The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  She cut herself off, as if she was about to reveal something she didn’t want me to hear. Or, at least, not yet.

  “But you’re going to tuck into this lunch, aren’t you? Or, at least, have a drink of something.”

  I reached out for the tray. I took the glass of water. I brought it to my mouth. I drank a little while still in a prone position, which meant that some of the water ran down my face and onto the bedclothes. Then I put the glass back on the tray.

  “Atta girl,” the nurse said. “Now how about a little tucker?”

  I wanted to smile at the use of bush jargon in a South London hospital. But I couldn’t do a damn miserable thing except lie there, feeling like a general all-purpose idiot.

  “Tell you what. Why don’t I just leave lunch here and come back in half an hour, eh? But, please, do yourself a favor and munch on something.”

  But how can I eat when I can’t eat? Don’t you see that? Doesn’t that make completely logical sense to you?

  Half an hour later, she was back. And she didn’t like the sight of the untouched lunch tray.

  “Oh come on,” she said, still sounding chirpy as hell. “You’ve got to want something in your turn, don’t you?”

  No. I want nothing. Because I want to shrivel. Like a prune. Do everyone a huge service and disappear from view. Permanently.

  She sat down on the bed and squeezed my arm.

  “I know this is all really crap—and that you’re in one of those ‘circumstances beyond your control’ things. But a word of warning—the doc is coming by to see you in about an hour. And she takes a really dim view of postpartum anorexia, eh? If you don’t believe me, talk to your roomie when they bring her back from the operating room. So do yourself a favor—and at least take a bloody bite out of the apple before the doc shows up.”

  But to bite an apple I have to bite an apple. Get it?

  The doctor was a woman in her late forties. Very tall, very plain, with mid-length brown hair sensibly cut, wearing a sensible suit under her white hospital coat, with sensible bifocals on the end of her nose. Everything about her exuded high rationality—and a take-no-crap view of things. She immediately worried me.

  “Ms. Goodchild—Sally—I’m Dr. Rodale, the unit’s psychiatrist.”

  She proffered her hand.

  But to take your hand I have to take your hand.

  She smiled tightly at my inability to make the necessary social gesture.

  “Right then,” she said, pulling up a chair next to my bed, then reaching into her briefcase for a clipboard and a pen. “Let’s try to make a start . . .”

  It was she who made a start—asking me to verify my age, whether this was my first child, my first experience of depression, and/or the first time I had ever gone silent like this. She also had gathered—from looking at Jack’s chart—that his had been a traumatic delivery, and was wondering if this had impacted on my mental health . . . blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah . . .

  Now what was interesting to me about Dr. Rodale’s one-way interrogation was the briskness of her inquiry, and the way she plowed on even when I refused to answer her. And it struck me that—though she may have been a shrink—she wasn’t of the touchy-feely let’s talk to your inner child school of psychotherapy. No, she was simply after the necessary information to work out the sort of treatment I needed.

  There was a problem, however—I wasn’t responding to her questions. Something she picked up rather quickly.

  “Now Sally,” she finally said after getting nowhere on the answer front, “I am well aware that you can hear me and that you recognize your surroundings, your situation, and the effect you are having on others. Which means that your refusal to talk must be regarded as psychosomatic in nature.”

  A tight smile.

  “However, if you do feel that you simply cannot talk at the moment, so be it. Do understand, though, that in order for me to render a proper diagnosis—and prescribe an appropriate course of treatment—you will have to answer my questions. So, shall we start over again?”

  I said nothing. She reiterated her checklist of questions. Halfway through her list, I shifted position in the bed and turned away from her, showing her my back. I kept my back to her. She stood up and brought her chair around to the other side of the bed.

  “There now, we can see each other again.”

  I flipped over and showed her my back again. Dr. Rodale exhaled a long, weary breath.

  “All you are doing, Ms. Goodchild, is impeding the speed of your recovery—and increasing the amount of time you will be spending with us. However, once again, I cannot force you to answer my simple medical questions. The choice is yours. For the moment, anyway. Just as you can decide whether or not to eat. But, as you well know, you cannot live without food. So if you continue to refuse food, that choice may well be taken care of for you.

  “However, I do see from your notes that your GP prescribed a mild sedative to help you sleep. I am going to ask the nurse to administer the same dose to you this evening. And when I return to see you again tomorrow, I do hope we will be able to make better progress than today. Good afternoon.”

  Around five minutes after she left, the doors swung open and I met my roommate. Actually I didn’t meet her—as she was in a state of postoperative coma. Or, at least, I presumed she was suffering from postoperative something—as she was brought in on a gurney, and had a large bandage wrapped around her skull. Though I was still lying prone on my bed, I could see that she was a black woman around my age. Nurse Patterson helped the orderlies get the gurney into position. Once they left, she read her chart, checked her pulse, and rearranged her bedclothes. Then, seeing me staring at her, she said, “Her name’s Agnes. Her little boy, Charlie, is in the ward with your guy. You’ll probably have a bit to talk about when she comes ’round—because she’s been through what you’re going through. In fact, she’s still going through it—which is a real shame, but there you are. There’s no rhyme or reason to the dance you’re dancing. It’s just a matter of bringing it under control before it dances you right into serious physical trouble—which is what happened with poor Agnes here. But hey, let her tell you all about it. Very bright woman, our Agnes—a senior civil servant. But hey, that’s the thing about illness—it doesn’t give a hoot who you are, right?”

  She came over and sat down on my bed again. I so wished she wouldn’t do that.

  “And while we’re on the subject of bad things happening to good people—don’t you love that expression?—I’m going to let you in on a little secret: you did not make the best impression with the doc. And she is definitely the sort of doctor with whom you want to cooperate, if you take my meaning. Very old school. Very into the old chain of command, and knowing what’s best for you—which, I hate to say it, she probably does. Because whatever about her manner—which does get up a lot of people’s noses—she does know exactly how to snap girls like you out of this mess. Only—take it from me—the road out of here is about five times shorter and easier if you help us to help you . . . and, yeah, sorry for the dumb cliché. So, come on, let’s try a little food again.”

  Hey, don’t you think I want to help you out here? The problem is what the problem is, which is the fact that there is a problem which presents a problem when it comes to addressing said problem because the problem is . . .

  She pulled over the table, and cut off a bit of sandwich for me and brought it to the vicinity of my mouth.

  “Just a couple of fast bites, nothing to it . . .”

  Listen, I know you mean well, but . . . no, I’m not going to get into it again.

  “Apple? Glass of milk? Couple of our best choice cookies? Nothing take your fancy?”

  Just silence.

  “Well, how about we get you out of the bed and take you in to see Jack. He’s probably due a feed by now . . .”

  This really made me react, as I suddenly clutched the pillow to myself and buried my face in it.

  “Looks like I just
put my big foot in it,” Nurse Patterson said. “But hey, the baby needs to eat too, right?”

  Her beeper went off. She glanced at it.

  “That’s me accounted for. Catch you later. And if you need anything, just buzz.”

  I needed nothing—and certainly not the arrival, an hour later, of Tony. He was bearing a copy of that day’s Chronicle and a festive bag of Liquorice Allsorts. As he leaned down to kiss me, I saw his watch: 5:12 PM. Guilt must have egged him on to visit so early—a good three hours before he put his pages to bed.

  “How’s it going?” he asked me.

  I said nothing.

  “Brought you . . .”

  He placed his gifts on the bedside locker, then looked for a chair, wondering whether to sit down or not. He decided to stand. He also decided to focus his attention slightly away from me—since my sickly, catatonic state so obviously disturbed him.

  “I’ve just been in to see Jack. Good news—he’s awake again, and from what the nurse told me, he gobbled down two bottles he was so damn hungry. Which, she said, is a good sign that he’s completely back to normal.”

  Because he’s out of my tender loving care.

  “Anyway, the nurse also said that you can visit him . . .”

  Stop it, stop it, stop it. I don’t want your kindness. I don’t deserve it.

  I pulled the pillow over my head.

  “She also said you’d been doing a bit of this too.”

  I pulled the pillow around my ears.

  “If you want me to leave, I will.”

  I didn’t move. Finally he said, “I hope you’re better.”

  I heard him leave. I removed the pillow. And then I heard a voice opposite me.

  “Who are you?”

  It was my roommate, Agnes. She was sitting up in bed, looking unfocused and fogged-in. But hey, I wasn’t exactly one to brag about my lucidity right now.

  “You here yesterday? Don’t remember . . . You were here, right? But maybe . . .”

  She broke off, looking confused—as if she couldn’t hold on to this jangled train of thought.

  “Agnes—that’s me. You always put a pillow over your head like that? Agnes . . . you got that?”

  Yeah—and I’m glad to see I’m not the only resident of Planet Weird.

  “Agnes. As in Agnes. A-G-N-E . . .”

  Nurse Patterson came in here.

  “She’s a woman of few words, our Sally,” she said.

  “Sally?” Agnes asked.

  “That’s what I said. S-A-L-L-Y. And she’s not really talking much today. But we’d all like it if you kept trying—’cause sooner or later, we’ve got to hear that American accent of hers.”

  Agnes blinked several times, trying to filter this information.

  “Why’s she American?” she asked.

  “Why?” Nurse Patterson asked with a laugh. “Because I imagine she was born there, that’s why. And she’s got a little baby boy, just like you.”

  “He’s called Charlie?” Agnes asked.

  “No—your son’s called Charlie . . .”

  “I know, I know. I just thought . . .”

  She interrupted herself again, sounding lost.

  “Jack,” Nurse Patterson said. “He’s called Jack.”

  “And I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “A little scrambled, that’s all,” Nurse Patterson said. “Just like last time. But, I promise you, by tomorrow morning you’ll be all-clear again. Now what do you want for tea?”

  Agnes shook her head.

  “Ah now, we’re not going down that road again,” Nurse Patterson said. “Especially since that’s what got you . . .”

  “Oatmeal,” Agnes said. “I’ll eat oatmeal.”

  “And oatmeal you shall have. And what do you fancy, Sally?”

  I did my now-usual silent routine.

  “This is not doing you any good, Sal.”

  She approached me with a glass of water and another small cup.

  “Now I’m not going to force food down your throat, but I am going to have to ask that you take these pills. Which are exactly the same pills you were taking last night . . .”

  And which allowed me to poison my son.

  She rattled the plastic pill cup by my ear.

  “Come on now, doctor’s orders and all that. And the payoff is: you get to sleep through the night. Oh—and as your husband may have mentioned, Jack is up and about, and ordering us all around. So . . .”

  She shook the pills again.

  “Please, Sal. Don’t make me . . .”

  She didn’t finish that sentence. Because she didn’t need to. I sat up. I took the pills. Then I forced myself onto my feet and shuffled into the adjoining bathroom, Nurse Patterson loudly congratulating me for getting up. Once inside, I avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Instead, I just emptied my bladder and returned to bed, and pulled the bedclothes over me, and waited for the pills to kick in.

  Then it was morning. My head was somewhere high up in a vaporous stratospheric zone. When I began to work out the where am I? question, I noticed that there was a needle in my arm, and an intravenous bag suspended above me. My roommate was absent. There was a new nurse on duty who was positioning another delectable repast in front of me. She was short and Scottish.

  “Good sleep?”

  I responded by getting to my feet, taking hold of the stand with my bag, and pushing it toward the bathroom.

  “Need some help there?” the nurse asked.

  No, I’m a fully fledged veteran of assorted hospital drips.

  In the bathroom, I peed, then went to the sink to wash my hands and splash water on my face. That’s when I saw the nightmare that was myself. My face puffy, my eyes streaked with red, my hair matted, my . . .

  Oh, forget it.

  I walked back into the room. The nurse helped me back into bed, repositioning the drip bag to my left. “Now there’s oatmeal, and toast, and some fried eggs, and some good strong builders’ tea—”

  I turned away. The nurse continued talking.

  “—and after breakfast, I’m sure you’ll want to go visit your baby. So what do you want to start with first?”

  I ate nothing. The nurse tried to interest me in a slice of toast. I turned away.

  “Okay so,” she said. “But I know that Dr. Rodale will not be pleased.”

  She left the breakfast by the bed. Agnes came back into the room. She was a tall, elegant woman—despite the shell-shocked exhaustion and her slightly tentative gait.

  “You were here yesterday, right?” she asked, getting back into bed. “The American, right? Or are you someone new? My memory . . .”

  Another of her fractured sentences. She peered at me quizzically.

  “Why don’t you talk? Baby got your tongue?”

  She laughed hysterically. And I thought: Got it in one, sweetheart.

  Then, abruptly, the laughter ceased.

  “You’ve got to eat,” she said. “It’ll get you into trouble if you don’t. I mean, big trouble. I know it. Because I had it. And you don’t want it. You don’t want it.”

  Then she lapsed into silence again.

  “You are American, aren’t you?”

  She put her hands over her face.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don’t mean to keep repeating myself. But . . .”

  And then she went quiet again.

  Dr. Rodale showed up around three that afternoon. My untouched lunch was by the bed. She glanced at it, then turned her eyes to my chart. What’s up, doc?

  “And how are you today, Sally?”

  I stared at the wall. Dr. Rodale’s lips twitched, then she made a note or two on my chart.

  “Right . . . I see that you refused dinner last night, as well as breakfast and lunch today. Once again, this is your prerogative—but do understand that we are keeping you on a drip. And within the next day or two, we will have to make a decision about how to assist you out of your current state. I also gather you had a trouble-free night. Slee
p well?”

  No response.

  “No side effects from the sedatives . . . bar the usual slight grogginess on waking?”

  No response.

  “And I see, as well, that despite several offers, you’ve shown no interest in seeing your son, Jack. Which, of course, is not an uncommon facet of your condition—though one which also cannot be doing either you or your child much good. Now, if you like, we do have a resident psychotherapist who can speak with you about the emotional issues you’re facing. But in order for her to perform her function, you must be able to speak. Which puts us all in something of a Catch-22 situation, wouldn’t you agree? So, can you please try to talk to me now?”

  No response.

  “I cannot emphasize how difficult you’re making things for us . . . and ultimately for yourself.”

  No response.

  “Very well then. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  Then she turned her attention to Agnes. From her cowed response to this approaching figure, it was clear that Dr. Rodale genuinely scared her.

  “And how are we feeling today, Agnes? Appetite back?”

  “I’m eating.”

  “No aftereffects this time?”

  “My memory . . .”

  “That’s just short-term. Within another twenty-four hours, you’ll be back to normal.”

  “Is that the last one?”

  Dr. Rodale did not look up from her chart.

  “We’ll see.”

  I pulled the covers over my head. Because I now knew—or, at least, I think I knew—the sort of treatment Agnes had been undergoing.

  But though I understood that I had to talk and eat . . . well, it was that old bit of tortured logic all over again: to talk I have to talk . . . to eat I have to eat. Which, right now, was impossible. Because though I instinctively knew how to talk and/or eat, it was as if I had lost the ability to carry out these two functions. My operating system was down—and try as I wanted to, I could not trigger the mechanism that would get me to open my mouth. And though I felt a certain rising panic, it was overshadowed by a desperate inertia. I just didn’t care enough about anything anymore.