Out of the Hospital, but Better? New novel excerpt

After Fall of Knight is published and the movie rights optioned to it, I want Catherine Zeta Jones to play Dean's mother.  First, she is one of the most beautiful women alive, and second, she knows about mental illness.

                 

                  Dr. Adams smiles, "You seem better, Dean."

                “I am … much.  Uh, can I ask you something?  I mean if it none of my business let me know.”

                “I will.  What’s on your mind?”

                “Is Rocky – I mean, Roxanne – okay?”

                “She’s better than okay, Dean.  She’s been discharged.  In fact, she’s on her way home this very moment.”

Chapter 24

                I play the game.  I’ve been in their hospitals and group therapy rooms before.  I know what they want from me and I give it.  I “accept” my disability.  I talk about my lousy childhood and how I never got the love from my dad I needed.  I cry when I talk about how Mom resents me – that I am the one left alive and her husband is dead.  I talk about my sister and how she’s looking for love in all the wrong places.  I tell them a little about the beast, but not that I know it’s after me and people like me.  It would eat Rocky too.

                I do my school work, and I do it well.  If I understand it, I ace it.  If I don’t understand it, I bullshit it. I catch up to grade level in math, I even do a couple of speeches without dying, and I complete my creative writing project – a children’s story if you can believe it.  My teacher keeps it and tells me it’s good enough to get published.  She knows some publishers.  Empty promises.  Lies. I get through it. 

                And more than that, I take my meds.  I take this crap that I can’t pronounce, one tablet a day.  Two hits of Depakote, one hit of Prozac, and the occasional bite of xanax as the need arises.  I pretend like I sleep at night though I don’t, and I try eating my fruits and vegetables, but I nearly puke with each bit of food I take.

                I survive.  I do everything right – for four weeks -- well, 29 days, 8 hours and 33 minutes to be exact..  I’m sitting in Dr. King’s office for my final, “We’re proud of you, Son, go back out in the world, but be careful out there speech.”  I don’t get it.  Instead, Dr. King looks at me and speaks honestly.

                “Since Day one, I’ve told you I’m not a bull shitter, Dean.  Since Day one, I’ve thought you were.  I hope I’m wrong.  I hope you have truly realized the gravity of your illness.  I hope you go on; you get married, and you have perfectly normal children who grow up to be perfectly smart-assed teenagers with a life full of surprise and promise.  I want that for you.  If I’m not wrong, I will see you again: in here, in jail, or in a funeral home.”

                He stands and extends his hand. “It’s a warm sunny day.  Surprisingly so for November.”  We shake; I make sure my grip is firm and confident.  “I want you to spend some time being thankful with the holidays coming up.”

                “I am,” I say.  Thankful to be out of this shit-hole.

                “Your mom will be here shortly.  Come on.  I’ll walk you to the parking lot.”

                I pass Marcus, Dr. Adams, and a couple of my teachers on the way out.  Then, I  see John.  We haven’t exactly become friends in my time at the hospital, but we talk.  He’s pretty happy with his Abby – almost like Roxanne never existed. She stands beside him, her hand in his. I shake his free hand.

                “Good luck, Dude,” John says.

                “I’ll look up Rocky on Facebook, and tell her you said hi.”  I say, thinking that only douchebags call people dude anymore.

                “Sure,” he says.  “Go after her, dude.  I think she likes you.”

                “Might do that,” I say though I know I won’t.  She’s always going to be a part of my life that I connect with the hospital.  I don’t want to think about this part once I leave it.