Page 22 of Actions and Reactions (All It Takes #5)

Her fierce hug is another type of balm, this one deeper and way more effective. Corny or not, it calms my soul and makes me feel loved.

There’s nothing quite like a hug from an older sister, just like there’s nothing like hugs from my parents, but aside from Vinny I think the only person in the world who has a chance of really knowing me is Charlotte.

She knows what it’s like to be the great Paul Wayne’s child, she grew up in the same house as me, even if she was already playing in the NWHL and had played in the Olympics when my accident happened.

Our five-year age difference means that growing up our lives were very different, or so we thought, but our experiences were very much the same.

People expected greatness from Lottie as much as they did from me, and our parents became champions for the NWHL as soon as she started showing interest in hockey.

The whole world knew where she came from just like they did with me, and that pressure isn’t something that I’ve been able to explain with words.

I think Vinny and Lex can understand it better than most, but good or bad, Dad’s legacy and reputation are a different beast compared to Uncle Hulk’s.

No, Lottie’s for sure the only one who understands.

Vinny’s the one who saw what that responsibility did to me day to day, but he didn’t experience it.

No one else has, so I don’t know exactly how going to a place where a bunch of other people—who have actually gone through trauma—is supposed to help me feel better.

I’m prepared for it to be way worse than the hospital at this point, because what else could be waiting for me at this place but shame that I can’t deal with my very insignificant issues?

Nothing.

But it’s the best option I have.

We all murmur our greetings and soon enough we’re on our way to some suburb where this trauma center is.

“What I could see of it the other day was really nice, Si. I think you’re gonna like it,” she tells me from the driver’s seat.

I hum in answer. What can I say?

I’m doing my very best not to let my apprehension show, because that would be useless—I’m doing this anyway. Isn’t that what real work is? Doing shit you don’t want to do but know you have to?

Or maybe that’s what maturity is... I really don’t know, but there’s no changing anything .

If I had my way, everything would be different.

Dr. Olive Jody is a tall woman with a perfect bob of black hair and small red-rimmed glasses.

She greets us in the lobby of this place and introduces herself as the director of New Hope.

I can tell how she zeroes in on me in a way that makes me twitchy because I’m clearly the person who’ll be staying here.

Then she offers me her left hand to shake since I’m wearing a cast, and does it in such a seamless way, it impresses me.

She shows us around the common areas, but I barely register what we see and what she says, and by the time she ushers us into a meeting room, I feel calmer.

“There are some forms for you to sign, Silas,” she says in a melodic voice that does help my nerves buzz a little less. I see a standard NDA, but read through it quickly anyway. I know better than to sign just any damn thing, and then there’s the admission protocol where all the rules are.

I read through those too, and while I do, I’m aware of her talking to my parents and sister, answering their questions, but I focus on the words on the page.

No harmful items like drugs, alcohol, or weapons, which is easy enough. No tweezers or razors even, but I guess I can relax and let my beard grow. I’ve never tried that before.

I’m allowed to bring in my own pajamas, underwear, shoes and socks, and outerwear—since winter is approaching—but I have to wear the uniform when I’m outside my room. Five sets will be provided for me according to this.

I have to do my own laundry, of course, and keep my room clean.

There are shared bathrooms, which could become an issue.

Besides clothing, as far as personal items go I can have four hygiene products, all the books I want, a watch, and two framed pictures.

If I show signs of self-harm they can basically restrain me and throw me in a cell— yippee —and I’m expected to never be violent with other patients. No threats, no intimidation, no other forms of abuse.

I’m expected to attend and participate in group therapy sessions and individual ones, and to take the medication they prescribe me, which I’m not super happy about, but I’m already on antibiotics from the surgery and Dr. Denise did tell me they’d probably prescribe me some mild form of antidepressants.

When I last talked to her she told me this treatment center will be very careful with the medications they give me, so I’m not too worried there.

Then comes the hard bit... use of electronics. They’ll give me my phone for fifteen minutes every day if I want them to, but will keep it locked up the rest of the time.

If I need to make a call, I can of course do so, but only in case of emergency or if the therapist assigned to me agrees.

Yeah, that’s gonna be tough .

I don’t even know anyone’s number for fuck’s sake.

I sigh, then keep reading.

I’m to always be respectful of the staff, and I’m expected to keep any and all conversations inside the facility in confidence.

If at any moment I want to leave, then I can, but I have to have my emergency contact pick me up. If I finish the three months, then I can stay more time if I want—up to three months more—and if I don’t, then I’m free to leave but will be welcome if and when I need to come back.

Now I have to decide who my emergency contact is. The first name that comes to mind is of course Vinny, but that’s not happening. I can’t bother him with this after everything I’ve already done, so that’s a no-go.

My gut is telling me to choose Lottie, but I’m pretty sure my parents would be heartbroken if I did that, so I pick Mom, then take out my phone to fill in her contact details.

When I’m done, I hesitate for only a few seconds, but I force myself to sign below then write my name and today’s date.

“I’ve asked our staff to pay closer attention since we knew you’d be here, Mr. Wayne. And since this is a tricky situation, one we’ve never been in before, we’ve had to put a few new protocols in place.”

That gets my attention, and I look up to see Dr. Jody, looking somber with her eyes locked on my father’s.

“As far as we’ve been able to learn without telling any of the patients anything, there are two people here who are hockey fans.

Since you’ll be participating in the family days, we decided that the best way to circumvent any possible problems was to give our patients here advanced warning about your presence.

Any dramatic changes to their emotional state could be.

.. upsetting for people who are actively working through their traumas, so all we want you to know is that if any of them approach you, please be polite.

I understand this might be uncomfortable for you, considering you’re here for your son, but we have to look out for all of our patients. ”

I’m extremely impressed by how she phrased that.

She clearly doesn’t know how Dad is with fans and wants to avoid offending him, and I’m sure he appreciates it, but Dad’s never been one to get mad at being approached by fans.

Unless they’re aggressive, then it’s a whole other story.

And this is why I know exactly what he’s going to say next.

“I don’t have any problems talking to fans, Dr. Jody, and I’ll be mindful of being extra polite.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, please let me know and we’ll find a way to work around this.”

“We appreciate very much that you’re taking all of this into consideration and letting us be here for Silas,” Mom whispers, looking at the doctor earnestly. It’s kind of a Bambi look, with her big blue eyes wide open. No one can resist it.

“Here you go,” I whisper, trying not to break the moment too harshly, and slide the papers over to Dr. Jody.

“All right,” the director says as she scans the documents. “ Family days are on Sunday, and because of your special circumstances,” she adds, looking at Lottie. “If you can’t make it on Sunday, then we’ll allow you to have a family session on Tuesdays.”

“That works,” she says with a firm nod.

“Then it’s time to say goodbye for now, and I’ll show you to your room.”

I stand and go to Mom first. The strong grip I feel on my back makes me realize she’s probably scared, and that’s the last thing I want, ever. So I pull back with some force and look down at her.

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Don’t worry.”

“I know, honey. I know.” She pats the spot on my chest she’s staring at and then steps back so I can hug Dad too.

No words are needed between us. I know he’s scared too, because I’ve seen it in the last week, but I hope I can get my shit together enough in a few days so they’re less worried when they see me on Sunday.

When I step back, he clears his throat then looks down. I wonder what’s on his mind for a second, but then he takes off his watch—a Patek Philippe he bought after his first contract was signed with the LA Empire—and he hands it to me.

I take it of course, I’ve always admired it, and strap it onto my wrist. Then I hand him my smart watch back, and he shakes his head and puts it in his pocket. Yeah, I knew he wouldn’t wear it.

Next comes Lottie, and she smiles big before throwing her arms around me .

“Why don’t you try making some friends, huh? I feel like you might need them.”

“I’ll do my best, Lottie,” I murmur, then I take one last look at them and just leave the room.

I hear Dr. Jody’s footsteps behind me and she catches up in no time.

We stop at a set of double doors, and she swipes a card on the reader then pushes one open.

The hallway isn’t what I expected, more homey or like a hotel than a psychiatric hospital for sure, but there are a lot of doors.

Dark wood that contrasts nicely with the beige of the walls.

We stop at the fourth and I see there are no card readers on this one, which gives me peace of mind even though I can see there’s a lock on the handle.

“This is your room. Your clothes should be in there. Please write down everything you want to get from your luggage.” She hands me a piece of paper and a pencil.

“And if there’s anything else you want to ask your family to bring you on Sunday, please let us know so there are no issues when they want to bring it in. ”

“Yeah, sure.”

I walk in and it’s a pretty simple room. Nothing on the walls, a reasonably sized window, a sink, a double bed with white sheets, and a nightstand with a lamp.

“Thank you,” I remember to say, and spin around to look her in the eyes. They’re gray, maybe a bit greener than Aunt Lyla’s, but they still remind me of her, and of Vinny, even though he has Uncle Hulk’s green eyes.

“No problem. Can I have your phone? ”

“Right.”

Someone who’s standing just beside her, that I can’t see, hands her this small metal box, and she puts my phone in there then locks it and hands it back to whoever they are.

“Phone time is every day at three, and dinner is in just one hour, at seven. You’ll have your first individual therapy session tomorrow after breakfast, which is at eight, and your therapist, Dr. Dave Hunter, will give you your schedule.”

“Perfect.”

I do my best to keep my smile intact until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then I just stand there and look around.

This is very obviously a private center, and I know how incredibly lucky I am that my parents are paying for it. It does make me wonder, though, and hope despite everything, that maybe I won’t be bombarded with real-life trauma and shamed for my inability to cope while having the perfect life.

If other patients also have the perfect life, then maybe this won’t totally suck?

I can hope.