Midnight Lily (Signs of Love) (16 page)

"No, no, I'll always need you. Always. I'll always love you." Why did it sound as if she was saying goodbye? I struggled to think. And I was still so tired . . . so very, very tired. I still felt like a ten-ton boulder was sitting on my head. It hurt to think.

Her expression was sad. "No, you need to go get your life back, Boy Scout. You're strong enough now." I tried to keep my eyes open—to keep them on her—but my lids were so heavy. I wondered blearily if the woman who'd cared for me had given me something to make me sleep.

    "I'll always love you, Boy Scout. Always." It was the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me once again, stealing me from Lily's arms.

**********

"Hey, buddy, you awake? Wake up, man." I blinked, grimacing against the bright light coming in through the window. Squinting, I opened my eyes, adjusting to the light.

"Brandon?" I asked, my voice gravelly.

"Yeah, it's me. How are you? Jesus, you look like you've been beaten up."

I sat up slowly, looking around. I was in bed at the lodge. I scratched my head, things slowly falling into place inside my head. How had I gotten here? I'd been in bed with Lily. How in the world had Lily and the other woman gotten me back to the lodge? I took a few more minutes, just staring into space as all the pieces came together . . . thinking about everything that had happened since I'd been here. I looked down at my naked chest, bandages wrapped around my torso. There were large black and blue bruises everywhere, a few just turning a sickly yellow. My ribs still ached. A good portion of me still ached. My finger was in a splint and wrapped with bandages as well. Inhaling a sharp breath, the weight of it all—everything I'd experienced, everything I'd realized—crushing my chest. I leaned back against the headboard, gripping my hair with my good hand. "Where's Lily?"

Brandon frowned, sitting down at the end of the bed. "Lily?"

"You haven't seen her?" I asked, pulling myself up just a little bit more. "I just can't figure out how they got me back here." I still felt groggy, but my body felt decent, and my mind was mostly clear, or clearing anyway. Clearer than it'd been in months. I thought about the rooms I'd been in. My God, I'd been at Whittington. The height of the ceilings, the way the paint had been peeling on the walls, the similarity to the pictures I'd looked at online. I didn't understand why Lily had brought me to an abandoned hospital, why she had a room set up there, but . . . "She must have gone back. I have to go find her." I sighed, closing my eyes again, gathering the strength to get out of bed.

"Okay, but wait, I . . ." He pursed his lips, his expression worried. "Things went well for you here? You're feeling better? Taylor finally ’fessed up that she came out here. Sorry about that, by the way. But she said you were still acting a little strange."

"Yeah, I was I guess. I didn't exactly expect to see her." I sighed. "But I'm feeling better now. I don't know. I just need to see Lily."

"But you're clear, right?" He eyed me. "You know your name, don't you? You know why you're here?"

My eyes met his.
I did. Oh God. Oh God, it hurt.
"Yes," I said, my voice wobbly. "Yes, my name is Ryan. Ryan Ellis."

He released a relieved breath. "And you know that Holden—"

"Holden is dead, I know," I said, an intense ache gripping my chest. My shoulders began to shake. "I know. Yes, I know it all now. I remember. I know."

"What are you doing out here all alone? The party's inside," Holden slurred, weaving slightly before falling down in the chair next to mine and running his hand through his short, dark hair.

I took a sip of my beer and glanced over at him. Despite being drunk, he looked miserable. He always looked miserable lately. "I needed some quiet," I said. "I guess I'm just not in the party mood."

"When are you ever in the party mood?"

I raised my beer to him in agreement. "Not often." But I'd come tonight to look out for Holden. He seemed to want to mess his life up these days. As if he was going out of his way to fuck up.

He made a sound of annoyance. "Taylor's looking for you. Pretty sure she wants you, man."

She did. She'd made that plenty clear. "Not interested. Taylor's a bitch only interested in her own status. I don't know why you went out with her at all."

"She's good in bed."

"I'm sure she is. She gets plenty of practice."

Holden gave a short laugh that died on his lips.

"What's the plan, Holden?" I asked, staring over at him. He knew what I was asking.

His head fell back on the chair. "My plan is to be amazing and awesome," he said dully, delivering the line he'd used so many times. Until recently, it had been said with humor and vibrancy. It used to make me smile.

"You used to be amazing and awesome all the time," I said, clearing my throat. My voice sounded scratchy. Now he was just . . . sad. Why? Why was he so fucking sad?

"How about we get out of here?" I asked. "Away from all these people. I'll treat you to some breakfast. Denny's? Moons Over my Hammy?"

"You're the one who likes breakfast for dinner. And you just like saying Moons Over my Hammy."

I gave him a wan smile. It was true, I did. Best breakfast name ever. "What's not to like about breakfast for dinner?"

He shrugged, looking genuinely confused. "I don't know. It's like I can't find it in me to like anything these days."

"That's the pills, Holden. You've gotta get off the pills. Your knee's been healed for months now."

"The pills might be the only things I actually do like."

I pressed my lips together, at a loss. As I stood, I said, "Well, if you're not going to help yourself, Holden, there's nothing I can do for you." Feeling useless, I walked to the sliding glass door leading inside.

"Jesus, have you seen this sunset?" he asked.

I paused and glanced back. Holden had walked to the rail of the balcony. He looked . . . lost, yet eerily calm.

"I never fucking look at sunsets anymore. You ever just . . . enjoy something for the sake of it anymore, Ry?"

I released the door handle. "Yeah," I said. "I mean, I try."

He nodded. "That's good," he said, and I heard the tears in his voice. I went still. Was Holden crying? He leaned over the wrought-iron rail of the balcony. "It's so high up," he said, leaning even farther.

"Holden, what the fuck?"

"It's good to feel something, though, isn't it?" His voice was muffled and upside down.

I took a step toward him and in that moment, he flipped over the railing. "Holy fuck!" I shouted, lunging toward him. He let out a yell, grabbing one of the rail spindles, hanging by one hand. I went down on my knees and wrapped my hands around his. "Help!" I yelled behind me, "Help!" But the party inside was too loud. No one could hear me. "Don't let go, Holden." I was panting, my heart beating out of my chest in terror. "I'm going to stand up and lean over and I want you to grab my hand. Okay, Holden, grab my hand. I won't let you fall. I won't let you fall."

As I stood, my legs were shaking so badly, I could barely move. But I stood and I leaned over, holding my hand out to him. "Grab on," I choked out. "Grab my hand, Holden." His eyes were wild as he reached up and took my hand. I let out a whoosh of air, my heart hammering so hard. "Okay, okay, I've got you, okay? I'm going to pull you up now. Work with me, okay?" I started to pull him up, both my hands clasped around his, his other hand on the balcony. He suddenly let go of the ledge and only held on to me. I grunted with the sudden pull of holding over two hundred pounds of weight. My hands were shaking and my arms were throbbing. I couldn't even force out words.

"I'm sorry, Ry. I'm just too tired," he said, something coming into his eyes that caused a sharp spike of terror to stab through my gut. Something . . . something. I didn't know what. His hand loosened in mine, our sweaty palms slipping apart as I screamed. And as his body hit the ground below with a loud thud, I shattered.

He was gone.

He was gone.

Gone.

My hero was gone.

Ryan

I'd convinced Brandon to take me to Whittington. He'd humored me with a worried frown on his face. But I hadn't cared. I'd been desperate to find Lily. When we got to the gate, though, there was a rusty padlock on it that hadn't been there before. "It was open last time," I'd mumbled. After walking around the perimeter, we found a broken portion of the gate next to the garden and squeezed through.

The garden obviously hadn't been maintained in a very long time, but it was bursting with color, perhaps even more beautiful for its wildness, the way vines grew up the brick wall and everything blended together. Funny the things you notice even when your heart is breaking.

"This is the creepiest shit I've ever done," Brandon had muttered, as he’d followed me inside the building through the front door that was still unlocked from the last time I'd been here. "But kinda awesome, too," he’d admitted, a small chuckle following his words. For fifteen minutes, we'd wandered the mostly empty hallways, stepping around rusted wheelchairs, pushing aside heavy metal doors, looking inside small rooms that must have been cells once upon a time, me calling Lily's name again and again. That's when I'd found the rooms I’d recognized—the rooms I'd detoxed in. They were empty. There was no furniture, except a metal bedframe in the room where I'd made love to Lily.

I had, hadn't I?

I'd sagged against the doorframe, massaging my head, gasping for breath, whispering her name.
I knew this place.
I'd
been
here before.

No, no, no.
"I don't understand," I'd gasped out.

Brandon's hand had gripped my shoulder. "Man, there's no Lily. Okay, whoever you thought you saw—"

"No!" I’d insisted, shrugging his hand off, despair racing through my veins. "No, I didn't fucking
imagine
her. No. Lily! Jesus, Lily, please, please," I’d choked, gripping my head in my hands. God, had I made her up? Jesus, Jesus,
Jesus.
No, no, she was real. I wouldn't believe otherwise.

"Did you bring drugs with you, Ryan?" Brandon had finally asked. "Did you sneak drugs into your bag?"

I'd let out a shuddery breath. "Yes, but they weren't
hallucinogens.
They were pain pills. And . . . Look," I'd said excitedly, going over to the fireplace mantle, "no dust. How
could
there be no dust in here unless someone
had
been using it?" I’d looked at him expectantly, perhaps a little desperately.

Brandon’s hands had been in his pockets and he’d stared at me piteously and shrugged. "It's in the middle of the building? Sealed up tight. I don't know," he’d said. Clearly he hadn’t been convinced pain pills couldn't make me high enough to see shit,
or
he’d thought I was completely off my rocker. God, I
was.
I was off my rocker.

Oh my God. I was insane.

My father had told me I was crazy, and he was right.

He was
right.

I was crazy.

I was worthless.

"No," I'd said weakly.

I had let Brandon lead me out of there. No.
Lily, Lily, Lily . . .

Ryan

I saw her everywhere. Walking down sidewalks, in crowded restaurants, once in the brief flash of dark hair and white lace right before an elevator door closed. Without thinking, my heart thundering in my chest, I'd run up four flights of stairs only to find that it was someone else. Someone holding a little boy's hand. She'd pulled him closer to her side as she’d exited the elevator, looking at me warily as if I might grab him and run.

Those were the times I still doubted my own sanity, still questioned whether she had ever existed at all. But then I'd remember the feel of her fingertips on my skin, the slippery silk of her hair, the sound of her laughter, and the way I loved her still, and I'd know,
I'd know
, deep down to my soul that she was real.

I dreamed of her, and in the darkness, she held me in her arms. In the darkness, she whispered that I was strong enough to hold on, that I was worthy of the love she'd given, and she reminded me who I was before I was anyone at all.

My Lily of the Night. Only of the moon.

Because now, just as then, when daylight came, she was no longer there.

Ryan

"During the time you were in Colorado, did you ever question whether you were really Holden?" Dr. Katz asked. She never wrote anything on the notepad on her lap, so I wondered why she had it sitting there. Maybe she vigorously scrawled out notes between appointments and wanted to make sure it was at the ready. Maybe she just held it to look professional. Did I want a doctor who needed props to convince her patient she was professional?

I'd seen a psychiatrist the first six months I was back in San Francisco, but he seemed less interested in hearing my story than in prescribing medication. The last thing I'd thought I needed was more damn pills. And so about a month ago, I'd made an appointment with a psychologist. Maybe I just needed to talk to someone. This was only my third appointment, and despite her notepad prop, I liked her.

I shook my head. "No. I mean, there were places I think I kept myself from going in my mind, things that felt wrong that I didn't choose to investigate, but . . . no. I never actually questioned it. I had all his
thoughts
, all his
feelings
, all his
memories.
For that time, I
was
him. Only . . . I
wasn't
either. It's so damned confusing. Even for me."

She nodded her head. "Ryan, had you ever ‘gone away’ in your head before this?"

I sighed, moving my thoughts back to her question. I'd thought about it a lot. "Yeah, when I was a kid. My dad, he, well, to put it bluntly, he beat the shit out of me on a pretty regular basis." I paused, swallowing. Goddamn, the very memory of that man was still so painful. He had put me in a cage sometimes to punish me like a worthless animal.
Bark like a dog! Bark like a dog, you dirty fucking animal. Bark like the dog you are and I'll let you out.
He'd died seven years ago, and I hadn't even flown back for his funeral. I'd never said goodbye. I'd thought of it as a small way to get him back, but in reality, maybe I’d been the only one damaged. I'd never gotten closure. As if that was even possible. "I tried to harden myself, but . . . I never could. I just never could." I sighed. "So instead, I got pretty adept at going somewhere else in my mind, you know? I'd just . . . leave. I got so good at it that after a while I didn't even feel the punches, the burns. Pissed him off, you know, me not reacting. But I couldn’t blank out and still pretend it hurt, so I just got beat extra hard. Didn't matter though." I shook my head.

"Why didn't it matter, Ryan?"

"Because there was nothing I could do to stop it. I just had to figure out how to survive it."

"Did you ever become someone else during those times, Ryan?"

"No. Never."

She nodded, chewing on the end of her pen, regarding me pensively.
Did she not believe me?

"I saw in your file you were hospitalized one time. What was the reason for that hospitalization?"

I took a deep breath. "I . . . I was in college. I was under stress, lonely—"

"Holden wasn't with you then."

"Right. I went to Arizona State. I wanted to get far away from Ohio, far away from my father. I just didn't realize how hard it'd be . . ." My words floated away.

"Go on."

"I just . . . I had a lot of anxiety. I just wasn't doing well."

"But your hospital stay, that helped you?"

"It did. I got back on track and was able to return to school, graduate, start my career."

Dr. Katz watched me again for a minute and I shifted in my seat under her penetrating gaze. "So, initially, with your father, you just removed yourself mentally from the situation. That's how you survived it. Until Holden?"

Pain squeezed my heart. Would I miss him forever?
Would I want it any other way?
I relaxed, breathing deeply. "Yes, until Holden. He befriended me." I laughed softly. "I mean, that sounds passive. And Holden was never passive—not like me. He’d practically demanded I be his friend. It's the only way it would have worked, you know? I was so mistrusting of everyone. But Holden, he was like this
force
, this force of just . . . energy and goodness."

"You worshipped him."

I paused, considering that. "I guess . . . yeah, I guess. But it wasn't because he was a great football player, or that he was a big shot or a celebrity. I loved Holden because he had this way about him . . . somehow he made every single person in the room feel like they were the most important one there. And how did he
do
that? It always amazed me. He . . . it's hard to explain. You had to know him." I paused again. "He was just so genuine. And his parents were such good people, too." Running my hand through my hair, I allowed the memories in. "I got to finally experience what a family was supposed to be."
If you're not going to help yourself, there's nothing I can do for you,
I'd told him. I'd said that to him after everything he'd done for me. After all the times he'd come to my rescue. After all of his persistence, I'd left him to fend for himself that night. If only I'd stayed to talk to him, to reassure him, to force him off that balcony before . . . I'd failed him. God, I'd
failed
him, and it still burned like a knife that would forever be planted in my gut. It sliced into me each time I moved. I felt my mind get foggy with grief and fought to pull myself to the surface.

Dr. Katz nodded again. "Did Holden's parents know what your dad did to you?"

I swallowed. "Yeah. I mean, they saw the bruises. They wanted to turn him in, but I refused. I didn't have anyone else, and I didn't want to go into foster care."

"Did it bother you that Holden's parents didn't offer to adopt you?"

"They practically
did
adopt me, even though they didn't have much money either. And once they understood what was happening at home, Mr. Scott went to see my dad. I don't know what was said, but my dad mostly laid off me after that. Mostly."

"So they did protect you?"

"Yeah," I choked out. "Yeah, they did."

"And they passed away the year before Holden?" she asked.

I nodded, a lump moving up my throat. "They were older. They'd had him later in life." It'd hit us both hard. Sometimes I almost felt like I took it harder than he did . . . But I also knew it was part of the reason Holden had gotten addicted to the pills, why they had been so appealing to him.

"I can understand why you were so attached to Holden, why you saw him as not only your friend, but your hero, your savior. I can see that, Ryan."

My chest felt tight. "Yeah," I sighed. "We did everything together. We went to different colleges, but then he got drafted to the 49ers and he helped me get the interview for the job as their athletic trainer." He'd been different after that, though. Somehow the fame had seemed to . . .
dim
him. It dimmed the light that had been Holden's spirit. And then he'd gotten injured and started taking pain pills . . . The same pain pills I'd eventually started taking to take up where he'd left off. Somehow it'd been less painful than accepting he was dead. It had been the only way I had to keep
him
alive and make myself disappear. "Do you think I'm crazy, Dr. Katz?" I tried to laugh, but it came out strange, choked.

"Crazy? I try not to use that word in my diagnoses, Ryan." She smiled. "We're all crazy in our own ways. Would I diagnose you with a mental illness? I would say that I somewhat agree with the psychiatrist you originally saw, Dr.—"

"Hammond," I offered.

"Yes, Dr. Hammond. He diagnosed you with a dissociative disorder brought on by trauma. I would tend to agree, based on our sessions so far, although the disorder generally pertains to the patient having two or more personalities. You present differently than some other patients in that you took over a real person's identity and gave up your own. Nevertheless, that would be my diagnosis if I had to check a box. Unfortunately, the mind doesn't always fit itself into neat little boxes, does it?" She gave me a faint smile before continuing. "In your case, though, it makes sense, does it not? You learned early on how to separate your mind from grief, from pain. And then when Holden died, you experienced trauma once again and fell back on your reinforced and conditioned response: mental removal. You blamed yourself for his death. You blamed
yourself
for not seeing the extent of his unhappiness, and for not being able to do anything to help him. I think that in an effort to understand it, you
became
him. You looked to save him as he saved you, and in so doing, escaped a bit of your own grief. And the pain pills made it easier, of course, to distract yourself from the true issue, although they did not cause this disorder."

I leaned my head back, looking up at the ceiling. "That sounds . . . crazy. How did I even manage to put one foot in front of the other while I was that out of my mind?"

When I looked back down, Dr. Katz gave me another small smile. "The mind can be very mysterious. There are things that can break us all. But people with mental disorders still often hold jobs requiring complex skills, and contribute to society in a number of valuable ways. But if we're using the word crazy to cover the broad spectrum of mental sufferings, including yours, then yes, you were crazy for a time. Do you still feel crazy?"

I released a breath of air, looking out the window, unseeing for a moment. Did I feel crazy? Mostly, no. I recalled that sense of being in a dream that I'd felt after Holden died and the entire time I was at Brandon's lodge. I had walked and talked, convinced myself I was Holden, lived his life, picked up right where he'd left off, but I'd had no real connection to anything.
Until Lily . . .
It's how she'd brought me back, made me
want
to face reality again. "No," I finally answered. "I still feel sad. Maybe I'll always feel sad." It wasn't the kind of sorrow that brought tears anymore, though. The sadness simply was part of me now. It had settled into my bones and I just kind of figured it'd always be there. "But I don't feel crazy."

I couldn't help but think of Whittington. If I'd lived a hundred years ago, I'd be one of those people drooling in a corner somewhere, perhaps lobotomized, my organs removed. At the very least, I'd be forgotten . . . invisible, worthless. A shameful stain on my family and society.

She nodded. "Ryan, do you think that, in part, you became Holden because you believed you should have been the one to die that night? Did you wish it had been you instead of him?"

I studied my hands. "Yes. Sometimes I
still
think that."

"You realize, of course, that's your father speaking, right? Neither of you deserved to die. Not Holden, and not you."

I sighed. "I know," I finally said. But especially not him. Not him.
He
was the superhero, the golden boy.

"Good." Dr. Katz paused. "Do you still think about the girl? Do you still question her existence?"

That was a more difficult question to answer. I'd been back to Whittington every month for the first nine months. I'd wander the halls, calling for Lily, looking for anything that might indicate she'd been back. I'd go into the woods and call for her, but she never appeared. She wasn't there. I looked for any evidence that she'd existed, but couldn't find a thing. It made me feel like she
had
been a part of what my mind had done while I was there—just a beautiful part of my crazy. But how could that be? She'd expressed thoughts that weren't mine. She'd said things I wouldn't have even known.
Hadn't she?
I'd made love to her, learned her body. I ran my fingers through my hair, the memory of Lily doing the same that first night on the rock coming back to me. "I don't know," I said. "I don't think so, but . . . I have no proof other than the fact that I still miss her so damn much. Do you think she was a figment of my imagination?"

"I can't say, Ryan." She chewed on the end of her pen for a moment. "The fact that she just disappeared right at the moment you admitted to yourself who you really are indicates there was some connection . . ."

Sadness filled my chest. "I know. It does seem like too much of a coincidence."

"But maybe it is just that—a coincidence. Perhaps the girl, Lily, had some other reason to leave."

"Maybe." I sighed. "The thing is, if I really did create her—created a whole
person,
created feelings around that person—then it just adds to my insanity. It could indicate I do require several diagnoses."

"No one
requires
a diagnosis. A diagnosis of something doesn't change the disorder, it just makes it easier to treat. But if Lily
was
a symptom of your grief, she's gone now."

"I know," I said dismally. "But, God, she
saved
me. In so many ways . . ."

"And perhaps that was her role. Perhaps you
created
her to save you. Perhaps if you search your memory, you'll find that you'd done the same thing before. Perhaps not. The point, though, is that she did her job and then it was time for her to go. It was time for your mind to let go of her."