A Possible Conclusion
When Bunny wakes up in the recovery room, Sondra is there, standing over her. Bunny sees her as if she’s in a downpour: a series of blurry o’s that shimmer from lack of definition; opaque without determined features.
In all her years working as an ECT nurse, never before has Sondra had a patient wake in this way. Even more disconcerting, this copious weeping started up well before the anesthesia had begun to wear off, and creepier still, her expression was deadpan, flat, and there was no sound, and still there is no sound as she continues to weep the way blood flows from an open artery.
Later, Sondra will share this information with Dr. Tilden only because her respect for him as a skilled practitioner is absolute, and her sense of professional responsibility is firm. Otherwise, to engage in conversation with Dr. Tilden is to invite the feeling that comes when trapped in an elevator, when panic has set in but you’re not quite ready to hyperventilate. She knows it’s the Asperger’s, but still, he gives her the willies.
Now that Bunny is conscious and able to talk, Sondra pulls up a chair alongside the gurney, and she sits in the chair as if she’s not expecting to get up again any time soon. “Do you want to tell me about it?” Sondra asks.
Bunny wants to say no, but she fears that, were she to open her mouth to speak, words would not come out; instead, she would spew dark gray and black matter, something like a wet pellet of undigested rodent fur and teeth and bones. She imagines that there is nothing inside her other than the remains of a barn owl’s last meal. She shakes her head, and one sob escapes. Then more.
It was Albie, of course, who had told her about owl pellets, and he had described the barn owl as a ghostly creature. Bunny has never seen a barn owl, but feels as if she, too, is a ghostly thing.
“Are you dizzy?” Sondra asks. “Or queasy? It’s not unusual to come out of anesthesia feeling dizzy or slightly sick to your stomach.”
Again, Bunny shakes her head.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Sondra gives it another go. “You might feel better if you talk.”
Bunny rolls over. Her back is to Sondra who sits in the chair by the side of the gurney where she stays until Bunny’s weeping comes to a close.
Inarticulation
Although it’s not yet time for lunch, Josh and Andrea, along with a smattering of the others who blew off Activities or walked out in the middle of Group Therapy, are in the dining room. They, the others, are focused on Bunny, searching for signs of well-being, for signs of life as they once knew it. Despite prior evidence to the contrary, these people cling to the hope of immediate and dramatic results, like those promised in the before and after photos for a miracle diet. Irrational expectations are not limited to mental patients.
Bunny looks like crap.
At the same moment that she takes a seat at the table, Josh, like a partner on a seesaw, stands up.
From the kitchen cabinet he retrieves the two single-serving containers of orange juice that he’d secreted away after breakfast and stashed behind the jar of Coffee-Mate. He knew that Bunny would be thirsty.
Josh apologizes because the juice isn’t cold.
The glop of the electrode paste, like drying paint, is tacky to the touch and it clumps and dulls Bunny’s hair. Her eyes are wept-puffy and pink, and there’s a rank smell about her. Bunny doesn’t care if the orange juice is cold or not. In two long gulps, she drinks all of it, which really isn’t much. Those individual-size servings are individual-size for children. Rather than quench thirst, they tease it.
Josh asks if she wants a glass of water, and when he goes off to get it for her, Andrea says, “You know, you’ve got more than a half hour before lunch. Maybe you want to take a shower. Wash your hair.” She does not add, “It’ll make you feel better,” because they both know it won’t make her feel better. Bunny downs the glass of water that Josh has brought back for her. Then, she goes to her room.
In the bathroom, she grips the sink with both hands to hold herself steady, and she catches sight of her reflection in the aluminum rectangle fixed to the wall. The reflection that aluminum casts is hazy and inarticulate. “Inarticulate,” Bunny says. Out loud, as if speaking to the image in the aluminum mirror, she says, “I am inarticulate.”
To be inarticulate is to be incapable of giving effective expression to thoughts and feelings. To be inarticulate is to be incapable of pointing to where it hurts.
Bunny turns away and peels the slipper-socks from her feet. Her paper pajamas are dank from sweat and fear. She takes them off and drops them in the trash can. Then, she steps into the shower. The water is cool, but tolerable. Bunny arches her neck and lets the spray wash over her face the same as if she were looking into the rain, and again she reminds herself, This is not a true story.
This is fiction.
Acknowledgments
Infinite thanks: to Mark Doten—first reader, best reader and every writer’s dream editor; to Joy Harris, blessed agent who had faith even when I had nothing; to everyone at Soho Press (in alphabetical order because there is no other way)—
Janine Agro, Juliet Grames, Bronwen Hruska, Rachel Kowal, Paul Oliver, Steven Tran, and Alexa Wejko—who have made this the best publishing experience I ever could’ve hoped for; to my dear and treasured friends (in no particular order)—Lauren, Johanna, Deborah, Timothy, Nalini, Elissa, Mike, Wally, Alicia, Claire, Barbara; to William Wadsworth for seeing me through it all; and to Babs Kirshenbaum and Barry Luke Brock-Broido for being cats.
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