CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mark woke up to the sound of a heart monitor with a tube coming out of his nose. "Mom?" he asked weakly. "Where am I?"
Everything was dark. But then a hand lifted off the gauzy bandages from his eyes, and he could see. He was in a bed, in a hospital room. And his head throbbed with a dull, but intense pain that wouldn't cease. "My head hurts," he managed, even though it was painful to try and speak.
"Hush, Mark," came a familiar voice. "You're just waking up. Try not to stir so much." It was his mother, and she sounded more soothing and loving than he'd remembered her sounding in years. His father was standing tall and still at the foot of his bed, his hands clasped in front of him so that the muscles in his forearms were flexed, watching him silently. The tufts of grey hair atop brown were glinting in the white light of the sun, and his defined jaw was set, hardened into an expression of solemnity. His eyes were equally as solemn and dark, contemplative. His mother turned turned round and said, "Nurse, he says his head hurts." He heard the sound of the hospital intercom coming from the hall; the door was open a crack.
"I'll be back with the Percodan in just a moment."
Mark blinked his eyes, and even blinking hurt. Something crusty was built up in his eyelashes. "What's in my eyes?" he asked, and his voice was broken and hoarse.
"Blood, sweetie. They did the best they could cleaning you up, after what you did." The memory came flooding back to him: wandering into the woods, crying and alone, then putting a gun to his temple and firing. And how was it that he was not dead?
Mark moaned. The nurse came back, and inserted a pain killer into his i.v. He tried to lift up his arm, to feel his head, but it was too weak. All the energy was drained from him, but somehow he still managed to cry.
"I'm sorry, Mom--"
"Hush."
He felt his head reeling, throbbing even more intensely. "I've done something bad..."
"We can talk about it later, Mark. You're just waking up."
As the painkiller kicked in, Mark began to feel a little bit better. A food tray was brought in, and his mother began to feed him delicately. As he ate, food dribbled down his chin and onto his chest, and his mother promptly wiped it away for him. In all honestly, he felt like a young child being fed by his mommy. But he was hungry, and he eagerly and thankfully, if not with effort, swallowed down the food. After eating, he began to feel a little bit more energy buzzing throughout his limbs. He was feeling high from the pain medicine, and he now felt the desire to talk.
His father was still staring at him, his hands still clasped together and his feet slightly apart. "Dad?" He came closer.
"Yes, Son?"
"What's going to happen to me?"
His mother answered. "As soon as you recover, they're going to take you to a psychiatric hospital. It's the law. There's no way around it."
His tears continued to flow. "What will they do to me?" His voice was broken.
"Honey, they're going to make sure that you're working alright emotionally. Don't worry about that. They'll take care of you."
He'd been in one of these places before. Life there had seemed cruel and unnecessary. He didn't want it to happen again. He could feel his heart speeding up.
"But not until you're better physically," she went on. "We have to make sure your head is alright before we transfer you to another place."
"I don't want to go," he said flatly, even though he was in the middle of crying.
"You have to, Mark. If you don't go voluntarily, they will have to commit you...and you don't want that."
"When will I be better?"
"Doctor says you'll be here about a week. Then you'll have all the time in the world to explain your actions." His father, his jaw still set, his eyes still solemn, sat down in the chair next to his ex-wife's.
"It's not going to be like when you were a child," his father said. "You're going to go to a place for adults this time."
He weakly lifted up the hand which was connected to the i.v. "Why didn't I die?" he moaned, mostly to himself.
His father spoke. "You were a very lucky young man," he said. "And thankfully, a poor shot."
"Did they find the gun?"
"The police have it, Mark. You obtained it illegally." His mind was filled with sudden fear.
"Meg--"
"What are you trying to say?"
"Meg. Meg Mitchell. Is she alright?"
"She visited you yesterday, here in this room."
"She did?" He was filled with a tiny seed of hope. "What did she say? Was she upset?"
"Hush, Mark. You're getting excited. She came by after school to our house, and I drove her here. You were asleep then, but she spent a good while visiting with you."
"Is she going to come again?"
Barbara and Mike Powell looked questioningly at their son. "Why would you want her to come again? Is this girl special to you?" his mother asked. "I thought you were dating Beth--"
"No," he cried. "That's over. I broke up with her last week. And yes, Meg is special to me."
"This is news," his father replied. "Is she your new girlfriend?"
"Not exactly," he said.
"But isn't she Cory Mitchell's sister? The boy who died?"
"Yes," Mark agreed.
They looked thoughtfully at their son. "My God. That must be it. All this must have something to do with Meg..." His mother was filled with sudden concern. "I'd not seen her in years, and now suddenly, she's back in your life. That has to be it."
Mark was too weak to reply. "And what's with all the changes recently?" his dad asked. "You weren't happy with Beth? What happened?"
"Mike, don't," his mother scolded. "He's in no condition. Let him rest for a while."
But Mark waved his mother's comments away. "It's not Meg's fault," he said as emphatically as he could, "it's mine. I'm the one who's to blame here, not her."
They sat looking down at him, shaking their heads. "But Mark, don't you remember that the last time you went into the hospital it was after you shot Cory?"
"No!" Mark insisted. "You can't bring her into this. If you end up blaming someone other than the one who's at fault, something bad always happens. If it has anything to do with Cory, then it's still not her fault. It's still my own, in every way." Mark's heart was pumping wildly now. The nurse showed up to tell his parents to tone down the conversation; he was still very weak.
"Very well," was their answer. "He'll have plenty of time to talk about it in the mental hospital."
The week went by very slowly. For much of the time, he watched the room's television set and sipped iced water from a sippy cup from his bed. Not many visitors. Gradually, he regained his strength, and nurses periodically came to his room to take him for light strolls through the halls to rebuild his stamina. As the week came to a close, a social worker came to pay him a visit, briefcase in hand.
She knocked on the slightly adjacent door quietly, and slipped into the stuffy room. "Mark Powell?" she asked.
"Yes, that's me," he said, now with much more strength.
"I'm a social worker from Rolling Hills Hospital, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Sure. Come in." She walked over to the bedside chair and took a seat. Then she opened her briefcase and pulled out a clipboard, along with a small stack of papers and a pen. Mark was alone; his parents were at home, taking care of business.
"My name is Judy Clout. I'll be working with you for your intake to the hospital. Mind if I begin?"
"Not at all." She put on a pair of square spectacles and examined the papers in her lap.
"This may take a while, so I hope you will be patient with me," she commented.
She proceeded to ask for his name, date of birth, social security number and other personal information in a very business-like manner. He answered the questions quickly and efficiently. Turning over the page, she asked, "Do you have any thoughts of harming yourself right now?"
"No," he answered, expecting the question.
"Do you have any thoughts of harming others right now?"
"Not at all." Even though they were run-of-the-mill intake questions, it bothered him to be asked them.
"On a scale of one to ten, one being the most depressed, ten being the happiest, how would you rate your mood today?"
"Five."
"Are you hearing or seeing anything right now that is not there, for example, voices, hallucinations...?"
"No." She proceeded to ask a long list of similar questions, about fifty of them, and each time, Mark came out with a prompt answer. He felt like he was being led into the lions' den, with no way out. He felt helpless and he was helpless to stop it. He'd tried to kill himself and survived, and this was the consequence.
She was a plump woman, with long, steel-grey hair which was tied tightly into a ponytail. Even though her face was round, and soft, she looked stern with her deep-set eyes and small mouth.
"How long will I have to stay there?" he asked, gingerly. He knew that his fate was resting partially in her hands.
"That depends on you," she answered curtly. "A psychiatrist will have to evualuate you and determine for himself whether you're ready to leave or not, but the decision is based on your readiness to be discharged, and personally, I wouldn't rush it. A gun to the head is a serious attempt on your life. You really wanted to go."
Mark felt disappointment, mixed with anger, welling up inside him, but he managed to control it. "I'm not suicidal anymore," he stated, defending his case.
"That may be, but until you're stabilized on meds and evualated, they won't let you go."
So he was stuck. Nothing could prevent the hospitalization.
She proceeded to ask Mark for his signatures considering release forms and other agreements, then said, "Insurance stuff I'll talk over with your parents. We don't need to cover any of that here."
"When will I go?"
"Sometime today an ambulance will pick you up and bring you to Rolling Hills."
"Why an ambulance?"
"You're still considered a threat to yourself, and we want to take every precaution."
"Why can't my mother drive me?"
"It's policy. Considering the nature of your attempt, we have you as high-risk."
"Am I going to see my parents before I go?"
"I can have the nurse's station give them a call."
His parents came, and his mother brought him a duffel bag full of clothes and toiletries. Four hours after the intake, a male nurse pushing a wheelchair showed up at his room. "Mark Powell, I'm here to take you to the ambulance."
"I can walk."
"Policy." Policy, policy. He felt like a criminal being taken to jail.
He was wheeled through the hall, a bandage still wrapped around his head, and felt the cool air rushing at his unclothed skin. They got on a large elevator, big enough to hold wheeled beds, and made their way down to the emergency entrance, where the ambulance was waiting. Once inside, two men in nurse's uniforms strapped him down tightly onto a stretcher, so that he couldn't move his arms or his legs. "Is this necessary?" he asked, twiddling his fingers and feet.
"We have to do this," they explained. "Don't worry," they said. "It's a short trip."
But it wasn't that short. The trip took at least a half an hour, all the while Mark feeling like a mummy strapped in, unable to move.
When they arrived, a paramedic opened the double doors at the back of the ambulance and the other one unstrapped him and helped him to his feet.
The hospital looked small from the front, but Mark was told that this was deceiving. It was a one-level institution and was spread out over several acres, and was actually quite large on the inside. At the front, the windows were small, and square, and the walls were made of concrete. The roof was shingled black, giving it the look of a house. Thick bushes surrounded the building, covering some of the windows.
They entered through the main entrance to a waiting room, and one of the paramedics spoke briefly with the receptionist. A phone call was made, and Mark was quickly ushered inside the inner part of the hospital, without the paramedics. Behind him, the doors clicked. Locked inside.
The man who had ushered him inside extended his hand. "I'm Pete," he said. "I understand you've already been through intake. I'll be leading you to your wing." The halls were narrow, and carpeted. Mark held his duffel bag like a briefcase tightly, possessively.
The man tried to make polite conversation. "You in school?"
"Uh-huh."
"What grade?"
"Eleventh."
"You'll be graduating soon, then?"
"Hopefully."
"Good job. My daughter's in the eighth grade. She's going to high school next year. She can't wait to start. Hey, you hungry?"
He felt his stomach rumbling, and by the darkness outside, he knew it was past dinnertime. "Yeah," he admitted.
"I'll have the cafeteria send you a tray. You can eat after you get settled in." They rounded a corner and approached a set of locked double doors. The jovial man used a key that was hanging around his neck to unlock them. "Adolescent wing," he announced. "Home sweet home."
Pete escorted him down a hall which was connected to several medium-size lecture room with dry-erase boards. They were all empty except for one, where a pair of boys, who looked like they were about fourteen, were passing back and forth a nerf ball. When they got to the nurse's station, a buxom middle-aged woman with orange-red hair asked for his duffel bag.
"It's just my overnight things," he explained.
"I have to check for sharps," she said. She dug through the t-shirts, jeans and underwear, and retrieved a plastic razor. "You can't have this," she said. "I'll put it in your cubby."
"When can I shave?"
"Look at the board." She pointed upwards. "Between eight and ten in the mornings. We have to have someone watch you."
"I'm not about to cut myself," he protested.
"Sorry. It's part of the rules."
Pete left. "Good luck," he said, as he waved. Mark was urged to have a seat.
"You'll find your bag in your room, but first we have to take your vitals and have someone give you a tour." The nurse took his temperature and blood pressure, and weighed him. "The doctor has ordered you be put on Lithium. You'll start your first dose tonight."
"Lithium? Isn't that for manic-depressives?"
"You'll see your doctor first thing in the morning. If you have any questions, ask him."
"When do I get to see my father? My mother?"
"Visiting hours are daily. Someone will explain the schedule to you on the tour." After she drew his blood and gave him an arm bracelet, she motioned for a young man of about the same age as Mark with a blond crew cut to come and show him around.
"There's not much to see," he explained. "There's the commons area," he said, pointing to an open area with lots of couches and some snack machines, "and the rooms are spread out along this hall here..." He indicated to the hall perpendicular to the one he'd arrived through. "And the cafeteria is across the building. They take us out of the wing in a group during meal times."
"What do we do during the day?"
"Oh, they have us doing stuff just about every hour. Sometimes we have classes, sometimes we have therapy, sometimes we play games. And with doctor's visits, we don't get much free time."
He showed him the kitchen, which was stocked with snacks, and pointed to the pay phones, located just outside the t.v. room. "We have a gym, and you can even go to Church on Sunday mornings, if you want."
Mark went to his room and slunk down on his bed. He was currently without a roommate. He sighed, got up, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He needed a shave, but he looked healthy. He wondered if they'd shaved off the hair on his head. He partially removed the bandage, and saw that they hadn't touched it. The bullet hadn't been far enough back to blow a hole behind his hairline. He stared at the hole, which was sewed up on both sides with garish stiches, and felt a sense of awe that he'd survived.
It was probably at that moment that Mark accepted his fate at being here, in a mental hospital. He needed help, even though he didn't like to admit it. And in all reality, he'd almost rather be here than at school, after what he'd done. If he were at school, he'd have to explain things to people, and that was one thing he was not good at. He rarely ever understood the things he did...how would he explain himself to other people?
He was supposed to go to groups here and open up. He was going to be expected to talk to therapists and tell them what was going on inside his head. It was supposed to be a transitional period. And all while locked away, like a caged animal.
But would they expect him to go down deep, to that private place deep inside him where he rarely went? That sensitive center, the one he knew existed but hardly ever dared to touch? He feared they might, and he shivered at the thought of it. Other people who'd dared to try and go there had been met with bloodiness and gore...would he let himself be vulnerable again? Or even scarier, would they force him to be?
He was woken up by the sound of his own screams, the tail end of his dream. He'd been dreaming he was nine years old and in the hospital, strapped down in the quiet room. A nurse nudged him rather roughly on the shoulder. "Your meal's here," he explained. Mark got up and ate the Salisbury steak and corn, and chugged down a glass of milk.
In the morning, a loud pound on his door woke him up. "Wake-up time! Wake-up time!" a male voice called. All the doors were being pounded on.
Mark climbed out of bed, still groggy from sleep, and took a shower. In line with regulations, he had a male nurse watch him shave off the thick stubble which had accumulated on his face. He gave the razor back to the man, and brushed his teeth.
Once dressed, he went to the med counter to retieve his morning dose, then he went into the commons area to join the morning meeting. Both girls and boys were already seated sporadically atop the couches and chairs, waiting for it to begin.
As he entered, several of them lifted their eyes to him. "New kid?" they asked. He mumbled an affirmation and sat down at an empty seat. He wondered how long a person had to be there to be considered a "new kid." Surely not long; surely people didn't stay here but for more than a couple of weeks at most?
A group leader entered the scene, and everyone became quiet. "For those of you who are new to the group here this morning," she said, "every day we go around and say our names, how we're feeling and what we plan to accomplish today. So if you're ready, we can start."
Everyone was on a first-name basis. When it was Mark's turn, he said his name, and said what came off the top of his head, not too enthusiastically. "I'm feeling fine, and I hope to accomplish seeing my doctor," he said, and left it at that.
After it was over, he joined a group of kids congregating by the double doors, waiting to be delivered to breakfast. The food was terrible. The only thing worth eating was the oatmeal, and it was soupy and lukewarm. He filled up on orange juice and a semi-fresh banana.
Then came time for group therapy. His first session of it. He was quiet and pensive as a young boy and a young girl talked about their current lives; the boy's parents were going through a divorce, and he wasn't doing well in school, and the girl was anorexic, and had to be taken to the hospital because she wouldn't eat.
Mark wasn't planning on sharing, but when the young girl was finished talking about her mother, and Mark said, "I'll pass," the male group leader said,
"I'm sorry, but you have to talk. Talking is the only way you're going to get better."
Mark was silent for a moment. He was hugging his arms in his lap as he looked from side to side, quickly examining the faces of the three other kids in the group and then finally, the group leader's. Why should he trust them?
"I'm here because of a suicide attempt," he said flatly.
"Does it have anything to do with that bandage on your head?" the group leader, Tom, asked.
Mark nodded.
"Tell us about it. And don't worry," he added. "Anything that you talk about in this room stays in this room. It's confidential."
Mark swallowed and looked down at his feet. "I don't know if I should talk about it," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because it's stupid. I made a mistake and I'm sorry for it."
"The suicide attempt, you mean?" Mark nodded and shuffled his feet. "What did you do?"
"I shot myself," he said. "I let down a lot of people and I'm sorry."
"Mark, let me remind you that family members are not present right now. You can feel free to talk about whatever comes to mind. Why, in your estimation, did you attempt suicide? Were you depressed?"
"No." The answer came quickly and definitively.
"You weren't depressed? What kind of thoughts did you have? Were you hating yourself? Blaming yourself for anything?"
Mark raised his head. "That's just it. I didn't blame myself for anything. That's why."
The counselor, a bit surprised, spoke calmly and evenly anyway. "Would you care to explain?"
Mark cradled his arms as if he were cradling a baby. "It has nothing to do with what's going on now, it has something to do with something that happened a long time ago, I've just been reminded of it, that's all."
"Were you fooling around with drugs, or substances of any kind?"
Mark laughed. "Practically everything."
"And do you think that this incident, what happened in the past, contributed to your drug use?"
Mark glared straight at the counselor. "I do them for myself. I do them for fun. Why can't anyone understand that?"
The counselor remained quiet for a moment. "You know, we can talk about this incident, if you want." His voice was soft and gentle now.
Mark shook his head slowly from side to side. "I'm done. You can move on to the next person now." The counselor gave him a long look, but thankfully, decided to let the issue drop. He proceeded to give the remaining girl some time to speak. Mark couldn't listen. He was feeling agitated and angry already. He was wondering if the medicine was making him feel that way.
During the second group, Mark was pulled out to see the doctor. "Mark, did you survive the night?" he asked, sounding authoritative yet friendly.
Mark nodded.
"I've put you on a low dose of Lithium but we'll have to check your blood daily. Lithium at high enough levels can be toxic, and we have to watch for that."
"Why did you put me on that?" he asked.
The doctor pushed up a pair of glasses higher up onto the bridge of his nose. "I looked at your history, and you seem to have a tendency for mood swings."
"Have you diagnosed me as bipolar?"
"Tentatively, yes. What we want to do is keep you here and observe you while you're on this new medication, see how you do on it."
"And how long will it take for you to observe me?"
"Well, so long as you're not suicidal, you're taking care of yourself, and you're participating in groups, I estimate it might take only a week to two weeks at most. Then you can go home and go back to school." Mark's heart sank. It seemed like an awfully long time to be here. Already, time was dragging.
"And what if I don't agree with your diagnosis?" Mark asked, boldly.
"Well, let's talk about it. What about it do you question?"
"I mean, what if my suicide attempt was a realistic reaction to a very real situation in my life, and not the product of a dramatic mood swing?"
"Do you think that's what it was?"
He wasn't about to sabotage himself. If he led this doctor to thinking he was still suicidal, he would surely be in the hospital for longer. "No. Just a thought." And in fact, he wasn't suicidal. What he was feeling right now was more like pent-up anger, not self-hatred. Anger at himself for embarrassing his family, anger at the hospital for keeping him here against his will, anger at God for not letting him die...
The doctor scribbled down some notes, straightened the pile of papers he was scrawling on, and dismissed him. Mark left the office feeling no better off for having seen him.
His parents came during visiting hours bearing gifts. Snack foods, paperback books, and more clothes.
"Are they treating you alright here?" his mom asked, sidling up to him.
Mark was quiet. "I can't wait to get out of here."
"They won't let you go until the doctor says you can leave," his father said.
"I know," Mark replied. "He said it might be a couple of weeks. I'm going to miss a lot of school."
"Well, it won't be like last time," his mother said. "You'll not be gone for nearly as much time. I can already see you getting better."
Mark glanced outside, at the clouds rolling calmly by in the deep blue sky, and wondered about Meg. In this whole messed-up, crazy play of his life, having to do with Cory, he'd never accounted for love. And as soon as it was in his grasp, it seemed, he did something to push it as far away from him as possible.
He wondered if she would ever find it in her heart to forgive him. That night as he lay in his narrow bed underneath the flimsy blanket and sheets, he said a prayer. Dear God, please let me see her one more time. And fell asleep.