Only For You Page 26
The officer ran into the room, ready to intervene. He surveyed the drama, assessing if there was any threat.
“Officer, this man has information regarding crimes committed by Heath Varbeck. You may want to let Detective Norse know,” I advised, not caring what happened to Robbie at this point. Sam had been right about every word she spoke, every accusation. I would never forgive him for hurting Sam by his neglect; he had betrayed her with his silence. On top of everything else she had gone through, I was afraid this would be the final straw that broke her irrevocably.
“Sir, why don’t you step outside with me so we can speak? I’ll need to get all of your contact details,” the officer addressed Robbie with revulsion.
When they left the room, I sat on the edge of Sam’s bed and held her as best I could with her injuries. She cried on my shoulder for hours, muttering nonsensically. If anyone other than me tried to touch her, she would shriek and fight. She was like a wild animal, incapacitated and petrified. When Sam began to scream that Heath was in the room I called the nurses. I was having a hard time restraining her as she thrashed and fought, defending herself from a ghost. The nurse quickly took inventory of her condition and administered a sedative. A short time later the doctor from the psychiatric unit came in.
“I will need to evaluate Miss Whitney when she wakes. I don’t believe we will need to hold her for psychiatric observation, provided she has calmed when she awakens. I suspect she was experiencing ICU psychosis, which is common for patients confined for more than a few days. The combination of medication, environment, and the stress of healing can be potent. Most patients are fully recovered within 24-hours with no further episodes after they are discharged,” he explained.
“Doctor, she was hallucinating, convinced her attacker was in the room with us. Is that normal?”
“Hallucinations are common, yes. I believe the added emotional strain from the attack and sexual abuse are the cause. I understand she also had a highly charged exchange with her significant other right before the episode. That would also be a contributing factor, and most likely the trigger. She needs a safe, calm environment to heal—physically and mentally. She has been through a terrible tragedy and is fragile. I will return this evening to evaluate her further. Stay with her; familiar people, loved ones, bring the greatest relief.”
I kept vigil by Sam’s bedside, reading to her, talking to her, and offering comfort as she slept. I had no idea what to expect when she awoke, I prayed she would be calm and coherent. The words she had spoken to Robbie about her attack haunted me. They replayed in my mind on loop, tormenting me with her devastation. She felt tainted and forsaken.
Sam finally awoke several hours later. When she blinked her eyes open, I offered her a smile that she didn’t reciprocate.
“How are you feeling, girlie?”
Nothing.
“Are you in any pain?”
Silence.
“Do you understand me?”
She nodded once.
“Are you taking a mental health break from words?”
She nodded once again.
“Fair enough, you have more than earned a vacation day. How about I read to you?”
She nodded once.
Everything was fine until I reached a juicy section of the book, which depicted a graphic sex scene, and Sam slapped the book out of my hands. I guess we were done reading.
“I was getting tired of that book, too. Are you hungry?”
Silence.
“Would you like to watch TV? I turned the cable on for you earlier today.”
No response.
“Do you want to sit in companionable silence?”
Nada.
“Do you want to hear about how Hunter tore out my heart and stomped on it before returning it to me as if nothing had happened?” I tried, knowing under any other circumstances that would grab Sam’s attention.
She nodded once.
So, I told her. I recounted every single word, every tear, every look, and gesture. She listened intently. I shared my pain, rejection, sense of loss, and the fear I would never find anyone I loved as much as Hunter. She squeezed my hand at my confession, offering me comfort in the only way she was able. When the psychiatrist returned to examine Sam, she remained mute. She was skittish and panicked when he tried to touch her. Finally, she seemed to separate from her environment, staring blankly into space, disassociated.
I spoke to the doctor in the hallway after his examination. He was concerned about her regression. I shared with him that she communicated with me non-verbally, listened, and offered comfort. The doctor believed our friendship provided her a sense of security, enabling her to interact with me. It was his opinion that she had retreated into a shell like a turtle, to protect herself after all she had endured. Like the turtle, she would pop her head out when she felt it was safe, but crawl back inside at any perceived threat. He suggested several therapists for her to consider upon her discharge. Though he felt this was a psychological defense and not a cognitive impairment, he advised me that if she didn’t reestablish verbal communications in the next several days, he suggested I consider finding an intensive treatment program. He suspected she was suffering from PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but it was premature to officially diagnosis, especially on the heels of her ICU psychosis. I thanked him for his guidance and returned to Sam. It was three hours before she would acknowledge me again.
Two days later, Sam remained nonverbal. She would communicate by nodding to me if no one else was there, but hid herself away in the presence of anyone else. She wouldn’t permit anyone but me to touch her, sedation was required when the doctors examined her injuries. It was heartbreaking to watch my once vivacious best friend become a shadow. The turtle analogy was perfect—she would pop out for me, allowing me to feed and pet her. With strangers she would hide away and, if forced from her shell, would snap and bite viciously.
By day three of the silent treatment, I was desperate. I finally deciphered her plan—if she didn’t speak, she couldn’t talk about what happened. If she didn’t talk about it then she could pretend it was not reality. She didn’t have to confront the pain and emotions running through her like a tornado, leaving destruction in its wake. The doctors advised me that Sam would be physically ready to leave in two days, however they had concerns about her mental stability. They wouldn’t release her unless there was a plan in place for intensive mental health care; I did not disagree.
I would do anything for Sam, but I was not qualified to help her through this. I would love and support her, but I didn’t have the tools to get her talking. I didn’t know the proper way to help her walk through her memories without risk of her being consumed by them. She needed professional, experienced help. This was complicated because she also needed significant physical therapy. I only had one recourse, but I hated it.
When I returned home that evening, I called the rape crisis center and explained what had transpired. They gave me the name of several therapists they recommended. One of the names they provided had been included in the list from the hospital psychiatrist. I called her and left a message briefly outlining the situation. She called me back thirty minutes later. It was 11:30 at night, at least I knew she was committed.
“Hello?”
“Hello, I’m Dr. Cynthia Veritus. Is this Everleigh?”
“Hello Dr. Veritus. Thank you so much for calling me back.”
“It’s no problem. Tell me a little more about what happened with Sam, and her current state.”
I told her everything, including the turtle analogy and my theory that she was silent to avoid dealing with the rape. I ended with my belief she needed an intensive therapeutic environment that could address her psychological needs as well as her physical requirements. I felt strongly that a psychiatric hospital would be detrimental in the long-term progress.
“You’re a good friend and I concur. Sam needs a specific type of facility to address her complex needs at this time. A collea
gue and friend of mine has a live-in facility for women, which specializes in rape trauma syndrome, RTS, which is a sub-set of PTSD. Due to the nature of her specialty, she is accustomed to addressing medical needs concurrently. She collaborates with physicians and medical specialists to ensure continued physical recovery. There is a physical therapy suite on-site and a clinic, so all examinations and treatments take place on property. The staff, including the visiting doctors, are exclusively female. Those in residence do not encounter any males until deemed mentally prepared, and the reintroduction of masculine presence is a part of the treatment course. The facility is spectacular. It has a spa-vibe, posh. The only issue may be the cost, the facility caters to the ultra-wealthy, those who want the best treatment with the utmost privacy.”
“That would be a good fit, actually. Sam’s family will not want to risk publicity, and money is inconsequential to them.”
“Great. I’m confident I can pull some strings to secure her a spot. She will be discharged in two days, correct?”
“Yes.”
“She will need to go directly to the facility upon discharge. They will have a nurse and a counselor fly out to meet her and bring her back to San Diego.”
“San Diego? That far?”
I didn’t like the idea of Sam being so far from me when I was entrusting her care to strangers, but if this was the premier facility to address her needs, then so be it.
“I can fly with her,” I immediately offered.
“No, that will not be possible. She needs to establish trust relationships with the therapeutic team as a part of her treatment. This will be the first step. If for any reason it doesn’t pan out, let me know and I can suggest alternatives. When she completes the program, if she chooses to return to New York, please feel free to contact me for her continued care.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Veritus. If I can just ask one more question—how long will she be at the facility?”
“It varies by patient, but I would estimate sixty days.”
“Wow, that long,” I was stunned.
I thanked Dr. Veritus again before saying goodnight. It was nearly 1:30 am and I was exhausted. I showered and dressed for bed, desperate for the oblivion of sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
* * *
"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing...not healing, not curing...that is a friend who cares.” -Henri Nouwen
My phone rang early the next morning.
“Hello?” I grumbled, frustrated by the intrusion into my now rare REM cycle.
“Miss Carsen, it’s Detective Norse. I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to let you know that we have apprehended Heath Varbeck. His arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow. I anticipate he will be remanded without bail. I wanted to confirm that you’re willing to testify when the time comes.”
“Morning Detective, thank you for letting me know. Yes, I will absolutely testify. I can’t be certain, but I would anticipate Sam would also be willing, if needed.”
“Thank you. Take care of yourself and send my best wishes to Miss Whitney as well.”
After we disconnected I laid in bed unable to return to sleep. I was elated the police had apprehended Heath—truly ecstatic—the news could have waited two more hours. Accepting the disappointing reality that sleep would remain elusive, I got out of bed to make myself a cup of coffee.
I sat on the couch with my cell phone nested in my lap as I sipped my coffee, desperately wanting to procrastinate the phone call that had to be made. I longed for a personal assistant to whom I could delegate unpleasant tasks. Steeling my spine, I lifted my cell phone.
It rang twice before a clipped tone answered, “Whitney.”
Reminding myself of the necessity precipitating the call I began, “Good morning Mr. Whitney, it’s Everleigh, I was hoping to have a minute of your time.”
“Is it urgent, Everleigh? I’m terribly busy this morning.”
“I’m afraid it is. Sam will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow and I don’t believe I’m equipped to address the full spectrum of her needs.”
He cut me off dismissively, “Fine, fine. Just let me know the specifics and I will have our driver pick her up. My assistant can arrange for nursing care at our home until she is able to return to her apartment.”
“I don’t believe that would be the best option at this time. I have consulted several professionals who recommended a facility that can best address Sam’s needs during her recovery.”
“That would be preferable, actually. Have the facility direct the bills to my office. I will ensure they are paid. Please spare no expense, no cost is too much for Samantha’s care and comfort.
I restrained myself from pointing out his parental neglect, “I will be sure to let you know when it would be appropriate to visit Samantha so you can be assured of the standard of care being provided to her.”
There was no way the Whitneys would fly to San Diego to inspect Sam’s care when they couldn’t be bothered to drive to the nearby hospital to do so.
“Everleigh, please make certain you stress our desire for confidentiality as it pertains to the details of Samantha’s wellbeing. I don’t want her life to incur any further interruptions as a result of the incident.”
He didn’t want any further ‘interruptions’? What he didn’t want was for his country club cronies to discover his daughter was damaged goods—soiled. Pretentious prick!
“I will see to it, Mr. Whitney.”
He ended the call with no further commentary.
Checking my email, I found the admission packet from the facility Dr. Veritus had suggested. I printed the attachment, reviewing the pages as my printer expelled them. Several forms needed to be completed by Sam’s physicians. I would need the paperwork to be completed today and returned to—I didn’t even know the name of the place I was sending Sam. I scanned the papers—Phoenix Center: A Restorative Haven. It sounded awfully ‘new age.’ Feeling resourceful, I contacted the San Diego area rape crisis center to inquire about the Phoenix Center. The hotline volunteer enthusiastically recommended the center provided I could: A) secure a spot, and B) afford the exorbitant cost. Able to meet both of the stipulations I thanked the volunteer for her time. I decided to call, feeling more confident in the facility, but still wanting to speak directly with the person in charge of Sam’s care,
I spoke with Dr. Michelle Drake—Shelly, as she insisted I call her—for an hour discussing the center’s general philosophy, therapeutic programs and techniques, medical care, physical therapy, daily routine, and amenities. Shelly put me at ease effortlessly earning my confidence.
“Shelly, I’m entrusting you with the care of my best friend, my sister, please don’t let me down.”
“Have faith, Everleigh. If Sam is as strong as you believe, the program will provide her the tools to heal and reclaim her life. The road won’t be easy, but given time she will heal.”
“Thank you, Shelly. I will have the doctors send the required forms. You have all the details to arrange for the flights tomorrow?”
“I do. We had to charter a flight due to Sam’s injuries as well as prevent further trauma from exposure during a commercial flight. The nurse and therapist will be with her every step of the way to ensure health, comfort, and safety. I will keep you appraised of her progress on a weekly basis and let you know when it’s appropriate to visit. Take care.”
I was confident I had made the right choice by the time I ended the call. Now for the hardest part—I had to tell Sam and I was clueless as to how she would respond.
When I entered Sam’s room, she was alone staring blankly into space. She appeared lost.
“Good morning Sam. I have good news, they caught Heath. The detective said it was unlikely that the judge would grant bail. Isn’t that a relief?”
She continued to gaze at the wall.
“How are you?”
“I need to talk to you. You’re scheduled to be discharged tomorrow, but the extent of your injuries require more professional care than I am capable of providing. I suspect your parent’s home would not be conducive to recuperating either.”
Sam nodded her agreement vigorously.
“I found an amazing center that can provide the medical attention and rehabilitation you need during your recovery. They specialize in women who have been through similar experiences.”
Sam shook her head in protest.
“Sam, I know you want to come home and hide under your covers. I get it, I would probably feel the same, but I can’t let you do that. I love you enough to give you what you need—even if it isn’t what you want.”
Sam slammed her fist on the bed in response.
“Don’t give me attitude! You refuse to speak, you can only tolerate my touch, you’re broken—you said it yourself. You need to get better, I need you to get better, but I don’t have the skills to help you with this. Please, Sam, you are the only family I have. I can love you and support you, but that will not be enough. I don’t know what to do other than to send you to the most qualified professionals.”
Sam turned her head, refusing to look at me.
“You’re mad at me. Fine, I’ll accept your anger and you can hate me if you want to, but you are going to Phoenix Center. You may have experienced a tragedy, but I will not let you become a tragedy.” I stopped, wanting to guide the conversation in a more positive direction.
“The center is outside San Diego, on the beach. It’s a private complex that has every amenity you could want and need—they even have a salon and spa on site. Their reputation is stellar and I spoke to the director myself, you will love Shelly.”
Sam still refused to look at me.
“I’m going to miss you like crazy but I will come visit soon and you will be back before we know it.” I was swimming in guilt as if I too had betrayed her, “You can’t make the right decisions for yourself at this point, so I will make them for you, until you’re stronger. Please do this, give it a real chance—for me. You always said that you would do anything you could for me and this is what I’m asking of you. Go and heal, get better because I need you. You’re my bestest friend, my sister, and I can’t live without you. Please,” I finished on a whisper with tears glistening on my face.