Page 3 of Swerve
Except for the fact that for the next few hours, I am certain I can still smell the faint scent of his cologne.
~
THE EMERGENCY ROOM page was for a sixteen-year-old girl who attempted suicide with an overdose of her mother’s sleeping pills.
These are the cases I struggle with most.
When you’ve seen first hand how easily life can be extinguished in a person with every desire to live, it’s difficult to accept the premise that it’s not worth living. Especially from someone so young.
Katie Dare is awake when I walk into the room. She takes one look at me, the white coat, the notebook under my arm, and turns her head to the wall. “I don’t want to talk,” she says.
“You don’t have to,” I say. “Is it okay if I just sit with you for a bit?”
The response surprises her. She lets her eyes meet mine for a moment, then turns back to the wall, her body stiffening with visible resistance.
I force myself to wait out her silence, sitting next to her bed in quiet acceptance of the conditions. A full ten minutes have passed when she finally turns her head back to me and says, “You’re wasting your time. Just because it didn’t work this time doesn’t mean I’m not going to try it again.”
“I understand.”
She frowns, locking her hands together across her abdomen. “What could you possibly understand? You’re a doctor, and you’re what? Twenty?”
I smile a little. “Twenty-seven, actually. But I get that a lot.”
“What?”
“The fact that I look younger.”
“Yeah. You look like you started med school when you were ten.”
I laugh. “Good one.”
My response again surprises her. “Isn’t it a little weird to be laughing at someone who just tried to commit suicide?”
I shrug. “What you said was funny.”
“I’m not funny. I’m the opposite of funny.”
“In that moment, you were funny.”
She stares at me, and I can feel her trying to figure out whether I’m for real or not. “I’ve been here three other times,” she says. “Why have I never met you before?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t on call those times. But I’m glad I am tonight.”
“You can’t help me. I don’t want help. I just want out.”
“I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” she snaps, lasering me with a look. “You don’t.”
“No,” I say, holding her gaze in a way that lets her know I’m not backing off. “I really do.”
“What? You tried to off yourself?”
I hesitate, and then, “I thought about it when I was a little older than you.”
She clearly doesn’t believe me. “But why would someone like you—”
“My parents were killed in a head-on with a drunk driver. I was eighteen. I’d had a fight with them right before the accident. Told them I hated them. That I never wanted to see them again. I never got to take that back. My sister was eight, and I was the only family left to raise her.”
