A Danger to Herself and Others(58)

“Most patients experience only visual and auditory hallucinations, but Hannah is part of the twenty percent who experience tactile hallucinations as well.”

I don’t suppose my characters would have integrated so well into my reality without the added bonus of tactile hallucinations. A roommate whose weight I could feel on the edge of my bed. A boy whose arms I could feel around me, whose kisses I could feel on my mouth. I brush my fingers against my lips while Lightfoot speaks.

Maybe if I hadn’t experienced tactile hallucinations, I’d have figured out that Jonah wasn’t real before Lightfoot did. Then again, maybe my brain would have adjusted Jonah’s storyline to accommodate the lack of touching. I could have made him the sort of boy who wouldn’t cheat on his girlfriend, who wouldn’t have touched me, even if he wanted to.

“We’re lucky to have caught Hannah’s disease this early.” Lightfoot sounds positively impressed by the clever way my disease manifested, and not a little bit pleased with herself for having diagnosed it. “We’ll never know how her hallucinations might have developed if left unchecked.” She pauses, then adds, “Some patients go years without a diagnosis, but Hannah’s already getting the help she needs. Hannah is ahead of the curve in this respect—she’ll be able to avoid the confusion and secrecy that many patients struggle with for years.”

How many times has she said my name? Maybe they taught her that in medical school: Use your patient’s name when arguing her innocence. It humanizes her. Or maybe she taught herself after years on the job. She continues, “Hannah will need treatment for the rest of her life, but with the right therapy and medication, she has a chance to live a healthy life. She may attend college, hold down a job, be a successful member of society.”

For the rest of my life sounds like a very long time.

Lightfoot adds, “People with this disease are more likely to hurt themselves than others.” She pauses to let her words sink in. “I’ve been working with Hannah for months now, and I believe that it’s very unlikely she meant to hurt Agnes.”

She makes me sound so passive, as though my brain was functioning without my consent. My disease was at fault, and I was an innocent bystander. Apparently I was wrong: My defense doesn’t have anything to do with how close Agnes and I were. It’s almost entirely based in biology.

Lightfoot’s laying it on pretty thick. After all, if she guessed my diagnosis months ago and people with that condition are most likely to hurt themselves, then why did my file say that I was a danger to myself and others?

Then again, Lightfoot said it was the judge’s decision that I be held for observation, not hers.

For the first time, I wonder if Dr. Lightfoot actually likes me. I mean, she definitely believes she understands me better than I understand myself. But I think there might be a hint of affection in her voice, like she’s impressed by my illness and pleased that I have a chance to live a healthy life. She seems determined to make the judge understand, to make Agnes’s parents understand that whatever happened wasn’t my fault, and I deserve to go home.

Does Dr. Lightfoot actually care about her patients? All this time, I assumed she was working at that place because she was too incompetent to secure employment elsewhere, but maybe she’s an idealist. Maybe she works at the institute because she truly wants to help girls whom others see as lost causes.

Like the person who goes to the animal shelter and says, Give me the dog you’re most likely to euthanize.

I sit up a little straighter and look at the doctor instead of at my lap. I swallow hard.

“I assure you,” Lightfoot continues, “Hannah’s symptoms are being managed properly now.”

Finally, she compares my disease to a broken bone: like a badly broken leg, my brain needed to be reset.

Agnes broke her ankle when she fell. Or more accurately, when she landed. The doctors set and wrapped it while she was unconscious.

Lightfoot finishes, “At the institute, by diagnosing Hannah, we set the bone and wrapped it in plaster. Now, it will require medication and therapy to function correctly in the years to come.”

My doctor sits. She looks at me and smiles, reaching out to squeeze my hand.





forty


I win.

It doesn’t feel like winning. No one throws their hands overhead and cheers, no one heaves an enormous sigh of relief. No one even smiles.

Instead, this is what happens:

The judge concludes there isn’t enough evidence to prove Agnes’s fall wasn’t an accident. Not when the only witness (me) was psychotic at the time.

Even if Agnes were able to testify, she couldn’t prove that I intended to push her. In fact, I might have been reaching out to catch her.

And if I did push her, it wasn’t my fault because I was unstable as the result of an undiagnosed mental illness at the time. (Of course, our attorney doesn’t mention that. He doesn’t want to admit that I might have pushed her at all.)

Agnes’s father shoves his seat out from under him so hard that it teeters, but doesn’t fall over. “This girl is dangerous.” His voice is angry and low. He’d probably hate that my file said: Patient may pose a danger to herself and others. He’d have preferred: Patient does pose a danger to herself and others.

The judge nods sympathetically, but says, “I know this is difficult for your family. You and your wife can discuss your options with your attorney. But when the Golds’ attorney suggested a psychiatric evaluation rather than pressing charges, you agreed—”