Chapter 68
Astor
Two days later . . .
“Mr. Stone?”
Hands in my pockets, I lift my head and turn from the window I wasn’t looking out of.
The psychiatrist, Dr. Gorran, a short portly bald fellow with comically large hands, is standing by the door of the waiting room. I don’t like him. I don’t know why.
They’d asked me to wait at the end of the psychiatric wing of the hospital, in a room that appears to be a patient room they’ve transformed into a caregiver information hub. It’s small and suffocating and smells like burned coffee.
Gorran is followed by another doctor, this one I haven’t met. She’s Asian, tall and svelte, with a sharp angular haircut that sweeps her jawline.
Gorran must have called my name several times before I responded, because they’re both frowning at me in a concerned manner. In the same way everyone looks at me since I arrived at this godforsaken place.
“Mr. Stone, this is my colleague, Dr. Wu.” We shake hands. “Dr. Wu is a neurologist who has been working with Dr. Stevens on your wife’s case.”
I nod. Over the last two days, I’ve met enough doctors to last a lifetime.
Dr. Wu steps forward. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“No. Thank you.”
She dips her chin and focuses on the laptop in the corner, where she proceeds to key through several log-in screens before asking Gorran to hit the lights.
The room goes dark.
Gorran hovers next to me, a thick file in his baseball-mitt-sized hands. This is his thing, I’ve noted, expert invader of personal space.
A black-and-white X-ray of a human brain pops onto one side of the screen. Next to it is another.
Using a laser pointer, Dr. Wu begins.
“These are the MRI scans taken of your wife’s brain this morning. The image on the left is what we consider to be a normal brain in a healthy individual the same age and sex as your wife. The image on the left is your wife’s. As you can see here,” she waves a little red dot across the screen, “your wife has markedly less white matter than the image on the left. Specifically, thinner cortexes in both the frontal and temporal lobes. It’s important to note that thinning cortex is normal in aging, but your wife’s is out of the norm for her age.”
“In a nutshell,” Gorran says, “this advanced thinning can cause the lobes to misfire, so to speak. In your wife’s case, the frontal lobe is responsible for vital functions like memory, judgment, fine motor skills, and social appropriateness. The temporal lobe is responsible for memory too, but also regulating emotions.”
“That’s right.” Wu clicks to another side. “What I see in your wife’s images are congruent with Dr. Gorran’s diagnosis of moderate to severe schizophrenia. In combining what we now know about abnormalities in her MRI, along with Dr. Gorran’s assessment, our team recommends increasing the dosage of the medication Dr. Gorran has already prescribed, as well as adding ...”
Dr. Wu rattles off several drugs I’ve never heard of, ones that I will spend hours researching this evening, just like I did the others, and just like I did when we received Gorran’s life-changing diagnosis.
She asks, “When, exactly, did your wife’s mental health issues begin?”
Almost immediately after she agreed to marry me, and I locked her in the house to guarantee her safety and the safety of our baby. But I can’t say that, of course, so I dance around it.
“After we lost our daughter, Chloe. Literally, that day, she went to lie down in bed and never got back up. For days. She was never the same after that. I thought she was sick, honestly, but the doctor said she wasn’t. And from there, she went downhill drastically. She never wanted to leave the bed. She was diagnosed with PTSD and severe depression shortly after.”
Wu nods. “The exact cause of schizophrenia is unknown, but it is often triggered by a very traumatic episode, such as losing a child. Her diagnosis of depression was not wrong; it just likely advanced into her current condition.”
When no one says anything, Gorran flips open his notebook. “As you know, your wife was in severe psychosis when you brought her in to us, as well as dehydrated, likely from her captivity. She also had several contusions on her body. As of this morning, her blood tests and urinalysis have come back normal, and the medication has relieved her psychosis. Considering these things, we are looking at a release date of tomorrow.”
He closes the notebook and looks at me.
“You and I have already spoken about this, but I want to reiterate that I strongly suggest that your wife be transferred to an inpatient psychiatric facility for at least a few months to get her medication?—”
“No. As I already told you, I will take care of her.”
His lips form into a thin line. “Okay then, Mr. Stone. I want to warn you that while we are going through the process of finding the ideal dosage and medication for a psychiatric patient, the patient can have relapses, anger issues, severe depression, suicidal thoughts or actions, or in some cases, be bedridden while dealing with side effects.”
“I understand.”
He turns to Dr. Wu. She is studying me so closely that it makes me itch.
“Okay.” He sighs, obviously displeased with my decisions. “I’ll have the medical equipment rep see you before you leave. She’ll get you set up with everything you need for in-home treatment—hospital bed, wheelchair, bathing necessities, an IV stand if needed, etc.” He glances at his notes again. “I understand you have refused to meet with our aid worker about setting up a nurse for daily visits.”
“Correct. Valerie already had a medical team and nurse working with her for her depression. I’ve given their information to the nurse and signed a release waiver for your files to be sent to them.”
An awkward pause hangs in the air.
Dr. Wu clears her throat. “Mr. Stone, do you have any questions about your wife’s images or her diagnosis?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.” She logs out of the laptop. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stone.”
Dr. Gorran closes the door behind Dr. Wu and turns to me, his brow furrowed. I say nothing and stare back, a game we are quickly becoming bored of.
“Are you okay?” he says finally.
No response.
“If I may, sir ...” He takes a deep breath. He’s exasperated by me, and I don’t blame him. “I’ve seen this many times before with caregivers who have themselves also been through a traumatic event. I see the markings of significant dissociative disorder in you. This happens when a person disconnects from their thoughts, feelings, memories, or sense of identity. It’s a coping mechanism. But, Mr. Stone, please hear me. If your trauma isn’t dealt with and addressed head-on, this disorder can turn into something that can greatly affect personal and social relationships, and in the most dramatic cases, lead to a full-on mental breakdown.”
Gorran drones on, and all I can think of is how I want to put a bullet between his eyes.
The gall of this man. He’s standing there talking to me about my trauma? My trauma. The dense twat doesn’t get it. My concern isn’t about me—it’s about the trauma I’ve caused everyone around me.
Valerie.
Sabine. My dear, dear, Sabine.
My fault.
It was all my fault.
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Thank you for your time,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence because I can’t take another word from his mouth.
Gorran nods and takes a step back, clearly disappointed in me.
Get in line, motherfucker.
Instead of waiting to be dismissed, I push past him and stride down the hall. And as with every other time, the chitchat stops, and all heads turn in my direction. I can feel the nurses’ eyes burning into me as I hunch my shoulders and contemplate breaking into a sprint and hurling myself through the window at the end of the hall.
I hate this place.
Dipping my head, I push into Valerie’s room. I fall back against the door and close my eyes.
I see Sabine. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
Her face, those eyes, her smile. Her body as it flew backward. The blood pooling on her stomach.
The pain on her face as she took a bullet to save me.
Sabine saved my life.
It is all so twisted and messed up. It should have been me who died. It should have been me who saved her.
The guilt is unbearable, eating me from the inside out. Day and night, hour by hour, minute by minute, it shreds my insides.
You worthless, useless, pathetic excuse for a human being.
You should be dead. You should be dead.
You deserve to die.
A gentle cough pulls me back to the moment. My eyes open. I look at my wife, her little bird body tucked in the hospital bed.
One foot is hanging off the side. She keeps doing that.
I walk over and slide her thin white ankle under the sheet. Bracing myself against the mattress, I lean in. “Valerie.”
Her hand flutters, and she coughs again. She speaks, but not often, and when she does, it’s only two or three words at a time.
I hover there for a while, watching her chest rise and fall in shallow breaths.
I’ve failed everyone in my life, yes, but here lies my redemption. Here, in front of me, is one person that I can commit to helping. Here, I can begin to make up for all the wrongs.
My hand trembling, I sweep the snow-white hair from her forehead, seeing Chloe in her face. My beautiful, sweet baby girl.
If I could go back in time, what I would change. So many things. For starters, I would have spent more time with my daughter, loving her, pinching her cheeks, making her laugh. Holding her hand.
I lay a hand over my aching heart.
If I could go back in time, I would have pressed the cops harder to continue their investigation after ruling it an accident. I would have worked harder on my own investigation. I wouldn’t have given up.
I don’t have Chloe anymore, but I do have her mother, a woman I owe just as much. A woman I have vowed not to give up on. Not now.
“I’m here for you,” I practice saying. “I’ll be by your side. You are not alone, Valerie.”
The door opens, and the nurse shuffles in. I quickly straighten, sniff, and gather myself. Her name is Marsha. She’s blunt, competent, and unemotional. She’s the only staff member here I don’t want to punch in the face.
I step aside as Marsha takes Valerie’s vitals.
“Has the doctor spoken to you about your wife’s delusions?”
“Yes. Well, no, only that she’s had them. I’ve heard her muttering things, but I can’t make them out. Why? What specifically is going on?”
Marsha readjusts Valerie’s pillow. “She keeps calling out for her daughter.” She straightens and looks at me. “I’m sorry for your loss—I don’t think I’ve told you that.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse nods, then continues. “When she isn’t crying for her, she appears to be cursing someone.”
A tingle spreads at the base of my spine. “I’m sorry—what? Cursing someone?”
“Yes. Angrily.”
I frown. Valerie read Chloe’s medical examiner’s report and knows about the missing lock of hair, but she accepted the officer’s analysis that Chloe had likely done it herself, as she’d done many times before. Valerie didn’t draw the same conclusion I did—that someone had killed our daughter and that the missing lock of hair was meant to be a message.
“Who was she cursing? Did she say a specific name?”
“No, but to be clear, I didn’t get the vibe that she was addressing someone in particular, just that she was, like, asking the universe why it happened. Anyway, I tell you this so that you don’t worry if it happens at home. This is very common. She is on a lot of medication, and it’s going to be a while before everything evens out.”
I nod and thank her, but a feeling of unease slithers into my stomach like a warning, the heavy dread of something to come.
When Marsha leaves, I tuck the sheets around Valerie—very tightly around that one damn foot that keeps slipping out—and turn back to the window.
And once again, and forever, I think of Sabine.
I love you anyway . . .
And of how she must have felt when she learned that I’d made a deal to trade her for Valerie. How she must have felt when she realized Valerie and I had more history than I’d admitted to.
I love you anyway . . .
I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up. I lunge to the bathroom and gag several times, but nothing comes out.
Swallowing the spit, I return to the room and begin pacing to distract the feeling of death inside me, which has become a natural state of my body since Sabine died.
At two in the morning, my legs can’t take another pivot in this godforsaken room, and my thoughts can’t take another second of mulling over my mistakes.
Instead of replaying every word Sabine ever said to me, I decide to do something about it, focusing on her advice: You need a journal. Start writing out your feelings. No one has to read it; it will just give you an outlet.
I grab the notebook from my bag, a pen from the side pocket, and drop onto the world’s stiffest couch. I pick up the black sweatshirt, press it to my nose, inhale, then set it on my lap.
After another deep breath, I begin writing a letter to Sabine, the first of what I fear will be many over the coming months.
Dear Butterfly,
My heart aches for you. Every hour, every minute, every second.
When I close my eyes, I see your face, I hear you, I smell you, for you have been forever imprinted on my soul.
But I can’t see you.
I can’t hear you.
I can’t smell you.
I can’t touch you.
The absence of you is felt in the vacancy of my soul. In the death that now resides in my body, the nothingness that has become as much me as my beating heart, in the hole that materialized inside me the moment you left.
The moment I failed you.
The moment I failed myself.
The moment I died inside ...
“Astor.”
I startle at the sound of Valerie’s voice. My gaze shoots up from the notebook, and I realize I’ve been crying.
I close the notebook and jump up, quickly wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand.
“Yes?” I rush to her side. “Are you okay?”
Valerie slowly turns her head. Though she’s looking at me, there is no focus. It’s like she’s looking right through me. Still, I get the sick feeling that she knows.
“Who was she?” she whispers.
She knows.
What do I say? Her name was Sabine. She was my beautiful butterfly.
“Who was she?” Valerie whispers again.
My love.
My light.
My reason for breathing.
My beautiful butterfly.
My everything.
“No one, Valerie.” Not anymore. “Go back to sleep.”