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It kills him that she knows.
The cab is dark and overly warm. He scoots to the far side of the back seat, hugging the car door. He presses his forehead into the harsh coolness of the December window and closes his eyes. His shallow breaths fog up the glass. She gives him space and sits on the other side, but he can feel her glance over at him every so often. He doesn't have the energy to talk, and she doesn't push him to. They ride in tired silence.
"Donna, I don't need stitches."
"Josh--"
"It's clean, I cleaned it."
"Did you?"
"I used the cream stuff."
"What st--"
"The anti-bacterial..."
The cab had dropped them off at the curb outside the hospital. Josh is looking around, EMERGENCY ROOM in bright red letters, he can see gurneys and nurses and sickly pale blue light through the sliding glass doors. An ambulance pulls around the corner abruptly, racing off to find someone, to put them on a stretcher, to-- Unconsciously, he digs his fist into his right palm, shooting a sharp pain through his hand. Donna grabs his left hand away from him.
"Josh..."
"Donna, I swear I'm fine."
"You could have a thing."
"Donna..."
"Josh, it could be infected or something. You need to see a doctor."
"I don't need you to babysit me."
"I don't care."
"It's fine."
"Josh--"
"It's not that deep."
"You're hyperventilating."
"Stop--
"Josh--"
"Stop--"
His visions blurs and he tries to turn the part where he falls over into something graceful, but it's more of an awkward stumble to the knees, a quick hand out to catch himself, his head spinning, sickening.
"Josh!"
Donna is down on the sidewalk with him, catching his shoulders firmly. And she pulls him over to sit against the cold cement wall of the hospital and guides his head between his knees, hand on back. And his eyes are squeezed shut and he's gasping in air.
"It's okay,” she says.
He takes deep breaths of the frigid air, feels his exhales fog up where he's hiding between his knees.
It takes him a few minutes to bring his breathing down, and feel the world shift back into focus. When he finally lifts his head, he rubs at his face, hard. Donna scoots back to give him space. They sit in silence on the cold concrete for a few more moments, then Donna jokes, "When was the last time you exhaled?"
Josh laughs shakily, and is surprised to find a wry grin on his face. "Eh, it's been a few weeks."
Donna smiles at him. "You need to work on that."
Josh leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, listening to distant sounds of nighttime traffic.
"Donna, I can't do this tonight."
"Yes, you can, Josh."
"No, you don't understand, I cannot go in there."
"I know it's hard, but--Josh, you're bleeding again."
He hadn't noticed, but when he looks sure enough blood had started seeping thinly through the gauze.
He looks over at her.
"I can't do this again, Donna."
"Neither can I."
Josh stares at her, and she's looking him right in the eye.
"I refuse to see them trying to pump life back into you again. You can't--" her voice breaks for a moment, but she closes her eyes for a second and steadies herself. "Which is why you're going to go in there and let them help you. And why you're going to keep talking to someone. And why when it gets bad you're gonna call me or call Leo. You aren't going back there, Josh."
Josh is silent for what feels like forever, just staring at Donna, her flushed cheeks, her eyes locked on his, unwilling to let go.
He nods dumbly, pulls on his coat sleeves.
"You remember that night?" she asks.
Josh rolls his eyes, "You could say that."
“When you go in there it's all going to feel the same way. Your brain is going to take over and it will be lying to you and scaring you and it'll feel like it's all happening over again.”
Just the thought makes his stomach start bending and twisting in ways he knows it shouldn’t. Josh takes in a shaky breath, and squeezes his stinging eyes shut.
“But Josh it's not the same as that night. What's different is that I wasn't there with you. But I'm here now.” Donna bites her lower lip slightly, considering her next question carefully.
“Josh, can I hold your hand?”
Josh looks up at her then. Her blue eyes are staring into his, searching. He thinks he sees the hint of freckles on the bridge of her nose, but his eyes are still seeing spots, so he can’t be sure. Can I hold your hand?
“Just to ground you, ok? To remind you that you’re here, now, where nothing is going to hurt you.”
Their eyes are still locked. Josh blinks hard, shakes his head to try and shrug the moment off. “I’m not a little kid. I don’t need you to hold my hand when I go to the doctor’s.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I know, I just . . . Christ’s sake, I’m not that pitiful.” He stands up abruptly, dusting off his coat. He sucks in a breath and marches towards the automatic sliding doors, Donna following close behind.
He is filling out the admittance form at the front desk when the strobe lights start bouncing off the windows, doors swish open and voices shouting yelling, gurney and nurses racing down the hall right past him. He isn’t sure if he heard the patient whimper, or if he is hearing himself as he drops his head to the clipboard on the desk, hands behind head, holding on, don’t go there, not again today . . . it’s not you, it’s’ not—
Donna gently takes his hand into hers, firm grasp pulling him out of his head. He feels her thumb stroking his thumb up and down, slow. Her hand is thin and angular like the rest of her, but her skin is so much smoother than his, pressing softly into his sweaty palm. He vaguely hears the attendant asking Donna something, and she responds to assure him that everything is fine.
He pulls himself together, lifts his head, and finishes filling out the form. He doesn't let go of her hand.
He fidgets while the triage nurse takes his vitals and Donna's hand melts into his. She talks to the nurse cheerfully, the two of them commiserating over the long shifts required by their jobs. Donna only once lets go of his hand so the nurse can wrap a paper bracelet with his name on it around his left wrist. She looks at him for confirmation but he's biting his lip and looking away, so she slips her fingers back through his again, and they move on to wait in a room the nurse shows them to. Except for the patient they saw wheeled in earlier, it must be a pretty slow night, because they don't have to wait long before a doctor enters the room.
Josh stiffens as the doctor unwraps the bandage, and Donna thumbs his hand again, reassuring. As the doctor is cleaning the wound with alcohol swabs, he pauses to ask if it was a self-inflicted injury. Josh snorts and turns away to stare intently at the pristinely white wall. Although he knows the answer, the doctor looks to Donna for confirmation.
"He broke a window in his apartment," she explains.
It kills him that she knows.
The doctor nods knowingly and starts to ask him if he often feels depressed around the holidays, but Donna cuts him off and explains that he's been seeing someone and it's under control.
"Josh?"
Like hell it's under control, Josh thinks to himself.
"Josh?"
"Yeah?"
"Is this true, are you getting therapy?"
"Yeah," Josh replies distractedly, "yeah, I...I am, yeah."
The doctor accepts this and begins to work on his hand. When the needle goes in, Josh bites his lip hard and squeezes his eyes shut.
The doctor looks up, "Are you ok--"
"I'm fine. Keep--"
He squeezes Donna's hand so hard his knuckles turn white, and he's sure he's crushing her hand, but he can't let go.
"Remember that time you and Sam almost set the White House on fire?" asks Donna.
"What?" he replies through gritted teeth.
"You were trying to start a fire, in that fireplace, except it wasn't a fireplace and you almost set the White House on fire."
"You didn't bring us any leaves."
"Yeah, that was the problem."
"Well it certainly wasn't the fault of Sam and my impeccable fire-building skills."
"Sure."
"You have to make a house for the fire to live in."
"I don't think that you made a house."
"You're impressed with my boy-scout skills."
"Neither you nor Sam was a boy scout."
"How do you know?"
"You were in ballet Josh. Sam did chess."
"That doesn't mean we couldn't also enjoy the outdoors and the wonders of Mother Nature."
"You don't get along with Mother Nature."
"Sure I do."
"Grass gives you hives."
"All done!" interjects the doctor, whom Josh had all but forgotten about. Before he knows it, his hand is being wrapped in a clean bandage, and the doctor is telling him some after-care advice but Josh isn't listening because he's busy looking at Donna. She's listening to the doctor and thanking him, and she's still holding his hand.
Despite their assurance that Josh was getting help, the doctor won't let them leave without giving him pamphlets: one called "Understanding Self-Harm: Finding Alternatives and Getting Help" with a distraught woman with her hand to her face on the cover and another with information about suicide help lines on it. Donna puts them in her purse, and they are walking out the doors into the cold clean night air, and the sweaty warmth of her hand is the only thing he has to hold on to. She calls a cab and gives the driver his address. She's still holding his hand, and Josh doesn't want her to let go, but he hopes that's not the only reason she hasn't let go.
She walks him up to his apartment, and they go in wordlessly and stand in the dark for a few moments. Then, "Donna?"
"Yeah?"
"I should let go now."
"You don't have to."
He looks at Donna, her face painted with shadows and fixed breathlessly on his eyes, his lips. Even in the dark, he can trace the faint scatter of freckles on her nose. His face is flushed and he breathes out slowly, it—
But this has suddenly gone too far too fast and he slips out of her grasp. His left hand is naked without her touch, his right is a stinging itch beneath the fresh bandage.
"I can't--"
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s just—“
“It’s okay.”
Josh stands still in the dark, hands thrust in his pockets, unable to think of what to say next, not sure where to move to. Donna sets down her purse and walks across the room to plug in the lights decorating a small, fake Christmas tree that resides in the corner of his living room. Multicolored dots sprinkle the room, tinting the walls, the couch, the ceiling with a safe light.
Josh shifts in the dim lighting. “Donna . . .”
“Should I go? I should—“
“No, I just . . . I hate that you see me like this.”
“I know.”
Josh sighs and shrugs off his winter coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. He notices that the digital alarm clock on the end table reads 11:35 in bright red. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I missed my flight.”
“You could—”
“I should be in Connecticut.”
“I called your mother Josh.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“It was Leo’s idea. When you’d been in there a while, he told me to call her. I didn’t tell her anything I just said the president needed you so you couldn’t make it til tomorrow. I booked a 7:12 for you and said she could pick you up a little before 10.”
“That’s quite the scheme, but I’ll still be late.”
“You’re Jewish. You can show up late to Christmas.”
“You’re a schemer.”
“I am.” She dropped easily onto the couch and starting set the alarm clock for 5:30.
“Wait, a second—you were supposed to go to Wisconsin.”
“Plans changed.”
“Donna,” he whines, “you didn’t have to—”
“True, but my parents invited the Hartmans over for dinner and that’s something worth staying a few states away from.”
“But your parents will—”
“I saw them at Thanksgiving.”
“Donna—”
“The Hartmans always introduce themselves by asking if I’m engaged and then spend the rest of dinner talking about their latest rug purchase.”
“It wasn’t going to get infected.”
“Actually, the doctor said that it was, and rugs, Josh. Rugs.”
Josh is too tired to keep arguing. “You have a point.” He slumps down onto the couch next to her.
“Anyway,” she continues, setting the clock down, “Margaret invited me over.”
“Yikes.”
“You’re a rude, rude man.”
Josh makes a face that shows he didn’t deny it.
“Should I call you a cab? It’s late,” he says.
“It’s also Christmas Eve. Are you really going to kick a girl out on Christmas Eve?”
He raises an eyebrow at her. “No.”
“Good. You’re an example to men everywhere.”
“I know.”
“I’m making hot chocolate.”
“There’s Swiss Mix in the cupboard above the sink. On the left.”
The raw, unsettling feeling that had been clinging to him since his talk with Stanley—what seems like days ago now—is finally melting off in the warmth and comfort of his dim apartment. He kicks his shoes off and turns the TV on. There is some holiday concert playing, the kind where the soloists dressed in gaudy red and green gowns and the strings basses wore Santa hats. The orchestra is swelling and fading and swaying, bending its pitches to the tune of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.”
. . . Peace on the earth, good will to men,
from heaven's all-gracious King . . .
“Why don’t you have marshmallows?”
He starts. “Wha—oh, I don’t know.”
Donna returns to the couch and hands Josh a hot mug of cocoa.
“Also, how do you not have any Christmas-y mugs? Have you never gone to a gift exchange?”
“Yes, but I always re-gift them at an exchange the next year.”
“Cheap.”
“Well, what would you do with your third Frosty the Snowman mug?”
“I’d put pencils in it.”
“Tacky.”
“But efficient.”
They shut up then, to blow on their hot chocolate and settle further into the couch as the music on the TV continues to soar.
. . . Still through the cloven skies they come with peaceful wings unfurled,
and still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world . . .
He knows they aren’t going to move again that night, only to set down their mugs when they finish and lean their heads on the throw pillows, letting the Christmas carols sing them to sleep. He knows he will wake up exhausted and doze fitfully on a familiar plane and hug his mother and try not to nod off on the way to her house. He knows she will ask about his hand and he will tell her because she can always tell when he is lying anyway. They’ll make food for four and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas together, just the two of them.
He speaks softly. “Stanley said it wouldn’t happen every time I heard music.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad.”
“Me too.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Josh.”
. . . O hush the noise and cease your strife, and hear the angels sing . . .