Page 94 of Switch!
“Sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” I try to sit upright in excitement, the straps yanking me back down. “I’ve got it! Something no one else could know. When you were sitting on the bed before work, you said you wanted a sign. Except you didn’t say it out loud. You thought it. This is your sign!”
Jesse laughs in a few short bursts, like he needs to relieve pressure to keep from going insane. He’s shaking his head in disbelief as he stares at me. “I’m checking myself in along with you. I think we both need help.”
“You really don’t,” I tell him. “I’m not so sure about Patrick. I’m scared if I leave him that he’ll try again. At the first opportunity.”
“Pulling up to the bay,” Stan calls from the front.
That means we’re at the hospital. “What’s going to happen to me?” I ask.
“You’ll be put on a psychiatric emergency hold,” Jesse answers. “For a few days, at least. You’ll have people to help you through this. You won’t be alone.”
“I haven’t been. Not since I met you.”
Jesse just stares in response.
“Please don’t mention any of the body swapping stuff,” I say in hushed tones. Stan has already parked and climbed out of the ambulance. “In your report, I mean. Or to anyone else. They wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do either,” Jesse replies.
The back doors open. Our time is up. Stan helps Jesse unload the gurney. I’m wheeled to the admittance desk of the emergency room and allowed back on my feet. They place me in a nearby room. Probably so they can keep an eye on me. A security guard—a really big guy—takes a seat next to the door so I won’t try running away. I don’t, of course. Instead I crane my neck so I can see the admittance desk. Jesse speaks to the nurse there while filling out forms. He doesn’t look at me again. Not until he’s about to leave. Even then he doesn’t say anything. Jesse only turns toward me, and after staring in my direction for a moment, he raises a hand in parting.
I do the same while trying to shake the feeling that I’ll never see him again.
Twenty-four ↔ Chapter
My visit to the emergency room lasts the remainder of the night. A doctor comes in to speak with me, and when he asks if I’m suicidal, I confirm that I am. Not me personally, but there’s little doubt as to Patrick’s state of mind. Holding a gun to his own head wasn’t merely a cry for help. He had fully intended to take his own life, and nearly had, until I intervened.
I don’t consider myself a hero. In fact, I’m already wondering if I’ve made another terrible mistake, because the person whose body I now share is miserable. I can sense his suffering, but I can’t yet understand the source. His thoughts and memories are too jumbled.
I know that he was born and raised in Connecticut. Patrick had supportive parents and a happy childhood. He was a bright kid obsessed with mechanics. He enjoyed taking apart appliances to see how they were built, spreading out the pieces on a table to study the way the components interacted with each other. This passion continued into his teens when he began entering robotics competitions. He won too! Not always, but often enough to keep him motivated. When he finally went to college…
That’s where it gets weird. I’m reminded of a declassified document with most of the lines crossed out. At first I theorize that Patrick might suffer from some sort of illness or injury that caused him to lose those memories. When I attempt to dig deeper, he fights me. Like when I tried to bang Caleb’s head against the bathroom stall and his body wouldn’t let me, except this struggle is mental. Patrick fights me so hard that I nearly lose control of his body. I back off before this happens, and so does he. I’m put in an awkward position though. Especially when the doctor asks mewhyI’m suicidal. I don’t know, so I settle for, “I’ve been really depressed lately.”
“Any particular reason? Did something happen?”
The answer is a resounding YES. That’s all Patrick will give me. As for the doctor, I tell him that I’ve been stressed out about everything. I keep the answers to his other questions just as vague. The doctor informs me that I’ve been put on an emergency involuntary hold. I’m going to be transferred to a psychiatric care facility where I’m required to stay for the next three days.
I’m not thrilled about that, but I don’t know where else to go. Back to Patrick’s gloomy apartment, I guess. I feel cut off now that Jesse is gone. He has a nice life, and I miss it. Having someone to come home to at night, the comfort of his apartment, the steady meals… I don’t think Patrick has anything like that. I’m asked repeatedly if he has someone to call, but Patrick doesn’t offer any suggestions. He thinks of his parents, but he doesn’t want to contact them. He’s ashamed at how far he has fallen, whatever that means, so I respect his wishes, not wanting to upset him further.
I’m given an egg salad sandwich and a bottle of water while I wait to be transferred. My mouth waters around every bite. His body was on the brink of starvation. I pace myself after the first few mouthfuls make his stomach clench, as if it no longer knows what to do with food. I don’t think it’s normal that he’s so bony. Patrick was never muscular or very beefy. Skinny, yes, but not this skeletal.
Starvation was taking too long.
Oh. The gun wasn’t his first suicide attempt. I don’t think he’s been sleeping very much either. My eyelids begin to droop as my stomach works on digesting its first meal in quite some time. I’d love a nap, but I’m worried that Patrick will reassert control. Although if he does, I suppose the hospital is a safe enough environment. They won’t let him hurt himself. Unable to stay awake any longer, I curl up on the exam table and give in to sleep.
— — —
I wake up with a jolt of panic. I’m still in the hospital, but the staff seems to have changed. After sitting up and taking stock of myself, I realize I’m in control of Patrick’s body.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” says a nurse I don’t recognize as he enters the room. “You’re just about ready to go. Here. You can change into these.” He hands me a pile of folded clothes, a filled plastic bag from a grocery store balanced on top. “The paramedic who brought you in last night went to your place to get these. Once you’re dressed, let us know and we’ll get you out of here.”
I don’t think they intend to take me home. The events of the previous night remain a little hazy, but I remember them saying I was going to be hospitalized. Not here, but the kind of place where they poke and prod at your mind. I’m frightened by the prospect, but I also have little choice.
Once the nurse leaves the room, I explore the contents of the bag. I pull out a wallet, cell phone, and house keys. Beneath this is a pair of socks and shoes. It was thoughtful of Jesse to retrieve these things, but I wish he had awakened me before he left so we could talk.
Once I’m ready to go, a security guard and the nurse walk me to an ambulance. I spend most of the ride going through the wallet, which doesn’t contain anything personal like photos, but I do refresh myself on the details of my new host’s full name (Patrick Alexander Harris), his age (thirty-seven), and even his address and basic stats. I would usually access this information simply by wondering about it, but that’s been hit or miss so far, and I don’t want to respond to a basic question like my birth date with, “Uhh. Let me get back to you.”
When we reach our destination and I’m allowed to leave the ambulance, I notice the name of the place: Life Choices Recovery Center. The two-story building is long and rectangular, the sign out front lowkey, probably to avoid alarming the neighbors. Hide the crazy people away where nobody has to see or think about them. Maybe I’m being oversensitive, but it’s hard not to feel paranoid when you’re being locked away against your will.
