Chapter Twenty-Two

I wake to the color white.

White tiles. White ceilings. White sheets. White restraints.

I stare at the straps around my wrists. The pressure on my skin reminds me of the feeling of hitting a punching bag without gloves. I lay frozen, inspecting the restraints, until everything that happened in Elliott's house floods back in a wave.

The white room. The sterile smell.

I'm inside Grady Hospital.

"Glad you're awake."

I whip my head around to find a woman in a nurse's uniform watching me. She keeps her distance from my bed.

"Do you know where you are?" she asks patiently.

It's the most obvious answer in the world. I've seen this room a thousand times in the nightmares that followed my mother's death. This is the same hospital they brought her to when they tried and failed to save her life.

"Yes."

She tilts her head. "You've been here before?"

"My mother was a patient."

She studies the clipboard in her hand. "Doris Berman?"

I nod.

"You said her name in your sleep."

Of course. The spirit of her is everywhere in this building. I choke down some air to try and calm my spattered breathing. "Where's my dad?"

My voice is hoarse, my throat scratchy. I don't know how long I was screaming before the EMTs finally shut me up.

The nurse shoots me a pitiful look. "You won't be able to see him for a few days, sweetheart. We want you to focus on you."

My fingers shake. The hair on my arms lifts.

They're not letting me out.

"You okay, honey?"

"Yes," I lie through gritted teeth. "How long was I asleep for?"

Glancing at a watch on her wrist, she says, "Well, you got here on Wednesday, and it's now Friday."

Two days! I can't recall two full days. There's no way I could have possibly slept for that long.

"We gave you a sedative to keep you calm."

That's when I notice the circular bruise on my arm where a needle must have been inserted. I shiver. It takes all of my willpower not to scream the truth about what happened, but it won't do me any good. They'll never believe me over the mighty Damon King.

The nurse gestures for me to open my mouth so she can take my temperature.

"All your vitals are good. I'm going to call your doctor in."

I close my eyes, but when I do, I see Damon. He used me as a pawn in his game, just like Elliott warned me about.

Elliott. Where does he think I am? What cruel lie did Damon feed him? He probably thinks he ruined everything by admitting his feelings for me. I squeeze my hands into fists as I replay his declaration in the hallway at Harris's party. His words were everything I needed. His tearful eyes brimmed with truth.

And I stood there. Frozen. Silent. Unmoving.

"Fuck," I mutter.

"That bad?"

Surprised by the sound of a familiar voice, I look up to find a head of speckled gray hair. Dr. Taylor. His familiar smile is stronger than any sedative.

"You're my doctor?"

He nods.

"Your father is very worried," Dr. Taylor explains. "I told him that you're one of the strongest people I know. That you'll get through this."

"Thank you," I whisper.

My father. He probably blames himself. I have to get out of here if only to prove to him that none of this is his fault.

"What happened, Rose?" Dr. Taylor questions.

I hate the disappointed frown he's wearing. I don't want him to be another person I've failed. I open my mouth to spill the truth, then pause. I can't tell him about Damon without mentioning the fight club. No way he'll think it's not a hallucination. And even if he miraculously were to believe me, Elliott and everyone else involved would get into trouble. It's not my secret to tell.

Sensing my hesitation, Dr. Taylor continues, "I guess that's a big question, but that's okay. We have time to work through everything in this safe space."

"How long will I be here for?"

"As long as you need to be."

That could be days, weeks, even months. I was supposed to be competing this weekend. I was supposed to win money for my college applications that I'm finally allowed to work on.

Was allowed to work on.

I laugh because if I don't, I'll scream.

Dr. Taylor watches me without speaking. When there's nothing left in my system, I use the same breathing technique that he's taught me time and time again. He smiles faintly.

"You remember that?"

"Yes," I say, "of course."

This time, it actually does help. I swallow. My gaze drifts from Dr. Taylor's approving grin to the restraints around my wrists. They're getting tighter with every second that passes in this room.

"Can you take these off, please?" I plead.

He hesitates, then asks the nurse to remove them. Without the straps on my wrists, I feel like myself again.

He trusts me. Maybe more than he should.

"Your father brought some of your clothes."

He points to a bag on the ground that I didn't notice before. It's a suitcase from my house. I swallow harshly, ridding myself of the sob forming in my throat.

"Someone will come get you for lunch in a bit," Dr. Taylor says. "Will you be okay alone?"

"Yes."

"If you need anything, press that."

He points to a red button beside the bed.

"Thank you."

Dr. Taylor nods and turns to walk out the door. I rise from the bed that feels more like a slab of concrete. My legs and feet ache when they touch the floor.

The first thing I find in the duffel bag is a note. With shaking hands, I pick it up. I recognize the curves of my father's handwriting.

You're going to be okay. I love you. - Dad

The tears come. I crash onto the hard floor and hug the note to my chest. I choke down my sobs, begging my father to understand that all of this happened against my will.

I was getting better.

Wasn't I?

I pick myself off the floor. My messy curls fall past my shoulders in a wave. All I'm wearing is a hospital gown, and the freezing cold air makes me shiver.

The same nurse from earlier comes back into my room to guide me to lunch. I smell stale mac and cheese and sloppy joes from down the hallway. The cafeteria is filled with a mix of different people. Some adults, some are my age, and there are some even younger than me.

"You have thirty minutes," says the nurse, pausing in the doorway. "Eat."

I make my way to an empty table, preparing to sit, when a girl across the room shouts, "Hey!"

She waves me over. Next to her is another teenage girl. She doesn't smile.

"I'm Camila," the affectionate one says. Her dark hair stretches to her waist. She scoots over so that there's room for me on the bench. "You can sit with us."

I do. Camila points to her silent friend. "That's Liz."

Liz's bones protrude from her gown. She has a blonde pixie cut and freckles across her cheeks. She sits hunched over, her fork drawing circles around a half-eaten plate of food.

"What are you in for?" Liz asks. Her voice is hoarse.

I take a bite of stale cornbread. "Anxiety. You?"

"What do you think?" she retorts.

"Ignore Liz," Camila butts in. "She's a bit of a downer."

"That's cool," I respond. "Not much to be peppy about in this place."

I scarf down some of the stale contents of my plate. I'm starving. I can't remember the last time that I had anything to eat.

"Every day is pretty much the same," explains Camila. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Different therapies and private time with our doctors."

Her long hair bounces as she talks. It reminds me of Gemma.

Gemma.

I was waiting for an update on Nishi and her parents, and now I'll never get one. I miss her so much it hurts. She must know that I never would have willingly abandoned Elliott. If he talks to her, maybe together they'll figure out what really happened. I hold onto that hope, unlikely as it is, because hope is all I have left.

"Are you from Atlanta?" Liz asks, snapping me back into reality. She heaves as if exerting every bit of strength she has to make conversation.

"Yeah. I go to Dekalb High."

She beams. "No shit. I'll be a freshman there once I get out of this place."

"Well, you won't have to worry about being the weird one."

That seems to lighten her mood. She spoons a piece of mush into her mouth. The staff members inside of the room watch her like hawks.

"What kind of stuff are you into?" Camila asks.

I think of Midtown Ring, and the competition I was training for that I won't be attending. Andre's going to be furious.

"I'm actually a boxer," I admit. "I was training for my first competition before they locked me up."

"You're like the mentally ill Rocky," Liz declares. "That's dope."

I smirk. Her and Camila keep me entertained for the rest of the meal until we're called into art therapy. I draw a very phallic flower. Liz is thoroughly amused, but Camila innocently tilts her head, confused. When the hour is up, the same nurse guides me back to my room. I wave goodbye to Camila and Liz, relieved to not be totally alone.

"When will I get my phone back?" I ask the nurse. I should have learned her name, but I forgot to ask earlier and now it seems rude.

"That's up to your doctor."

"Well how long is it usually?"

She shoots me a glare that shuts me up.

I need to find a way to get in touch with Elliott. Just one simple text to let him know that I came back for him. The nurse reaches for her keys to open the door to my room. I spot her name on her badge: Mia. I make sure to thank her using it.

As the night goes on, I wish I was pumped full of drugs again. The screaming and conversation from the other rooms is too loud to sleep through. My thoughts revert back to the same three people: my father, Elliott, and Damon King. My anger toward Damon subsides when I think about the loving embrace of my father, but picturing Elliott makes me more depressed. I stay awake until the early morning, finally falling asleep as my eyes can no longer stay open.

*

Time in the hospital passes differently than in the real world.

There aren't many clocks to be found despite my constant searching. I wake up daily to the sound of robotic beeping. I go to meals when my nurse walks me down the hallway. I meet with Dr. Taylor in the afternoons. He's progressively getting more annoyed by my lack of conversation. It's not that I don't want to talk to him. It's that I don't know what to say.

"How many days has it been?" I ask.

"You don't remember?"

"I think I do. Five, right?"

"Six, if you count the first day you got here."

Six days. That means I officially missed the boxing competition. Andre covered my registration fee, and I didn't show.

"Oh," I say.

Dr. Taylor puts down the pen in his hand. "Does that bother you?"

I hate that he can see right through me.

"That boxing competition I was training for. It was last night. I missed it."

He frowns, but I don't want his sympathy. "How does that make you feel?"

"Angry," I confess. "I let down my coach."

He shakes his head in disagreement, but it doesn't rid me of the sinking feeling in my stomach. "Once he knows what happened, he won't be upset with you. People are more understanding than you would believe."

"You don't get it," I respond, shortly. "I'm upset with myself. I wasted his time. I let both of us down."

I lean back in my usual chair. The staff agreed to let me ride the elevator upstairs to Dr. Taylor's office for our daily sessions since I'm more comfortable there. I'm glad to be somewhere familiar, even if it is still inside of the hospital.

"When can I talk to my dad?" I ask, for the millionth time this week.

"Soon," he promises. "Once it'll be beneficial."

"Why wouldn't it be beneficial?"

"Well, he's the reason why you're here, isn't he?"

My father had nothing to do with this. The EMT's told him that I had a nervous breakdown at Elliott's house. He only agreed to keep me here because he thought I needed help. He was played, just like I was. I think about his gentle smile and the sweet smell of his cologne, and I'm blinded by guilt. I don't want him stuck all alone inside of our house. I want to be beside him, watching a movie, saying I love you.

"No," I reply. "It's my fault I'm here. My problems, not his."

Dr. Taylor seems intrigued by this. He adjusts his glasses.

"We can work out those problems, you know. But only if you talk to me about them."

"If you want me to sit here and list out every single one of my anxieties, I will, but I doubt that will help."

"Why not?"

"Telling you won't change anything," I retort. "My mom talked. She talked endlessly about what was wrong. It didn't help her."

I used to spend hours in the car with my father waiting for Mom to get out of her psychologist appointments. We played card games to distract from the reality of the situation, but even at a young age, I knew something was wrong.

"You always compare yourself to her," Dr. Taylor observes. "Why?"

He's torturing me with these questions, forcing me to speak the obvious out loud. "I'm sitting in the same hospital she was taken to. She sat in hours of therapy in this same wing, and she still killed herself. What makes me any different?"

Dr. Taylor leans forward.

"Rosalyn," he starts, and I prepare for him to finally accept what I know to be true. He's going to tell me I've gotten worse. My brain is rotting, and there's no saving it. I sink into the chair, wishing to be anywhere else but inside of this suffocating office, when he opens his mouth again.

"You are not your mom. You do know that, don't you?"

I freeze.

"Sure, you two look similar. You both went through a lot of hardships with your mental health. But that doesn't mean your fates are intertwined. In fact, I think she's probably furious that you're so convinced of this."

"What do you mean?"

"Your mother loved you more than anything or anyone else in the world. It was clear to everyone who knew her that you were her whole life. If she had known that her death would cause you this much suffering, I think she would've made a different choice."

He's wrong. My mother was a lot of things, but never ignorant. She could read my feelings like they were her own.

"She knew how much suffering it would cause me," I shoot back. "Did she expect me to celebrate? Forget it ever happened? I'm her only child! She knew it would hurt me, and she did it anyway!"

My fingernails dig farther into the chair. The marks are deeper now than the first time I entered this room.

"No, Rose," Dr. Taylor mutters, and I despise the patronizing tone of his voice. "I read her file. She thought she was helping you. She was convinced that her existence was putting you in danger. Your safety and happiness were the only things that mattered to her. Nobody could tell her otherwise."

"That's not fair."

"No. It's not. But allowing her death to consume you, to make you think that you're doomed? That's the last thing she ever would have wanted."

"I don't think I'm her carbon copy," I confess. "But things keep happening to me that I have no control over. I'm . . . seeing things. Seeing her. Every time I look in a mirror, she's there. I'm hallucinating, Dr. Taylor."

Dr. Taylor puts down the clipboard.

"Rose, what you're feeling—seeing—is a manifestation of your anxiety and grief. You're a complicated seventeen-year-old girl who has been through a lot, and you're coping the best way you know how."

Elliott compared himself to his father time and time again. I thought he had tunnel vision, so consumed by his own flaws that he dug himself into a hole that he couldn't crawl out of. I was the one with the level head; the one who saw through him and knew the truth about his character.

Am I really that different?

I compare myself to my mom every day. I see her in place of myself. But could that be something as simple—as human—as grief? A coping mechanism instead of a delusion?

"Are you okay?" Dr. Taylor asks.

I don't respond. I've been afraid for so long of losing control. The whole point of boxing was to get my control back, and I did.

So why am I still so convinced that I'm on the same path as my mother?

She did pass on her anxiety disorder to me, and maybe it will get worse with time. Maybe I'll need more help than weekly therapy sessions. But like Elliott and Damon, for all that we share, we are not the same person.

Everything I've been through, every mistake that I've made throughout these last few years, suddenly feels insignificant.

"I'm not her," I whisper, the weight of the realization pressing down on my shoulders. I melt into the chair, feet pressing into the floor as my pulse slows for the first time since waking up in this stark white building.

"No," Dr. Taylor repeats. "You're not."