Elephant in the Sky (14 page)

35

Just as the sun began to peep over the hospital, the ER doctors decided to move Nate to the psychiatry ICU wing. They wanted him to be under constant observation and given one-on-one nursing attention. They encouraged Pete and me to go get something to eat in the cafeteria, and join them on the eighth floor when we were ready.

“No,” I said flatly. “I won't leave my son.”

“Mrs. Carter, I understand you've been through a great ordeal,” a new doctor sympathized as he stood on the other side of Nate's bed. He had greying hair at the temples, and an affable smile. I remembered him introducing himself when he walked into the curtain-lined room, yet I had already forgotten his name. “But you're going to need to keep your strength up for your son. You need to eat, and you'll need to sleep, too. You will be in a much better position to help Nate if you take care of yourself.”

I shook my head. “I can't. I can't … leave him. I was so scared. I can't leave him again.”

The doctor exchanged glances with Pete, who quickly jumped in and offered to go get us both something to eat. “I'll grab something quick and meet you on the eighth floor, Ash. Then you can stay with Nate. Okay?”

I nodded, wiping away yet another stubborn tear that had insisted on falling, and grabbed my bag. I followed silently as two new nurses whisked Nate's bed into the elevator.

The grumpier looking of the two nurses punched the ele­vator button with unnecessary force, and we rode upwards in silence. I was uncomfortable going with them, and slight ­feelings of embarrassment crept to the surface. I couldn't determine whether it was because I had been unreasonable, ignoring the doctor's advice to take a break, or because I felt shame in being there. I ignored the latter, feeling guilty for even letting thoughts of embarrassment for my son creep into my mind.

I kept my eyes glued to the numbers that took turns lighting up as we made our way to the eighth floor. After what seemed like an eternity, the door finally opened and we took awkward turns leaving the elevator.

“Maya? This is the nine-year-old boy we called about. He came into the ER agitated and was given two milligrams of Lorazepam about two hours ago. Which bed?”

“Seven,” the nurse behind the desk replied. She remained glued to her seat as she pointed down the hall. “We're ready for you.”

I followed Nate's rolling bed as the nurses wheeled him to the empty spot in a single hospital room. An immediate sense of relief hit me as I realized he wouldn't have to share a room with a crazy person, which was immediately followed by a flush of redness to my cheeks as I realized the nurses with me probably thought that
Nate
was the crazy person.

“Your son will stay here for a while. Until he wakes up at least,” the crustier-looking nurse explained. “He'll be under constant observation and will be assigned a nurse, who will look after only him. Okay?”

I nodded. Slowly, I walked towards the only chair in the room and practically collapsed into it. I was surprised by how weak I was.

“If you need anything right away then just ring the bell. But your nurse should be in soon, so only use it if there's an emergency. Not sure who you have, but she'll come find you.”

I nodded again as the nurses got ready to leave the room. Through the uncovered window that provided a clear view into the hallway, I watched them return to the nurse's station. They spoke to Maya for a few moments, then disappeared into the elevator.

Alone with Nate, I watched him sleep. My eyes were fixated on him, as though I was mesmerized. With what seemed to be a gentle smile on his lips, he looked so peaceful. Like it could have been any of the normal days when I'd crept into his room to kiss him goodbye before rushing out the door to an early morning breakfast meeting.

I pulled the chair closer and tentatively took my son's hand in my own. I squeezed it. Gently at first. And then a bit more firmly.

There was no response. Not even a flicker. It was as if Nate was in a coma. Or worse.

The thought scared me, so I squeezed harder. I was half hoping he'd wake up. But I was also scared of what would happen when he did.

“Mrs. Carter?” A nurse holding Nate's chart walked into the room. She had a tender smile and a warm hand as she shook mine to greet me. “I'm Addison, Nate's nurse. You can call me Addy. I'll be with him all day, and will be constantly monitoring him. We expect Nate to wake up in about four or five hours, but it could be longer. Especially since he came in after a night of no sleep.”

I nodded. Again. It felt like it was all I was doing, but I couldn't seem to find words. I didn't know what to say.

“Are you alone?” Addy asked me.

I shook my head.

“Is there someone coming?”

I nodded my head.

“Who, Mrs. Carter? Is it your husband?”

I cleared my throat. “Uh, yes. My husband. Pete. He should be here soon.”

“Great. I'm glad you'll have some company.” Addy smiled at me. “I'm going to check Nate's vital signs and make sure everything is okay. You can stay or take a walk in the hall. Whatever you'd prefer.”

I sat, watching Addy as she wheeled a machine into the room and placed the clip on Nate's index finger. When she did, I practically felt it being attached to my own, just as the nurses had done to me so many times in the hours following his birth; I'd held my darling newborn son in one arm while offering up the other so the nurse could take my temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate. It seemed like only yesterday.

“Nate looks good,” Addy said when she was done. She snapped Nate's chart closed when she finished writing. “I'll leave you alone for a bit, but I'll be right outside if you need me.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “I appreciate you being so kind.”

“Of course, sweetie.” Addy crossed the room and crouched down beside my chair. “I know this is hard, Mrs. Carter. I've seen it many times. But Nate is in good hands now. And he's safe. The rest of the stuff you're worrying about? Well, we'll just take it one hour at a time. Together. Okay?”

I looked down. Tears dropped from my cheeks onto my folded hands.

“Can I get you some water? Or coffee? Something to eat, maybe?”

“Pete … my husband. He went to the cafeteria. He should be here soon. I'm surprised he isn't already, to be honest.”

“Would you like me to wait with you until he gets here?”

“No … it's okay. Thank you, though.”

Addy nodded and stood. Her knees cracked, the sound startling in the quiet room. “Call me if you need me, Mrs. Carter. For anything.”

“Call me Ashley.”

“Okay, Ashley. As long as you promise to call if you need me.” Addy patted my knee before walking towards the hospital room door. She opened it to the horrible sound of yelling in the distance. First, a man with a deep voice, roaring ferociously and screaming profanities at the nurses, telling them to leave him alone or the CIA was going to take him to jail. Then came an escalating scream from a woman, a high-pitched soprano drowning out the man's tenor vulgarities.

I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to shut it all out, and started to pray.

36

Someone gently tugged at my shoulder. I was groggy and completely unaware of where I was until I finally managed to blink my bleary eyes into clarity and saw Pete standing in front of me in Nate's hospital room.

“Hi sweetie,” Pete said softly. I stretched, then grabbed Pete's wrist to look at his watch. It was just after eleven a.m. Pete and I had slept for most of the morning. After he'd brought us both breakfast, Pete had located another chair and we'd fallen asleep, side by side, next to Nate's bed, our heads propped against each other's. My neck felt stiff and cricked as a result.

“Sorry to wake you, but your iPhone has been going off like crazy for the past hour and I'm wondering if there's anyone you need to reach out to?”

“What? Oh … right. Work is probably wondering what the hell happened to me.”

“Yes, probably.”

“What about Tay? Have you talked to her?” I needed to know how Grace was doing. It was far more concerning to me than work.

“Yes. Several times, actually. We agreed that she'd tell Grace and anyone else who asks that Nate was found and is in the hospital for monitoring. That we're with him, and we aren't sure of next steps yet.”

“That sounds good, I guess.” I had no idea what to tell people, but everyone needed to know that Nate had been found and was safe.

“Grace desperately wants to come here,” Pete continued. “Tay is holding her at bay for now. But we need to figure out what to tell her and when to see her.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to call and talk to her? I talked to her early this morning after I spoke to Tay, and it made me feel better. I know she wants to talk to you. She mentioned it several times while I was speaking with her.”

“I'll call her after school.”

“Okay.”

We sat in silence and watched our son. Beside me, my phone went off. I started to reach for it but quickly retracted. I didn't know what to say to whoever was trying to reach me.

“Pete?” I asked hesitantly. “I don't want to fight. I'm too exhausted. But I need to know … I need to ask you about my dad.”

Pete looked directly at me with sadness in his eyes.

When he didn't respond, I continued, “How can he be bipolar? And how do you know about it? And why didn't you tell me?”

“It's a long story, Ash. I'm not sure now is the right time for it.”

“I think it's the perfect time. All we have right now is time. And I have no doubt the doctors will be asking about it soon anyway.”

Pete nodded his head. “Can I get a coffee first? Do you want one?”

“No. I need to know. Now, Pete. You owe me that.”

“I know. You're right.”

I waited for him to continue, but he stopped talking. I could practically hear the hamster wheel spinning in his brain as he tried to figure out where to begin.

I urged him on. “The last time I saw him, or heard from him, was that horrible Christmas. I thought that was the last time you had heard from him, too. Why don't you start there? You know, at the beginning?” Immediately, I wished I hadn't tacked on that last sentence; it was more sarcastic than I'd intended.

“Okay. That makes sense.” Pete took a big breath. “After you kicked your father out on Christmas Eve, I didn't hear from him for a very long time. I thought he was pissed off at being kicked out on Christmas, and had decided to get out of our lives for good. I know that's what you thought, too.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “You're right about that.”

“About two years later, just before Christmas, I got a call from a hospital in Florida. It was a psychiatrist, calling to speak to me about your father.”

“Go on.”

Pete took a deep breath and continued, “Months before that, in the summertime, your father had been at some party and had hit the booze pretty hard. Then he did cocaine.”

“Cocaine? What? My
father
did cocaine?” My voice rose with every word.

“Yes. Cocaine. I have no idea if he had been doing it a lot or if it was his first time. But, on that particular night, he did it. A lot of it. And eventually he started acting crazy. At first, everyone at the party thought it was the coke making him act all weird. But he got worse and started screaming and throwing things. Apparently, he threw a bunch of wine glasses against the wall, and even punched one guy in the head, claiming the guy was an undercover cop and was going to bust them all for drugs.”

“Was he? The guy he punched, I mean. Was he an undercover cop?”

“No. He was just some guy at the party. But your dad was convinced he was a cop. He was just paranoid, I think. And then it got worse, and your dad started thinking
everyone
was a cop. No one knew what to do, and no one wanted to call the real cops because they were scared of being busted for the coke.”

“Pete? How do you know all of this?” I interrupted him. I was struggling to keep up. “Did the psychiatrist tell you all of this on the phone?”

“He told me some of it. But not a lot. He was very careful not to step over the line of confidentiality. Your dad told me most of it, once I talked to him.”

I took a breath and bit my lip, trying to avoid lashing out at my husband for keeping a secret so big. Too big. It crossed well over the line of what a husband should keep from his wife. But I needed him to continue. I had to know what happened to my father. So I continued biting my lip and forced myself to remain silent.

“Well, no one called for help. They were too scared, I guess. So your dad left the party. He went to a bar and drank far more than he should have. He told me that he hadn't slept in days. Apparently, he felt he didn't need to. His brain was on some crazy fast speed, and it wouldn't let him sleep. And I think his lack of sleep, combined with the drugs and booze, made him really lose control. It all snowballed really, really fast.”

“What happened when he left the bar?”

“He never did. I think that, at first, everyone thought he was the life of the party. He knew no one there, yet was talking to everyone. He sat down at people's tables, introduced himself and never stopped talking. He says he remembers feeling safe there at first. But then the paranoia came back and that's when it all went to hell.”

“What did he do? What happened?”

“He doesn't remember much. But he found out later that he jumped behind the bar and started throwing bottles everywhere. Liquor, beer, wine. You name it. They smashed everywhere. He must have slipped on the floor because he fell on the glass and cut his hands open. Messed them up pretty badly. He had damage to his tendons and nerves. Took a long time to fix up and, even now, his hands aren't completely normal.”

My head was spinning.

“Your dad didn't feel it at the time. Or didn't care, anyway. Because he jumped back up and threatened the bartenders, accusing them of being spies for the Russian government. Someone must have called the cops because they showed up soon after and took him to the hospital.”

I swallowed hard, unsure of whether or not I wanted to know what came next. But like a traveller who sees a bad accident on the highway, I couldn't shake myself from needing to know what happened. “So then what?”

“He was in there for months. He had a hell of a time finding the right cocktail of meds that worked. And he went through all kinds of therapy alongside the meds. I also think he had no desire to leave. That part's my own theory, but I know your dad felt like he had no one to turn to. He felt like he had alienated and offended all of his friends and family in the years leading up to it. And sadly, there was no one there when he fell hard. Or, at least, that's how he told me he felt anyway.”

“What about me? He could have called
me
!” I cried. The guilt bubbling up in my throat was beginning to suffocate me. “I'm his daughter, for fuck's sake. Why wouldn't he call me? I would have helped him.” I was crying openly by that point. Pete left the chair he was sitting in and crouched down beside me. He pulled me into his arms.

“It's okay, Ash. Really. It's okay. Your dad's okay now.” Pete stroked my hair as he tried to calm me down. “He wasn't ready to call you. I'm not sure that he is even now. It's one of the reasons I didn't tell you before now. Your father loves you deeply. But he wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to talk to you about it. And he made me promise I wouldn't say anything until he was ready.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No. I've talked to him a lot on the phone. But I haven't seen him.”

“And you've known for about a year?”

Pete nodded. “Yes. About that.”

“And you've lied to me. For a
year
?” I clenched my fists and pounded them into Pete's chest. He grabbed my hands and held them tightly.

“No, Ashley. I haven't lied to you. I just couldn't tell you. Please, baby. See my side of it. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wanted to protect you.
And
your father. He wasn't ready for you to know, and he begged me to not say anything. He kept saying he wanted to tell you himself. Please, baby, see my side of it …”

“And what side is that, Pete?” Darts of hatred coursed through my body as I spat the words at my husband. Pete not telling me about my father went far beyond keeping a secret; keeping silent about the information had created massive barriers in recognizing what was likely going on with Nate. And for that I was more livid than I'd ever been in my life.

“Ash, you've got to know that I was in a really tough spot with all of this. When I first found out, it was Christmastime. I didn't want to ruin that for you. Our family was so happy.
You
were happy.” Pete's eyes begged for forgiveness. “I remembered how much the Christmas fiasco from two years before had impacted you. How much it had devastated you. And I couldn't bring myself to tell you. I just couldn't. I told myself that I would wait until after the holidays, and then figure out what was best.”

“
You
determined what was best for
me
?”

“Well, yes. I really thought it was best. I didn't want to ruin your Christmas. I thought that a few extra days weren't going to hurt anyone. Nothing was going to change in the week or so that I waited.”

“But you didn't tell me a week or so later.”

“I know. Because I ended up talking to your dad shortly after, and he begged me to wait. He said that he wasn't ready. That he didn't want you to know yet.”

“But what about
me
, Pete? Didn't you think that I had a right to know?”

“I don't know,” Pete replied honestly. “I was put in the middle of it the minute your dad's psychiatrist called me, but ultimately it was up to your dad to decide when you found out. And I was worried about your dad's health, and didn't want to push him too hard if he wasn't ready. I had no idea what he would do. Or if it would make him go crazy again.”

“And what about your son? Now your
son
is the one who's gone crazy. So where is your loyalty now, Pete? How do you feel about not telling me about my father? Because, clearly, you couldn't draw an obvious conclusion. Even when it was right in front of you, smacking you in the face.” My eyes flashed and fire ignited in my cheeks as I struggled to keep my composure. “For some reason, even though you knew my father was bipolar, you couldn't even begin to see the signs in Nate. Even though it should have been obvious to you. I had no idea about my father … and yet it was
me
, and not you, who knew there was something wrong with our son. And all you've done this whole time is try to convince me I'm overreacting. That there's nothing wrong with Nate. And that I'm being extreme.”

Pete remained silent, not meeting my eyes. I had never seen so much sadness or guilt in his eyes. And I had never been so angry with him.

“Well, how's this for extreme, Pete? I don't know that this is something I can forgive. I don't know if we can
fix this
. And I don't know if I want to.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I knew Nate had several hours before he woke up, and I was in desperate need of fresh air. I walked ten steps down the hall before I angrily snatched my vibrating phone out of my bag and whipped it in the garbage. I laughed outwardly after I did it, the sound coming out of my mouth more like a snort than laughter. But I found it funny that I'd done something so out of character in such an anomalous moment — and that I'd likely be mistaken for a patient in the ward instead of a visitor.

Yet throwing my phone away with all of its irritating work calls and messages had instantly made me feel better. A lot better. So I just walked away.