Chapter 27 #2
“I called them this morning. They have a space available for you, and they’re happy to take you today.
They’re even sending one of their nurses to give you some more information about it, and they’ll be here soon.
” Eli’s holding it together so well. It must be the sheer amount of practice he’s had in the past, because I know he loves Dean so much that this has to be killing him to say.
I’m grateful to him for taking the lead here, because I don’t think I can do it without crumbling.
Way to ambush me, brother. Dean’s eyes narrow at him, cold and hard.
“I know, frere . And I’m sorry. But after yesterday…
after the last week or so…hell, after the past few years , I can’t just sit back and watch you suffer when we’ve found a place that can help.
I won’t .” Eli’s face is calm, his voice is steady, but there’s a sense of barely leashed emotion crackling off him.
His leg jigs off and on, and he keeps rubbing his hands.
“It’s worth a try.” Sadie blinks as Dean gives her a look that gives the message loud and clear: traitor .
“Either way, your appointments for the next few months are being cancelled.” Leo holds his hands up when Dean whirls on him angrily.
“Buddy, you can’t do your job when your head is in this much of a mess.
It’s dangerous, it’d be irresponsible of me to let it happen, and I won’t have it.
So, effective right now, you’re suspended, on full pay. ”
“We cancelled our wedding this morning.” Eli looks at the ground, and I know exactly how he feels: like anything we say to get Dean to listen and to think about going to this inpatient facility is going to be a hit below the belt, emotional blackmail, but there’s nothing else for it.
But my god, are we gonna hate ourselves later.
Dean’s face crumples into stricken horror. What the fuck?! What did you do that for?!
“Because you’re very obviously not OK, and you’re not gonna magically be OK in six weeks, and it’s more important to both of us to have you there on the day.”
“It’s alright, I promise,” Emily adds, but there’s nothing she can say that will make Dean feel better right now. His face collapses again, the heels of his palms go to his temples, and he sags to the floor. Sadie moves to comfort him, but Leo holds her back and shakes his head at her.
“ Frere , we’d rather have you there, and the only way that’s ever going to happen is if you get the help you need.” Dean’s shoulders start to shake as he bursts into tears.
I can’t , he says, and sits against the wall, head back, eyes closed, the image of despair.
I’ve had enough. I dash over to Dean and sit next to him, taking both his hands, crying myself but ignoring it.
“You can,” I say, “but you have to want it. Think about it, baby. Staying over with me and actually sleeping . And so many other things that could be so wonderful. If there’s even a chance that this could happen - ”
You don’t know what you’re asking me to do. He throws his arms around my waist, burying his head in my stomach, and cries. I hold him. Of course I do. I think he’s needed me to for a while.
“What do those letters mean?” I ask quietly. I run my fingers over the ink on his forearm. YKWYDMFNF. I’ve wondered since the moment I first saw them, just days ago.
I feel him cringe in my arms. Everyone else in the room seems to be holding their breath. I guess nobody knows except Dean. He shakes his head over and over, cornered and desperate.
“Tell me.” I kiss the top of his head. “It’s OK.”
Long moments pass, and then he lifts his hands. You Know What You Did, Mother Fucker, Never Forget.
A low, growling moan startles me, before Eli stands and heads to the kitchen, his angry pain crackling and bouncing off the walls.
There’s a loud shattering of glass hitting the wall, and Emily rushes in there.
“FUCK!” he yells, and I see through the doorway that she’s holding him tightly.
“Oh his skin, on his fucking skin , Em…”
I stroke Dean’s hair, breathing deeply and slowly, trying not to go to pieces so I can hold him together. Sadie bites her nails while tears pour over her face, and Leo pulls her into his arms, helpless to do anything else for anyone.
There’s a knock at the door. Leo answers it, and we all hear muffled voices.
A few seconds later he and a man in a pale blue uniform both walk in.
The stitching on his breast pocket reads Hazelwood Hills , and an ID badge is clipped on his hip.
“Everyone, this is Joe,” Leo says. “Joe, this is…everyone.” Even he sounds defeated now.
Joe smiles at us all and nods, and then waits by the door, watching Dean and me.
Eli heads back in from the kitchen, holding Em’s hand tightly, his hair wild, but his emotions back under control. “I’m Eli. We spoke on the phone, I believe?” They shake hands. “This here is Dean.”
“Hi, Dean, I’m Joe,” the man says, his voice light and pleasant.
“Take your time, there’s no rush.” I believe him.
I believe he’d sit with us all day if that’s what it took.
He has a scar right across his forehead, deep and pale, and a prosthetic left arm.
“I’ve been exactly where you are right now.
And I know you think nothing and no-one can help.
” Dean looks up at him, and Joe gives him a steady, kind look as he holds up his prosthesis.
“I know. But there’s a way out of this, I promise you.
And I swear to you it’s going to be OK.”
Dean sits and listens as he talks about Hazelwood Hills, about his own experiences there as a sufferer of PTSD after his third tour of duty in Afghanistan, and how the experience meant so much to him that he retrained and started working there. I mean, you can’t get a better endorsement than that.
Eli asks some sensible questions about how Dean can possibly communicate when no-one there will speak ASL, and Joe suggests a number of text to speech apps they’ve used with deaf and nonverbal patients in the past. I remember Dean telling me that he didn’t have a good experience with medication before, and Joe assures us that a thorough medical history will be taken to assess what he is most likely to respond well to, and, while there may be an element of trial and error, they will make sure he is stable on whatever is prescribed to him before they send him home.
No visitors are allowed for the entire three months, though we can stay in touch by text and online; however, the recommendation is that contact is kept to a minimum.
We all feel jolted by that, but the way Joe speaks is confident and so soothing.
The thought of him looking after Dean for three months while none of us are there fills me with reassurance.
Joe gets it. Dean will be in safe and sensible hands.
Dean’s resting his head against my chest, not moving, but I know he’s taking in every word. And Joe knows it, too. “Looks like you have a group of people here who love you very much,” he observes.
“Fuck, yes,” I say.
“We do,” Leo agrees.
“And we know you love us,” I say, brushing Dean’s hair back. It’s greasy and uncombed, but I don’t care. He’s pouring with sweat, and it’s making my clothes damp. That’s not important, either. This moment has been a very long time coming, and he’s been dreading it with every fibre of his being.
I take a deep breath. “Dean…you loved me enough to body shield me when you thought someone was coming to kill us. Because you want me to be safe. Can you maybe try to love yourself as much as you love me?” He rests the bridge of his nose against the side of my face.
“I know this is a really huge step we’re asking you to take, but I think it’s so much better and a lot more doable than carrying on as you are.
And on the other side of it…this might be our best chance to be together.
If that’s what you want. Is…I mean…” Now I’m the one trembling a little.
“Be honest, and it’s OK either way: if you could wipe away all of your issues, would you be with me? ”
He goes rigid, and then nods frantically, pulling me even harder to him, cradling my head next to his, close enough that I feel his tears on my face.
“Will you try this?” I know everyone is watching, and I don’t care. I cup his face and I kiss his lips, which taste salty and warm. “Will you?”
The room is so silent that a pin dropping would sound loud.
I will never forget the look he gives me. Devastation and terror mix with defeat and resignation. But when he nods, I see something that gives me hope.
I see his love.
Joe offered to drive Dean back to the facility himself, but none of us felt right about just putting him in a stranger’s car and packing him off, so we decided that Eli would drive Dean and me there, following Joe.
We packed as much as we could for him, clothes, sketching pads, iPad and charger cable, everything.
He didn’t participate, he just watched us with unseeing eyes, shivering at the prospect of Hazelwood Hills and everything he’d confront there.
Even a Facetime call with his parents didn’t make a dent, no matter how much love and reassurance they poured through the screen.
The car journey was awful. Mostly silent, Dean and me in the back, with him alternating between clutching onto my arm, my hand, any part of me that was close to him, and letting them go, backing as far into the corner of the back passenger seat and hugging himself like he was struggling to hold all the pieces of himself together.
I hate myself. I’ve never felt lower than I do right now, for putting him in this position, for doing this to him.
What was I thinking? Why am I putting him through this?
Can I not just accept and accommodate him as he is?
But it’s not just about me . He cannot go on like this. He just can’t.
It’s even worse when we walk him into the building.
Hazelwood Hills is lovely: secluded, plenty of green space, and a large, sprawling white building on one storey.
Inside it’s as welcoming as it can be, with a huge reception desk and big, squashy green couches.
Joe is so kind, introducing Dean to the staff there as though they’re just people meeting at a social gathering rather than a patient meeting staff at a hospital.
I watch helplessly as they sign him in, connect him to Wi-Fi, help him download a text to speech app on his tablet, and tell him the structure of the day and what they can offer him for entertainment while he’s not in therapy.
They have a new squash court, they tell us brightly.
Dean is so numb that he barely responds when Eli and I hug him, hard, when it’s time for us to leave.
The haunted, frightened look he gives me - not Eli, just me - will make it hard for me to sleep for the next three months.
We both promise him that we’re only a text away, and then he’s being led through a door marked ‘staff and patients only’, to his room.
Away from us. He freezes a few times, and I can see his legs are shaking. But he does it. He walks through.
Searching for a tissue, I reach into my coat pocket. There’s something in there, but it’s not a tissue. It’s crinkly and covered in crumbs. I pull it out.
It’s the cupcake case from when he remembered my birthday. The pink icing on my nose. The candy letters. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIADEN .
I try. I try so, so hard. But the sobs won’t be smothered any longer, and while Eli drives us back, I clutch the cake case in my hands, bury my face in my knees, and cry my heart, my guilt, my agony out. It sounds loud, agonised, yet also far away from me.
“It’s OK,” Eli mumbles, his own eyes wet, as he places a comforting hand on my back. “It’s OK, Liaden. Let it all out.” And I do.