Elizabeth Flock - But Inside I'm Screaming

“Now, as in…?”

“Now as in right away. Tomorrow.”

John did not bat an eye. “Whatever you need. Take whatever you need.”

Isabel had been unprepared for his unconditional support. “But…but I know this is leaving you in the lurch and I don’t want—”

“Isabel—” John’s voice a deep mix of gentle and gruff “—your health is more important. Can you still pull bulletin duty tonight? If you can’t just say, but it might be hard to get someone else in here since it’s Labor Day weekend.”

“Yeah, yes.”

“You sure?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “Then your leave will start tomorrow.”

“You haven’t even asked why,” she said.

“If you’d thought it was important for me to know, you would have told me. Now, go. Do what you need to do.”

Her eyes filled up with tears and she looked away from him. Silently but with great effort she stood up and turned to the door. As she reached for the handle she straightened her shoulders, took another deep breath, cleared her cheeks of tears and, for one last time, put the mask back on.

“He didn’t ask you why you needed the leave?” Dr. Seidler asks.

“No,” Isabel answers. “He didn’t even look curious about it. It was like he sensed that I couldn’t talk about it—whatever ‘it’ is or was.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“I’m wondering how that made you feel. Sitting there in his office—you were obviously at a real low point. What did you think when he told you to take whatever time you needed?”

Isabel’s mind wandered back to the day that now seemed like it belonged to a parallel universe. “I remember thinking that if I let John down I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I remember thinking I’d just go home and do it.”

“Do it?”

“Kill myself.”

“Because you disappointed John?”

“Well, let’s be honest here, I’d been planning it, anyway. But I thought that if John said I was leaving him in the lurch I would do it sooner rather than as I’d planned it.”

“You didn’t want to disappoint him.”

Isabel nods her head in agreement.

“Well. What I find interesting about this is that that is what one might feel about one’s father. A lot of people would try to keep from disappointing their fathers, not their bosses. It seems like you thought of John as a father figure—someone who looked out for you, cared about you. Yes?”

Isabel nods again.

“So when you went to him, obviously at the end of your rope, so to speak, and he stepped up to the plate, giving you unconditional support without even asking you what it was all about, that was healing for you. That was indeed something a father would do. And John did it. He came through.”

“Yeah. But then again, I did look pretty strung out. Maybe that’s why he didn’t ask me any questions.”

“See? Even now you’re hedging. It’s like you can’t believe someone could offer you their support when you most need it. It’s like you don’t trust it.”

Isabel thinks about the doctor’s words. She imagines Dr. Seidler as a gardener, an oversize trowel in her hand, digging into the soil of her soul. Peering into—what? Compost? The cynical part of Isabel wonders. And what would she plant in the space she’d created? What would grow—flourish, even?

“I want to trust it.” Isabel’s voice is one decibel higher than a whisper. “I want to.”

“Then why don’t you? What would it be like if you just felt the warmth of someone reaching out and throwing you a lifeline at a time when you’re gasping for air? You don’t have to answer. Just think about how wonderful that would feel. To have someone be there for you when you most need it.”

Isabel feels a tiny seed dropping into the hole deep inside her and knows it will flower. Someday.

Twenty-four hours later Isabel is sitting on a train.

Why is my heart beating so goddamned fast? I’ve been taking the train for as long as I can remember. This is a piece of cake: there’s no room for error, really. I’m in, I’m out. So why do I feel faint?

“This is the 2:10 train to Grand Central. The 2:10 to Grand Central.” The conductor’s loud voice is a vise tightening on her stomach walls.

Jesus. Maybe I’m not ready after all. This is happening so fast.

“Going all the way in?” The conductor is standing in the aisle clicking his hole punch impatiently.

“Excuse me?” Isabel tears her head away from the station that is rapidly shrinking in the distance.

“Going to Grand Central, miss?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“That’s $5.75.”

Isabel fumbles for her wallet and feels confused searching through the bills.

Should I give him a twenty or a ten? Maybe I’ll need change once I get into the city. I do have exact change but maybe I should hold on to the smaller bills.

“Miss? That’s $5.75 please.”

Isabel nervously hands him the twenty.

“You got anything smaller?” The conductor is annoyed at having to change the bill.

“No. Sorry,” Isabel lies.

He sighs and hands her back the change and moves on to the next passenger. Isabel realizes she has been holding her breath. She exhales.

Calm down. Calm down.

Forty minutes later the voice booms through the cars: “Grand Central Station. This is Grand Central Station, folks. Last stop.” Isabel tightens her grip on her purse straps, which have remained on her shoulder for the entire ride.

“Grand Central Station.” The voice is echoing in her brain as she follows the crowd of people up the platform into the main terminal. Once there Isabel stops and looks around as if she is seeing the monumental structure for the first time.

I look like a tourist from Iowa wandering through Times Square. All that’s missing is that ugly coin purse thing that straps around my waist. Has there always been an echo in here? I never noticed it before.

Isabel inches through the bustling station toward the door she is most accustomed to using. At the Vanderbilt Avenue exit taxis wait for commuters, and at this hour in the afternoon there is a long line of hungry drivers.

I have plenty of time. I don’t know why I took such an early train. Maybe I should save money and take the subway. A cab would be ridiculously expensive. I’ve got time.

She checks her watch for the sixth time.

Right now they’re in afternoon group, she thinks as she goes back in to the station and follows the signs for the subway. She has not taken into account that she is unfamiliar with this particular subway line. Her confusion is magnified.

Calm down. Calm down.

The subway map, with its colorful maze of lines, blurs together.

Jesus. I don’t know where I am. Where am I on this map? Okay, calm down. I can do this. I take the subway all the time.

The deafening sound of an approaching train drowns out Isabel’s thinking. Passengers pushing through the turnstiles and running past her to jump on board make her head hurt. A sense of urgency surges through her. She steps onto the train.

“Excuse me, sir? Is this the four or six northbound?”

The man looks the other way and pretends not to hear her. Isabel’s panic increases as the doors shut and the train picks up speed.

“Excuse me, is this the four or the six northbound?” she asks a well-dressed woman.

“What? No. This is the six express downtown. The next stop is Police Plaza.” The woman sounds indignant.

She thinks I’m a mental patient. She knows I’m staying at a mental hospital. Oh, God, I’ve got to get off this train. Stop! Stop the train!