Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"Hold on."

Lucy had another coughing fit and spit up. She stared at me as I wiped her lips.

"What… happened?" She started to shiver and her teeth chattered.

I put another blanket over her. She said something I couldn't make out and I bent down to hear her.

"Sick?"

"You've had a rough experience."

"What?"

Tears trickled down her cheeks, flowing under the oxygen line and into her mouth. Fear was twisting her face like taffy.

"Sick?" she repeated.

I took her hand again. "Lucy, they say you tried to commit suicide."

Shock widened her eyes.

"No!" A whisper, more lip movement than sound. "No!"

I gave her fingers a soft squeeze and nodded.

"How?"

"Gas."

"No!"

Behind her, the monitors jumped. Heart rate up, systolic blood pressure rising. The hand in mine was a sodden claw.

"No!"

"It's okay, Lucy."

"No!"

"I believe you," I lied. "Try to relax."

"Didn't!"

"Okay, Lucy."

"No!"

"Okay, just calm down."

She shook her head. The oxygen line shot out of her nose like a slingshotted stone. When I tried to replace it, she turned her head away from me, chest heaving, breathing harshly.

The door opened and the same nurse came in. Young and heavy-faced with chopped hair. "What's going on?"

"She's upset."

"What happened to her line?"

"It came loose. I was just putting it back."

"Well, we'd better get it right back." She took the line from me and tried to insert the nosepiece into Lucy's nostrils.

Lucy turned away from her, too.

The nurse put one hand on her hip and twirled the tube with the other.

"Now you listen to me," she said. "We're busy and we don't have time for fooling around. Do you want us to run tape all the way around your head to keep the line in? It'll have to be really tight, and believe me, your headache will get a lot worse. Do you want that?"

Lucy bit her lip and shook her head.

"So be still, it's for your good. We're just trying to take care of you and fix you all up."

Nod.

The line went back in. "Good girl." The nurse checked the monitors. "Your pulse is up to ninety-eight. Better relax."

No response.

"Okay?"

Nod.

The nurse turned to me. "Are you family?"

"Her therapist."

Quizzical look. "Well, that's good. Maybe you can get her calm." She headed for the door.

"About her pain," I said.

"She can't have anything. Not until we really make sure she's been cleaned out."

Lucy croaked.

"Sorry, hon, it's for your own good." The nurse swung the door open, letting in fluorescence and noise. "Just try to think of something pleasant. And don't get upset again, it'll only make your head feel worse."

The door closed. I picked up Lucy's hand again. Lifeless as a glove.

She said, "I didn't. "

I nodded.

"Really!"

"I believe you, Lucy."

"G'home?"

"They want to watch you for a while."

Her back arched.

"Please?"

"It's not up to me, Lucy."

She tried to push herself up from the bed. The line flew out, hissing and coiling on the bedcovers like an angry snake. The monitors were dancing.

"Listen to me," I said, putting my hands on her shoulders and easing her down without resistance.

Again, I replaced the line. She pushed up against me.

"Take m'home!"

"I can't, Lucy. That nurse was no diplomat, but she was right about one thing: You need to relax right now. And to cooperate."

Terrified looks, roller-coaster eyes.

More coughing.

"Why," she said, nearly breathless, "can't… home?"

"Because they think you're a suicide attempt. They've got you on something called a seventy-two-hour hold. That means legally they can keep you here for three days and offer you psychiatric treatment. After that, if you're no danger to yourself or anyone else, you'll be free to go."

" No!" She moaned and rolled her head from side to side.

"It's the law, Lucy. It's for your own protection."

"No!"

"I'm really sorry you have to go through this, and I want to see you up and around as soon as possible. That's why you need to cooperate."

"You… treat?"

"I'm sorry, Lucy. I'm not on the staff here. A psychiatrist named Dr. Embrey will be treating you, a woman. I'll talk to her first-"

"No!"

"I know it's frightening, Lucy, but please ride it out."

"Three days ?"

"I'll stick by you. I promise."

More moans. She flinched and managed to raise a hand to her temple.

"Ohh!"

"Settle down," I said. "I know it's hard."

"Ow!"

Her hand left her head and settled at her side. She poked her rib cage with one finger.

"What is it?" I said.

"Broken."

"You think you broke a rib?"

Headshake. "Me. Broken."

"No, you're not," I said, stroking her face. "Just a little bruised."

"No… broken."

"You'll be fine, Lucy. Try to get some rest."

"Milo."

"You want me to tell Milo you're here?"

"Tell him… someone-"

"Someone?"

"Someone-" Struggling for breath, she took a deep, wheezing inhalation.

Her heart rate had climbed over a hundred. A hundred and ten…

"Someone-" she repeated. Poking her ribs. Terror in her eyes. "Someone…"

"Someone what?" I said, leaning in closer.

"Killing me!"

She sank back and fell asleep. It took the monitors another minute to slow down.

I waited a while, then left to find some coffee. A man down the hall said, "Excuse me, are you her doctor?"

He looked to be around thirty. Five-ten, broad-shouldered, stocky, and round-faced, with light brown hair, a golf-course tan, and wide brown eyes. His blue blazer had some cashmere in it, his burgundy shirt was broadcloth. Beige linen trousers broke perfectly over oxblood tassel loafers.

"I'm Dr. Delaware, her psychologist."

"Oh, good." He extended his hand. "Ken Lowell. Her brother."

Movement down the hall distracted both of us. An old man, waxy white and skeletal, was being eased by an orderly into a wheelchair. Blood dripped from under his hospital gown, painting a winding, crimson trail on the gray linoleum floor. His eyes were blank and his mouth was open. Only his tremoring limbs said he was alive.

Ken Lowell stared as the chair was wheeled away. No one rushed in to clean up the blood.

He turned back to me, looking queasy. The good clothes made him seem a tourist who'd wandered into a slum.

"Dr. Delaware," he said. "She was asking for you. I thought she was delirious and wanted to go to Delaware for some reason." Shaking his head. "How's she doing?"

"She's recovering, physically. Did you bring her in?"

He nodded. "Has she done this before?"

"Not as far as I know."

Pulling a burgundy silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket, he mopped his forehead. "So what happens to her now?"

"She'll be here involuntarily for at least three days, and then a psychiatrist from the hospital will determine a treatment plan."

"She could be committed against her will?"

"If the psychiatrist- Dr. Embrey- believes she's still in danger, she can go to court and ask for an extension. That's unusual, though, unless the patient makes another suicide attempt in the hospital or experiences some sort of massive breakdown."

"What led up to this, doctor? Was she very depressed?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't discuss details with you- confidentiality."

"Oh, sure. Sorry. It's just that I don't know much about her. For all practical purposes, we're total strangers. I haven't seen her in twenty years."