Harper was not okay. She was filled with such an acute sense of shame that she felt like her bones would crack from it. She pulled her hand away, looking down at the old, blue blanket across her lap.
“I think you should go,” she whispered. She needed to be alone, needed to drown in the embarrassment of her own instability in private. Silence pressed heavily around them, and Harper snuck a glance at Dan out of the corner of her eye. He stared at her like she’d just slapped him.
“What?” he finally asked. “I’m not going to leave you. Not when—” Dan’s words were cut off as the curtain surrounding them was flung open and a young doctor stepped inside.
“Ah, Harper. Glad you’re awake. I’m Dr. Ross. How are we feeling?”
“Fine,” Harper lied as her head pounded behind her eyes. “Totally fine.”
“Mmm,” Dr. Ross hummed, leaning toward her as he flashed a penlight in her eyes. “Follow my finger,” he dictated, tracing a letter H in the air in front of her. He started moving his finger rapidly from side to side. “Any headache with that?” he asked.
“No,” Harper lied again, blinking rapidly.
Dr. Ross gave her a skeptical glance as he reached out and palpated a tender spot near Harper’s right temple, causing her to hiss in a breath. “Some pain there?” he asked with disinterest, grabbing up a clipboard and making notes. Harper didn’t even bother answering.
“All right,” Dr. Ross said, clapping his palm against the back of the clipboard with a loud smack that made Harper wince. “It seems you have a concussion, nothing a few days’ rest can’t fix. No bright lights, no exercise, no mentally strenuous activities. Give that brain a rest.”
It took every ounce of her willpower not to roll her eyes. Right, no strenuous mental activities. Not like I’m trying to become a doctor or anything. But she just smiled and nodded. “Of course.”
Dan shot her a look that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking. She chose to ignore it.
“Will I be discharged soon?” she asked, trying to infuse calm into every word when her hands were itching with the anxiety to get back to her textbooks, disappear into the pages, work away the all-consuming shame that was drowning her. She needed to get away from this hospital bed. Away from Dan. Away from everything.
“Fairly soon,” Dr. Ross said with a casual nod. “We’re just waiting on the hospital psychiatrist to make a stop and ask you a few questions.”
Harper’s head jerked back, and she tried not to wince. “A psychiatrist? Why?”
“Your elevated blood pressure and the events preceding the fall indicate it wasn’t caused by syncope. And with your history of mental illness, it’s more indicative of a psychogenic blackout. The psychiatrist will want to make sure you’re getting the help you need.”
Harper was stunned. Her stomach turned itself inside out, a queasy, pulsing dread coursing through her. The words sounded so dirty and pathetic. “I don’t need help,” Harper spat out. “I’m not crazy. I’m not sick.”
“No one’s calling you crazy, Harper. We just want to make sure—”
“Where did you even get this ‘history,’” she said, cutting him off and giving him a piercing look.
Dr. Ross shot a nervous glance at Dan, who sat in the corner, his face ashen and drawn.
“From him?” Harper said, her voice rising. “He doesn’t know my medical history. He’s in no position to be reporting on me.”
“He simply indicated you have a history of anxiety attacks and we—”
“Well, I’m telling you I’m not mentally ill. I’m saying I do not want, nor will I participate in, a useless conversation with a psychiatrist. I don’t have time to be here and play these stupid games.”
“Harper.” Dan’s voice was soft, barely even a whisper, but it drew her attention like an alarm bell. He looked at her with tenderness, with worry. But all Harper saw was pity. The disgusting pity of a normal person looking at some sort of untamed, unwell creature, wary of its next move.
She wanted to lash out; she wanted to scream. How could he share that with someone else? That tiny piece she’d been so afraid to admit to anyone—how could he expose that to the world? It was like the more people who knew about her diagnosis, the more power the disorder would hold over her. The firmer it would attach itself to her, panic and shame gluing the label of mentally ill to her chest like a scarlet letter.