Survive (2 page)

Chapter 4

I
walk back to my room, head down as I pass Old Doctor’s morning Group session. It’s nearly ten-fifty and I only have ten minutes to get everything ready before my final session with him.

As I approach my room, I feel my lungs seize up. My breath rushes out. It feels like all my blood has dropped to my toes and suddenly I’m a little dizzy, enough so that I put my hand on the wall for a second. If I hyperventilate, and it wouldn’t be the first time, they will never let me get on that airplane.
Steady, Jane.

I look back over to Group, which is breaking up, and watch Old Doctor, who is giving his full attention to a private discussion he’s having with BS. I close my eyes and concentrate on taking one very deep breath. Then another: in through the nose, out through the mouth. And I feel my body settle down and the dizziness dissipate.

I pull my hand from the wall and slip into my room and stuff my travel bag with the essentials. Obviously I have no need for a travel bag, but I don’t want to be found out by a nosy nurse: “If she’s going home for a week, why’d she leave all her stuff here? Doesn’t she need a bag? Red alert, put out an APB!” They are trained to spot that kind of shit, but I’ve trained myself not to give them anything to spin their wheels about. In five hours and seven minutes, I’ll have won that battle.

I look around my room and nausea swirls in my stomach. The pink comforter my mother gave me for the winters lies wrinkled and wasted on my bed, full of old sweat and sad energy. Why does every depressive bed always look the same?

I feel a bead of sweat trickle down my back.
Nerves,
I tell myself.
Buck up and buckle down, Jane.

I look at my window, where I have spent endless hours in manic thoughts about the time I was wasting here at Life House. I walk over to the night table and pull open the drawer and take out a photo of me and my father at Christmastime.

Nobody knows I have this photo. I took it from one of my mother’s photo albums. She has millions of photos all over the house, and mostly I hate them all. I’ve told her this, and during check-in at the hospital I made a point to tell Old Doctor this in front of her. It made her sniffle, which made me feel sad inside but smile on the outside.

I hold the photo up. I love his face. His skin was olive and smooth, and his eyes were chocolate brown. A big sob rises in my throat, so I kiss Dad’s face, and a tear drops onto the glossy finish. I quickly wipe it off and place the photo on the bottom of my bag.

Nurses or not, I do need a few things. A pad of paper to write my mother a goodbye note. I’ll tuck it between the netting and upright tray table on the back of the seat in front of me.

I need my wallet to get from town to the airport and to get my plane ticket from the automated ticket machine. My mother bought the ticket on a credit card and mailed the credit card to the hospital. It was given to me with great ceremony yesterday. “Jane, this is for the pickup of your ticket only—your mother is bestowing great trust in you, and I think you’ve earned it.”
Oh yes I have, with every lie and fake tear you swallowed, sir. Don’t worry, Dr. Gallus, going wild with a credit card isn’t in my plans.

I open my wallet. I have a hundred bucks in cash. (Money my mother gave me to use,
just in case
.) I pull my dad’s watch from my pocket and check the time. Three minutes to my last session.

What am I going to say to him? It has to be perfect because Old Doctor isn’t stupid. If he catches a whiff of the Plan or of anything out of whack, I’m done. No pass. No flight. No oblivion. But if I can give him a faux revelation that’s not too big, but not too small, he’ll get happy and animated with his own genius and forget about me. He’s human, after all. Notebooks out, people: This is how you can fool all adult beings. Make them think they are genius. They are even more vain than we are.

And, frankly, I’m not a genius myself but I am a very good liar.

Chapter 5

“J
ane?” Old Doctor says.

I hear him, but I want to move on. He wants to discuss my father. What I remember of him during the holidays. I’ve been barfing out my usual responses for more than twenty minutes: I was only eleven, and he died on Christmas Eve. Of course, “died” isn’t right. It is like me saying “incident” about my
incident
, I suppose, but I’d never tell Old Doctor that.
Died
is what you say about people who go, gently or not, into that good night propelled by some external force: cancerous cells or a speeding car. My father called his own shot. He hit his own switch, as the patients here at Life House are fond of saying. My father killed himself. (That’s how Old Doctor would want me to say it, with honesty and frankness.)

“I remember very little about his death,” I say, which is both true and untrue, but to say anything else now, after all my half memories told and untold over the past year, would raise too many questions. And I know why he is asking. It’s because I’m going home and it’s Christmas and inevitably things will be stirred up. That’s what the holidays are for me: a big stir-up-shit festival. People don’t get this, but memories are just like the future. You can’t plan for when they show up, and you’ve got no control over them when they do. Worst of all, the older you get, the sadder they are. At least, that’s been my experience.

And by the way, nobody stirs the shit like my mother. That’s what Old Doctor is probably biting his nails about late at night. He’s met my mother, so he knows. She’s bonkersville with all the photographs in every fucking room, like having a picture in your room will keep your dead husband alive in your heart. It certainly keeps the depression alive and kicking in mine. Leaving the house, of course, isn’t an option either. For instance, if you go shopping at the Stop and Shop, a banal act by any sane person’s account, every aisle is the location of a forgotten memory. “Oh, your father loved Honey Nut Cheerios,” or, “Coffee, your father just loved the aroma of a freshly brewed cup.” Really, Mom? Did he like the soft feel of Charmin toilet paper too? It’s enough to make you want to scream, “If he loved so much, why the fuck did he kill himself!”

I hear Old Doc clear gravel from his throat.

“Sorry. What did you ask?” I say, looking to buy time.

Old Doctor sits in his big leather chair and waits for me to continue. His arms are thin and knotted with bones that threaten to poke right out of his saggy, chapped skin.

“You haven’t been home in a year,” he says, switching gears on me. “How does it make you feel?”

“I’m ready,” I say, but offer nothing else.

“Ready?” he finally asks, after waiting a few moments.

I worry for a second that the combination of my reluctance to speak and my short, unproductive answers will lead to his questioning my readiness. I look down at my shoes, pretending to ponder his question deeply.
I can’t die in these shoes.
They’re old lady shoes my mom bought for me in case Life House had a prom or something. Think about that for a second, and you have a little window into what I’m dealing with. My mom figured there might be some nice boys I could dance with here at this fine mental institution.

I should be clear: I don’t blame my mom for anything that happened. My dad was a suicide seeker, like his mom was and I’d bet her mom or dad was too. I’m sure there are studies that show this better than I can state it, but if somebody in your family has killed themselves, you are way more likely to try it yourself. I do blame her for not letting go and letting his ugly decision fester like an open sore on my life: left untreated, it can become a problem, as doctors like to say. And I guess I’ve become the problem. Sure, she took me to doctors galore, but she could never fucking move on, so that’s why we’re stuck in the same place since the Offing on that Christmas five years ago.

“You keep looking at your shoes. Why?”

“My mother gave them to me in case there was an event here. A dance or something. God, it sounds so pathetic to say it out loud. She’s bonkers, right?”

He nods again, more acknowledgement than agreement. But I say nothing. Finally, he relents.

“Is your trip home an event?”

I feel it. Those old bony hands have taken hold of something inside of me. But did he know what he had his hands on?

“Sadly, a bus trip to a podunk town, followed by another bus to a sad little airport in a hick city is a big event in my life these days.” I crack a nervous smile. I don’t like where this is going.

He looks at me, waiting. He wants me to barf my secret plan onto the table.

I sit stone-faced.

He leans in, focusing on my eyes, trying to tighten his grip on the unknown inside of me. I bet the use of the word
event
has pricked his antennae and he’s searching for his prize.
Show no emotion, Jane.

“Jane,” he says softly.

I notice for the first time that I’m shaking. He must see a little opening because his eyes twinkle. I have to say something to break his spell.

“I hate these shoes. My mother likes to buy shoes. I hate her fucking shoes. My father made fun of her shoes. I remember that.” Stop talking, Jane. No more.

I look down at my shoes, and surprisingly a tear hits them. I wish I could say that the waterworks are an act, part of my small revelation, but they are beyond my control. This old bastard has a way with the questions, and with the timing of them, I suppose. I’ve been so busy blocking knowledge of the Plan from Old Doctor, my other secrets have become less defended. Or maybe I’m nervous about today. It feels like something inside of me is breaking open.

“Why did he make fun of her?”

“I have no idea. He’s been dead for so long. He used to say she had ‘more shoes than a princess.’ He liked ties. My mother and I always bought him two ties every Christmas. We’d open a pile of gifts: toys for me, shoe boxes for Mom, and Daddy would always open two thin tie boxes.”

I stop talking for a moment and visualize my father in my mind’s eye. I always see the same picture when I try to remember what he looked like: what he was actually like day to day. He’s sitting in his studio, leaning back in his chair staring out the window. I’d walk in very quietly, thinking that he had no idea I was sneaking into his studio—but he always knew. I was a tiny little girl then, maybe five or six. He’d say, “Hey pumpkin, can I have a pumpkin seed?” and I’d always say, “For what purpose, sir!”—it was a line he’d taught me. “I’d like to roast and toast it and eat it all up.” And I’d shake my head no with a little impish grin. He’d fake being offended and plead and plead for a pumpkin seed until I laughed. Then he’d scoop me up and kiss my head and tell me he loved me over and over.

It’s funny because the day before he died, he walked up to me in the TV room where I was sitting and watching an old movie called
The House Without a Christmas Tree
. He leaned over and kissed the top of my head, like he did when I was five. But now I was eleven, and I turned around and shouted at him, “Don’t do that! It’s weird. Don’t kiss the top of my head or touch my hair.” He kind of stood there frozen for a second and then smiled. He said, “Sorry, pumpkin, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me—just don’t kiss the top of my head anymore.”

He nodded okay and said, “I’m sorry, pumpkin,” and left. The next morning he was dead. I never got to say sorry or anything or explain it.
I
didn’t hate it—just my eleven-year-old self hated it. That’s what eleven-year-olds do. I hate thinking about that and that’s why I hate thinking about him too much as well. But everybody always wants to talk about it.

“My mother saved his ties. I won’t look at them or her stupid pictures of him. His studio is like a creepy shrine or mausoleum. It makes me sick. She makes me sick. I love her, but she makes me sick. All she wants to do is keep everything exactly the way it was, except it isn’t. He’s dead. And I’m crazy now too, just like he was.” This was exhausting me. Not the way I wanted to spend this last session.

“You’ll see your mother tomorrow. Perhaps we can have her fly back with you and we can have a family discussion about the photos and ties, and about your father’s office, if it is upsetting to you. Each of you listening to the other might be helpful.”

There’s a long pause again and he patiently waits for me to respond. But I sit stone-faced. He gazes at me for a few minutes, which makes me really uncomfortable, until finally I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’ve never spent Christmas without her. It made me feel lonely to think about that. I’m flying home. I’m glad about that. It’ll be like old times. We can talk then; there’s no need for her to come here.”

He nods, hoping to keep me talking.

“I want to go shopping with her. It’s a happy memory for me.”

Then there’s a long pause where I say nothing and he sits there like a statue in a park waiting for the nut job on the bench to talk.

“You will; I’m sure.”

He grabs a box of tissues.

I take one. I cry.

He looks at his clock, then says, “You have a bus to catch.”

I sniffle and smile.

“Have a wonderful trip, Jane. Remember this: No matter how dark your time at home gets, you are not alone. There might be a moment or even a day or two that feels that way, where you are thinking, ‘no one in the world can see or hear me,’ but it isn’t true. We are always with you. We believe in you. And you can reach out and check in with us by phone at any time.”

I wonder if that’s his subconscious at work. If he’s worried that something bad might happen. I wonder if that notion will blossom in his head and if he’ll try to come and save me as I’m getting on the plane.
Magical thinking,
I chide myself.

“Merry Christmas, Jane.”

Chapter 6

I
grab my bag from my room and ditch the old lady dance shoes. I slide on my snow boots and pull the bottoms of my jeans down over the top of them. I tuck my white blouse into my jeans and pull on a dark brown V-neck sweater and then my winter jacket. I hurry downstairs to the lobby. After flashing the bus pass hanging around my neck, I line up behind four other patients from the addiction floor, none of whom I know. It’s five minutes before noon and the bus is already idling in front of the institute. I loathe it.

It’s a short yellow bus, with the words L
IFE
H
OUSE
printed along the side in large block letters. They might as well have written N
UT
H
OUSE
, just to be sure that everyone who saw us in town knew who we were. We all walk onto the bus like the medicated zombies we are, eyes looking anywhere but at each other. An attendant checks our names off and the bus slides into gear.

I check my watch: three hours, fifty-seven minutes till takeoff. I close my eyes and imagine that milky blue sky above the earth.
Almost there, Jane.

• • •

As I step off the bus, I check my watch. It’s only 12:20 p.m., so I’ve got a good forty minutes before the airport bus departs. So far so good—in the time department, that is.

The good townspeople of Powder River stare at us like we’re losers. Who wouldn’t? A busload of adolescent nut jobs pulls into your town for a little Yuletide shopping and cheer and your jaw isn’t hitting the floor?

I stand there for a few seconds, momentarily unsure of myself. The attendant, her name is May, notices my indecision.

“Jane, your bus picks you up right here in just about thirty minutes. Are you okay? Do you want me to stand here with you?”

“No,” I say. Then, “I want to buy my mother a gift, from Powder River.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

I shake my head no. “That’s okay. Do I have time?”

“I think so; you should be back here in twenty minutes to be safe.” She pauses, then continues, “You look very worried, Jane. Are you sure everything is all right? I think your mom will understand if you don’t have something.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “I want to buy a tie for my father, too.” She is just an outsourced attendant; she doesn’t know my father put a hole in his head on Christmas Eve, so the lie doesn’t register. But what if she tells Old Doctor or one of the nurses who know me? Note to self: You are becoming self-destructive. Stick to the Plan.

“Well, there’s Lila’s Vintage a few blocks up on the corner,” she says. “They should have ties. I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you, but I’m really fine.”

She looks at me, and her mind is calculating all that could go wrong and weighing it against what is the good and right thing to do at Christmas.

“Okay, but you don’t have a lot of time. To be safe, be back in fifteen minutes.”

I nod and turn, walking into a whipping cold wind. Slush, salt, and sand cover the sidewalk and the freezing temperatures have made everything slick. Despite the cold, there are people milling about, looking in shop windows, and a dozen or so kids from a local choir are assembled outside Town Hall singing carols. An old-fashioned black pot hangs from a stand in front of the choir and little kids take turns tossing in their mothers’ coins.

I still feel the attendant’s eyes on my back, so I turn around, but she has disappeared. Where has she gone?
She’s not calling the institute. Don’t be paranoid.
I look carefully on the far corners of each side of the street. Nothing. She’s shopping, like everyone else.
Don’t be crazy, Jane.

I push into the wind, past the door to Lila’s Vintage and into Dowden’s Drugstore on the far corner. An old man with a short white pharmacist’s jacket looks up from his perch and gives me a cursory smile before returning to his business, counting pills.

From the back entrance to the store, a FedEx man walks in carrying a handful of packages and brings them to the counter.

As the two men chat, I examine a display of hand-knitted mittens and hats. Candy canes dance in a pattern on the woven yarn: red and white, green and red, black and pink. It’s not as much a part of the Plan as the cold medicines and sleeping pills, but the more items I bring to the counter, the less likely the pharmacist might be to question why a teenage girl needs such a weird combination of over-the-counter medications. I pull a hat and a pair of mittens off the rack, tucking my old ones into my pockets. I slip the mittens on. They’re warm and fuzzy. I grab a couple pairs of each: one for Mom and one for Dad, just in case the attendant asks.

I walk down one of the aisles and nab a pair of sunglasses, large and black. I put them on and look in the mirror. I look like a bug. I like it.

In the next aisle, I find the cold medicines and sleeping pills. I pull down the bottles needed for the specific combination I researched online. I walk toward the pharmacist and place all of my items on the counter. He rings me up, and I hand him cash.

“Thank you, dear. Come again.”

He hands me a bag with my “medicine” and a separate bag with my new sunglasses and the extra mittens and hat. I put on my glasses and drop the drug bag into my travel bag. I walk to the door and disappear onto the street.

I check the time. It is twelve forty-five. Fifteen minutes to spare. Three hours and fifteen minutes until takeoff.