37
WHEN I AGREED to stay with Elliot and his family, I didn't imagine I would end up sitting in a desolate hospital hallway. At least not like this.
We've been here for hours; apparently Elliot woke up two hours ago, but I haven't been allowed to see him yet. First his parents and a doctor were in there for over an hour, and now Charlotte and Ollie. I shred a piece of paper I stole from the reception desk into a pile on my knee and try to think of how I can face him, what I will say.
Did he react that way solely because I didn't tell him I loved him back?
It wasn't like one of Colt's rage-outs; it was something else entirely. Something I've never seen before. It was like Elliot had transformed into another person, someone desperate and erratic. My eyes burn, but I'll never shed a tear in public. I just need to know he's okay.
Across the hall, Adam and Elizabeth are in a room with a door open just a crack. I tune my ears to their muffled conversation. The psychiatrist—her name is Dr. Balewa—says, "Adam, listen to me, Elliot is not well."
"Damn it, I know he's not well!" Something slams. Maybe Adam's fist on the desk.
"Adam, calm down," Elizabeth commands.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But Dr. Balewa, listen to me—Elliot can't quit hockey. It's all he's got going for him. He's worked his whole life for it. This is his legacy; we can't just let him give it up."
"Adam, I'm sorry," the doctor says, "but if Elliot's choice is to quit playing, then that's his choice. He can still look into playing next season, but for now, I really would recommend that he take some time off to recover. This is serious, Adam. Elliot is very sick."
"Then just give him those damn pills again, those ones that got him playing before."
"They got him playing, but they also made him incredibly depressed. Elliot is refusing medication. Once again, this is his choice, not yours... whether you like it or not, your son is eighteen now."
"Damn it. Damn it."
The door flies open, and Adam bursts out threading his fingers through his hair. Elizabeth is right after him, touching his arm to calm him down, but he's still huffing. I keep my eyes focused on my paper, just as Ollie and Charlotte exit Elliot's room. Ollie joins his parents, but Charlotte towers over me with a deep scowl on her face. I blink at her, because I don't know what else to do.
"You did this to him," she says. "El was getting better, but ever since you came out of nowhere, he's been getting worse again. You should just get out of our lives before you get him killed."
Her words are a punch, straight to my heart. The rest of the Wexler family huddles in a crowd, so I take a deep breath and face Elliot's room. I slowly open the door, and the white light from inside is almost ethereal.
He is spread out on a bed, his hair nearly black against the wintry sheet, his eyes bluer than any ocean. I don't know what to expect from him; I'm terrified I'll see the same Elliot I saw last night. But as soon as our stares meet, I know it's him. He smiles a little.
"Lucy. Hey... you're here."
I shut the door behind me. "Of course I am."
We're silent, so I pull up the chair next to him. His body starts to shake before buries his face in his knees.
"Oh God, Lucy. I asked you to marry me. Oh my God."
I'm embarrassed for him, but lying isn't going to help. He needs to know truth. "It got worse after that."
"Tell me what I did. Ollie and Charlotte don't know, and my parents are just sugar-coating everything."
I swallow, wishing I hadn't left that half-shredded paper on the chair out there. I sit on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting. "You... sort of ran away. You got halfway down the street before your dad tackled you. He restrained you, but you were freaking out, El. When we got you back in the house, I think you tried to hurt yourself."
Elliot doesn't look at me, just stares at the ceiling, dead-eyed, like he's not even there. "Go on. I need to know."
"You broke a bunch of stuff, and I guess I realized that you weren't just acting that way because you were drunk and upset with me. It was something that had happened before, something your parents had dealt with. Your mom drove us here while your dad held you down in the back. You kept trying to get away, even while the car was moving. By the time we got you here, the nurse had to put restraints on you, but then you passed out." I pause. More damn tears in my eyes. "You were more than just drunk, weren't you, El?"
He nods, but doesn't look at me. "I didn't want you to know the truth, Lucy. I thought I could hide it. I was fine, you know? I thought I was fine. How dumb is that?"
"I still don't get it, but your mom said it'd be best if you told me yourself."
"I'm fucked in the head, Luce." He points his finger to his temple and pulls it away in a swirling motion. "I've got a couple screws loose."
I don't know what to say. Elliot's skin is splotchy and red from crying. He looks like he's walked through hell, even though the only places he's been are here, the car, and his house.
"It's been a long time since I've had an episode like that." He hugs his knees. "The last time it happened, I tried to kill myself." He scoffs and shakes his head. "I couldn't even do that right."
"Wait, what?"
Elliot looks away, but the realization hits me hard. I picture the Elliot I know, all smiles and blushing and joking around.
He tried to kill himself?
"Why? Why would you do that?"
"I don't remember. I was drunk. It was that night I told you about before—the night I freaked out on my friends. I was on these pills for my depression. Sometimes they worked, but sometimes they just made things worse. They made me trip balls and see things I shouldn't have been seeing. Anyway, after what happened with Luke, I guess I went home, but the last thing I remember is looking in my bedroom mirror. My eyes were red, and I was looking down at my pills and thinking, 'I don't want to do this.' I still haven't figured out what this meant. I don't know if I didn't want to kill myself, or if I didn't want to live anymore."
I have no words. Like an open faucet, Elliot keeps spilling.
"When I was on the ice yesterday, Luke said something that really pissed me off, and I was already all agitated because of what I stupidly said to you and I just—I snapped, Lucy. I barely remember it."
Chills raise the hairs on my arms. I remember everything. I'll never forget the way he shoved Luke away, took his stick, and smashed it to bits. Somewhere in there, he hurt himself and started bleeding. I want to tell him I understand, that I get it, but I don't. All I've ever wanted to do is survive, but Elliot has wanted to die?
He holds his head between his knees and covers his face. "Oh God, this is so embarrassing."
I bite my lip so hard that the skin breaks. "Why are you embarrassed?"
"Because it's pathetic." Elliot lifts his head, eyes dancing around the room. "I mean, look at my life. I have it pretty good. I know I shouldn't feel like there's no hope. I should be happy. I should be grateful. But sometimes, I just can't be. Sometimes, I just want to disappear."
"Like you want to die?"
"Yeah. And it scares the shit out of me, because when I don't feel like this, I really like being alive. I guess I'm just worried that I'm gonna snap one day and really hurt myself and never get the chance to actually be happy."
I take a moment to digest all this, wanting to choose my next words wisely. I say, "You scared me last night, El, but my feelings for you are the same. You aren't pathetic, El. Maybe you're just a bit sick, that's all."
He laughs. "That's what my mom says. The doctors say I'm severely bipolar."
"Oh."
Bipolar. Okay, I know what that is, but I know very little, and I don't know what to say or how to relate. But I know what it's like to hurt, and to be addicted to things that hide the pain of other things. So I dig into my pocket and pull out my heart-shaped box.
"You remember this?"
Elliot nods. "Of course I do."
"I carry it with me everywhere, just in case I feel like I can't handle things anymore."
"What does that mean?"
I open the box. There are things I didn't want Elliot to know about me, either. But if we're exchanging scars, I want him to see mine too. No lies, no bullshit. So I lift a syringe out of the box and show him.
He frowns. "What is that?"
"Heroin."
I stiffen and wait for his response, but he says nothing. Elliot likes to smoke pot and drink, but this is a whole other level of screwed-up and I'm not proud of it.
"You did heroin?"
A lump forms in my throat. "A few times, yeah. When I first started out with Colt, he got me into it. But trust me when I say I haven't touched it in years. I was never an addict, I just..."
I hand him the box. There's a bag of yellowish powder in there too, and Elliot just stares at it, as if he's scared it's contagious.
"I made that box when I was a kid," I say. "Funny how all I used it for was to hold something like that. There have been a lot of times where I wanted to use it, especially when I had to leave you. But you gave me things I wanted to remember. I had to hold onto the hope that someday I'd get away from Colt, and..." I smile. "Now he's really gone."
"I don't know what to say." Elliot closes the box. "But I'm glad you told me. Thanks."
I take it from him. "Enough sad things. I'm getting rid of it. The whole box. I'll throw it in that trash can right there, but only if you promise to stop self-medicating. No more pot, no more booze."
Elliot nods. "Deal."
I walk over to the trashcan and rub my finger along the box. Drugs are a distant part of myself, a part of me that lived with Colt. But I'm so much more than that now. I'm not an addict, or Colt's girlfriend, or a street kid, or anything else. If I want to help Elliot recover from this, I need to recover myself too. So it's time for me to let go of the past.
It falls from my fingers and into the trash. Doubt flickers through me, but when I meet Elliot's eyes, I feel a surge of strength. If we stick together, we can both heal. We can mend each other's scars with stitches made of promises and hope for a better tomorrow.
I wipe my hands and return to the chair. "Well, that's that."
We're quiet for a few moments before he speaks. "My dad thinks I'll get better with age. He says that when you're a teenager, you feel things really intensely, but once you get older, you fall into a routine you make sense of life. You don't feel so much anymore." He laughs. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."
"I'm not sure, El."
"I meant what I said before, you know." Elliot's eyes are candid again. Still cloudy, but honest. The Elliot I know. "I really do love you. You don't have to say it back. I just want you to know that I meant it—I didn't just say it because I was drunk and manic."
I give him a tight-lipped smile. Even if it makes him feel better, I won't say it if I don't mean it. I'll never do anything like that again. So I just tell him, "Thank you, El. I'm here with you. No matter what."
He takes my hand. "I'm with you too. But to be honest—I don't think I'm gonna be playing hockey for a while."
"Really?"
"I don't know. Someone got a video of me freaking out and... just the thought of facing my team makes me wanna die. I'll have to talk to Coach, but..." He laughs sullenly. "There's no way I'll be in top shape for the playoffs. They're starting soon and I'm so fucked up."
"I'm sorry, El. I know playing was your dream."
"It was, but I can't play like this. Dr. Balewa thinks I should take some time to recover." Tears swell in his eyes again. "Fuck, Lucy. My whole life, all I wanted to do was get into the NHL, and now on the most important season I've fucked everything up."
"It's not your fault," I choke out. I wish I could tell him everything's fine. That he can get better and accomplish all his goals no matter what, but I don't know anything. I can't tell the future.
All I know is that I want to be here with him through all of it, so I take his hand, and we sit in silence for a long time, listening to the sterile sounds of the hospital room.