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Why wasn't it coming off?I cried to myself.
I scrubbed violently as the panic rose.
Brandt came crashing through the door, looking down at the cast and then to my bleeding arm.
"Holy shit, Bay. What did you do?"
I couldn't take it anymore. I collapsed to the bottom of the shower, grabbed my knees tightly to my chest, and buried my pain. A second later, Brandt got into the shower, fully clothed, sat behind me, pulled me onto his lap, and held me. His body trembled with mine.
"What did you do?" he repeated several times softly.
He peeled off my shirt and scrubbed me down gently with the loofah, starting with my back. Then he shimmied to the front of me and scrubbed my legs, my stomach, and my chest. He paused and stared at my arms.
I was still semi-incoherent, but when I looked down at my broken arm, I saw the slashes I had inflicted while cutting off the cast. The blood was real. At least some of it.
"You need to come back to me, Bay. Look at me."
I peered up to him. "What's happening to me?" I begged. I needed to understand.
"I don't know, but we're going to get you help, okay? I'm here, Bay. No matter what."
I could only nod because the words wouldn't come. I was going certifiably crazy, and I was either going to take him with me, or I was going to lose him in the process.
He turned off the water and helped me out, being careful with my broken arm. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, I could see how dark the bruises still were on my broken ribs. Healing was going to take a lot longer than we all thought.
After cleaning me up, Brandt took me to the hospital to get a new cast. There were a lot of whispers behind the curtain, and I knew they involved the cuts on my arm. They all probably thought I was trying to kill myself. I didn't know how to explain the urgency in me to get it off. Once I was fitted with a new one, Brandt decided it was best if we went back to his place.
The car ride was uncomfortably quiet, so he turned on the radio for background noise. I wanted to say something to assure him I wasn't trying to kill myself, but I didn't have the strength in me. I just wanted to go to bed.
When we got into the apartment, Grady was pacing. I walked straight past him into Brandt's room without a word, pushed off my shoes, and climbed into his bed. I could hear their voices, but I couldn't hear what they were saying, and I didn't really care. I didn't care about anything anymore. I had just laid my whole family to rest, and I just wanted to go to sleep.
I closed my eyes and blocked out the world, only to be startled by Grady a few minutes later. He sat on the bed next to me, burying his head in his hands. He rubbed his face and sighed.
"I can't do this without you, Bay," he muttered.
The way his voice cracked with worry affected me in a way nothing else had. I reached out and touched his arm. Without looking, keeping his back to me, he took my hand and began to sob.
"I'm sorry I scared you, Grady." I was practically pleading for forgiveness. He had already been through so much. What was I thinking?
"I know she was going to leave me, Bay. I could feel it, but I still had this hope that once she got the freedom she needed, we would get back together and get married…have a family. I was living on that hope, but now…there's no hope, Bay, but there's you. You're still here, and when you're here, I can feel her. It helps me. You help me. I can't lose you. You're my best friend and the only piece left of her."
His words grated at me slowly, peeling away my walls. "I wasn't trying to kill myself, Grady. I think I'm going crazy, that's all." I tried to make a half-hearted joke. We both let out an oddly comforting laugh.
"Crazy I can deal with," he said.
"Good, because that's all I've got."
The next day Brandt took me to see a psychiatrist. I didn't blame him for encouraging it. I had to admit I even scared myself. I didn't like where my mind went, and I had no intention of going back.
The psychiatrist officially diagnosed me with PTSD and depression. She prescribed some medication and recommended I start coming at least once a week to start work on the trauma. She was nice, but when she handed me the prescription, she threw me off a little when she instructed I take a pregnancy test before starting the medication. It was a practical request since I was married, but Brandt and I had only slept together a few times right before the accident, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had my period. Would that even matter? Stress changes cycles, and I had definitely been under a lot of stress lately, and honestly, I never tracked my period. I never had a reason to.
Brandt sat outside during the appointment and drove me to the pharmacy and then back to his apartment. It was almost noon, but Grady was still sleeping. Brandt caught me staring at his door.
"I'm worried about him, too," he said.
"I think he's going to be okay. He just needs time, like us."
"Thank you for being there for him.”
