Page 92 of Emmett
“We don’t need to talk about that,” he tells me. “You’re safe and that’s what matters.”
“Dad.” I take another sip of water, wincing against the cold. “Be real with me.”
‘Be real with me.’We used to say that to each other when I was younger and one of us was trying to downplay something serious that we needed to talk about. It was aninvitation: just say it straight, don’t sugar coat it, rip the bandaid off. Let it hurt for a minute, if it has to.
He looks at something behind me, then over his shoulder before turning to me, taking a steadying breath. “You tried to drink an entire bar by yourself and, apparently, you thought that it would be a good idea to add painkillers to the mix.” He looks like he’s about to throw up. “You died for three minutes.”
I don’t know why, but all I can say to him is, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s your turn to be real withmenow.I need you to tell me if this was on purpose.”
“I don’t know.”
His right hand clamps down on my forearm with a vise grip, and his left scrubs down his face. “Okay,” he breathes. “I’m going to let someone know that you’re awake and see if we can’t get you unplugged from a couple of these things.”
I lied to him. I had known for two weeks that I was going to kill myself. I went to work and did my job well, I saw my friends, I went to game night and laughed with my family. I joined in with all of their smiling faces and played their games with them, but throughout the entire night, I was trying to decide how I was going to do it. I figured that I could probably steal Davis’s gun or Ro’s meds; they would never expect me to. It would have been easy enough. I could drive straight through the hairpin turn that leads away from Dad’s house, foot on the gas. I ran through a whole menu of options while I played fucking Pictionary with them.
I told them all goodbye. I stole some of Rowan’s pills. I took them before I left the house. I didn’t plan to walk out of that bar. I’d been so worried about choosing wrong, but a convenient option that took away the pressure from the needto decide how dropped itself into my lap, and my family wasn’t going to have to find me or clean up after me.
I knew, without a doubt, that I was going to die this weekend.
I just can’t look my dad in the eye and tell him that.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Fowler,” a woman in a beige pantsuit greets me with a radiant smile as she slides the door open and steps into the room. “How are you feeling this evening?”
“He’s Mr. Fowler,” I say, pointing at Dad. “I’m Emmett.”
Pulling another chair up next to me, she settles into it with a smile. “Emmett, I was hoping that we could talk a little bit about what led to your visit with us.”
My eyes scan the badge attached to her lapel, strategically placed low enough that it doesn’t draw attention, but visible enough that she’s not technically hiding it.
Dr. Heidi Weber, MD, psychiatric resident.
Great, I wake up and they send in a shrink.
Dad seems absolutely thrilled that she’s here, suddenly finding the need to run home for a few things and leaving me here alone to talk withDr. Weber.
I can think of about a million different things that are less invasive than the conversation that I have with the woman; for an hour and a half, we go over not only what happened that night – the majority of which, I don’t remember – but also my entire goddamn history, from birth up until today. Every feeling that I’ve ever had is dissected and questioned while she writes things down on a clipboard that rests on her lap, offering me nods and the occasional ‘uh-huh’ and‘I see.’
The weirdest part of all of it is that I actuallytellher things. I tell her about my childhood, which for all accounts, was fantastic if not for the missing mother. I tell her about Nash – though I leave out his name. I tell her about the water.
I tell her that I tried to kill myself; and I tell her that I still want to.
By the time she leaves the room, all that I can think about is taking a shower and scrubbing the conversation off of me. Instead, I get a group of nurses who come into the room and take away what has to be ninety percent of the items in here. I thought Dad’s version of crisis watch was a lot, but this seems like overkill.
Another twenty minutes pass, complete with awkward silence as a nurse perches in a chair staring at me, before Dad walks back into the room, carrying an insulated bag with him. “Rowan sent dinner,” he announces. “She says that ‘a home-cooked meal is more healing than cafeteria food.’ There’s a thermos of soup in here, too, in case you’re hungry later or solids are too much right now.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t allow outside food in this room.”
“Hello,” Dad says, extending a hand to the nurse. “Colt Fowler, it’s nice to meet you. I’ll be taking over here. Your supervisor is aware of the change.” Her eyes go wide at the mention of his name and she moves to say something, but he silences her with a smile and a tilt of his head toward the door. “That will be all, thank you.”
“You ‘Colt Fowlered’ her,” I comment as she leaves the room.
“I’m better qualified for the job,” he tells me.
“And how much isthatgonna cost you?”
Ignoring my question because he knows the answer will piss me off, he sets the bag onto a rolling table and wheels it over, opening the bag and pulling out trays of food. Lemon chicken that I can’t eat yet, roasted potatoes, homemade rolls; all of the best foods, set up like Thanksgiving plates.