Sleeping Awake (5 page)

I opened my eyes once, looked
at him, and promptly fell back asleep.

The next afternoon, Maman rode
along with me in the car, dressed in brown this time and clinging to her
rosary, like the Franciscan nun she was slowly becoming. We did not speak, but
I laid my head in her lap, and she stroked my curls with her free hand. I
longed for her to sing to me and tell me that everything would be all right.

When we finally got to Golden
Ridge, it was not at all what I had expected it to be. As Joseph rounded the
corner and began the driveway’s ascent, I wondered if perhaps we had taken a
wrong turn. With its whitewashed shingles, shutters and pride-and-joy shrubs
placed under the lower level sills, the hospital looked more like a warm,
stately manor than a place that housed social deviants.

As we entered the main
building, I felt as if I was stepping into the living room of a house rather
than entering the lobby of a mental institution. Warm light swept the floors as
the fire crackled in the hearth, and comfortable couches in soft shades of
green and blue completed the cozy scene. I took a seat on an antique couch and
waited for Maman to finish conversing with the nurses. On the nearest side
table was a bouquet of red roses. It was a struggle to not curl up against the
cushions and go to sleep.

When finally Maman turned and
told me to follow her and the nurse, I half expected to be taken into the
parlor, where we’d await the hostess for the evening. Instead, we were shown
into an office of some sorts, with over-stuffed leather chairs and another
fireplace. I was told to make myself comfortable.

“I’m just going to ask you a
few questions for a pre-screening so that your doctor will be more informed for
his visit with you tomorrow.” Anne-Marie, the Jamaican nurse on staff, smiled
as she held the clipboard and reached for the pen in her pocket.

With her large, almost
vulnerable-looking eyes, and glasses perched against her tiny nose, Anne-Marie
looked like the grandmotherly figure from the fairytales of my youth. I felt
like I could trust her. When she spoke to you, her eyes remained only on you;
you couldn’t help but feel important. And whenever she smiled, it seemed to
stretch across her face and into eternity. No matter how depressed I was, I
could not fight the urge to smile back. Anne-Marie quickly became my favorite
person at Golden Ridge; her words came out as songs, and her accent always made
me think of my Grandpa Bill.

Maman held my hand and cried
as Anne-Marie and I filled out the questionnaire. I still have scars in the
palm of hand from the parts that were too much for her to handle.

“On a scale of one to ten, how
would you rate your depression?” Anne-Marie asked.

“Eleven,” I replied.

       Maman’s
hands tightened around mine.

       “Ten,”
I corrected myself.

Anne Marie smiled. “On a scale
of one to ten, how would you rate your desire to die?”

“Twenty.”

Anne Marie didn’t smile then.
That was also the first time that Maman’s nails found their way into my flesh.
By the time that the pre-screening was over and I had voluntarily checked
myself into Golden Ridge, it was past ten. There were no screaming patients
being chased by tired nurses, no buff men holding down an unruly character and
strapping him into a straight-jacket—nothing but silence and the
bafflement as to where television shows got their ideas for how a mental
hospital was to look.

My room was simple but
tastefully decorated. It looked like the guest bedroom of any respectable home
with fresh flowers on my nightstand, a bookshelf and adjoining chair, and an
Impressionist-style painting of a garden on the wall across from my dresser.

“It’s rather nice,” Maman
managed.

“Here at Golden Ridge, we
understand how stressful this period can be, and we try our hardest to make it
as comfortable and as stress free as possible,” Anne Marie replied.

Despite the bed and breakfast
façade, Golden Ridge felt as cold and gray as a Parisian afternoon in the fall,
but there was no wonderful earthy scent of the incoming rains. As I was on
suicide watch, I wasn’t allowed to close my room door for my first month at
Golden Ridge, and each day, a lucky nurse got to sit on a wooden chair in the
doorway and keep me company.

In the beginning, I’d sit on
my bed and try to remember what it felt like to have sand poured over me as a
little girl vacationing in Mikonos and to laugh as Philippe took a picture of
us, his “favorite girls.” As the days merged with the nights, I gave up on
remembering. I began to focus on being buried in the sand, and the warmth that
the steady weight provided.

*~*

Showering was infuriating. I
wasn't allowed to bathe myself during those first few weeks at Golden Ridge.
They didn't trust that I'd bother to clean myself properly. Personal hygiene
had stopped being something that I cared about in the end.

“What is the point?” I once
tried reasoning with Anne-Marie. “I’m just going to get dirty again.”

She pulled the dressing gown
over my head and stifled my explanation. “In.”

 I had to sit there in
the tub at least once a day and have someone scrub every inch of my skin.
Afterwards, the nurse would dry me, lotion me, dress me, run the brush through
my hair, and make me pretty for the pictures that no one was going to take.

“I feel like I’m a piece of
meat being dressed to be devoured at the table,” I told Maman on her first
visit.

“No one is going to devour
you, Noira. They are just trying to help you get better.”

“But there’s nothing wrong
with me!” I insisted.

Maman’s eyes closed. Her hands
were once again on her rosary.

I lowered my voice. “Just
because I’m not like everyone else doesn’t mean that there is something wrong
with me!”

Maman sighed. “Noira, please
just cooperate. They won’t let you come home to me if you don’t successfully
complete the program.”

I folded my arms. “Fine.”

Eventually, I was allowed to
bathe myself, but never without a chaperone. Linda was mine. She had glassy
blue eyes that were as clear and cool as premium vodka and wore her silver hair
in a bun that pulled on her forehead and made her veins struggle to break free
from her head.

“Not much of a smiler, are
you?” I asked as she watched me from her position beside my tub.

It was as if she hadn’t heard
me. I tried again. “In novels, women in situations like ours usually develop a
kind of strange friendship.”

Linda finally spoke. “Let me
know when you’re ready to shave.”

I hated bath time. Linda would
sit there with her hardened stare watching me, making sure that I didn't off
myself with the razor.

I didn't see the point of
shaving either. I wasn't going anywhere, so why bother? Sometimes I thought
about making a go at cutting myself just to see what Linda would do. I never
did, however; I knew that it would have meant more time spent in that infernal
place.

*~*

My body’s need to perpetually
perspire stopped a day later, but the jolts seemed to worsen. Still, I became
accustomed to the sudden surge of electricity to my brain and could function
under Maman and Cienna’s careful gaze without them noticing that something was
wrong. I spent that Monday in bed in order to wave off the nausea. Quite
miraculously, after pretending to take my pills that evening, I actually
managed to fall asleep. I slept until mid-morning on Tuesday, pretended to take
my medicine once again and ate every last bit of the lunch that Maman had
brought up for me.

“You’re looking a lot better,”
she said, leaning over to stroke my hair.

“I feel better,” I replied. I
wasn’t lying. I felt like a new person after almost fifteen hours of
uninterrupted sleep.

“Are you sure that you don’t
want to see to Dr. Rosenberg about your migraines?”

The worry line was back between
her eyes; it was making progress towards permanence on her forehead.

“I don’t need to see Dr.
Rosenberg, Maman,” I replied. “I was getting the headaches because I was having
trouble sleeping. Now that I’ve slept, the headaches are gone.”

“Are you sure?”

I was tempted to roll my eyes,
but out of respect, I didn’t. I was sick of having her fret and fuss over me. I
was twenty-one, not twelve. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t bring up the
subject of my going into the city to see Dr. Rosenberg again. To appease her, I
spent the afternoon in the garden with her. I read the first volume of Janet
Flanner’s
Paris Journal
while Maman pulled weeds and cut flowers for her
arrangements around the house.

We had our own Garden of Eden.
Huge bougainvillea bushes sprinkled brilliant
colour in our vast yard. Potent oleander, beautiful pink wax roses, radiantly
white begonias and luscious yellow allamandas basked in the sun. The tree of
life, a Japanese cherry tree, once stood by my window, hauntingly beautiful as
its branches drooped and wept its tears of pink and white all over. Though I
marvelled at it, I didn’t dare touch it.

Every now and then, Maman would look up from her
pruning. It was as if she was checking on me to make sure that I was still
there. I’d give her my widest, most awkward smile, at which time she would give
a little wave and continue with what she was doing. As the afternoon dragged
on, I began to tire of pretending to be fascinated by Maman’s need to make sure
that I was still present in the production that she had orchestrated. I could
feel her gaze on me, but I no longer looked up to give her a reassuring sign.
My heart was racing, and my skin felt as if I had poured gasoline on it and lit
it on fire. I needed to get out of there.

*~*

On the twenty-seventh day, I
rose. As expected, Maman came into my room at a little past midnight. She
always crept up along the side of my bed. I knew that she was listening to hear
my breathing. I always made a show of taking deep breaths in and out whenever
she came; she left faster that way. As soon as I heard her close her room door,
I made my escape. Maman wouldn’t be back until seven a.m., which meant that I
had to move quickly. I called a cab company and gave the address of the house
that sat at the end of my road.

“To the Seaport,” I commanded,
slamming the door shut behind me. “Fulton and Pearl.”

The driver stared at me
through the rear view mirror, a slight snarl on his face.

“Just drive,” I demanded. “If
you don’t like long distances, you shouldn’t have chosen such a profession.”

Wordlessly, he pulled away
from the curb.

As the car began to gain
speed, I stuck my head out the window and inhaled the night air… I was free.
Free of Cienna and her incessant chatter. Free of Maman and her worrisome eyes
and permanently bitten lips. Free from Camelea and her accusing glares.

“Which way do you want me to
take?” The driver asked.

“Just drive,” I snapped. “And
I know how much it costs to get there from my house, so don’t try and take me
on the scenic route.”

I was tense. I felt like cat
that had been curled up in a tight ball for far too long; I needed to stretch
my legs and restart the blood flow. There was only one way that I knew how.
Leaning against the leather seats, I closed my eyes.

Un…

Deux…

Trois…

Quatre…

Cinq…

Six…

Sept…

Huit…

Neuf…

Dix…

It was all that I could do to
stop my fingers from creeping slowly up my thighs, hitching up my dress and
stroking the bead of moisture was beginning to form between my thighs… It was
the best of all welcome home presents.

I knew that we were nearing my
destination when my heart channelled my inner Olympian and took off at the
imaginary start gun.

“Keep the change,” I said,
tossing money over the front seat.

I
giggled, though his ignorance was anything but funny. “No silly.” I pulled on
his tie, this time opening my legs a little so that he could once again fit
snuggly between them. “Málaga is in Spain… In Andaluc
í
a.”