“You mind if I sit?”
“Do I have a choice?”
"Not really." I gave her a smile and lowered myself into the armchair beside her bed. The plush, roomy thing seemed out of place in a hospital. Just like the wet bar and fridge and the glossy LCD TV tuned to Teen Mom. I could tell her mattress actually looked like a mattress instead of the uncomfortable pallet thing they usually have in hospitals. And she had fluffy pillows. And a duvet. A. Duvet.
She was glaring at the screen, but when she thought I wasn’t looking, she stole peeks at me.
“Pretty sure this is the nicest hospital room I’ve ever been in.” She didn’t respond other than shifting her eyes back to the TV and keeping them there. “Not that I’ve been to a lot of hospitals or anything, so I don’t have much to compare it to. The few that I’ve been to...” I shuddered. “Death was a kindness compared to holing up in there.”
A vein in her temple twitched at the sound of the word death and I bit my lip, scolding myself for my choice of words. But it was in line with the pseudo reverse psychology thing I was about to try to get the truth out of her.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I get why a person would want to get admitted here. This has to be like, The Ritz of hospitals. Michelin star food in the cafeteria--”
“You think I want to be here? That I’m happy to be tied down to this bed because my room is nice?”
“Then why are you here, Mia?”
“I took a couple of pills,” she said nonchalantly. “Something to take the edge off. I guess I had a bad reaction.”
“Just a few?”
“Yes. Like three or four--”
“--Bottles?” I finished for her, sliding to the edge of my seat. “You weren’t trying to take the edge off. You were trying to not feel the edge or anything else, ever again.”
She looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You tried to kill yourself.”
Kill. Another trigger word. I watched as it rippled over her, turning her face ashen like she’d just witnessed something terrible.
“You’re wrong.”
"Am I?"
I could see the same fight she’d broadcast at the meeting as she sat up as best she could, squared her shoulders and looked me dead in the face. “Yes. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately so I took more than I realized.”
I took her in slowly, hard to keep my disbelief in check. She didn’t really believe that, right? It just sounded like a talking point she was told to repeat until it stuck.
“I didn’t come here to upset you. I came because you looked like you needed someone," I said gingerly. "A friend. To know you’re not alone.”
“I have a friend,” Mia said acidly. “He’s the one that found me and brought me here. He was supposed to be keeping people like you out.”
I bit back the desire to set the record straight and let her know that her so-called friend was outside giving a press conference.
“You’re just here to save face," she continued tersely. "If they found out I was a Whitmore and Creighton client and was admitted to the hospital on a 48 hour psychiatric hold, it makes the company look bad.”
It was harder to swallow the hurt that came with that accusation. This had nothing to do with damage control. I was there because I was worried about her. It was obvious she had trust issues and she didn’t know me well enough to know better. I had to fix that.
“Let’s start over,” I said, rising to my feet. “I’m Leila.”
She let out a groan. “I swear if I was closer to that string I’d put us both out of our misery.”
“I was born in the country, but I grew up in the city. Now when I go back to the country with the rolling hills and nothingness I can’t believe I lived there without driving myself insane.”
“Are you being serious right now?” she sneered.
“When I decided I wanted to work in public relations, I set my sights on Whitmore and Creighton," I pressed on. "If you want to be the best, no one else comes close. And then I met Jacob Whitmore.”
She wriggled to the left, inching closer to that string. She eyed me pointedly, clearly trying to let me know that was my warning.
I ignored it.
“I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never felt the way he makes me feel. I’ve never felt so....vulnerable." I crossed my arms. “Before him, there were only three things I couldn’t live without. My parents, my best friend, and coffee. Now there’s four.” I looked at her, watching as her features softened. “What can’t you live without, Mia?”
I saw the crack, the sliver, but there was still a chance it could go wrong. She could keep the wall up. Keep the door closed. Tell me it was none of my business or to go to hell. But she didn’t reach for the white string or punch the button I knew they had on the rail, well within her reach.
“I wish I had something I couldn't live without,” she said in a tiny voice. “Lately, it’s just been a bunch of things I can’t live with." Her eyes dropped and I watched as she picked at some invisible scab with her fingers, black polished nails burrowing into the white sheets. “I know what people say when my face flashes on the screen. ‘There’s another entitled celebrity given everything but she’s still not happy.’ And they’re right. I have everything and I'm miserable. I don’t deserve one bit of it.”
“Mia,” I said softly, “You don’t mean that. I’ve seen your show--”
“You watched Carolina, California?” she asked incredulously.
My face warmed. “I may have watched an episode or two.” Or ten. “You were incredible. And your voice is amazing.”
She gave me a bittersweet smile. “Nowhere near as amazing as Shelly.”
“Shelly?” I asked, stepping closer to her bed. “Who’s Shelly?”
She looked at me--no, stared was a better word. Eyes boring into me, scooping me out to study the bits and pieces. I had no idea who this Shelly person was but clearly Mia was trying to decide if she trusted me enough to confide in me.
“You were right,” she said after a minute, slumping her shoulders. “I was trying to...you know.”
So no to Shelly, but she was admitting she tried to kill herself. I’d take it.