A World No Longer Heliocentric

5: Liam

The air becomes more dense with smoke, the shouts of the firefighter, the unbearable ringing my head, it all plays on repeat as I sit in the hospital chair. The lights made my eyes sting as I wait for the doctor to admit Mom into the psychiatric facility. As I continue to torture myself replaying everything that happened, I try to contain the rage that I feel for my parents.

After Mom called me and I drove to the house, I got another call from the hospital. I stood there, well rocked there, watching my house crumble when the hospital called again. This time, it was a psych doctor. He was older, with a raspy voice, probably a smoker. So I strained to hear what he was saying as I tried not to cry. I haven't cried since fifth grade. I wasn't going to start now.

"Your mother keeps saying: 'I had to do it.'," the doctor said. "Do you know what she is talking about? I'm sorry, sir, but we need to discuss in person about her diagnosis."

"She's bipolar," I replied flatly. "And yes, I do know what she's talking about."

"Sir, we still need to-" I shut my phone off, my hands trembling. I should've been watching her. I should've asked Mrs. Nelson to watch her. I should have done something. But I didn't and she goes and burns down the place.

The smoke started to subside, but there wasn't much left for fire to take out anyways. The firefighters put out the flames, and the police were opening the street up again. I just stood there, though, in the middle of the street with people walking all around me. One of my neighbors asked me if I was okay but I'm not sure which one it was because everything was fuzzy.

Now in the hospital, I have to admit her. I don't even want to see her because this is all her fault. She decided to go off her meds, knowing what it does to her when she does. She's so selfish. For once, I understand my father's point of view. He didn't leave because of her bipolarity. He left because of her. I missed my championship game for this and there were college scouts there, specifically for me. I had one shot and she took it from me.

By the time they admitted her, it was 5 am in the morning and I needed to buy a toothbrush and clothes. Taking a shower at the hospital, I put on clothes from Target and used a toothbrush that the nurse brought me. I had to go to school in two hours. Then, I would have to talk to the coach. When I retrieve my phone from my car, I see five missed calls from Jack and twenty-seven from Madison. But I also received a text from Bella.

Hey, it's Bella. Willow gave me your number. I heard about your mom, I'm so sorry. Let me know if you need to cancel Saturday.

Then one from Madison:

WHERE RU? The scouts are here and you're not. Call me.

Then another an hour ago from Madison:

I heard about your mom. You didn't think to call me about it?

I don't reply to any of my messages, putting my phone in my back pocket. But I can't ignore Bella, so I pull it out again.

Thank you, but we're still good for Saturday.

Now, at 6 in the morning, the sound of banging makes me stand up fast, then crash back into the hospital chair. But the banging persists for a good ten minutes and I know I have no chance of falling back asleep so I go to investigate. They admitted her, but she still stayed in the hospital, until the bus comes to take her to the psychiatric facility. Rubbing my eyes, I follow the sound, intensifying as I get closer to it. A weight forms in my head as hot chills race through me. The room I'm walking towards is my mom's.

I start to sprint, wondering where the hell the nurses are. Don't they hear it too? Seeing that she isn't in her room, I swing the door open to her bathroom. She's muttering something under her breath as she bangs her head against the wall, blood trickling next to her eyes. But with each bang, she doesn't flinch, only the muttering intensifies. For a second, I stand there, staring at her bony figure and bruised skin, barely covered by the hospital gown. Her hair is so thin that it looks like paper blowing in the wind.

Springing into action, I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her away from the wall. She barks and lashes at me like a dog, but I'm so much stronger than her. When she sees this, she starts to scream. Not scream. She starts to screech, making my ears stretch out and ring. I try to stop her by wrapping one arm around her arms and waist and using the other to cover my hand over her mouth. Just then, someone grabs her legs and she kicks and screams. Her eyes are psychotic, bright and wide, crazed.

"What's wrong with her?!" I try to yell over her screeching to the nurse. But the nurse, a young brunette woman, looks just as clueless at me. "This isn't normal!"
"This is beyond bipolarity," she yells back. Once I pin her down, the nurse gives her a sedative. Once Mom drifts off, the nurse looks up at me. "I'm Sarah and I'm the night nurse. I'm so sorry about this. I got paged for an emergency in the ER. But your mother is in a lot of pain. We don't know what it is yet, but we think it's a projection of her mentality on her body."
"What does that mean?" I ask.

"That means, she actually physically feel what's happening inside her head," she explains. "Yes, it's related to the bipolarity, her heightened and constantly changing emotional state, but it's so much more than that."

"Does this mean she's trying to kill herself?" Suddenly, it's impossible to breathe. My breath catches in my throat and I can't feel anything. Someone might as well have knocked the wind out of me. Stacey comes over to me, putting her hand on the back of my neck and the other on my arm.

"Breath," she says. "Nothing is closing up in your throat. You're just having a panic attack. Think about oxygen reaching your brain, igniting your sense. Breathe. In and out. There you go." She slowly takes her hands off of me and watches me as I catch my breath, turning into a coughing fit. She pulls up the computer next to the bed with my mom and starts typing. I watch her fingers dance across the keyboard. She hardly keeps them on one key for less than a second.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm just writing down what happened," she murmurs, still typing furiously.

"You don't need to write for me, I'm fine," I try to tell her. But she still types. Another two minutes, she stops, looks up at me, and sighs.

"You are not fine," she says. Even though she was probably only five feet two, it felt like she had all the power over me with her words. "You just watched your mother become manic because of her disorder, which, by the way, is genetic. But I think you already know that." I nod tentatively. "You should see a therapist, um, what's your name?"

"Liam."

"Well, Liam, I'm Valerie, and you should really go see one," she sighs.

"I'll think about it." I wouldn't. She thinks I have the time and money for one? I didn't need one. I had my own method that has worked for my whole life. I'm just fine. I'm fine.