Chapter Nineteen Jenn
Chapter Nineteen
Jenn
Friday afternoon
Hospitals have a rhythm I understand: the hum of fluorescent lights, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, the whispered gossip at nurses’ stations. They’re full of pain, but also of people trying to make sense of it. That, I guess, is what keeps me here.
People assume psychiatrists choose this field because they’re fascinated by the mind.
Maybe some are. I chose it because I’ve lived with the aftermath of trauma long enough to recognize it when I see it.
After my sister died, I became the walking embodiment of what everyone else was too polite to call survivor’s guilt.
I wanted answers no one could give me—why her and not me, what made one life tip over the edge while the other went on.
At first, I thought medicine might give me control over chaos. Psychiatry, though—that was different. It wasn’t about saving lives so much as salvaging them. The mind is a mess of bruises you can’t see. But if you listen closely enough, you can sometimes trace where the damage started.
That’s what drew me to adolescents and young adults. They’re still pliable, still forming, still at that fragile point where one decision—or one person—can change everything. They remind me of who I was before everything broke, and of who I might’ve become if someone had known how to reach me.
My grandparents raised me to believe that helping others was how you paid rent for your own second chance. They never said it in so many words, but I knew what they meant: Do some good with the time you’ve been given. I try. Some days, it even works.
I’m kicking myself all the way up the elevator for leaving the hospital in the first place—rookie mistake. The farther I go, the longer it takes to get back. And the more time that passes, the greater the chance she’ll change her mind.
When I stick my head into the partially open door of the Hibiscus Suite, Nurse Shannon is waiting.
“Go right on in,” she says with a kind smile—kinder than the one she gave Julian. “Mary’s expecting you.”
That alone feels like progress.
Her room is quiet, the curtains half drawn against the afternoon glare.
She’s moved from the armchair to her bed, a tray on her lap with the remains of a ham sandwich and a few untouched chips.
The crusts are stacked neatly to one side, the meat picked apart, as if she lost interest halfway through.
Her skin’s still sallow, lips cracked, hair limp and uneven where someone’s brushed it out but not styled it.
There’s a rawness about her—something both feral and fragile.
When she sees me lingering in the doorway, she looks wary but not openly hostile.
“You can come in,” she says finally.
“Thanks.” I stop beside the empty chair near the window. “Mind if I sit?”
She shrugs. “Go ahead.”
I lower myself into the seat, keeping my tone light. “I really appreciate you agreeing to talk today. I know you’ve been through more than most people could handle in a lifetime.”
She shifts the tray off her lap. “I’m not sure how much talking I can do. I’m just . . . tired. And my head won’t stop pounding.”
“Yeah, that’s normal. You were severely dehydrated. It’ll take time for your body to even things out. I’ll check with your doc about getting you something for the headache.”
After a long silence, I add softly, “I’m so sorry about Sam.”
She studies me, cautious but curious. “Thank you,” she says at last. “You’re the first one to say that.” Her gaze drops to her lap. “It’s like I keep forgetting it happened. Just for a while. But then it hits again—like a gut punch.”
When she reaches up to wipe her tears, I notice the IV line taped to the back of her hand—a quiet reminder she’s far from well.
“You’re in shock,” I tell her gently. “Not just over her death—over everything you survived out there. If the ranger hadn’t found you when he did . . . well, it’s miraculous you’re here at all.”
She shakes her head. “No miracle. Just luck. It’s always been that way between us. I’m the one who gets the breaks—first in life, and now in death.”
There’s no textbook for this. No baseline. I’m meeting her where she is, trying to read her in real time, knowing every word could be the wrong one.
“You should know,” I tell her, “whatever you say stays between us. I don’t report to Dr. Braithwaite or your parents. I’m here for you.”
She arches an eyebrow. “They’re paying you, though. Right?”
“Indirectly. The hospital bills them, but that’s not the point. My loyalty’s to you. But I did meet with them this morning.”
Her tone goes dry. “Yeah? What’d they want?”
“What do you mean? They didn’t want anything. They’re worried about you.”
“If you say so.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
She shrugs. “There’s always an agenda with them. If they want to talk to you, they want something. Probably information.”
“Well, they won’t get it.”
She exhales, almost amused. “Can we maybe not talk about them right now?”
I lift my hands in surrender. “Of course.”
After a pause, she glances toward the door. “Hey . . . are the police around here somewhere?”
“Um, I don’t know. I haven’t seen any. Why?”
She shifts uneasily. “I think I talked to a woman cop in the ER, right after they brought me in. But I was so out of it.”
“You don’t remember what you said?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Not really. I was hallucinating out there—I couldn’t tell what was real.”
I make a mental note to follow up with Joyce about her statements. “Did they scare you? Threaten you?”
Her lips press together, as if the wrong word might break her.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me.”
She exhales. “No, they didn’t. It was fine. They were the ones who told me Sam was dead. I didn’t know until then. I’d hoped—but . . .” She swallows hard. “They did want to know about our relationship.”
“What about it?”
She hesitates. “We didn’t always get along.”
“That’s not unusual for siblings, especially when you’ve lived such different lives. You’re making up for years you didn’t get to have together.”
“God, we were so different,” she says, more animated now. “Not just the money—the way we thought, what we wanted.”
“How so?”
She squints at me. “I don’t know you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why should I tell you any of this?”
“You don’t have to,” I say evenly. “But maybe it’ll help that I get a little of it. I’m a twin too.”
Her head tilts, skeptical curiosity overtaking suspicion. “Yeah? What’s her name?”
“Jessica. We called her Jess.”
“Called,” she echoes. “She died?”
“She did. Accident, when we were fifteen.”
“Did you get along?”
“Not always. We were close, but we were opposites. She was the easy one—the rule follower. I was . . . the other one.”
Mary smiles faintly. “That’s exactly how it was with us. Sam would’ve been the rebel. I was the good girl.”
“Golden child,” I admit, grinning. “She hated that nickname.”
Her expression darkens. “Yeah, well, Sam wasn’t anybody’s golden anything.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“She was rough. Blunt. Didn’t know how to soften things. My parents couldn’t handle that.”
“So she didn’t make it easy for people to like her,” I say.
“Nope.”
I nod, thoughtful. “You know, a lot of kids who grow up in foster care learn that softness is a liability. You can’t survive if you don’t fight for everything. Sometimes it takes a long time to learn what safety even feels like.”
There’s a long beat. When she finally speaks, her voice is so low I almost miss it.
“I do,” she says. “I know what she went through.”
The air between us goes still.
I study her face, but she doesn’t look at me—just traces the IV line along her hand like she’s following an old scar.
“I know exactly what she went through.”
And something in me knows she isn’t talking about the Everglades.