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Adriana didn't know why Beth would appear in her dream, since she barely spent any time thinking about her younger sister. Beth was simply someone who reminded her of her mother, and of her mother's absence.

But Peter… Adriana tried to remember Peter's face but couldn't. Had he been lustful, violent or crazed? She didn't think so. Menacing, perhaps, and clouded—but in the light of day, it was hard to remember why he appeared so threatening.

Peter had never hurt her physically and his emotional clumsiness wasn't his fault, Adriana thought, as she drifted painfully toward sleep. They had got together one night after a party during which they both drank too much and fell asleep next to each other in a sea of bodies Adriana awoke to see him still groggy with sleep, squinting at her and trying to place her. She felt exposed and her reaction was to giggle uncontrollably, although her stomach was drawn and sensitive to the light, and her head felt luminous and balloon-like. He blinked at her and smiled, and suggested breakfast.

Peter was a talker and Adriana was a listener. She knew he would never understand her timidity and sensitivity, but she wasn't looking for understanding—she was dazzled by the idea of having a boyfriend. Peter asked for her number or her email and she gave him both. From that afternoon she was waiting for his call, and over the next few days she lost a little hope. She concluded that his interest in her was casual, friendly, without malice but without depth. Disappointing, appalling and humiliating. And yet, when he finally called, to ask if she wanted to get together, she couldn't help but leap at the chance to begin that long, unravelling, journey into the fog, punctuated here and there with bright mountain peaks that looked like happiness.

Chapter 9

“What do you want on the pizza?” Adriana woke with a start. Healthy voices, normal everyday voices. A tall, beefy-looking orderly asked his smaller female colleague. “Do you want Hawaiian again?” as they pushed a stretcher toward the glassed in corner room. Only then did Adriana notice someone sleeping there, on a tall bed with white sheets and blankets.

“I'm good with whatever, except anchovies,” the female orderly said. The man pretended to shudder.

“Ugh, anchovies” he said. They didn't glance Adriana's way.

Her father stirred, opening his eyes reluctantly. The orderlies moved the woman in the bed onto the stretcher. At least Adriana thought it was a woman. She had lipstick on, though her face had strong, almost masculine features. Her hair was grey and sprayed into a neat helmet, and when she opened her eyes a little, she smiled weakly. “She's going to Mayflower?” the male orderly asked.

“Yup,” said his counterpart briskly. “Same as always.” Mr. Song looked disturbed. Adriana watched them wheel the woman out the door, thinking how strange it was that there was nobody with her, no one to comfort her.

A nurse appeared in the doorway to the waiting room. Adriana shrank from her cheerful smile as though from a snake. “You can come with me, Adriana,” she said in a loud voice. “The doctor will see you now.” Adriana stood up, clutching her empty stomach. Her father helped her by pushing up on her elbow and she felt his hand on the small of her back. He wants me to go, she thought to herself.

The doctor was a brown-skinned man with an English accent, wearing a white lab coat over a shirt and tie. The nurse's expression had turned businesslike, as she helped Adriana sit up on the examination table. “Hello,” he said, diffidently. “I am Dr. K, the general practitioner. I need to give you a physical check-up before you see the psychiatrist.” Adriana looked at his shoes. They were worn and scuffed, comfortable shoes that reassured her somewhat.

“Any physical complaints?” he asked, as he looked in her ears and mouth with an otoscope. Adriana shook her head. She was surprised to remember the name of the instrument, a word that Jazz had used in a game of Scrabble. “What medications are you taking?” he asked. Adriana thought a moment. She wasn't taking anything. She shook her head. The doctor gave her a severe look. “Can't you talk?” he asked in a loud voice.

Adriana felt her face redden. “No,” she whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” he demanded. The nurse turned around, with a suppressed smile on her face. Adriana, swimming in misery, said nothing.

The doctor frowned. “I'm going to test your reflexes,” he said. He got out the hammer. “Just relax,” he said, brandishing the instrument, “It's not going to hurt.” Adriana felt anxiety grip her. He struck her knee with a dull blow and Adriana's leg bounced in response. She started to giggle nervously at what seemed like a cartoon version of a trip to the doctor, acutely aware that she had forfeited control of something essential to her.

“You think that's funny, do you?” the doctor asked, clearly displeased. Adriana was crying now, silently. The GP softened slightly. “The psychiatrist will see you shortly, Adriana.” he said “For now you can sit in the waiting room”

Adriana returned to where her father sat, asleep, his head tipped back, and snoring. What had just happened? Everything was jumbled together—her bottomless sadness and humiliation and mortification, all of it tangled together like string inside her. Adriana was glad her father couldn't see her cry. It didn't seem natural, the number of tears in her. Outlandish was the word that came to her.

She wished her father weren't there. She didn't want him there and she didn't want to have to try to act as though nothing were wrong, though it was already a bit late for that. She felt hollow, her heart thrumming in her chest like grasshoppers in an ice cream bucket. Her arms felt weak and useless, as though, like her gall bladder, they once had a purpose but were now hopelessly outmoded.

The places in her that had been strong and firm were dissolving, and inside her head, her illness glittered like black beads. She couldn't stop the beads from clacking like an abacus.

Mr. Song, awake now, gripped her by the shoulders. “Adriana,” he said. Her mind had telescoped to focus on the black beads, their noisy calculations. Wild-eyed, she pulled her mind away from them, like a dog on a leash

A man had appeared in the doorway—the psychiatrist, Adriana thought, her skin suddenly clammy. Wearing a blue-striped shirt that seemed somehow ridiculous, he shook Mr. Song's hand and then offered it to Adriana. “I'm Dr. W. You must be Miss. Song. I'd like to interview you in the next room,” he said—dry, cool and impersonal, much like his handshake. Mr. Song stood up. The doctor shook his head. “I'm afraid I need to interview your daughter alone though a nurse will be present of course.”

Adriana stood up as her father sat down, deflated. She walked into the hallway, following the striped shirt. It turned into a doorway off the long hallway and into a small examination room. A different nurse was there, ripping a long sheet of paper to place on the examination table. She smiled and sat in a chair in the corner near the door while the doctor settled opposite Adriana.

“Now Adriana, I understand you tried to hurt yourself by overdosing on sleeping pills.” Adriana peered up at him as though from the bottom of a pit. His face was boyish, clean shaven and his eyes were sharp and shrew-like. “Is that right?” he said loudly. “Can you tell me why you took the pills?”

Adriana looked up, bewildered. Wasn't it obvious? “I wanted to die,” she whispered.

The doctor frowned. “Was there something in particular that made you want to die?” Adriana remembered the darkness engulfing her mind after taking the pills. What had happened just before? She couldn't think.

“Come now, this is serious. Something must have happened to trigger you to take those pills.”

Adriana remembered feeling like she had reached the end of a road, when Dr. Bob told her she needed to see a psychiatrist and take medication. But before that…the revelation that the mother in her head—familiar, dependable and severe as a winter storm—had been turned upside down by Bartholomew Banks.

Dr. W. watched her from a comfortable swivel chair. He leaned back, flexing his fingers. Adriana cleared her throat. She sensed this doctor was getting tired of her, that he wanted to go on to someone more interesting. “I… I think I was… I don't know,” she said, lamely. How could she describe her intolerable anxiety about her mother, who had taken up residence in the dusty back corner of her imagination like a spider? She felt guilty and bereft, traitorous and like one betrayed—a dilemma that she neither wanted to expose, nor thought anyone else would understand.

Dr. W. had moved on. “Have you been feeling sad lately?” Adriana nodded. “Have you been sleeping more than usual?” Adriana looked down and nodded again. “What about your appetite?” She shook her head. “Does that mean you don't have much of an appetite?” Nod. “On a scale of one to ten, with one being terrible and ten being great, how would you rate your mood?”

Adriana tried to think. “Five?” she offered.

Dr. W. raised an eyebrow. “Five is in the “okay” range. Are you really at five?” Adriana reconsidered “Three?” she ventured. The psychiatrist frowned and scribbled something down on his notepad. He raised his head to look at her “Do you feel like you might harm yourself or someone else?” Adriana held her head and began to sob, a slow, anguished, looping sound.

“I think perhaps for your own safety, you should consider staying in hospital for a little while.” The doctor shifted the notepad on his knee. “Would you agree to being admitted to the Short Stay unit?” Adriana gripped her head in her hands. Her hair was damp and her skull felt fragile. “Adriana,” the psychiatrist said kindly. “Look at me.” Adriana looked at his shoes, embarrassed, her nose running. “There are some very good medications that will help you feel better, I promise you that.” Adriana nodded, unconvinced. Her mother's eyes were on her, cold and grey.

The doctor opened the door for Adriana. She walked out shakily, into the hallway. Her father was on the phone in the waiting area, his eyes squinting, fiercely concentrated on his conversation, but when he saw Adriana, he said a quick goodbye and hung up. Adriana figured it must have been Aunt Penny he was talking to. Now the Toronto relatives would know. A crushing blow to her spirit.

Dr. W. addressed Mr. Song as though he were a customer. “Adriana has decided to stay in hospital for now,” he said. “Given her mood and mental state, I support her decision wholeheartedly. We'll admit her to Short Stay for observation.”

Mr. Song looked stricken. Through her tears, Adriana squinted at his shoes. He rubbed her back awkwardly, as she let her hair fall in front of her face, unable to look at him.

“Alright,” said Mr. Song gruffly. “Alright.” He wiped his face.

The door to the Short Stay unit at the end of the hall opened and a middle-aged man came out, dressed in a coat that looked too small for him, and what looked like a Russian fur hat with ear flaps. He wore tinted sun glasses, and his pot belly overflowed his trousers. As the doctor led the way toward the Short Stay unit, Mr. Song walking forlornly behind them, the man stopped in the middle of the hall, clicked his heels and gave a salute. “Long live Chairman Mao,” he said in a slightly garbled voice. “Are you Chinese?” he asked Adriana's father.

Mr. Song tried to smile. “Don't bother these nice people, Redgie,” said the doctor, shooing the man away.

Redgie looked offended. “I'm not trying to bother them, doc,” he muttered and kicked his foot in the air as he continued erratically down the hall. The psychiatrist took no notice.

Adriana stood on the threshold of Short Stay. If she crossed it she would become a mental patient. The nursing station directly across from the unit entrance was cheery, with a stencilled border of ivy leaves and a couple stuffed animals perched on the counter. Behind it, a heavy set middle-aged woman with a blonde perm smiled at Adriana. “You must be Miss Song,” she said in a hearty voice. “I'm Joanne. And is this your Dad?” she gestured toward Mr. Song. He nodded. “We'll get you settled in,” she said, “and give your Dad some information.” Mr. Song, his eyes pained, let go of Adriana's arm. She had a feeling of slipping away in a current, while her father stood on dry land, watching her go.

Chapter 10

Her father left, giving her a rough kiss on the cheek to try to hide his distress. Adriana stood in the middle of the hall on Short Stay, swaying a little. It was quiet, except for the television in the corner of the common room, which no one was watching.

A woman came out of the bathroom wearing a johnny shirt, a purse on her arm. Her eyes were teary and her straight, thin brown hair wisped as she walked. She smiled weakly at Adriana and, as though in slow motion, walked toward one of the bedrooms. Joanne spoke to her as though to a child. “You going to lie down sweetie?” she asked in a loud voice. The woman nodded.

Joanne opened the door to a small single room with a view of the harbour. Adriana gazed at the rectangle of light. She couldn't see the water from the doorway, just the bleak light from the cloud-filled sky. The bed was smooth and cold looking, covered with a tawny bed spread, the white sheet beneath it turned over neatly.

Joanne opened a closet door next to the room. “Here's a couple johnny shirts and a pair of slippers,” she said briskly, bustling to put them at the bottom of the bed. Adriana looked around drearily. There was a chair, a bedside table with a drawer, and a locker. The tiled floor was waxed to a dull shine.

“Your dad is going to bring you some clothes and things. If you need anything, just give me a shout,” Joanne said, slightly out of breath. “I'll be your nurse till 7 this evening.” She departed, leaving the door to the room open halfway.

Adriana sat on the bed looking at the door. She didn't know whether she was allowed to close it or not. But just then, a man with dark skin and black sunglasses shut the door with a loud bang. Adriana startled, but did not get up. She heard other doors further down the hall bang shut, and Joanne's angry voice yelling” Melvin, keep that up and you're headed for
TQ
.”