Fall for Me by Claudia Burgoa
Chapter Twenty
Hunter
“How are you?”Jensen arrives a couple of hours later, carrying a bag of things for Willow.
I shrug, watching Willow breathe calmly. She rests best if I’m by her side. The few times I left to make phone calls, she started mumbling and having nightmares. After calling Jensen, I chose to stay beside her with her molded to my body.
Fitz and Mr. Beesley are flying back tonight. Their plane lands around midnight. Scott flew to North Carolina to pick up Hazel and deliver the news in person. He didn’t want her to learn about the incident while she was by herself. Harrison called from Seattle to check on Willow and me.
“Sorry, man,” he said. “Tell me how to help you.”
“We’re fine,” I lied. “She should be going home tomorrow.”
“Do you need us to set up anything special?”
“Ask Mr. Beesley. I’m not sure what’s going to happen after tomorrow.”
“Got you.” He understood I had no fucking idea what tomorrow would bring. “I’ll be around if you need something.”
The conversation with Fitz’s assistant shed light on what happened with Willow. She had no recollection of the flower delivery, or the conversation with Willow, and didn’t have time for a late-night phone call. I inform Fitz of what I’ve gathered so far, and he promises to fire her. My girlfriend’s fragile state isn’t her fault. Not doing her job and giving false information over the phone is what’s getting her fired.
“Do you want me to stay?” Jensen sets the bag next to the bed and looks at Willow before moving his gaze to me. “How are you?”
“Why do you ask that? I’m not the one on the bed barely alive.”
“How are you?” he repeats.
“Fine.” This isn’t a lie. Currently, I don’t feel anything. My entire system is shutting down.
“Harrison is on his way back from Seattle,” Jensen announces. I huff when he gives me the news.
I’m not the one who needs protection and help. She needs understanding from all of us. My brothers might not comprehend that, like Hazel, Willow needs a family, too. Jensen tells me he’s going to stay in the waiting room to watch reruns of M*A*S*H.
A couple of hours later, Grant Beesley enters the room, his strained eyes watching his granddaughter. “Hunter, what happened?” He raises her hands and looks at the inside of her wrists. He sighs in relief. “Thank God. I thought she had done what her mother did at her age.”
“What happened to her mother?”
“She slit her wrists,” he answers. “Nothing deep, but bad enough to scare my son.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose as he takes a deep breath. “I hope she lets me help her. She’s a sweet girl, you know. I love her. We just don’t get along well. I should try harder.” His eyes lift, meeting mine. “Thank you for looking after her.”
I nod, turning to Fitz who is observing from the door. There are no words coming out of his mouth, but I hear his question. Are you okay? I shrug. I don’t even know what I am right now. Later, when the storm calms, I’ll take stock of my head, my thoughts, and test if my heart is still working. Tonight, it’s all about getting Willow some much-needed help.
Hazel arrives later with Scott next to her. “What happened?”
I explain what I found, the pieces of information I’ve accumulated from her texts, from her and Fitz’s assistant. Apparently, she has a crush on me. Her reasoning was not only unprofessional but childish.
“Wills, I’m here. You’re going to be okay.” Hazel doesn’t care I’m in bed with her sister, she makes some room on the other side of Willow and climbs up. “Why isn’t she waking up?”
“I don’t know, Hazel. Because she’s exhausted?”
“Why did they say her husband is with her?”
I smile, remembering those days we spent pretending. The only happily ever after we’ve had lasted seconds. Not going into detail, I explain the basics to Hazel. She smiles while brushing Willow’s hair away from her face.
“She does have a romantic side.”
My brothers and Hazel stay in the room for a few hours. We all watch Willow while she rests. When the sun rises, Scott and Harrison leave promising to come back later.
“Do you want to go for some coffee, Hazel?” Fitz asks, pulling her toward him. “You look like you need a break.”
Hazel nods, taking her phone out of her purse. “Can you keep it? I’ve been so close to calling him.”
Fitz nods, taking it from her and leading her outside the room.
Willow
As I speak, I feel like the poster child of instability. The psychologist, whose name I don’t remember, continues to ask questions about my childhood, my teenage years, and is generally prying on every detail of my life. The big highlights are the uncertainty I feel about who I am. Then there’s the instability in my moods, and my unstable relationships, or lack of them. Impulsive and dangerous behaviors. I protest and he says the keyword: self-harming. There was no defense since I’ve ended up in the ER for exactly that.
The doctor who visited me in the morning, thinks my self-imposed vegetarian diet during auditions, not eating for over twenty-four hours, and the pain from the cuts caused me to faint. They ordered a stress test and referred me to a general practitioner.
“How often do you self-harm?” he circles back to the cutting.
How do I answer? Driving the blade over my skin isn’t a premeditated choice. The pink ridged lines on my thighs and abdomen are a result of the intolerable sequence of emotions plaguing me all at once. Seeing my skin weep as I etched lines brings me a sense of control over my life.
“I don’t know. When I’m so fucked-up I fall apart if I don’t expel the feelings out of my body.”
Hunter rubs the inside of my wrist with his thumb. I don’t know why I asked him to stay. That’s a lie. I’m holding onto him because I know he’s leaving. I feel it in my heart. His eyes said as much yesterday. I rock slightly back and forth, calming the overwhelming feelings trying to capture my mind. If only I can show him for a moment that this won’t happen again, that I’m not sick—maybe then he won’t leave.
“I want to stop,” I declare, lifting my chin with the determination I assume they require from me. Hunter might give me a second chance. Can he love someone like me? It’s not a matter of can, it’s a matter of showing him how much the incident has affected me and how I plan to grow. “This was a childish action, I recognize it.”
“It’s not that simple,” the man says while clicking his pen and putting it inside of his shirt pocket. “Borderline personality disorder is a condition which not many therapists diagnose immediately. And not many have the skills to help patients in an effective way. BPD is complicated.”
He babbles and explains, but my mind just doesn’t process his words the way he expects.
“What do you mean?” Hunter, who is paying more attention than I am, asks.
“Willow has an untreated mental illness many prefer not to label.” He rises from his seat. “There are places where you can go on an in-patient basis and start dialectal behavior therapy. You have to learn how to regain control over your emotions.”
“What is that?” I ask, trying to assimilate everything he’s telling me.
“The most effective treatment for patients like yourself.” I narrow my gaze, not understanding what he’s offering or prescribing for my untreated mental condition.
He presses his thumb and index finger together and turns it slightly to the right. “In theory, you’ll be provided with a switch that you can use to regulate your emotions. Add tolerance and interpersonal relationships you currently don’t have.”
“I’ll sign your release papers on my way out, but I recommend you start treatment as soon as possible.” Just as Hazel did two days ago, he leaves me with numerous names and phone numbers of therapists I can reach out to.
In a matter of minutes, the nurse comes into the room to take the needles out of the backs of my hands. Hazel enters right behind her. She insists on helping me change clothes. Even though the hospital is only a couple of blocks from home, Hunter insists on driving me, and Hazel jumps in the back of the car. My grandfather is waiting for us when we arrive. The house is clean, my room is spotless, and there aren’t any remnants of the mess I made yesterday. Instead, eleven flower arrangements decorate my room.
“Fitz’s assistant forgot to follow my instructions,” Hunter explains. “I had it all planned. Each one would arrive every hour. If I had taken the time to do it myself, I would’ve saved you.”
“I’m alive,” I remind him of the obvious. “She was cruel, but I was already falling apart. Thank you for . . .” Looking around one more time, I settle on the lava-colored bouquet. Yellowish red like the liquid spewed from volcanoes. If our love were a flower, it’d be a lava color. Molten and hot, yellow-reds shooting every time we touch.
That was then, now he knows.
“Hazel, would you mind giving us a few moments alone?” he requests, going toward the door and closing it as my sister walks out without fighting him.
He takes my hands and lifts my chin with his free one. I spot it immediately. The end. A small whimper escapes me, but the tears stay hidden. I’m an actress and as such, I order myself to become a strong woman who doesn’t care about the man in front of her.
