Seventy-Two Hours by Sana Vasi

Seventy-Two Hours By: Sana Vasi They took everything: my phone, my shoelaces, the underwire from my bra. They watched with calm detachment as I unclasped my necklace, ripping the delicate chain through the snarls in my hair. “You can just drop it in here,” the doctor told me, gesturing to the Ziploc bag scrunched between his meaty hands. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it all back,” he added, noticing my discomfort. “We’re not in the habit of pocketing patients’ personal belongings.” “You’re going to be okay,” the nurse chimed in with a whisper of a smile that sanded away the sharp lines of her face. “It’s only a few days.” My left arm throbbed beneath the paper-thin hospital gown as I smiled back. “Of course,” I replied. *** “Are you suicidal?” “No.” “Homicidal?” “Definitely not.” “If I gave you a gun right now, would you use it to shoot yourself?” “No.” “Someone else?” “Never.” “What would you do with the gun then?” “I don’t know.” The woman—Christina, according to the nametag pinned to her breast pocket— sighed, and leaned back in her chair. It was past midnight, and the fluorescent lights caught the blue-black shadows smudged beneath her eyes. I used the brief reprieve to nibble away at the corner of my sandwich. “Why are you here,” she asked, finally. Remnants of mayonnaise-slathered bread scratched the back of my throat, and I paused—swallowing down a sudden surge of nausea. “I don’t know,” I repeated. Christina nodded, then glanced at the sliver of skin visible between my palm and the sleeve of my sweater. “I mean—” “Yes?” “My roommates just overreacted.” “Mmmn.” “They were worried about me,” I admitted. “And why was that?” “I’m depressed.” “Are you taking any medication?” “Zoloft. 50 milligrams.” She wrote that down. “So what happened to make them worry so much?” she asked when she was done. “I— don’t always cope very well,” I told her quietly. “Sometimes it’s hard to live inside my own head.” Christina smiled. It was the soft smile of sympathy I was used to—the one that curled around the edges like melting plastic. I didn’t smile back. “When can I go home?” I asked. “You’ve been placed on a seventy-two hour hold.” “But—” “I’m sorry, sweetheart; it’s not up to me.” “Who then?” “Your psychiatrist. You’ll meet him tomorrow. He has to ensure you’re not a danger to yourself before we are authorized to release you.” “I already said I’m fine.” “Then you shouldn’t have a problem convincing him to let you leave.” Christina exhaled, then ran her fingers through her messy ponytail, pulling at the short, blonde strands that framed her face. “Look,” she continued. “Why don’t I call someone to show you to your room? It’s late, and you must be exhausted. Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.” “Of course,” I said. *** My roommate snored. The sound bounced against the thin curtain that separated our beds—providing a modicum of privacy that did nothing to block out the shaky inhales of the stranger next to me. The rest of the ward was silent, save for the comforting patter of the night nurse making her quarter-hourly rounds. The bitter residue of a sleeping pill, courtesy of Christina, lingered on my tongue and I closed my eyes—giving into to the artificial drowsiness that dulled the silent ache in my arm. *** We traded diagnoses like kids swapping Halloween candy on the playground. “I’m an alcoholic,” volunteered one patient at breakfast. “Heroin addict,” said another, with a self-satisfied smirk. “Ran my car into a ditch, so the police brought me here.” “Suicide attempt,” a thin, balding man spoke up from the other side of the room. “I didn’t—” he paused. “I couldn’t—” he trailed off. Looked down. Shoveled a spoon of watery oatmeal into his mouth. I poked a hole through my Styrofoam plate with the plastic tines of my fork. Sticky-sweet syrup congealed around the cuffs of my stretched-out sweater, and I pushed my sleeves up to my elbows before it could soak all the way through. “You’re a cutter?” I startled, tucking my scarred wrist behind my back. “I thought it was, like, don’t ask, don’t tell over here,” I mumbled. Heroin Addict laughed from the seat across me. “There’s nothing else to do in this God damned place but talk,” she said. Her elbows dug into the Formica countertop as she leaned forward. “So you might as well tell us. Why’d you do it?” *** The first time I cut was during my sophomore year in college. I scraped a pair of nail scissors across the inside of my thigh, and marveled at the tiny beads of blood that welled up in its wake. Disposable razor blades, I soon discovered, snagged at my skin with a brutal efficiency that left me breathless. By my twentieth birthday, ridged scars lashed the smooth expanse of my hips; by my twenty-first, they bisected the delicate veins on my wrists. *** “You’re such a pretty girl,” the nurses clucked at me when I peeled off my clothes to shower. “Why ruin your body like that?” I shrugged, but the truth was, I loved my scars for the simple reason that they were mine. *** “What do you mean they won’t let you out?” I angled the payphone away from my ear. “I told you. Doctor Alexandrian—” “Who?” “My psychiatrist.” “You have a psychiatrist? Tell him I want to speak to him.” “Mom, you can’t—” “Of course I can! I’m your mother.” “But, I don’t think—” “Sana,” she warned. “Mom,” I snapped back. “Just let me talk to someone,” she screeched. A pause. “Mom?” Her voice hitched. “Oh God, Sana. I am so sorry.” “It’s okay. I know.” “The past twelve hours have been so hard. Especially for your brother.” “I know.” “It breaks my heart, thinking of you trapped inside that awful place.” “I’m fine, Mom. Everything is fine.” “Promise?” “Of course; I promise.” *** Art therapy amounted to a handful of half-used Crayola’s and a stack of white paper. “Today, we are going to unearth our most intimate feelings,” the young RN clapped her hands and beamed at the listless group of patients that encircled her. “What does that mean?” Suicide Attempt asked, the deep timbre of his voice hollowed out by the medicinal cocktail prescribed to him after breakfast. “I’m a Special Ed teacher,” he added when I turned to look at him. “So I know from experience that, if you want results, you are going to have to be more specific.” RN Jennifer’s Cheshire cat grin didn’t falter. “I want you to draw a tree that represent your hopes for the future.” “Why a tree?” “Because they symbolize growth, of course!” “Of course,” Suicide Attempt muttered, accepting the scuffed, brown crayon proffered to him. *** I titled the piece New Beginnings. Jennifer loved it. After she left, I crumpled up my crude approximation of artistic talent, and threw it in the trash. *** Rosanna thought she was going home. Every day, she stuffed her meager collection of personal items into a brown, paper bag. “My parents are coming to pick me up at three,” she told us with a flip of her long, frizzy hair. We nodded and smiled, and wished her good luck. “Don’t forget to keep in touch,” she added brightly, scribbling her email address onto the corner of an Us Weekly magazine. “Of course not,” we assured her. Every day, she watched the clock, her doe-eyes glistening as the sun slipped lower, and lower through the window behind her. Every night, she cried. “I just don’t understand,” Rosanna sniffled. The wispy threads of her voice bled into the narrow hallway, where we all congregated before bed. “Maybe tomorrow?” she asked us through a haze of tears. “Maybe tomorrow,” we nodded. *** Rosanna came to sit with me a few hours before I was discharged. She clutched a threadbare Beanie Baby to her chest, and watched as I took a sip of decaffeinated Diet Coke. “I can’t believe we’re going home today,” she said. “I know,” I smiled. “What are you most excited about?” I thought about it. “Coffee. Definitely.” A small giggle escaped her lips, and she buried her face into her stuffed, purple bear. “I also can’t wait to wear a bra.” Rosanna laughed again, and I felt a pang of jealousy at the ease with which she found happiness. “You’re so nice,” she informed me, her voice muffled by synthetic fur. “I wish more people would be nicer to each other.” I bit the inside of my cheek, drawing blood. My fingers wrapped around the small of my left wrist, and I felt the scabs break open under their pressure. “Yeah,” I replied. “Me too.”