by Gae Polisner
Okay, yeah. I get it.
“You don’t get it,” the crow says. I see him now. He’s wearing the straw hat and struts blindly, drunkenly, across Dr. Alvarez’s rug. I watch until he disappears under her desk.
I do, I whisper in his direction. I’m just trying to hold on to things.
But I can’t because it all slips.
Everything is liquid through gauze.
It’s not Klee, I blurt, trying to focus on something solid. My name, I explain, It’s pronounced Clay, long a. After the famous Swiss painter, Paul Klee.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry. I knew that. Your mother mentioned … You should have corrected me sooner.” Dr. Alvarez looks away, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Klee.” She pronounces it again, emphasizing the long a. “Now I’m going to have those ee’s stuck in my head.”
It’s okay, I say. I’m used to it.
I keep my gaze glued on her. I don’t want to see the crow. I don’t want to see anyone but her. She said she’d help. Help me to get out of here.
“No, of course it’s not okay,” Dr. Alvarez says. “I’ll get it right from now on. Anyway, your mother is welcome back, to sit in, any time you want her to.”
I don’t want her to!
I close my eyes against all of it, against the memories that want to rush in—of my mother. Of Sarah. Of fucking Dunn’s house in the rain. But it’s too late. They slam in on me, knocking the wind from my chest.
Sarah, and Abbott, and all the blood.
Someone laughing at the door.
The images ambush me. I double over, head between my knees. Dr. Alvarez leans across the table.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “We won’t have her here unless you want her. Not until you’re ready. Your choice. I promise. Nobody here is going to make you do anything. This is a safe haven. We want you to get better, okay?”
I nod. I didn’t want to … I didn’t mean to … I say, but keep my head down, waiting for the nausea to pass. Waiting for the crow to land again. Waiting for the field to fill with them, wings flapping, and the man with the gun in his hand.
But they don’t return, and he doesn’t return, and the moment passes and I can sit up again.
I open my eyes. Beneath me, a patterned burgundy rug.
“Do you want to take a break?” Dr. Alvarez asks.
I nod. Yeah, okay.
Everything is hypercolorful and liquid.
I’m a little queasy. I think I need a drink, is all.
“Sure,” she says. “Let’s get you some water. It’s going to get better, Klee, I promise you that. From the sound of things, you’ve been through a lot. And it could be all the medication, too. I’ll talk to Dr. Ram this afternoon and see if that’s adding to the problem. Some of the stronger painkillers can wreak havoc.”
“See?” the crow says. “You may not have meant it, but you clearly have a problem—are the problem. And now you’re stuck in the Ape Can.”
And it hits me: That’s where I am. The Adolescent Psychiatric Center at Northhollow. The place the kids here all call the Ape Can.
“… antidepressants, too,” Dr. Alvarez is saying. “So, it’s common for the doses to need adjusting.” I nod again and try to keep the room from reeling. “Meanwhile, there’s no rush. Try to relax. Take your time. And, breathe.”
But I can’t breathe because Sarah is crawling through my head.
I’d like to get a drink of water.
“Right, of course. Let’s go get you one.”
Okay, yes. My voice sounds too loud, and hoarse. It feels like days since it’s been used. I’d like to walk. Stretch my legs.
“Perfectly okay. We don’t want you to feel like a prisoner here. I know it can be scary, but we’re here to help you, Klee.” She walks to the office door, pulls it open, and stands in the frame. She points out and says, “Go through the waiting area the nurse walked you through, do you remember? Veer left when you reach the hall. Right there you’ll find a fountain, and some cups if you need one. Do you want me to come with you?”
No. I’m okay.
I feel better now that I’m walking.
“Yes,” she calls. “Like that. Cross through and make a left when you reach the hall.” I feel her waiting, watching, but at least I’m in motion, away from her.
The hallway walls are Ace bandage beige. A hideous fish mural stretches half the length of the far wall, garish in primary colors. Cartoon fish swim about as if painted for five-year-olds by five-year-olds.
At the far edge of the waiting area, I stop in my tracks.
A girl sits in the corner, her back to me. Long, shiny black hair.
Sarah!
I must make a noise, because the girl turns and stares. Not Sarah. Not even close. The girl is young, Asian, pretty. She looks nothing like Sarah at all.
I find my breath, make my legs move again toward the fountain, but I feel clammy and my whole body shivers. The bright fluorescents overhead flicker and buzz, creating an insistent drumbeat in my ears. The air grows thick and swirling, as if I’m slogging through a blizzard to get there.
When I finally reach the fountain, I put my lips into the stream and drink.
I’m so cold and parched.
I feel like I’ll never stop drinking.
I push my face farther down into the stream. The water shoots up, filling my mouth and my nose.
Sarah. My father …
The shower …
The drumbeat grows louder and louder.
The phone calls.
The fighting.
The blood.
My mother, packing our things—
I drink more, but can’t steady myself. The blizzard takes over my brain.
* * *
“I don’t want us to move, Mom. Jesus, not now. They say a year. He’s barely dead three months.”
I’m talking to her back. What else is new? She’s in her favorite pink Chanel suit, leaning in toward her vanity mirror. Putting on lipstick, getting ready for an appointment with the broker. My mother is expert at this: managing her same mundane shit even after the world has fallen apart.
A cockroach after the apocalypse.
Her eyes go to mine in the mirror. I get that this is what she wants, but can’t she wait one more year?
“Seriously, let me just graduate and get out of here. One measly school year and you’re rid of me, too,” I beg.
Her eyes flash soundless daggers, as only my mother can throw.
But I threw one first.
She recaps the lipstick and drops it into her handbag.
“There’s practically a snowstorm out there, Klee. Do you think I want to be doing this? Sometimes…” She pauses, then says, “Look, I need to go sign the contracts.”
She starts to get up, then sits back down heavily, waits for a moment, and searches for a tissue, which she presses to her lips to blot them.
As I watch her, this memory comes to me from not so long ago, of my father in a suit and tie, watching her as she readies for some formal event. He puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. His gesture is so tender, but she flinches. That’s what I remember: how my mother flinches.
“Mom, please…”
She cuts me off and stands, determined.
“I’ve told you this already, Klee. You can stay and finish your senior year here if you need to. Graduate. I’ll be okay. Aunt Margaret said you’re welcome to stay with her. Then you’ll come up and spend the summer with me after graduation. Before you head off to school.” I can barely look at her. I’ve grown to hate her. She knows I’d never leave her alone. Not now. “Before you leave for Boston, for SMFA, in the fall.” She gives this last statement a weak smile intended to impart that I have her vote of confidence as far as my art is concerned.
Her voice has softened and she thinks I’m a shoo-in there. I should appreciate that, but instead it makes me furious. Like art is good enough for me, even if she didn’t think
it was good enough for my father.
“The bottom line is, I don’t have a choice here, Klee. They think it best if we sell by May, and close on the Ridge house by June. As soon as school ends. More families are willing to move at that time. So at least you can finish the school year here.” She sighs deeply, as if the choice is out of her hands, as if she’s not the one who decided to trade in our whole life, or what’s left of it, for a water view up in the boonies. “Either way, I cleared it with Aunt Maggie. She’s happy to have you stay with her if you want. She’s still a mess, too, so she’d love the company.”
I glare at her until she turns back to the mirror. Because, first, there’s the implication of the words “still” and “too,” as if not being over the death of my father says something weak about my character. Just because she’s some sort of fucking Ice Queen who is more than ready to move on. And, second, we both know Aunt Maggie’s place isn’t a viable option for me to spend an entire school year. She lives in a tiny studio apartment on the Upper West Side. Not exactly an ideal living situation for a seventeen-year-old. Besides, hate her or not, I’m not going to abandon my own mother a few months after her husband died. I’m not going to do that to my dad.
My mother grabs her purse and turns to go. “You could commute. That’s an option, too. It’s an hour. Hour and a half, tops. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Shouldn’t the broker come here?” I ask, changing the subject. “Bring you the contracts? She’s the one about to make a mint off you, right? Shouldn’t she be the one pandering?”
“Klee! I don’t want to fight over this anymore.”
I follow her into the foyer to argue, but she yanks on her coat and bangs the door shut after her.
* * *
“Klee?”
Long e, then whispering.
“Klee!” Same voice. Corrected, long a.
I blink my eyes open.
I’m back in my room, in bed. My new room in the Ape Can, anyway.
“How are you feeling, hon?”
There’s a cold cloth on my head. Dr. Alvarez’s face looms over me.
“You fainted, that’s all. No big deal. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll leave you here with Carole, now. I have another patient…” A blond nurse smiles down at me. “We’ll pick up fresh tomorrow. By then, Dr. Ram will have come by.”
I nod. The fountain comes back to me, the girl with the black hair, the rush of snow swirling down.
How’d I get back in here?
An orderly. He stands near the door. Burly. Strong. “All good now?” he asks. “I can go?”
Carole nods, and he leaves. She stays, hovering over me. “Can you sit up, hon?” Her aqua scrubs with butterflies hurt my eyes. Worse than the cartoon fish.
“Okay, Klee, you’re in good hands here,” Dr. Alvarez says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She squeezes my foot and leaves. Nurse Carole pulls a rolling bedside table over, and I sit up against the prop of pillows she’s situated behind me.
“Well, you look much better now! That’s the way.” Her voice matches the butterflies, overbright and cheerful, like I’m a child. She slides a food tray over to me. “How about some lunch? If you eat something, it might help.”
The tray is the plastic cafeteria kind, a weird salmon color with white speckles. On it is a plate with one of those flat-topped domes covering it—both plastic, the lid, beige with a hole in the center. She lifts it to reveal a sandwich on white bread. Next to that, there’s a small paper cup with orange juice, a piece of cling wrap stretched across its top.
“No glass or utensils for obvious reasons,” the crow mocks just out of sight.
I’m not suicidal, I want to snap. I’m not a danger to myself or others. I’ve heard them say that, but it’s the part nobody understands. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I just wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t be here. I can go home now.
But I don’t actually want to go home.
I focus on the tray. Next to the juice cup is a smaller paper cup, pleated, white, holding a bunch of pills. I grimace. Something yellow oozes out of the sandwich. Something I’m dreading might be egg salad. A wave of nausea rolls through me at the smell.
Nurse Carole wrinkles her nose. “Don’t like egg salad? I can get you something else … You really should try to eat something. According to your chart, you haven’t eaten much since you got here, and Dr. Alvarez says you’re having some trouble with your meds. Trust me, you’ll feel a whole lot better if you have some food in you. It’s hard to handle all that,” she nods at the little cup full of pills, “on an empty stomach. Those antipsychotics can wreak havoc your system.”
Antipsychotics? What the fuck?
It’s okay, I say anyway. I’ll eat it.
She tilts her chin and offers the too-cheerful smile again. “Do you want me to scrounge you up something else for lunch?”
No. It’s fine.
“Okay, good. Before I go—” She glances at her watch, takes my wrist in her hand, and feels for my pulse with her fingers. She presses her lips to indicate I should stay quiet, counts to herself, and drops my arm. “Pulse is good. You feeling better now? Dr. Ram should be in to see you soon.”
Yes. Okay.
“Anything else you need before I go?”
No, thanks.
“Books? Magazines?”
Sarah struts across the rocky ledge, stops, posing topless, in just her underpants.
“You think I could be in a magazine, Klee?”
I nod and pull her to me …
“You do know there’s a whole library down the hall? Has anyone shown you around this place properly? You’re welcome to go in and borrow anything we have. You might even find some company in there.”
“Give it up, Klee.” The crow waggles a wing from the windowsill. The memory of Sarah is gone.
I think I’m good for right now.
“Okay, I get it,” Nurse Carole says. “But in case you do—” she gestures at the far wall as if I can see through it—“it’s just a few doors down on your right. There are puzzles and games in there, too.” I nod. I have a vague recollection of someone pointing it out as they shuffled me down the hall. “Anyway, holler if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll be back later. And, eat.”
I will.
“Oh, you need to take these before I go.” She rattles the small cup at me, and I frown. I’m still feeling fuzzy and out of it. “Don’t worry, hon. One is just an antibiotic for the wound. That one you’ll take twice a day. And that other long capsule there? That’s just plain old vitamin E. Omega 3. Like fish oil, you know? They’ve done more and more studies on the benefits of it.”
I’m grateful for the information, but, really, at this point, what do I care? I dump them into my mouth and swallow.
When she’s gone, I push the tray back and click on the television. I’m not a big TV watcher, but I don’t have my other stuff for distraction. No laptops or cell phones allowed. Signs everywhere. They make that very clear.
The midday news is on, no sound. A crew is covering a fire in downtown Manhattan. Even without the scroll at the bottom of the screen, anyone can tell it’s the West Village. Flames lick up from the roof of three-story building; thick gray smoke fills the shot. The camera pans in on a reporter holding a cloth to his nose. He points his mic at a fireman, whose mouth moves soundlessly at me.
I pull the lunch tray over, take the top of the bread off and eat it, nearly gagging at the smell of the egg salad.
Antipsychotics. Jesus.
I get up and walk to the bathroom, trying to avoid my reflection in the wonky plastic mirror over the sink. But it can’t be avoided. I look like hell. I don’t look like me. My hair is a matted mess, flat on one side, poking up crazy on the other. My eyes are dull, ringed by a shadowed gray-purple. And the bandage on my ear seeps a weird yellow-brown ointment.
I’m an asshole. I just destroyed my fucking life, but whatever.
“Maybe, maybe not,” the crow
says, so at least he’s throwing me a bone.
I take a piss and wash my hands, leaning against the sink to steady myself. I bend in and gulp water from the tap. It’s lukewarm and metallic, and tastes like the smell of Lysol that fills my nose. When I right myself, I catch the reflection of the man in the hat with the red beard. He’s sitting on the floor of the small doorless shower.
“Don’t look, seriously. Just walk out.” Another bone tossed by the crow.
I move back into the room and stare at the television. The fire is gone and a newscaster at a desk is laughing and waving her arms, like the news is some kind of comedy. I want the fire back. I want any old glimpse of Manhattan.
I peel off another triangle of bread and force it down with the rest of the juice, then lie back, helplessly, letting my lids grow heavy and the cyclone take over my brain.
* * *
My mother is in the kitchen cooking dinner, my first clue it’s only a dream.
The room smells of garlic and onions and sautéed things. I pull out a chair, sit, and watch her. She’s humming some cheerful tune.
A manila envelope rests on the table in front of me. I unwind the red string and open it, letting the papers slide out. It’s some sort of legal document:
Condominium Unit—Contract of Sale
Consult Your Lawyer before Signing.
I turn the page and read the first paragraph:
Contract (the “Contract”) for the sale of the Place you Live (without your goddamned permission), made as of this ________ [insert date] day of this unbelievably terrible year, between the Ice Queen (your Mother as “Seller”) and Someone You Don’t Know and Don’t Give a Crap About (as “Purchaser”).
I shove the document back in and push the envelope away. A small white rectangle has fallen out. A business card for one Judy Manson, licensed real estate broker. Puffy-faced Judy, with her bleached blond hair and blue eye shadow, smiles smugly from a box in the corner. Salivates for her 5 percent commission.
“One point three million,” Judy says, winking. “Not bad at all.” She winks at me from the goddamned card.
