CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mark was standing over Meg's dead seven-year-old body lying on the forest floor, gun still in hand. He had just killed her. High above his head, dark thunderclouds flashed intermittently, giving a spectacular light show, but still, the rain had not come.
Mark dropped the gun and fell to his knees. What have I done? he thought, while staring incredulously at her body. He reached out and touched her, and wailed, "Don't play dead, Megan! Now's not the time for games!" but she was lifeless. "You have to tell me what is was that I asked you for!"
Just then the skies opened up and the rain began to pour down. In just a few seconds, Mark was soaked down to the skin. His fleeting thought was that Meg's nice yellow dress was going to be ruined, until he realized that it had already been stained by the blood from her head.
A red river flowed from her body down the hillside, underneath and on top of the leaves. There was nothing he could do. She was gone. Mark buried his face in his hands, and sobbed beside her.
But the next time he looked up, her body was no longer there. In place of it was Cory, lying down in the same position that Meg's body had been in. Rain-soaked, he slowly sat up and faced his friend. Answering Mark's last comment, he said, "You asked me to leave you alone, remember, dipwad?" Mark was speechless as Cory grinned broadly. "You said I was a no-good bully and you'd pop me one if I didn't leave you alone."
"Go away," Mark breathed, "You're just a ghost. Leave me alone!"
Mark jerked awake. He had been thrashing on his bed violently for hours, and the beads of sweat on his forehead attested to it. When he opened his eyes, he became disappointedly aware that he was lying in a hospital bed, not at his house, with a roommate snoring at the other side of the room. He pressed his eyes closed, damning the fact. The beds were not as nice as the one he had at home; this one was covered in plastic and was only a single, so there was not much room to toss and turn on...when he had awoke, he had nearly fallen off.
It was dark everywhere, and after ten o'clock no one was allowed to leave their rooms except for emergencies. In the hallway, he could hear a girl crying and mumbling while a staff person talked lowly to her. Mark sighed and pulled the flimsy blanket over his body. At night, a staff person patroled the halls, ducking his head in rooms every so often to make sure everyone was alright, so Mark knew that even to get up and sit for a while with a light on was out of the question, if he were to be left alone in peace. He was confined to the darkness of the room and to his bed. If he were at home, he would get up, go outside, and get some fresh air, but here, he was a prisoner.
He thought about his encounter with Meg that afternoon. He'd not been expecting her. It had broken his heart to see the look on her face when he'd told her he didn't want to see her anymore, at least not in a way other than a friendship.
He looked at his roommate on the other side of the room, whom he could barely see in the dark shadows of the night. He was curled up on his bed, facing the wall to the outside, snoring loudly.
He tossed a rolled-up pair of socks at his head and hissed, "Tony!"
Tony snorted and sleepily awoke. "What's a?" he mumbled, smacking his lips together. Mark threw another pair of socks at him and the roommate yelled, "Hey!"
"Tony, wake up," Mark whispered across the room. He could hear the rustling of sheets as the big and tall fourteen-year-old boy shifted around on his bed.
"I'm up," he said. "Is it time for breakfast?"
"No," Mark answered. "It's the middle of the night. Don't be so loud or the hall guard will come and yell at us."
"Sorry," Tony mumbled. "What do you want?"
"What did you do with that stuff you smuggled in?" he asked, being careful to speak quietly.
"You wanna get high?" Tony perked up at the request.
"Like hell I do."
"So, Mark. Tell us more about the girl you've mentioned briefly, the one who came and visited you here. What's her name? Meg?"
Mark hadn't shaved that morning. He'd spent the latter part of the night stoned and he didn't want a staff person to see he was having trouble shaving himself. He ran his hand along his stubble thoughtfully and looked out sleepily to his small audience. "I knew her a long time ago," he said, knowing that opening up meant points in his direction.
"How long ago?" the group leader asked.
"When we were kids. I was in preschool with her older brother when my family first moved to Glenwood."
"And you were friends with him?"
"Not really. He was a lot bigger than me and he used to tease me a lot. He was kind of a bully."
"So how did you come to meet Meg?"
He sighed. "In about the third grade, Cory and I became friends. We started sitting together at lunch, playing together at recess, and trading baseball cards after school. It was not long after that we became best friends, and we spent long hours at each other's houses every week."
"And you had many encounters with Meg at that point." This last was more of a statement than a question.
"Yes."
"And you befriended your own bully? Was it kind of like a peer pressure thing, you did things with him and was nice to him because you were afraid of him?"
Mark shook his head. "No, not at all. We really liked each other."
"And how did Meg factor into the relationship?"
"She didn't have many friends that she played with after school, so her mother often insisted that she play with the boys."
"Did that get on your nerves?"
Mark tugged on his lip. "Not me. Cory, yeah. Even if he wasn't a bully anymore, he still teased his sister mercilessly. Once he made her climb a tall tree, knowing full well that she was afraid of heights, and then left her up there while he went inside and watched t.v. Whenever I could, I stuck up for her."
"So you liked her?"
He shrugged. "She was a little girl. She was pretty. Yeah, I liked her."
"But the other day you mentioned something about a tragedy that occurred while you were in the fourth grade. Tell us what happened."
Mark squirmed. "I shot her brother," he said simply, without emotion.
"On purpose?"
He paused. "No. It was an accident."
"What happened?" the chestnut-haired woman repeated.
He drew in a long breath. "I don't know, really..." he began, holding up his hands. "Cory said he had something neat to show me and I was intrigued. Then we went up into his father's study and he unlocked a lock-box, and inside was a gun."
"How did he get the key?"
"He'd found it, I guess. It was in his parents' room."
"Go on."
"Cory was pressuring me to play with it and use it, even though I didn't want to. I didn't want to look like a coward in front of him, so I took it and we chased each other with it. One thing led to another and then Cory was telling me to press down on the trigger, because it wasn't loaded."
"And the gun was aimed at him?"
Mark's voice was strong and even. "Yes."
"Did the little boy die?"
"He died instantly."
"And you didn't see Meg or the rest of Cory's family for eight years?"
"That's correct."
The woman steepled her hands in front of her mouth pensively. "Tell me more. How, after all this time, did you get together with his sister again? Did it come as a shock to see her? What kind of a role does she play in your life?"
Mark was quiet for a moment. "I was mad when she first found me, not shocked," he said. "Even though she probably thought differently."
"How did you meet her?"
"At school. She approached me."
"What did you do?"
"I cursed her out and told her to leave me alone, I wasn't interested in anything she was offering."
"And why do you think you were angry?"
He shook his head, looking at the ground. "I guess I thought--well, I expected her to feel the same way about me that her mother had felt."
"Which is what?"
"I murdered Cory."
"But you didn't."
"That's not how his mother feels. She thinks I was responsible."
"So because you assumed that Meg felt the same way about you, you were angry that she approached you at school, correct?"
"Not that she approached me," he said. "I was angry at her for what I thought she was at the beginning, for what I thought she might try to do."
"Tell us more about your relationship with her. How did things develop beyond that initial blow-up?"
Mark scratched his head underneath the bandage. "I felt bad I'd cursed her out," he said. "Things developed from there."
"What sort of things?"
"Talking, at first. I took her home a few times. She got stranded at a party and I had to drive her back to her house. After a while, I realized she had feelings for me."
"Romantic feelings?"
"Yes."
"Did anything happen?" Mark nodded but didn't elaborate. "Are you still seeing each other?"
"No," he said.
She smiled, looking directly at him. "The last time you went into the hospital, it was following your friend's death. And now, you've just reunited with his sister. I'd say that there's a strong connection. First, you're cursing her out, then something happens between the two of you, and now it's over. And all within a short period of time, am I right?" Mark nodded. "Would you care to try and explain?"
It was an echo of what everyone was trying to tell him. "She was too nice...I suppose I wasn't ready for the way she was treating me..."
"How? With respect? Kindness?"
"All of those things. Respect, kindness, forgiveness, love, humility...and I couldn't take it."
"Why?"
He stopped rubbing his face. "Because it reminded me that I didn't deserve to be treated that way."
"I don't understand."
"She asked me one time if I'd ever forgiven myself for shooting Cory, and I said, 'no.' But if I were really honest with myself, I would say that I never really blamed myself..." he trailed off.
"Go on."
"...like a normal person would..."
"A 'normal' person?"
His words were now broken. "If I'd have been a better person, if I'd had courage in any way, I would have felt remorse for what happened that day, but I didn't."
"I see."
"I blamed Cory." It was now out in the open. He could no longer hide it.
"You blamed him for his own accidental death?"
"No," Mark said emphatically. "I blamed him for ruining my life. I blamed him for everyone else blaming me."
"And you think that was selfish of you?"
Mark took a long pause. "You're never supposed to blame the victim," he breathed.
A long silence followed as the counselor waited for Mark to add something else to his last comment. When he didn't, she said, "Let's go back to Meg. You said you were angry when you first saw her, but then you felt bad about it and began a relationship with her. What were the factors that drew you to her at that point in time? Was it guilt?"
He heaved a sigh. "She was so forgiving, so open, so loving, and I didn't want to reject her after what had happened with her brother."
"So you felt you owed her a relationship, even if your heart wasn't in it."
Mark sat bolt upright. Had his heart never been in it? Could he really say definitively that he had never had an inkling of a feeling for her, too? "I suppose," was his quick answer, even though he wasn't entirely satisfied with it.
"So why did you attempt suicide?" the counselor asked, her eyes bearing kindness.
He was preoccupied with her previous question now, and couldn't get the thought of not feeling anything for Meg out of his mind. He grudgingly attempted to answer the last question. "I looked at my life, and I saw a pathetic person. I hated myself for what had happened with Cory, and I hated myself even more for what I was about to do to Meg..."
"Which is what?"
He ran his tongue over dry lips. "Before she met me, this last time, when we were older, she'd never smoked or done drugs or even kissed a boy. She admitted these things to me in the car one night, when I was taking her home."
"Go on."
"But after she met me, one of the first things she did was ask me for a cigarette. Just a couple of weeks later I found her drunk and stoned on my front porch..."
"And you slept with her."
He hesitated. "Yeah."
"So what you're saying is..."
"I’ve ruined her innocence. I started her on a dark path."
"So is that why you tried to kill yourself?"
Mark ran his fingers clumsily through his hair. "I didn't want it to happen twice. I wanted there to be some way I could save her."
The counselor smiled a genuine smile. "But suicide is not the way to do it."
He looked back at her, weakly. "It seemed like the appropriate answer."
They had pizza in the cafeteria that day, and it was okay. Mark sat with Tony and a new boy by the name of Les. He was fifteen years old and was put in the hospital for punching out his father. They said his diagnosis was attention deficit disorder, and he was taking Ritalin. "At my high school," he said, "I sell it to my friends who don't have ADD 'cause they say they get a buzz from it. Sorry, I can't give you any here 'cause they watch you take it then make you stick out your tongue."
Mark was frankly bored with both boys, and instead concentrated on his pizza, which was soupy with oil.
After lunch, they went to the gym. Basketballs and raquetballs were handed out, and Mark decided to shoot some hoops. Several people chose to simply walk around the gym, while a few others just sat and watched.
Ten minutes into his game, a nurse appeared at the gym door asking for Mark. "You have an appointment now," she said. He threw the ball to another guy, replaced his shirt, and exited the gym with the nurse.
"With my psychiatrist?" he asked.
"No, a social worker," she said. "Your parents will be there, too."
When he stepped into the office, his mother and father were sitting in separate chairs, and a woman social worker was seated at a rectangular oak desk with an opened manilla folder in front of her which was stuffed with papers. She invited Mark to take a seat. The social worker introduced herself as Marie Jenkins.
"Are you going to let me leave?" he asked, after he sat down on a stuffed orange chair.
"That's what we're going to discuss in our session today...the progress you've made while you've been here, meds, and possible discharge. The bulk of our discussion will center around what will happen when you leave the hospital. You see, treatment doesn't end on the last day of your inpatient care."
"What do you mean?" asked Mark.
"Well, you'll have to follow up with a psychiatrist. You've been put on meds that need monitoring. And later we can discuss the options for outpatient therapy."
Mrs. Powell leaned forward. "How has Mark been doing?"
Ms. Jenkins shuffled through her papers, found one, and regarded a chart in front of her. "According to his therapists, he's been opening up in group and participating in activities. Staff on unit say he's made some friends, and gets up on time, showers and takes meds with no problem." She looked up at Mark and posed her next question to him. "Mark, how do you assess your time here? Do you think you've made progress while being here?"
He nodded. "I think I've learned a lot. I've learned that it's not good to stuff your feelings down, that's it's better to talk about them before things get out of hand."
He had forgotten that she was a professional, and read between the lines. "And to you, what does it mean for things to 'get out of hand,' to use your words?"
Mark thought for a moment. "Well, I guess it's good to talk about your feelings all of the time, even if it doesn't seem like they're about to get out of hand. What I guess I mean by that is, you start to get depressed, and you start to feel like hurting yourself."
She was tough. "But what happens if they do get 'out of hand'? What do you do then? Sometimes simply talking about things is not a cure for depression or feelings of self-harm."
"Go to a professional?" he said. The answer seemed to satisfy her.
"Right," she said. "Mark has the right idea about talking to someone before a crisis occurs, but he has to remember that if one does occur, he has to go immediately for help, and that's called personal accountability."
"And also it's therapeautic to talk," added his mother.
"Exactly," said the social worker. "Anything else you want to add, Mark?" He shook his head.
"What about his medicine?" asked his father, his elbows on his knees.
"Do you have specific questions about it?"
"How long will Mark have to be taking the Lithium?"
"Well, I'm not a doctor," she said. "But in my experience, the bipolar patient usually has to be on some sort of medication for the rest of his life to remain stable, if that's what their true diagnosis is."
Mrs. Powell turned her head and muttered an, "Oh my God."
"True diagnosis?" his father said.
"The doctor has labeled Mark's diagnosis as tentative. That means that if Mark should find a private psychiatrist and this new doctor is not happy with the conclusion that our doctor has made, he can change it. We've only been monitoring him for a short time, and of course it's not etched in stone."
"You said something about blood samples?"
"Yes. After his discharge from the hospital, should he continue to be placed on Lithium, he will have to go in for a monthly blood test just to check his Lithium level. We don't want toxicity, and the level will show his doctor if his dose needs to be lowered." She twirled a finger into one of her black ringlets. "There's another issue I want to bring up with you two while you're here..."
"Yes?"
"We checked his urine and found traces of marijuana and methamphetamine use. Had either of you been aware that Mark was abusing drugs?"
A deep frown etched into his mother's face, and Mark squirmed. "I certainly didn't," she said politely. "I suspected he drank beer on occasion, but I had no idea." She raised her brows accusingly towards her ex-husband, whose name she still bore.
His face was equally as stern as he gave a sardonic laugh. "I see him less than once a month. If anyone should have known, it would have been her."
The social worker, acting very professional, ignored the last statement for its accusatory value. She promptly handed each of them some brochures and said, "You may read these at your liesure. Some of them are about AA or NA, and some of them are about substance abuse in general. Now that you know, it's a good time to start educating yourselves about this issue."
Barbara Powell looked as though she'd been slapped in the face. "Mark, you never told me about any of this. Is there more I should know about? Something that didn't show up on the test?"
There was, of course, but Mark didn't want to talk about it in front of the social worker. Moreover, he didn't want to reveal it to his parents. "It's true," he admitted. "I did drugs, but I'm willing to try and work it out."
"A twelve-step program might be the best option for Mark, being as how he's seventeen years old now. There are a few young teenagers at these meetings, but mostly adults."
"We'll look into it," said his father, patting his knee with his hand.
"Now shall we talk about discharge?" Ms. Jenkins asked, reshuffling her papers. Mark's parents nodded their heads in agreement. "Mark has been here for a week and a half, and in my opinion he's made significant strides towards self-recovery while he's been a patient here." She cleared her throat discreetly. "If the doctor agrees, I believe that Mark is well enough to go home tomorrow, if he feels up to it. How would you like that, Mark?"
He nodded his head. "I'd like that," he said.
"So what we're looking at is a discharge plan. Does Mark have a strong support system in place? Does he have a friend or family member he can always rely on to talk to if he ever feels like self-harming?"
"Well, my brother lives out in Indiana," Barbara Powell suggested. "They always got along really well when he was growing up."
"Does that sound like someone you can rely on, Mark?" He nodded his head in agreement.
"As for friends," she said, "I would avoid the ones with whom you've done drugs with, but if you have someone in mind that's close to your age, that might be a possibility as well."
Mark didn't know of anyone, but he nodded his head anyway.
"Anyone else?" she asked.
"My counselor at school," he said.
"So we've got a few people in place. What about therapy? Have you thought about giving Mark a regular therapist?"
"I'm sure the both of us could afford to send him to a psychologist."
"Do you have a psychiatrist lined up?"
"Yes, we do." She asked them to write down the name and number of the new doctor onto a form.
"Okay. Lastly, it's my recommendation that he attend outpatient groups for a week here before returning to school, but that's up to you to decide."
Mr. and Mrs. Powell looked at each other. "I don't think he can afford to miss any more school," Barbara said. "He's not the greatest student, and he's already a year older than all of his other classmates."
"Well, that's your decision," she said kindly. "Thank you for your time. I'll give you a call in the morning to tell you what the doctor has decided, and if he's discharging Mark tomorrow, I'll give you a time when to come and pick him up."
The next day, after he saw his psychiatrist, the news was given: he was going to return home. While the other kids were in the gym, he went back to his room, packed his things into suitcases, and went through discharge procedures.
When he stepped outside the front double doors of the hospital, he was a free man. No longer locked inside the building, he waited for his mother to come and pick him up. He breathed in the fresh air from outside, smelling the pine needles, and couldn't ever remember feeling so exhilarated.