Before long, a doctor comes in with a nurse and in some strange, dreamlike state I eventually hear him say that there is no heartbeat. I think the world has come out from underneath me, but I’m not sure. I see Andrew’s eyes, glazed over by a thin layer of moisture as he stares at the doctor while the doctor speaks words that have faded into the background of my mind.
Lily’s heart is no longer beating.
And I think… yeah, neither is mine…
Andrew
8
We’ve been in Raleigh for two weeks now. I won’t even go into all the shit we—Camryn—has gone through in that time. I refuse to talk about the details. Lily is gone, and Camryn and I are devastated. There’s nothing I can do to bring her back, and I’m trying to cope any way I can, but Camryn hasn’t been herself since that day and I’m starting to wonder if she ever will be again. She won’t talk to anyone. Not to me or her mom or Natalie. She talks, just not about what happened. I can’t stand to see her this way because it’s obvious, under that I’m-perfectly-fine façade, that she’s in so much pain. And I feel powerless to help her.
Camryn has been in the shower for a long time while I’ve lain here in her bedroom staring up at the ceiling. My phone rings next to me on the nightstand.
“Hello?” I ask.
It’s Natalie. “I need to talk to you. Are you alone?”
Caught off guard, it takes me a second to reply. “What for? And yes, Camryn’s in the shower.”
I glance toward the door to make sure no one is listening. The water is still running in the shower, so I know Camryn is still in there.
“Has her mom said anything to you about… anything?” Natalie asks suspiciously, and I get the strangest feeling from it.
“You need to elaborate a little more than that,” I say. Already this conversation is annoying the piss out of me.
She sighs heavily into the phone and I’m growing impatient.
“OK, listen; Cam is obviously not herself,” she begins (yeah, no shit), “and you need to try to talk her into going back to her psychiatrist. Soon.”
Her psychiatrist?
I hear the water shut off, and I glance toward the closed door again.
“What are you talking about, her psychiatrist?” I ask in a lowered voice.
“Yeah, she used to see one and—”
“Wait,” I whisper harshly.
The bathroom door opens, and I hear Camryn shuffling back toward the room.
“She’s coming back,” I say really fast. “I’ll call you back in a few.”
I hang up and set the phone on the nightstand seconds before Camryn opens the door wearing a pink bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her head.
“Hey,” I say as I pull my hands behind the back of my head and lock my fingers.
All I really want to do is call Natalie back and find out everything she was going to tell me, but instead I do one better and just go to the source. Besides, I’m not about keeping secrets from her. Been there, done that once, and I won’t do it again.
She smiles across the room at me, then tosses her hair over and works the towel in it with her hands.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she says, rising back up and letting her wet blonde hair fall behind her.
“Did you used to see a psychiatrist?”
The smile disappears from her face and is instantly replaced by a deadpanned expression. She walks over to the closet and opens it. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Natalie just called and suggested that I try to get you to go back.”
She shakes her head with her back to me and starts sifting through the clothes hanging in front of her. “Leave it to Natalie to make me out to be a crazy person.”
Still in my boxers, I get out of the bed, letting the sheet fall away from my body and I walk over to her, placing my hands on her hips from behind.
“Seeing a psychiatrist doesn’t make anyone crazy,” I say. “Maybe you should go. Just to talk to someone.”
It does bother me that I can’t be that someone, but that’s not the important issue.
“Andrew, I’ll be fine.” She turns around and smiles sweetly at me, placing her fingertips on the edge of my jawline. Then she kisses my lips. “I promise. I know you and Nat and my mom are really worried about me and I don’t fault you for that, but I’m not going to a psychiatrist. It’s ridiculous.” She turns back around and pulls a shirt from a hanger. “Besides, what those people really want to do is write a prescription and send me on my way. I’m not taking any mental drugs.”
“Well, you don’t have to take any ‘mental’ drugs, but I think if you had someone else to talk to it would help make what happened easier.”
She stops with her back still turned to me and lets her arm drop to her side, the shirt clenched in her hand. She sighs, and her shoulders finally relax amid the silence. Then she turns around and looks me dead in the eyes.
“The best way for me to cope with what happened is to forget it,” she says, and it tears a gash in my heart. “I’ll be OK as long as I’m not forced to be reminded of it every day. The more you all try to get me to ‘talk about it’ ”—she quotes with her fingers—“and the longer you all keep looking at me with those quiet, sad expressions every time I walk into the room, the longer it’s going to take me to forget.”
This isn’t something you can’t just forget, but I don’t have the heart to say this to her.
“OK, so…” I step away and move absently back toward the bed “… how long are we staying here? Not that I’m eager to get back.” It’s only one of several questions I want to ask her, but I’m equally leery about all of them. I’ve felt like I’ve been walking on eggshells around her with everything I’ve said in the past two weeks.