Chapter Text
She sat next to him knitting every day. They were a few weeks into group therapy, and the raven-haired man in the tapered denim jeans hadn’t spoken much while the other attendees shared their experiences. This surprised no one, including the two skilled counselors who led the discussions. It could take up to a month before some people felt comfortable talking more freely. A handful of patients were still institutionalized, while others had been released from the hospital where the therapy sessions were held.
The man had been an inpatient at the hospital for a month until his psychiatrist decided to discharge him. A condition of his release was that he would attend the group another three months. He got to go home, but his mornings and afternoons were structured around this schedule.
He and the woman were about the same age. She wasn’t the bubbliest person, but she spoke up during livelier sessions. She could be blunt but also kind. Her sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with life, even when she felt low. Everyone had good days and bad days. Like her peers, depression and trauma had taken her mind to dark places. They all were there to confront negative perceptions of themselves and challenge each other to do the same. Stronger bonds formed between some people, but without the juvenile cliquishness of other social environments.
The man’s permanently windswept locks suited him. A couple of lengthy bangs hung down from his brow above his left eye. It was apparent that he worked out in the gym because his jeans were designed for men with more leg muscle. His arms and shoulders, sculpted with meticulous detail, spoke for themselves. They conveyed discipline and order, perhaps to corral the demoralizing effects of the persistent sadness, shame and loneliness that nearly drove him to suicide. No doubt he was angry, but his love for his ten-year-old son had compelled him to seek help. He wanted to be in the boy’s life, to provide the support that his parents hadn’t given him.
He listened carefully despite others assuming that he was absorbed in his own thoughts. Only the woman appeared to recognize how engaged he really was. She knitted to quell her anxiety when the group ventured into more complicated emotional territory.
One morning after breakfast, even the therapists were intrigued when the man dumped the woman’s skein of yarn onto his lap, noticeably annoyed by its placement on his regular couch spot. The woman, oblivious to his irritation, nodded her customary hello but kept her head down.
He had grown accustomed to the modest smile she offered him most days. He had trouble giving her one, but the relaxation of his eyes expressed gratitude. But her smile wasn’t there today.
“How are you feeling right now, Bulma?” asked the therapist.
The man’s fingers latched onto a string of yarn, tugging on it - a nudge for her to speak. He didn’t realize that he’d done it.
“I’m just a little fatigued, Irene,“ Bulma replied. “That’s all.”
The counselor prodded a little more. “How did you sleep?”
Bulma’s tensed hands knitted down a horizontal row of yarn. The pattern resembled small pearls. “My father called in the middle of the night drunk again. It took a while to get back to sleep.”
“Is there anything the group can do to help you?” Irene inquired, assessing the mood in the room. “A few of you have ended contact with your families to stay healthy.”
Tears welled in Bulma’s eyes. “I just want to cut him out of my life, but he is my father. He’s sick.”
“That… does not give him the right to hurt you,” the man beside her said. “Not all alcoholics beat their children the way he did. You couldn’t defend yourself. You owe him nothing.”
Everyone’s attention redirected to the man. Neither the therapists nor the other patients interrupted, encouraged by this breakthrough. They hoped he would continue speaking, but he didn’t. From his perspective, his comment didn’t need further discussion. He, too, was a recovering alcoholic, which only the therapists had knowledge of. The idea of physically harming any child disgusted him. Despite his illness, he would choose death before laying a finger on his son. But the emotional fissures between them had begun to widen. He had to close them before it was too late.
Maybe I’ll say more tomorrow.
Most of the therapy patients lunched in the communal dining hall. Others walked to takeout restaurants to grab meals. Some finished eating during the second half of their sessions together. Whatever they chose, the counselors urged everyone not to eat alone inside the hospital. Bulma usually ate with the dining-hall bunch, laughing and joking with them at times. Vegeta, meanwhile, often took walks through the grassy trails behind the hospital campus. He carried a bag full of sandwiches prepared at home, preferring to save money for his son to do fun activities.
He scrambled for his phone on the way back, identifying the caller by the ring. “Hey, kid.”
“Hiya. Have you been writing more lately?”
“No, Trunks. I expect my book to be published months from now, and I accept that. How are you?
“Are you not feeling well, papa? You sound tired.”
“I’m having a tough time today, but it’s better now that I’ve heard from you.”
“That’s good. I miss you a lot.”
“Don’t lose sleep over me.” Vegeta muted his phone briefly. He rarely cried, but god, he felt like it then. Trunks could get quite angry with him at times, and yet the boy still outclassed many adults on showing empathy.
“Mom says it’s OK to check in when I’m concerned about you.”
Vegeta had reservations about his ex-wife telling Trunks to call whenever the boy worried about him. He didn’t want their son sucked into the destructive, narcissistic vortex of kids parenting their parents. He had that experience as a child, and it was agony extracting himself from that dysfunction. But he also didn’t want to disregard the boy’s feelings or make him feel bad for being a caring person.
“I sent your mother money for that gaming console you want.”
“Yeah, we went shopping last Friday. I told her I want to save the cash.”
“For what, Trunks? You’ve been talking about it for at least a year.”
“I want us to eat at that steakhouse where uncle Tarble worked, papa. Your birthday is coming up.”
Vegeta didn’t want to be tardy for the afternoon session, but resolving this problem had to come first. “That’s three months from now. The money is for you. Do whatever you want otherwise, but spending on an expensive dinner for me isn’t an option.”
“Just think it over,” said the boy, whose feelings weren’t hurt. Stubbornness ran in the family. “I see you’re trying to be stoic, papa, but no one with depression should be alone on their birthday. That’s not an option for me.”
Trunks hung up abruptly, leaving his father at a loss for words. An avid reader, he learned everything he could about depression after Vegeta’s hospitalization. He and his father shared a love for the written word, too, so the boy’s reading aptitude exceeded that of his classmates.
Vegeta took the stairs from the trails to the rear parking lot. The afternoon session was set to begin in fifteen minutes. He reached for the door, spotting a wispy stream of smoke drifting around the building’s left side. A woman’s training shoe stuck out from the corner. Sitting alongside a human ashtray for the next few hours would be unpleasant, he thought, but giving up his comfortable seat?
Not a chance.
Bulma turned the corner, preoccupied by texts on her phone. She hadn’t noticed Vegeta waiting by the entryway initially. He held the door open, allowing her to enter first.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, embarrassed.
“No, you don’t,” he replied. “We’re going to be late.”
Bulma crammed the cigarette pack into her purse. “I… I don’t smoke often.” Her fingers shook as if she’d been attacked, and her lips were chapped. “I won’t sit next to you this time, OK?”
“I’m not asking you to do that,” Vegeta said, presenting a sealed box of mints. He patiently held it in Bulma’s hand until her tremors ceased. “What you can do, though, is find a water bottle to drink from while we’re in session. You’re parched.”
He remembered his terrible case of the shakes during alcohol withdrawal. Who couldn’t sympathize with anyone suffering like that? Vegeta didn’t care about the cause. In this case, he weighed whether to inquire more about Bulma’s condition but didn’t want that to backfire. Though her father had a major influence, she had served in the military too, which didn’t work out well.
“I appreciate what you said to me this morning, Vegeta.”
“You’re here to speak your truth. I just affirmed that.”
“And what about you? This is the first time you’ve said something so strongly in our group.”
“I’ll see you inside,” he replied, preferring not to prolong their talk. “Make sure you have water.”
He handed Bulma the knitting needles after she took her seat, placing the yarn on his lap again. She brought two bottles, smiling as she gave one to him.
The counselors, supposedly engrossed in conversation, witnessed the exchange. Their behavior, however, didn’t suggest that they had.
“Let’s begin.” Irene closed the front door, counting the attendees. “Good afternoon. I know our first session triggered difficult emotions for some of you, so let’s address them.”
Vegeta spotted Bulma’s knitting kit on the floor one day after he arrived. She usually stowed the bag on an end table beside the sofa. Out of courtesy, no one else left their belongings there. Given her agitation over time, Vegeta surmised that this wasn’t a good day either.
Barrettes pinned both sides of Bulma's barely brushed hair. Another patient, crouched by Bulma's knees, tried to offer a rolled-up napkin of sweets. The woman’s concern was unmistakable.
Drowsiness had displaced the sparkle in Bulma’s eyes. She sluggishly locked hands with the woman, trying to assure her. “I’m all right, Agnes. Don’t expect me to say…say much after group starts. This afternoon will be better.”
Her pupils are dilated. After observing a few minutes, Vegeta pinpointed the source of her tiredness. Medication. She either took too much last night or this morning. How did she get here today? Bulma wasn’t a reckless woman, so he assumed a cab brought her.
Agnes stood unsteadily. Vegeta’s composure sent a silent request: “Give her some space.”
“Vegeta. She’s…”
“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I think I know.”
It wasn’t uncommon for patients to arrive listless because of medication changes or other reasons, but Agnes was new to the group and not using potent drugs. Bulma functioned as an ambassador of sorts, warmly welcoming the woman a week earlier and sharing tips about daily routines.
The woman handed Vegeta the cookies before tottering to her chair. “Keep them, please.”
Bulma’s eyelids gradually collapsed while he nibbled on treats. He adjusted his position, lightly knocking her leg. Her hand tumbled onto his thigh. “Don’t do…that. I may be sleepy, but I’m not dumb. You’re going to jiggle yourself into a bathroom piss - and believe me, Vegeta, I will laugh.”
“We have ten minutes before the counselors arrive,” Vegeta replied, winding his watch. His expression didn’t reflect his concern about her condition. “I shooed Agnes away because neither of you need the stress. But you should be in the infirmary a few hours to sleep off the medicine.”
“Let’s… make a pledge, Vegeta. I will stay in the infirmary if you talk more this afternoon.”
“What gives you the right ask that of me?” Irritated, Vegeta rubbed his strained neck. The nerve of this hardheaded woman. Even in her impaired state, she’s giving me grief.
Bulma's arm slipped off his lap. “I don’t, but you’re here… to speak your truth too. So fucking speak it.”
Then her body slumped over.
“Damn it.” Vegeta put her arms around his neck. “Stay with me, Bulma. You’ll be fine. So far, you’re the only person with privileges to curse at me.”
“I’m tired. So… tired.”
“I know you are,” he whispered, holding her head up. “I know. We’re getting some help.” The medication wasn’t the sole contributor to Bulma’s condition, he thought, noticing the little U.S. flag pin attached to her shirt.
Irene, the therapist, hurried to their side of the room. Bulma’s listlessness and glossy eyes verified the problem. Distressed patients clustered around them. Irene's arm shot up, hushing the group.
“Everyone, calm down and return to your seats. Vegeta, let’s get her up. We’re going to the infirmary. I’ll update you all later.”
Surprisingly, Irene blocked his way after they helped Bulma into a wheelchair. Baffled, Vegeta stared at her. “What are you doing?”
“I can take it from here," Irene said. "I understand you’re upset, hon, but your health is important too.”
Angered, Vegeta refused to budge. “I’m leaving with you, and don’t call me hon. You’ve never done that before with any member of our group, Irene, so don’t go there now. It’s insulting.”
As a therapist, Irene felt uncertain. Vegeta revealed his feelings, which she wished to support, but she also wanted him to participate more in the group to assist his own recovery. Bulma couldn’t be the sole pillar for that purpose, but Irene appreciated her patient’s impact on him.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Vegeta. You are right, and I apologize. Come with us, but after an hour or so, you must return to the group.”
Following a short medical examination, an infirmary doctor opened the privacy curtain. Bulma was sleeping in a fetal position on a cot. After covering her with a blanket, Irene invited Vegeta to see her.
“You have an hour, Vegeta.”
“I heard you the first time,” he replied, unfolding a metal chair. “What did this to her? Benzodiazepines?”
“You know I’m barred from saying what drugs she takes," Irene replied. "Only she can tell you.”
“I’ll… return in an hour.” Vegeta didn’t fling the counselor’s hand off him, another positive development. His eyes were heavy, though, as if he’d been through this situation before. “Will someone drive her home?”
“We called her sister.” Irene unlatched the door, thinking more about his behavior. “She always helps in any way she can.”
Once again, all eyes were on Vegeta after he returned to the therapy session. The attention made him uncomfortable, but pride won out. No one sensed any discomfort from him.
“We left your seat open,” Agnes said from across the room.
Vegeta closed Bulma’s knitting bag and sat down. “Thank you.”
Irene took her place beside her co-therapist. “Let us continue, folks. Bulma is resting comfortably. We’re sending her home. Judging from your faces, it sounds like you’re having an interesting discussion.”
Alex, another participant, raised his hand. “We were just talking about my daughter. Her high school graduation is coming up. She’s excited that I’ll be released from the hospital soon.”
“Wonderful!” Irene exclaimed. “Congratulations. Anyone else have something good to share?”
“My…son called me yesterday,” Vegeta said, thinking of Bulma’s challenge. “He’s ten.”
“We would enjoy hearing more about him,” Alex replied, smiling along with the other patients. “If you’re willing to tell us more, Vegeta.”
After two weeks of not seeing Bulma, Vegeta considered ignoring therapy protocol. To protect everyone’s privacy, however, group members were advised against socializing publicly until after they completed the program – and for some, never interacting again.
Ultimately, Vegeta didn’t give in to his impulses. For all he knew, Bulma may have been hospitalized in another ward and requested that the therapists not tell anyone.
Irene, recognizing how much Vegeta had been on edge, took him aside before a Thursday afternoon session. By this time, the therapist believed she’d earned enough of his trust to be heard.
“Bulma is returning tomorrow,” she said, smiling. “I wanted to tell you first. How are you?”
“I’m still here talking,” he replied, crossing his arms. “That good enough?”
Irene laughed, sensing more mischief than attitude from him. He was a writer, after all, known for books with sarcastic characters. “I’ll take what I can get, Vegeta. It’s almost Friday.”
The therapist’s news put him in an even better mood. He also looked forward to his son staying over the weekend. His ex-wife agreed to the visit without any trouble. He told the group afterward that her increasing trust in him to care for Trunks kept him encouraged.
A happy gathering greeted Bulma the next day. A few patients offered hugs and kisses. Vegeta hung back from the crowd, settling into a quiet corner. Bulma made eye contact but didn’t approach him. She’d been in therapy long enough to understand when other patients needed space. No one else asked Vegeta to sit either, including the therapists. He had made tremendous progress, and everyone wanted that to continue. He left the hospital as soon as their session ended, while Bulma continued chatting with Agnes and other women sitting on the floor.
He jingled the keys to his truck, listening to the crickets’ sunset chorus. Strangely, a scruffy-looking man with lavender hair was staggering around the farthest end of the parking lot, checking out cars that clearly weren’t his. The guy was in no condition to drive, so Vegeta ruled out potential thievery. He considered notifying the hospital’s guards until something else grabbed his attention. The intoxicated bastard stopped in front of Bulma’s car, squinting at its license plate and windshield.
“Here we go!” the man cackled disturbingly. “Found her! Found her! found her!”
Vegeta quickly scanned the lot and hospital's back door, cursing to himself. His protective instincts kicked into warp speed as he ran, disregarding the possibility of being harmed.
“You’re Bulma’s father.”
The bedraggled man sat on the hood of Bulma’s car, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t think that’s any of your business - and who the hell are you? Her boyfriend?”
What do you think? (For fun, what kind of writer would you imagine Vegeta to be?)