Bob Zimmermann gives a low chuckle as he enters the room. "What are you doing there, Jack? Stretching?"
"He's resilient, eh?" the doctor notes with a smile.
Jack, atop the sheets in a half-crouch, half-lunge, settles back against the head of the bed. "Dad," he says. "Mom." He's not sure what else to say. There's no standard way to greet one's parents after one's very nearly killed oneself. His eyes fly to the doctor, instead. She's got red hair and a pleasant expression. A stethoscope, silver-black, glints at her throat.
"Jack, this is Dr. Keane," says Jack's mother.
"Let's get you checked out, then." Dr. Keane moves forward. "How are you feeling, son?"
"Fine," Jack says, because he's not ready to admit he's been hallucinating angels.
That's what Bitty was, right? Some sort of hallucination? An after-effect of the drugs in his system? Because angels aren't real. They can't be, and even if they were, they don't alight in people's hospital rooms and counsel them to breathe. If they did, well, people would know about it by now. This is the age of the Internet.
Besides, of all the people in this world who need a guardian angel, Jack can't imagine he's very high on the list.
Dr. Keane takes his temperature, takes his blood pressure, looks into his eyes and ears and throat. "All in all, you look good," she says. "But you're bound to at least have some residual drowsiness and balance problems as the drugs work their way through your system. We'd like to keep you here an additional night for observation." She turns to Jack's parents. "And of course we'll need to discuss options for longer-term care."
His mother's brow furrows. His dad nods soberly. Jack feels a wave of dizziness wash over him. "Wait," he says -- nearly shouts, though his throat still throbs. "What do you mean, long-term care? I'm fine."
"Your body took in excessive amounts of a dangerous substance." The look Dr. Keane fixes him with feels borderline patronizing, and Jack bristles. "It's undergone severe trauma, simply on a physical level. That's in addition to whatever emotional trauma led to--"
"I don't have any emotional trauma." The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. "Dad, Mom, you know I need to get back. I need to keep training. It's three weeks to draft--"
"Jack." His father's voice sounds like the toll of a low bell. "This is important."
“Draft day is important,” Jack says, hating the waver in his voice. “My career is important, Dad. This was just a setback. A stupid mistake. I know, I’m sorry. Just let me get back out there and I’ll--”
"Son," his father starts slowly, "we think you have a problem."
“A problem?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jack knows what his dad is talking about, but he pushes it away. “It was one mistake.”
“A mistake that landed you in the hospital,” Dr. Keane says.
Jack ignores her. “I know my anxiety has been worse lately. But I can handle it. Maybe-- maybe I just need more therapy. Or more medicine.”
His parents share a look, and Jack feels the shaking start, in his shoulders and arms, the way it always does. “Or not,” he goes on. “But I don’t need to stay here. I don’t need long-term anything, I need to get back onto the ice. I need--” The right words are what he needs, the key to unlocking this prison of a hospital room and sending him back where he belongs. And where he belongs is in the NHL, at the top of that list on draft day. It’s his shot. He can't lose it.
Unless he's lost it already.
He clutches the side of the bed. Failure rolls over him like a fog, heavy and oppressive. No, this can't be it. Last night was one mistake. One big mistake, but big enough to ruin everything? It can't be. How can his father just accept that, isn't it his dream, doesn't he want...
The shaking gets worse. Here come the voices, the awful ones that sound just like him, that tell him he's failed everyone in his life. He's ruined everything. He'll never be the person he was supposed to be. He's not disciplined enough. He's not determined enough. He's just not enough, period. Every moment the voices get louder, drowning out everything, and there’s pressure inside his temples like someone’s squeezing his head in a vise--
"I need a pill," he murmurs. "Just one. Please."
Is that even his voice? So small, so desperate?
His parents look at each other again, and another stone of dread sinks low in Jack's gut. “I’m not--” he protests. “I’m not an addict. It's my medicine. It's prescribed for me. I only want one."
He hears himself, and he knows he’s making things worse, but he can’t stop. He has to make them understand how bad it is, how only the pills will make it stop. Without them the screaming and the shaking will kill him, today, right now. He has to get through to them somehow--
“Oh, God,” he mutters. “God.”
“Jack.” His mother moves forward. “I know you’re scared right now, love. But your father and I are going to be here for you, every step of the way.”
“I don’t need--” Jack breaks off. He doesn’t know how to make them see. He’ll be fine. He’s not sick, he’s not traumatized. He just needs to train, and he needs his medicine, and he can do anything.
“Do you feel like eating something?” his mother asks. And Jack does feel a low growling at the pit of his stomach, but he doesn’t know if he can keep anything down right now. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes closed, trying to shut out those looks of concern that are stabbing him through, sure as swords.
Dr. Keane is saying something, but the words are just noise, hissing feedback over the screaming in his head. Everything he’s done wrong in the past 24 hours is playing on a loop at once, the practice and the fight and the pills and this, and now he’s doomed, and they’re still trying to talk to him?
He cups his palms, lowers his head into them, and manages to bark out, “Leave me alone.”
They all talk at once. Jack doesn’t hear a word.
“Leave me alone,” he repeats, willing them all to disappear.
“Let’s give him a minute,” he hears his father say. There are footsteps, and then the room is mercifully silent.
Jack lets the tremors overtake his body. He shakes, hard enough that the bed rattles beneath him, and grits his teeth against the sobs that keep rising to his throat. No. God, no. This can’t be happening. He can’t be losing everything. He can’t have failed this hard. But he did. He did.
The pain rises, crests over him like an endless wave. It feels like hours that he lies there, curled into a ball, each breath labored. The shouting in his head deafens him. Then, finally, mercifully, he slips into that bizarre phase where he feels like he’s two separate presences in the room - a numb observer, watching, and the man who’s still shaking and suffering. It takes time, but that man gradually falls further and further away, and at last only the observer is left.
Jack stops trembling and uncurls, feeling like a stranger in his own body, forcing his muscles to relax. He takes a few shuddering breaths and gets to his feet. Numb from all the pain, oddly calm, he concentrates on sensation -- the cool of the hospital tile beneath his feet, the sunlight that falls across his skin as he crosses to the window. The flowers on the sill shine bright pink smiles at him. He runs his fingers across the petals of one, then raises his gaze to see the ghostly Jack reflected in the windowpane.
Behind him is the pale image of Bitty.
“Jack,” Bitty says, hesitant, his face etched with concern.
Jack doesn’t turn to face him. “You’re back.”
“I never left,” Bitty says. “I’ve been here, Jack, I just wasn’t going to show up when everyone was around.”
“You were spying on me?”
“I was watching over you.” Bitty shrugs. “It’s kind of what angels do.”
“Angels, huh?” he says. “And how long have you been watching over me? My whole life?”
Bitty shakes his head. “I was just assigned your case,” he says. “I did a quick review of your life, but that’s all.”
“You picked a hell of a time to start,” Jack says. It’s only when he hears the hardness in his own voice that he realizes he’s angry. Furious. “Where the hell were you last night, before I blew it?”
“Jack, I--” Bitty starts.
“Where were you when all this started? Where were you when I was a kid? When I got so scared I couldn’t sleep at night?” Jack laughs, a rough, bitter sound. “You’re not an angel, you’re a hallucination. I’m just going crazy.”
“You’re not. I promise you, Jack. I’m real.”
“Then prove it.” Jack’s fist comes down on the windowsill. “Fix this. Fix me. Get rid of my anxiety. Make everything stop-- feeling like this.” Make everything stop hurting so much, he almost says. Only the reflexive clench of his jaw stops him.
“I can’t. Angels can’t -- we’re not miracle workers, Jack. I can’t change who you are.”
Jack turns. Hopelessness is draining his strength away, and he lowers his fist to his side. “Then at least…” He meets Bitty’s gaze. “At least make it so last night never happened. Take me back to yesterday. Give me a second chance.”
“I can’t,” Bitty says again. Sorrow glimmers in his eyes. “I can’t turn back time. I can’t change the choices you’ve already made.”
“Then what the hell good are you?” Jack can feel his fingernails biting into his palm. The pain focuses him. “What are you for, if you can’t help me in any way that counts?”
Bitty’s gaze drops to the floor. He’s silent. Jack watches him warily.
“I’m a guardian,” Bitty says at last. “I can’t perform miracles, but I can offer support. Comfort. Help with the choices you have yet to make. Doesn’t that count a little?”
He sounds like he’s the one in need of a guardian. Jack’s lips twitch, but more in bitterness than amusement. “So you’re some kind of heavenly therapist? You know I’ve got a real one, right? And pretty soon I’m going to be up to my neck in therapists. They’re going to put me in some kind of detox, and I’m going to be there instead of at the damn draft. Can you do anything about that?”
Jack doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. Maybe for Bitty’s face to light up. For a sudden burst of inspiration and magic. For some kind of miracle, or heavenly help, or something. For anything but what he’s got now: Bitty standing there, looking increasingly guilty and sad, and infuriatingly silent.
The sight of him brings back the rage, in spades. “Nothing?” Jack says, incredulous. “You’ve got nothing to say? Nothing you can do?”
Bitty takes a breath. “Jack, what I’m here for is--”
“Nothing. You’re here for nothing.” Jack sweeps a hand to the side. The back of his palm slams against the vase of flowers. It teeters, then topples. With a crash, petals and water and shards of glass all go flying. Bitty gasps, his hands flying to his mouth, but Jack doesn’t even flinch. “Get out,” he says. “You’re useless. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Jack!” The name is muffled by Bitty’s fingertips.
“Go!” Jack shouts. “I don’t need you. Just leave me alone.”
And just like that, Bitty is gone. Jack’s alone. He crouches among the remains of the shattered vase and hangs his head.
