’t for him, she’d still be alive.”

  “He was a lousy father, Simon,” Beth begins after a few moments, wiping her tears off. “A lousy husband. Believe me, I know. You don’t have to forgive him. We don’t have to forgive him. But please, don’t throw away something good, something amazing because of him. You can do so much here, at this hospital. Please.”

  I jerk out a nod, thawing slightly.

  “Tell me you’ll be careful.”

  Sighing, I nod again. This one isn’t as tight as the first one.

  Beth’s right. She’s looking out for me like she’s always done. The least I can do is not make things difficult for her.

  But when she leaves, I hear it again.

  Willow’s voice.

  It’s soft and scratchy, a little hoarse. The kind of a voice that can get stuck inside a man’s head.

  The only reason I don’t do it is because I can’t take leaving something behind.

  ***

  It’s raining inside the room.

  I watch the droplets hitting the old hardwood floor, forming a small puddle.

  Plop. Plop. Plop.

  The ceiling in the study is leaking. The discolored patch growing, expanding right in front of my eyes.

  Fuck.

  This is probably the third time I’ve seen it
happen in the last week alone. No matter how much I fix this house, plaster over the cracks, there’s no saving it.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and think about probably getting outside help. Maybe I can hire someone to come do this for me. In fact, I should. I don’t have time to fix this house.

  I don’t even know why I’m fixing this piece of crap. I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. But I took Dean and his sister out for a pizza because apparently, he was in the mood for one. That’s what he told me, but I know the truth.

  I could guess. His dad was out of town and he was scared. I would be, too. In fact, I was that kid.

  When I dropped them off, instead of driving away, I walked inside this house. And instead of walking right back out, I decided to work on the stairs leading down to the basement.

  I have no idea why my father let it get this bad, the apparent perfectionist.

  Either way, it’s not mine, this house. It never was. It never will be. I don’t want it. Like I don’t want Heartstone or my father’s legacy.

  I can’t wait to get back to Boston. That’s my life. But then again, I don’t know if I’m going to get it back.

  Reaching for my cellphone on the desk, I approach the window and dial the number I’ve been wanting to. I know it’s late at night, but he won’t be sleeping.

  It rings a couple of times before I hear the click.

  “Simon,” Greg, my colleague and only friend at Mass General, greets me from the other side.

  “Hey,” I say, staring at the willow tree in my backyard.

  I spent a lot of time under that tree while growing up and ever since I got back, I can’t look away from it. That tree has survived a lot. The years of me growing up, my mother’s death, my leaving.

  That tree is a survivor. A fighter.

  Like its namesake.

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t get this call,” he says, thankfully pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “Well, you can’t always get what you want,” I say drily.

  “Man, you gotta let it go. It doesn’t look good, with the whole lawsuit hanging over your head.”

  It’s not as if I haven’t heard the word lawsuit before. But every time I hear it a jolt goes through my body. Like I’ve been electrocuted, making me flinch.