He kept saying that everything was going to be okay. “I’ll call your mom when we get to the hospital. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m here.”
I let him take my hand because, really, what else was I going to do? He took the hand Rebecca was already holding. She looked at me for a moment, as if willing me to say something. The thing we both knew I wanted to ask.
“You’re not real, are you?”
It’s stupid. But when Rebecca shook her head, I felt heavy, like I was learning it for the first time.
“I’m real, Adam.”
Of course Paul was the one to answer. I didn’t say anything else. I just let him squeeze my hand.
I bet you think that all these months of therapy and experimental treatment have been a waste since I wound up crazier than before. If it makes you feel any better, you still got paid. And it was nice of you to visit me in the hospital. I said that already, didn’t I? It’s also nice that I can always tell that you’re not a hallucination. Nothing in my imagination would conjure up that hair or those pants.
MAY 29, 2013
Coward.
That was what I was thinking.
Yes, Maya is still calling and sending texts and trying to visit, but I haven’t responded and I told the nurses not to let her in. Not since the last time, when I woke up to find her sitting next to my bed.
I was pretty high on whatever they’d given me, so for a minute I didn’t know what to think. I figured it would be best to check.
“Are you real?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. I could tell she’d been crying. Her eyes were red and she was wringing her hands in her lap like she was trying to get blood pumping to her fingers. Then she looked at me again and I saw it. That tiny flicker of understanding that hadn’t been there before prom. That little spark of knowledge that meant she knew now. And there was nothing I could do to take it back.
“How long have you known there was something wrong with me?” I asked. We both knew there was no point in denying it. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her sleeve.
“I didn’t know what it was,” she said. “I just noticed the headaches. And sometimes you had this look like you were…seeing things.” She looked up at me and my throat burned, but no matter how much I wanted to, I was not going to cry in front of her. I wasn’t. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“I didn’t want you to know I’m broken.” I was suddenly very aware of how I must look to her. My eyes had been bloodshot the day before. I wondered if they still were. My hair was matted to one side, and I could feel a sticky patch of sweat on the back of my neck.
“But how could you keep this a secret from me?” she asked.
“I kept it a secret from everyone.”
“I thought…” She paused. “I thought I was different.”
She searched my face for something. Sanity. Understanding. I’m not sure what, but when she looked down again and started to cry, I knew she hadn’t found it. I took a deep breath.
“No,” I said. “You’re not different. You were always going to be afraid of me.”
“Adam, that isn’t fai—”
“Fair?” I shouted. “Do you really think any of this is fair? Do you think fair has anything to do with what’s wrong with me?”
She shook her head as the tears rolled down her cheeks. I’d scared her. I knew the minute I raised my voice. She flinched. And I realized I was the one who’d made her do that. I really was a monster.
“Please, Adam. Let’s just talk about this when you’re feeling better. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Feeling better,” I muttered. “Crazy isn’t something you ever recover from, Maya.”
“Just let me help.”
“No!” I shouted, again deliberately. “I’ve already let you do too much.”
“Please, Adam…,” she said, and for the first time, she actually sounded as small as she looked.
“Just go,” I said. “It’s better if you just leave.”
It didn’t matter that I could suddenly hear all the voices talking at once or that the bullets from the mobsters’ guns made me flinch in my bed. I pushed the button for the nurse, and Maya got up and walked out, still crying.
That was when I realized that I hadn’t actually been broken until then. Until I’d made her cry.
—
I was actually relieved that my mom told Maya. It meant I didn’t have to. I don’t have to see her again if I don’t want to. I can even pretend I never saw her. It doesn’t matter in the long run. I’m not good for her anyway.
It’s sweet that your questions are still pretty stupid. You asked me to tell you what the voices are saying. That sounds like something my mom wants to know. And I’m not sure I can tell you because sometimes it’s not even words. Sometimes it’s just scratchy noises that turn into nothing. Sometimes the voices just sound angry and I can’t really translate the sound. Even Rebecca is different.
I’ll be in the hospital for a few more days, and she seems really anxious about it. She hides a lot when people walk into the room. I tell her no one can see her, but she just shakes her head.
The good thing about this place is that I can sleep again. Glorious sleep. I’d forgotten how good it feels to just let yourself die for ten hours. The only shitty part is waking up.
Yeah, I am distraught about not going back to school. Horribly distraught. It tears me up inside that I don’t have to sit through another sanctimonious little lecture about make-believe spirits and people who cut themselves for God.
No, I’m not sad. I’m not a weeping pile of shit. I don’t feel sorry for myself and I don’t have any intention of telling you what I’m actually thinking right now because (1) I don’t know what you’re going to do with that information, and (2) I don’t want to.
—
I’m back home, which you already know. Dwight showed up at my house on Monday wearing his tennis clothes, looking pale as usual.
“Do you want to serve first?” he asked.
I just stared at him.
“Hello?” Dwight said.
“Dude, I can’t go out and play tennis today. Didn’t your mom tell you…everything?” I knew our moms had spoken already, but it was a weird moment. No, I can’t come outside to play. I’m crazy right now.
“She did.”
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s Monday. We play tennis on Mondays.” He put his backpack down on the floor and started pulling things out of it.
“Okay, but you have no idea—”
“Actually, I do.”
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s Monday,” he repeated as if nothing had happened and it was the most obvious answer in the world.
“And I am a schizophrenic nutcase who has hallucinations and hears voices.”
“I know. My mom told me.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Dwight, I’m not going out to play tennis.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s why I brought this.” He lifted a Wii console out of his backpack and starting plugging it into our TV in the family room. “We’ll play here.”