Page 97 of Switch!
“Talk to me,” I try again. “Please.”
He does, but only to repeat himself. “Leave me alone.”
“Okay,” I say, backing off. “I’ll give you time to think and adjust. We could both use some sleep, right?”
No answer.
“You’ll be safe here,” I say. “Change it to whatever you want. Find somewhere that makes you happy again.”
Thunder rumbles in the distance. It sounds like a warning.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m going now.”
Patrick doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even move. I walk to his bedroom door. When I open it, nothing lies beyond. I step out into emptiness, closing the door behind me, and I’m in his mind again. From the outside, all I see is a small black box. If I squint, I can see the outline where the door should be. I mentally erase it. I’m not sure how any of this works. I’m fairly certain that what I’m doing is only symbolic. I never needed to leave through a door before. By doing so now and then erasing it, I’m hoping to keep him safe inside. That way he can’t escape and do either of us harm while I’m sleeping. I’ll return tomorrow and offer to set him free. For now, I stretch out in bed, basking in blissful silence as I slowly drift off.
— — —
Life Choices Recovery Center hasn’t given me many actual choices. I’m either locked in my room or taken to group meetings and individual therapy sessions, but the visit herehasbeen beneficial to Patrick’s exhausted body. I sleep whenever I have the opportunity and clear my plate each meal. I repeatedly refuse medications, distrusting what they’ll do to me. I don’t think Patrick suffers from a chemical imbalance. I feel fine in his body now that he’s in isolation. As always, the world is slightly changed. Colors are a little off and food tastes different, but generally, I don’t feel any sadder in his body than in any of the others I’ve inhabited. Just a little worn out.
Patrick is too, judging from his behavior whenever I visit him in the black box. The scene is always different: a college campus, a suburban living room, an arena full of cheering crowds. No matter what’s happening when I arrive, it all comes screeching to a halt the moment he detects me. Patrick isn’t interested in talking. He only repeats the same phrase:Leave me alone.
So I do, but I attempt to find the solution to his problems during therapy. I ask what makes a person suicidal and what can be done to bring them back from that state. I quickly learn to refer to myself when asking these questions. “If I ever feel like this again, what are my options?” I gather hotline numbers, practice relaxation techniques, recite affirmations—anything they can teach me in the hope that Patrick will benefit. If his brain is making new memories—and it must be—that information should be waiting for him when he’s ready to resume his life again.
My attempt to heal him comes with an immediate perk; it spares me from thinking about my own problems. I feel cut off from my past. More than ever. Caleb and I were from the same town. Jesse and I were both dealing with his death. None of those connections remain. I’m stuck in the body of a stranger who refuses to communicate with me, and who still fights my attempts to delve into his past. He did so even before he truly became aware of me. I have no idea how or why.
On my third and final day of involuntary hold, I ask about repressed memories, which raises a few eyebrows. I don’t learn anything useful, aside from how little is known about the phenomenon. The counselors I speak to urge me to continue my stay. I promise to consider the idea, despite knowing that I’ll be leaving in the evening. Or so I thought. Turns out that my involuntary hold officially began after I was admitted here. I could have walked out of the emergency room whenever I pleased. That means another night spent in a room with a guy who talks about cocktails like old lovers that he misses. Hooray.
I don’t put up any false pretenses the next morning. I make it known that I want to leave. Nothing against the facilities or the staff, who were nice enough to wash my only outfit twice while I slept. I still can’t wait to change into something else. I’m even looking forward to returning to Patrick’s apartment because at least I’ll have privacy.
I feel less enthusiastic when I’m standing outside the recovery center, clutching a phone and wallet that are unfamiliar to me. Time to see if Patrick has any ride sharing apps installed. And money to pay for those services, because his wallet is devoid of currency. He doesn’t even have change. Of all the things Patrick is keeping from me, the pin number he uses to unlock his phone isn’t one of them. 1701. I recognize it as another Star Trek reference, which makes me smile. I have a feeling he and I would get along well, under different circumstances.
I’m swiping through screens filled with app icons when a honk makes me glance up. I recognize the car! The dented fender on the right-hand side gives it away. I rush toward the car, overjoyed when the passenger-side window rolls down and Jesse leans over so we can see each other.
“Hey!” I say.
“Hello,” he responds with less enthusiasm. “You seem to be feeling better.”
“That depends which one of us you mean.” I grip the door frame, like I need support, when really I don’t want him to get away. “Or do you still not believe me?”
Jesse seems to struggle within himself. Then he says, “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“That would be great!”
As I get into his car, I remember how relieved I felt whenever my mother pulled me out of school early. Even if it was for something dreadful, like a dentist appointment. The interior of her car felt like a slice of home and provided the same comfort and sense of security.
“Do you still remember his address?” I ask.
Jesse nods, but the car remains parked. “I’ve been talking to Trixie lately.”
“Is she okay? I’ve been worried about her.”
“Because she’s homeless?”
I nod. “That’s my theory.”
“Mine too,” Jesse says, “although I’m not sure which one of us thought of it first.” His blue eyes are watery as they assess my reaction to this. They’re vulnerable, or maybe sympathetic. Seeing him from the outside is strange. My initial impression of him remains the same: Jesse has a reassuring presence. He’s exactly the sort of person you’d want during an emergency, and not just because of his occupation. He doesn’t speak loudly or try to take up more space than necessary. He’s sensitive. Kind. “I keep trying to come up with explanations,” he continues, “but none of them stick. If this is a con job, it’s a bad one because you haven’t gotten anything from me yet. If it’s a prank or trick, why draw it out for so long? And why target me? Sarah’s tears didn’t seem fake. The funeral certainly wasn’t. But what really convinces me…” Jesse swallows. “I saw him pulling the trigger. Patrick, I mean. Almost like slow motion. When I moved the shower curtain aside, I could see his hand clenching, and I knew it was all over. But it wasn’t. You saved him, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “More like I stopped him. He’s still pretty messed up, to be honest. I’ve got him safely stowed away in this compartment in my mind.Hismind really, except—” I laugh and shake my head. “You know what? Explaining will only make you a nonbeliever again. For now, just know that he’s safe.”
