Released (Caged #3)(17)

“Wait!” I called out.

He turned and raised a brow at me.

“I can…I can try.”

*****

Still shaking, I curled up on my side and let the nurse run a cold cloth over the back of my neck. Part of me wanted to punch him in the face, and another part of me wanted to at least tell him to go f*ck himself, but I didn’t.

I was too exhausted to do anything.

Baynor had let me take my time, and I had talked to him for a good three hours before I managed to get it all out there. My stomach revolted; sweat poured out of my skin; my hands shook. I wasn’t sure if it was because my body wanted H or because my mind wanted to shut down and Baynor wasn’t letting me.

I thought I was supposed to feel better after getting it all out there, but I didn’t.

I couldn’t even sleep that night.

Baynor returned in the morning and handed me a brown paper sack. I looked at him warily and then slowly pulled out a small book with a fabric cover. I thumbed through it, but all the pages were blank.

“What the f*ck am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“Write in it,” he responded with a shrug. “That’s what you do with a journal.”

“You’re giving me a f*cking diary?” I asked. “Do I look like a twelve-year-old girl?”

“No, you look like a completely destroyed grown-up man.” He put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. “I’m sending you home tomorrow. I want you to at least write something in it before your first session with Erin Chambers.”

I didn’t even pay any attention to what he said though I probably should have.

“I thought I had to talk and shit. Why do I have to write?”

“We have been talking,” he said, “but there’s more to it than that, and you know it.”

I frowned at the book in my hands, flipped it over, and then fanned through the blank pages again.

“What do I write in it?” I asked. My throat tightened. “Do I have to…to write all of that shit we talked about? I mean, about what happened?”

“About Aimee and the baby’s death,” he said quietly.

I swallowed as I nodded slowly.

“It’s okay to say the words, Liam,” he told me. “You’ve avoided that for too long, but no—you don’t have to write down anything in particular. Write down what you feel like writing down.”

“I don’t get it,” I admitted.

“You’ll figure it out. Get a pen, open the book, and put the two of them together—something will come.”

The small book felt heavy, and I continued to glare at it as I placed it on the bedside table. I felt like the damn thing was looking at me, and I kept glancing at the spine for little blinking eyes.

“There’s no way I can afford the shrink,” I said.

“Liam, you’re making excuses.”

“I’m not.” I shook my head as I argued. “I don’t make much anyway; rent is due this weekend, and I blew my cash on smack. I don’t want anyone calling in the Teague cash cavalry, either. I’m going to need to make more money for the…the baby. I can’t even pay for this little ‘night on the town’ here.”

Baynor eyed me for a minute before opening his mouth.

“You were brought here in the midst of a panic attack,” he said. “I determined you needed to be held for evaluation, so there’s no charge for the hospital stay. Your income level qualifies you for assistance with the therapy, including the first ten sessions at no charge. You know you can get other government assistance, too.”

“Welfare? Bullshit.”

“You could.”

“I don’t take handouts like that. Never have.”

“Well, I’m just telling you that you could,” he repeated. “Don’t forget about food stamps and WIC, too. Tria is going to need that kind of help while she’s pregnant and after the baby is born.”

I started tapping my fingers uncontrollably against the edge of the bed. I hadn’t thought about assistance for that particular reason. Tria needed to be as healthy as possible so she…she…so nothing happened to her. The baby would need more shit than I was going to be able to give it on a fighter’s under-the-table pay.

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Think about it,” Baynor said. “I’m going to give you a couple of prescriptions to try out as well. I have some samples that should keep you going awhile.”

“What are they? I asked.

“One is to help with withdrawal symptoms,” he informed me. “I don’t want to give you anything too strong, because even though your relapse was relatively short, you’re still in a precarious position. I’m giving you a prescription for anti-anxiety as well. I don’t have any samples, but you can get this one in generic form for about five dollars at that clinic a few blocks from your apartment. That should help keep you stable as well.”

“I’m not going to f*ck up again,” I told him. “I can’t.”

“I know you feel that way right now,” Baynor said with a nod, “but when you are back home and trying to determine how you are going to cope with all of this, you may feel differently. These can help you get over the rough spots, but I want you to call me each time before taking one. At least until we get you set up with the therapist.”