Page 60 of Notorious

Should I do anything about her? Is she okay? No one seems to pay her any mind.

I haven’t been looking much past the end of my own nose lately—except as to Mama—but there’s a big world out there full of other people and other problems.

I finish my meal and watch the boring TV show until I can’t stand it no more and return to my room.

As they warned me, a huge, tattooed male nurse sits in a chair, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at my roommate, who’s already in bed with a mask over his face. The sleep apnea machine makes a constant noise, so it’ll be hard to get to sleep. That’s on top of the fact that I’m in a new place and have a guard who’s gonna be watching me all night.

There’s no privacy. I guess I should be getting used to that. Kurt certainly wasn’t giving me much privacy since he discovered my plans.

I nod to the nurse, who gives me a cursory nod back, and put my new sweats on. After taking a leak and brushing my teeth—grateful for the familiar flavor of my usual toothpaste—I crawl into the cold, narrow bed covered in thin blankets and stare at the ceiling. This is the exact opposite of where I want to be. Last night, I was sleeping with a warm Kurt in my arms.

Except … as I lie in the hospital bed, a calmness does come over me. Being cut off from the outside world is helping my mood. The horrible pressure that I’ve felt for so long is … not gone, but held at bay. While I ain’t forgotten about my mama by any means, and the violins are serenading me in the dark, I’m not as desperate as before. Perhaps because there ain’t nothing I can do. I can’t text her. I can’t talk with her. I’m stuck.

I think about what Kurt said, how I’d be hurting her by killing myself.

Yeah. Maybe. Okay, yeah. That would’ve happened. I would’ve hurt her. I can see that now.

I couldn’t keep trouble from visiting—no one can—but I went a step too far when I invited it in for a drink and made it my guest of honor.

Kurt seems to think I can get better. Can I?

That little sweet spot for Kurt in my sour heart is getting bigger and bigger.

Thinking about his gorgeous face, I drift into a restless sleep punctuated by the noise of the apnea machine.

In the morning, I’m bleary-eyed, but I get up and do my usual exercises: push-ups, crunches, planks. Just because I’m stuck in here doesn’t mean I can let myself go, and I’ve already taken too much time off, what with the bender in Vegas. I’m itchin’ to go for a run, but unless I want to do laps up and down the hall, that’s not happening. So I content myself with body-weight exercises. I may have no job prospects now, but maybe I have a smidgen of hope I will in the future.

They bring us breakfast, and we eat it at the picnic tables in the common room. We aren’t even allowed out to go to the cafeteria, which is in a different building. I literally am locked up. Going to get our own food is a privilege reserved for those in the unlocked ward. Sunshine and fresh air are privileges. It’s like I voluntarily put myself in prison. I’d laugh if it were a laughing matter.

Thankfully the doctor comes and sees me first thing after breakfast. He’s a younger guy, seemingly harried, but with a patient manner, and when I talk, he studies me intently.

“I was planning to kill myself so my mama could get the money from my life insurance,” I say, and explain what happened.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

After he asks me a few questions along the lines of Christian’s yesterday, he says, “This is the wrong ward for you. You don’t need this level of supervision. I’ll have you transferred to the unlocked ward.”

“I ’preciate that,” I say faintly, surprised at how relieved his words make me feel. The admissions nurse had said everyone started off here, but in the back of my head I was scared that the doctors would say this was where I belonged—like, forever. So that’s one thing going right.

One thing besides Kurt saving me, that is.

The doc and I talk about medication. “I ain’t a fan of drugs, but if it will help, I’ll try it,” I say. I guess I really am beaten down. “Better living through chemistry?”

He nods and smiles. “Are you in?”

I think about Kurt and my promise to him to stay alive. I think about my mama and my need to take care of her. I think about my sister and how she’s sacrificed her dreams for Mama, too. I think about Christian saying that to decide is to cut off all other options.

The only way out is through.

“I’m in,” I say, and he smiles.

“Good. You’re on the road to recovery.” Shortly after he leaves, a nurse brings me a few pills, including one for anxiety, and while I understand some of the meds will take weeks to kick in, that one hits me almost immediately and is more calming than weed.

Okay, I do feel better.

While I wait to be transferred, I look again at the cowboy poetry book Kurt sent. The break from my routine’s given me a different perspective.

Helplessly watching my mama get worse backed me into a corner so I felt like I had to fight my way out. And while I still feel like that, I’m thinking that there might be some other way to help her.

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