Night Owl(60)

"Hey little guy, you're not f*cked up." He stroked my neck. "I love you buddy, your brother loves you."

My throat constricted. Was he trying to make me cry? I squeezed the manatee.

"And Hannah loves you, Matt. She really loves you. Can't you see that?"

Nate straightened and turned away suddenly. He brought a hand to his face.

"We're bringing you home today." He cleared his throat and got control of his voice. "You need to make a meaningful effort with your breakfast, show that your system is bouncing back. The doctor is going to check you. The psychiatrist wants to check you out, too. Be nice, okay? And you have to promise to take your discharge meds, whatever they are."

"I promise, I will." I chewed another mealy bite of omelet.

"Alright buddy. When they're through with you, I'll fill out the discharge paperwork. I've brought you some clothes, too."

Another swell of panic ebbed in my chest. My blood was pure Librium. I was thinking about the clothes I had at the cabin. I didn't have much. When I packed in August, I wasn't worried about looking good. But now? Now I was going to see Hannah.

"Warm clothes?" I ventured.

Nate was at the door. He must have heard the anxiety in my voice.

"A few things of mine." He smiled back at me. "And a razor."

My doctor was a young Indian man. I saw him once or twice a day. He called me Mr. Sky and had a knowledgeable and pleasant bedside manner.

"You have eaten your breakfast, Mr. Sky. This is good."

I smiled and nodded. It was true; I had cleared the hateful tray with its processed omelet, bland cup of fruit, orange juice, milk, and toast. And I felt sick to my stomach.

Dr. Parikh listened to my heart and looked in my eyes.

"Mr. Sky, you must be continuing to take the Librium for seven days. I will prescribe for you a tapered dose. You will be having seizures if you do not take it. You must not be drinking."

"I won't be drinking," I promised.

The doctor spared me any further admonitions. We shook hands.

"You must be taking care of yourself, Mr. Sky."

The psychiatrist on call was a tall woman with papery skin and gray-blond hair. She lowered the rail and perched on the edge of my bed.

"Will you consider moving from here to an inpatient rehab?" she said. "I strongly recommend it. We have connections with New Mercies. Their thirty-day inpatient treatment program gives you the best chance to stay sober as you transition."

Be nice, Nate had said. I rubbed my mouth to keep from smirking.

"I'm fine," I said. Right, I'm awesome—I just detoxed for the hundred time and I'm lying here clinging to a stuffed manatee from my lover whom I refuse to see.

My lover.

I closed my eyes. The night Hannah appeared in the cabin and pulled me off... it was lost in a haze of alcohol. I remembered the pleasure, though. God damn, that girl...

"Matthew? Are you feeling alright?"

I glared at the psychiatrist.

I opened my mouth to threaten her with my uncle's lawyer, a New Yorker who razed lives like it was his job (it was), and then clenched my teeth. Be nice.

"I have good support from family and friends," I said. "I won't be drinking."

The psychiatrist hassled me for the next ten minutes. She asked if I felt suicidal. She even asked if I felt homicidal. Thank god she didn't know about the gun incident. She reviewed my medications and the tapered Librium dose.

"When you sign the release of information form, we'll fax your notes to your psychiatrist in Denver. You should schedule a follow-up with him as soon as you get back."

"Sure," I said. Fuck. I was going to be drugged dumb for the next week, maybe longer.

Finally she left.

Nate returned, beaming. He said the doctor and psychiatrist had okayed my release. He left a duffel bag of clothes at the end of my bed.

"Come on out when you're ready. I'll be just outside."

God, I could have kissed him. He'd lent me a dark gray pair of Armani Collezioni corduroys and a forest green V-neck cashmere sweater. I changed quickly, luxuriating in the feel of real clothes against my skin.

In the bathroom, I had to grip the counter. The room tilted like a skiff on chop, then righted itself. Damn, I was weak. And I didn't look so hot. I shaved and avoided my reflection as much as possible. He wasn't helping psych me up to see Hannah.

Nothing was helping.

I held the plush manatee and sat on the edge of my bed. I must have sat there for a good chunk of time because Nate appeared, smiling uncertainly at me.

"Hey buddy, looking good."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." I smoothed a hand down my shirtfront.

"You got everything?" He picked up the duffel bag and scouted around. He glanced at the manatee clutched in my hand. "Got your little friend there?"

"Yeah."

"Paperwork's done, I just need your signature."

"Okay."

I stood carefully. Nate wrapped an arm around my shoulder and led me out. I don't know if I was ever more grateful. I scribbled my name on two papers and the nurse behind the desk wished me luck. Nate guided me to the lobby. I stared at the tiles.

"Here he is!" Nate announced with forced cheer. I didn't look up. In the high shine on the floor, I saw a shape approaching. Fuck, I was still wearing my hospital bracelet. I yanked at it.