Page 37 of That One Moment

“I’m going to find the doctor and see if they need anything from me. I have to get back, I have a job and a gir-” he stops himself with a shake of his head. “I have a life to get back to.” With that, he walks out of the room, and I exhale a heavy breath as a bone deep ache settles in my chest.

It doesn’t go unnoticed, that despite everything that went down between us, he came here. For me.

Jamie doesn’t come back for a few hours and I presume he’s washed his hands of me. The hours pass slowly as nurses check me over. The doctor I need to see keeps getting delayed, so I sleep and stare out the window and ask repeatedly when I can leave.

Another doctor comes just after a dinner tray is placed in front of me. She’s older than all the other doctors and nurses who have seen me and she has a strong Scottish accent. She reads through my chart, telling me that the cut on my arm is superficial - I didn’t nick any veins or arteries - and I have a minor concussion. All of which I already knew. She adds that they don’t need to treat the concussion or the dehydration any further, so I’m just waiting on the final doctor to assess me. She tells me that it’s their duty of care to make sure I’m not a danger to myself and I nod in understanding, assuring her like I have everyone else, that I’m not - no longer - suicidal. That I’m okay and that I really just want to go home.

I sleep again, because I’m bored, not because I’m tired, and when my eyes open, he’s there. Jamie. Slumped in the same chair he was in earlier. He’s wearing a different hoodie but the same blue jeans. My heart beats a rhythm that says ‘you came back’ and his green eyes meet mine. They say ‘I came back.’ And we stare at each other for more heartbeats than I can count.

“Right, Mr Carrington,” a doctor says as he enters the room, snapping my gaze from my stepbrother. “I’m sorry for the long wait, but it was good in any case to keep you here for observation.” He introduces himself as Dr Grimes, a member of the hospital's liaison psychiatry team. When he asks me if I wantJamie to leave, I shake my head because for whatever reason, I like the feeling of him being in the room with me.

Dr Grimes spends thirty minutes discussing the incident and trying to determine if I’m a danger to myself or if I have any intentions of hurting myself again. He asks about the medication for depression and anxiety that I was previously prescribed and I admit - with my eyes focused anywhere but on him or Jamie - that I stopped taking them when Cooper died. The weeks leading up to his death were some of the first where I’d actually felt good about myself. When he died, I didn’t think I deserved to feel that way anymore.

The doctor jots down all these notes and I want to ask him what he thinks. I want to ask him if three years has been enough - if I’ve punished myself enough. I want to tell him that all I wanted sitting on that bathroom floor was to see my twin again and I want to ask him if there’s any chance that Cooper knows how sorry I am. But I don’t. Instead, I keep my expression clear and I answer his questions and nod at all the right times and do everything that is expected of me.

“Do you have a support system at home?” Dr Grimes asks. “Someone who can check in on you?” He looks down at his notes. “I see here that you told the nurse you live alone.”

Jamie shuffles in his seat, but I keep my eyes on Dr Grimes. “Yes, I have someone I can call.” From the corner of my eye, I see Jamie move again, I doubt he believes me.

“Great. In that case, I’m going to discharge you back to your GP where you can make an appointment to discuss medication. I’m also recommending talking therapy. I can send the referral today, if that’s something you would like to consider?”

I nod and Dr Grimes continues. “I’ll give you the details of the crisis team should you need to speak to someone urgently. Now, before you can go, we need to run through a safety plan.”

Jamie clears his throat before speaking up. “What is that?”

Dr Grimes keeps his eyes on me while answering the question. “It’s a plan we develop along with the patient to determine what their risks are, as well as the early warning signs and potential triggers. We’ll discuss how to avoid these triggers, what positive actions you can take and who to reach out to for support.”

We spend the next thirty minutes putting a safety plan in place - Jamie listens quietly while the doctor and I talk - after which Dr Grimes flips over a few pages in my chart, scribbles some notes and then closes it.

“A nurse will get your discharge papers finalised and once I’ve sent the referral through for counselling, you’ll get a letter offering you an assessment. Unfortunately, there are waiting lists for some of the therapies but if you need anything before then, please bring yourself to A&E or call one of the helplines we discussed. There is always someone around to help you, Caiden.”

“He really doesn’t need to stay in longer?” Jamie asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Because of what he tried to do. Shouldn’t you keep him here?” My eyes dart from Jamie to Dr Grimes and I clench my jaw. I don’t want to stay here longer. I want to go home.

“No, he’s fine to leave. We would only want to keep him longer if we felt he was a danger to himself or others. There is nothing in my assessment that leads me to believe Mr Carrington is either of those things. So, in this instance, we’d refer him to receive therapy within the community.”

Twisting my hands together, I watch them while taking in his words. Then it’s my turn to speak and I don’t know why I feel so comfortable opening up to this man. Maybe it’s his warm, understanding smile, or the calm, reassuring tone of his voice, but for whatever reason, I want him to know that Iwantto live.

“Thank you, doctor,” I say. “I think,” I clear my throat before speaking again, “I think this was a mistake. I mean, I made a mistake.”

Empathy shines warmly in the doctor's eyes as he listens to me, before he adds, “I won’t try to pretend I know what brought you to that place, nor will I say that now everything will be okay. There isn’t some magical cure to make things better as soon as you walk out these doors. But I will say that by speaking to someone, and with the right medication, there is a chance that things will feel brighter eventually.”

I don’t think he’s right about my life ever feeling bright again. I gave up on the hope of feeling anything other than hurt and sad a very long time ago but I know for sure that I don’t want to die. Where I go from here, I don’t know yet, but leaving the hospital and going home is the first step.

Jamie stands and thanks the doctor and I’m sure he’s about to follow the older man out of the room. That he’s about to leave, about to walk out of my life. And that’s fine. It’s probably for the best. I don't need him. I never did.

Jamie doesn’t walk out though. Instead, he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at me. His eyes, green like a frostbitten woodland, scan me from head to toe. His brow furrows and I get this feeling that he’s warring with himself over something. My gut churns the longer he watches me and I’m acutely aware of every beat of my heart and thump of my pulse. His presence in my life is wreaking havoc on me and I really need him to leave.

“You can go now. I’m fine,” I say, breaking through the heavy anticipation hanging in the air.

Jamie nods once, then shoves both hands in the front pocket of his black hoodie. “Okay,” he says again. The only fucking thing he seems to say to me now. I hate that fucking word.

“Okie dokie,” a lady dressed in blue scrubs says as she swoops into the room, bringing with her the sweet scent of something floral. It’s a different nurse to the one who was with me earlier. “Your paperwork is sorted. Oops sorry love,” she says when she bumps into Jamie. He takes two steps to the side so that he’s outof her way. She removes the IV from my hand and then says I can leave when I’m ready. I’m still dressed in the same clothes I came in wearing.

Looking down, I scrunch up my nose at my black and white t-shirt that is very clearly covered in my blood. Without another option, I carefully sit up then swing my legs over the side of the bed. My arms feel heavy and my legs shake when I stand, but I manage to straighten up using the cot for balance.

“Did you have a jumper with you, hun? It’s a little nippy outside. Oddly cool for a July night,” she asks as she busies herself clearing up.

“No,” I shake my head. “But it’s fine, I’ll be fine.” A visible shiver catches me off guard - as if my body is calling me out for lying, and I wrap my arms around myself.

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