21 Sterling Loom—Zach Bryan
Sterling
Loom—Zach Bryan
Hospitals unnerve me.
Perhaps more than I’d care to admit.
I’m not sure if anyone is a fan of entering the lifeless, whitewashed corridors to endure a doctor’s poking and prodding. It’s hardly a land of luxury. But since the day I discovered what the family room in a morgue looks like in real life, discomfort has become a real aversion.
Not that I let it show as I park up the truck and check we’re outside the right building. Penrith is the nearest town with a mental health clinic and crisis team. Fletcher has an urgent appointment after a call to his medical team.
In the passenger seat, his leg gallops up and down, despite Eden’s hand resting on it in a display of solidarity.
I made the call with his permission, accepting the offer of a referral that’s been extended on many occasions.
The specialist coordinating his rehabilitation soon sobered when I recounted what happened in the woods.
“What time is your appointment?” Eden asks softly.
Knuckles white, Fletcher raises a single finger.
She nods in understanding. “Do you want us to sit in it with you?”
This time, a headshake. Fair enough. But we need some ground rules.
“I want to respect your privacy,” I cut in. “In order to do that, we need to know that you’ll tell them everything. Use a whiteboard, your phone, anything. You have to be honest.”
The look Fletcher hurls at me is caustic. Apparently, he’s still mad at me for giving a damn. It’s been over a week, and he still can’t bring himself to accept we had no choice but to give him an ultimatum.
“Don’t look at me like that. I have every right to be concerned, and I want to see you get the support you need. That can’t happen if you don’t open up to these people.”
“Sterling’s right.” Eden strokes his shaking leg. “Though I’d have worded it more diplomatically.”
“Diplomacy isn’t my strength.” I glower at the awaiting hospital.
“That much is obvious, Sterl.”
Fletcher’s sharp inhale betrays his amusement. Flipping him the bird, I climb out of the truck, taking care to shut the door instead of slamming it hard like I want to.
There’s no time for diplomacy when he’s pulling shit like trying to overdose. You can bet your ass I flushed every last pill in those bottles when Eden handed them over. But that hasn’t erased the worry for what he’ll do next if something doesn’t change.
I know dealing with his trauma is impossible without support from a professional. Fletcher has carried his baggage alone for too long. Now he’s being crushed beneath it, and there’s no shame in asking for a helping hand to break free from the suffocation.
There. Diplomacy.
Whoop-de-doo.
Once the pair have climbed out, we head for the signposted unit based in an outbuilding separate from the main hospital. Eden retains a tight hold on Fletcher’s hand for the walk over, keeping him grounded.
She’s quiet about it, but her strength carries us more than I think we realise. I doubt we could’ve coaxed Fletcher to part with his pills. Hell, we screamed ourselves blue instead. All while she remained calm, collected, and perfectly rational.
Fletch needed her in that moment.
And clearly, we did too.
Like most clinical spaces, the waiting area is cold and impersonal. You’d think someone would brighten the place up with more than a lick of cheap yellow paint and a peeling motivational poster telling me to Keep Fighting. I think I actually just gagged.
Fletcher takes one look at the shitty seventies seating, scuffed flooring, and broken coffee machine, then turns to make a run for it. Before Eden can react, I step into his path, hands raised placatingly.
“Easy, Fletch. It’s a horror show in here, but you need to do this.”
Face pale and uncharacteristically stubbled, he attempts to duck around me once more.
“I’m not going to force you into that room,” I try again. “This is your choice to make. But please . . . think about the people you’d be leaving behind. We need you to get better, buddy.”
Watching him freeze, shoulders sinking and head lowering in defeat, hits me with a pang of guilt. Shit, Eden’s better at this than me. She knows what to say. I’m like a bull in a china shop.
The three of us take seats. Cheap plastic creaks under my weight, sounding like a gunshot in the awkward silence. Office keyboards clack in the nearby reception, low voices exchanging conversation, but none of us say a word until the clock strikes one.
“Fletcher Wright?”
His head lifts, torso tension carved.
“He’s here,” I answer for him.
An older, silver-haired woman in the world’s ugliest blouse approaches us. She exudes carefully choreographed reassurance, taking the time to meet each of our gazes, then focusing on Fletcher.
“I’m Belinda, your medical advocate. I’ll be helping you to communicate and providing assistance. Are you comfortable with that?”
Shrugging, Fletcher avoids looking at her.
“You’re not his therapist?” Eden clarifies.
“No.” Belinda smiles patiently. “More like an extra helping hand to make sure Fletcher’s needs are being catered for throughout this process.”
“You’re aware of his disability?” I study her closely.
“I am,” she confirms. “I can assist with alternative means of communication. We’re well equipped to make the necessary adjustments to ensure this is as smooth as possible.”
Huh, slick. Fletcher’s specialist clearly gave them a heads up.
“Shall we?” Belinda invites.
She indicates for him to follow her down the corridor to where several offices reside. Fletcher reluctantly stands, shaking his clenched hands out, then casts us a questioning glance.
“Your family can grab a coffee and come back in an hour or so,” Belinda offers.
But still he doesn’t budge. His focus is locked on Eden. I’m not sure I’ve seen him look so uncertain before. I’ve got far too used to his blank expression and dismissals. Yet another way I’ve failed my best friend—I gave up on him too soon.
“You can do this,” she encourages.
A head tilt seems to communicate his silent request. His lips move on a word. Please.
“You want me to come with you?” Eden pieces the clues together.
After a pause, Fletcher finds the courage to nod. Shit. I never thought I’d see him ask for something he needs. Casting a look my way, Eden seems to ask for my permission, which makes no sense at all. I’d argue she’s the adult here amongst us hot-headed fools.
“Go.” I wave for her to follow. “I’ll wait for you both.”
“Is that allowed?” Eden asks.
Fussing over her blouse, Belinda nods. “Fletcher can have whoever he wishes there.”
“Okay then.”
“Great. Please follow me.”
Eden stands to tangle their fingers together and steady Fletcher. She spares me another glance, then follows them down the corridor, leaving me to hold down the fort. I’m not mad that Fletcher chose her. Not even a little bit. He communicated his needs, and that’s progress we haven’t seen to date.
I don’t last long sitting in the ugly waiting area before the urge to rip my skin off just to escape grows too strong. They’re gonna be a while. It’s safe enough to step outside the clinic for some fresh air, maybe stretch my legs. The drive here took forever through winding country lanes.
The receptionist spares me an understanding, if not a little weary, almost-smile when I stride out. Bet she’s used to comforting aggravated family members dragging their loved ones here in a last-ditch attempt to make amends. I’m not so convinced I don’t belong in that office too.
After Isabel died, Ma tried to convince me to have bereavement counselling. I lasted thirteen minutes and almost punched the overly cheery dickhead who lectured me about stages of grief and boxing up her things in order to move on.
While I eventually did the latter almost a year after we identified her body, I didn’t need some wrinkly old fuck telling me it’s the right thing to do. Like he had any authority to tell me how to heal from my wife’s death.
Bracing a hand against the exterior wall, I permit my head to drop, letting a fresh wave of grief and disbelief crash over me until it’s had its fill. That’s the thing most people can’t quite grasp. Loss never leaves—not after weeks, months, even years.
We grow around the gaping hole our loved ones leave behind when they’re gone, but it doesn’t stop the crevasse from burrowing deeper and deeper into our psyche, an eternal chasm that will never be filled. Not with all the therapy sessions, antidepressants, or whiskey shots in the world.
God, I miss her.
In each moment, big and small.
No matter what I feel for Eden and our connection, the new bloom creating a bridge across that chasm, it doesn’t detract from past horrors. I desperately want the future laid out in front of me, but I know the road ahead is littered with cracks.
Inhaling sharply, my feet carry me away from the clinic’s entrance to a quieter spot around the corner. I need a second to gather myself. When these moments hit, there’s no warning. Though I’ve got better at handling the dark thoughts over time, they still pack a powerful punch.
“Excuse me, sir? Mr. Vale?”
Appearing to have followed me around the corner, I’m startled by the strait-laced professional calling my name. He’s dressed far too nicely to be working in public healthcare. I might be more comfortable with a toolbox and handsaw, but even I can recognise an expensive suit.
“Can I help you?” I frown at him.
Mr. Slick tries for an affable smile. “I wanted to take a moment to touch base while your friend is in session with my colleague. After all, rehabilitation takes a village.”
“You’re part of Fletcher’s support team?”
“I work closely with his specialist and other war veterans who have experienced trauma.”
He runs a hand that’s never seen a day’s hard work over his perfectly gelled hair. That voice screams pretentious, overpaid asshole. I know shrinks are trained in the art of manipulation. This smug fuck epitomises that tactic.
“What does that have to do with me?” I drone.