“Nurse! Nurse! Please!” the black man groans.
“Waaa-taaa. Waaa-taaa,” a woman croaks.
“Hey, what’s up?” Chris answers his phone. “No, I’m on.”
Beep, something beeps.
These are the sounds of the hospital, the hospital, the hospital.
“Hello, Craig?”
A doctor comes into 22. She has long, dark hair and a pudgy face and bright green eyes.
“Hey.”
“I’m Dr. Data.”
“Dr. Data?”
“Yes.”
Huh. I want to ask her if she’s an android, but that wouldn’t be very respectful; and besides, I’m not up to it.
“What’s going on?”
I give her the rap. It gets shorter every time. I wanted to kill myself; I called the number; I came here. Blah blah blah.
“You did the right thing,” she says, “A lot of people get off their medication and get into big trouble.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Now, besides wanting to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, have you had anything else going on? Have you been seeing things? Hearing things?”
“Nope.” I’m not talking about the army guy. Same rules as with Dr. Barney.
“Do your parents know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, let me tell you what we can do for you, Craig.” She takes out her stethoscope, holds it in her hands, and folds her short arms. She’s pretty. Her eyes are serious and beautiful. “It’s Saturday, and on Saturday our best psychologists are here, the really good ones. I’m going to recommend that you see Dr. Mahmoud. He’ll be in soon, and he’ll be able to give you the help you need.”
I have a sudden vision of Dr. Mahmoud taking me into his office, a special shrink’s office within Argenon Hospital. It must be very pleasant and bare. There’s probably a black couch and a wide window and some Picassos. He’ll take me up there; we’ll have some emergency therapy; he’ll give me the kind of trick that Dr. Minerva has been unable to give me, effect the Shift, re-prescribe me Zoloft (maybe that fast-acting Zoloft!), and I’ll be on my way.
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Now, you have to inform your parents about where you are, because when Dr. Mahmoud comes down, he’s going to need them to sign for you.”
“Ohhhhh.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“No. I can do it.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Like two blocks away.”
“They’re together? They’re supportive?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they going to be okay that you’re in here?”
I sigh. “Yes. I’m the one who’s . . . not.”
“Don’t worry, it happens to a lot of people. It tends to be related to stress. Breathe for me, Craig.” She puts her stethoscope by my back and has me take deep breaths, cough, the whole deal. She doesn’t have to hold my balls, which is cool, because there’s no door.
I look out as she’s examining me. The black guy has a nurse leaning over him.
“Dr. Mahmoud will be down soon. Call your parents, please, and make sure they’re here within two hours.”
Two hours. Jeez. I’ve got to wait two more hours? “Gotcha.”
Dr. Data nods at me. “We will help you.”
“Okay.” I try to smile.
She heads out. I figure that, with the parents, I should get it over with as soon as possible. I flip open my cell phone. No service in the emergency room. I walk out of Room 22 to find a pay phone.
Chris rises from his chair.
“Buddy, hey, I told ya, ya gotta ask me for things. What do you need?”
I turn and look at him, eye his badge and nightstick. I realize what he is now. He’s not there in general or for the ER; he’s there for my protection. When you come into the hospital with a mental disability, they put a cop next to you so you don’t hurt yourself. I’m on like, suicide watch. You want to commit suicide, you call 1-800-SUICIDE; you get suicide watch.
“Ahm, I have to call my mom.”
“Not a problem. Phones are right there. Dial nine.” He nods.
The phones are like, three feet away. But Chris puts his hands on his hips and keeps close watch as I pick up a receiver.
eighteen
Hi, Mom, I’m in the hospital? No.
Hey, mom, are you sitting down? Eh.
Mom, you’re not going to believe where I’m calling you from! Nah.
“Hey, Mom,” I say when I hear her groaned hello. “How are you?”
“Craig! Where are you?! I just—you just woke me up and you aren’t in bed! Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you at Aaron’s?”
“Uh . . .” I suck air through my teeth. “No, Mom. I’m not at Aaron’s.”
“Where are you?”
“I, uh . . . I really freaked out last night, and I was feeling really bad, and I, um, I checked myself into Argenon Hospital.”
“Oh, my goodness.” She stops, hitches her breath. I hear her sit down, exhale. “You . . . are you okay?”
“Well, I mean—I wanted to kill myself.”
“Oh, Craig.” There’s no crying, but I hear her put her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. No! I’m sorry. I was sleeping! I didn’t know!”
“Please, Mom, how could you know?”
“I knew you were bad, but I didn’t realize. What did you do? How did you get there?”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t do anything. I used your book.”
“What, the Bible?”
“No, your How to Deal with the Loss of a Love book.”
“Survive. How to Survive the Loss of a Love. Wonderful book.”
“It recommended calling the suicide hotline number in there, and I did.”
“Is that this sheet of paper by the phone?”
“Yeah, you can throw that away. They said, you know . . . if I was feeling like I was in an emergency, I should come to the emergency room, and I put on my shoes and came here.”
“Oh, Craig, so you didn’t do anything to yourself?” She pauses.
“No, I checked myself in.”
I hear her breath catch and I think, in my house a few blocks away, her hand is on her chest. “I am so proud of you.”
“You are?”
“This is the bravest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I . . . thank you.”
“This is the most life-affirming thing you’ve ever done. You made the right decision. I love you. You’re my only son and I love you. Please remember.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“I thought I was a bad mother, but I’m a good mother if I taught you how to handle yourself. You had the tools to know what to do. That is so important. And they’re going to be great over there; it’s an excellent hospital. I’m coming right down—you want me to bring your dad?”
“I don’t know. It might be good to just have as few people as possible, if possible.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the emergency room. They want you to sign some forms.”
“Where are they taking you?”
“To talk with this doctor, Dr. Mahmoud.”
“And how are you feeling?”
“I don’t know. Like the whole thing is unreal. I didn’t really get any sleep last night.”
“Oh, Craig—if I had known . . . I didn’t know . . .”