by Gae Polisner
I look up. “Judy Manson just winked at me. She’s salivating, Mom.”
My mother whirls at me, hand to forehead, dramatic. “I’ve told you, Klee, I can’t talk about this anymore. I won’t. You’ll just have to believe me. This is the best thing for us. A fresh start. To get away from all this!” She gestures wildly. “You can stay or you can come with me, but I need to get away from here. I hoped you’d understand.”
Her words sting, reverberate.
She pours a glass of water, dumps two aspirin on the counter, and swallows them down, then walks back to the stove in her high-heeled shoes—click, click, click—and dumps the rest of the water on the pan. Steam sizzles and rises. She fans the smoke away.
“So much for dinner,” I say.
She whirls again. “You don’t understand, Klee. I just need to find some grass and trees, and water. Some peace. You don’t know … I’ve been through hell, too. You have no idea the hell I’ve been through.”
“This is hell,” I say. I pull out the contract and toss it on the table, change my mind and rip it into shreds. I toss the pieces in the air and let them rain down, a flutter of expensive confetti.
“I expected more of you,” she says. “And, anyway, that’s only a copy. The original is already signed.”
I don’t say more, but she makes this hurt sound anyway, probably because she knows I’ll feel sorry for her.
“Don’t I deserve to be happy? There’s a house—small, cozy—right on the river. It’ll be healing for you. I never wanted to raise you in the city…”
“I don’t want to heal!” I stand, knocking my chair over, kicking the bits of paper away.
“Jesus, Klee. There are things you’re not privy to … despite what you think … you don’t know everything.” She takes the envelope, waves it twice, and disappears, like Dorothy clicking her ruby shoes.
I stare at the empty space where she was, then walk to the sink to get a drink of water. But when I turn on the tap, the water runs pink, then red, overflowing, filling the whole kitchen with blood.
Day?—Afternoon
A knock on the door startles me awake.
My mouth is cotton. I’m drenched in sweat.
“Klee Alden?” A tall, thin man, brown-skinned with black hair, glasses, and a white lab coat, enters. He looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure.
“Do you remember me? I’m Dr. Ram. I examined you yesterday.” He speaks with an accent, his vowels soft and drawn out, his consonants sharp. He pronounces my first name with something between the long a and long e. Close enough. I sit up and he shakes my hand. “How are we doing today?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess.”
He directs me to the edge of the bed, and pulls a blood pressure cuff from his pocket. “You look a little flushed.”
“I had a bad dream.”
He wraps the cuff around my upper arm, pumps and squeezes, closing his eyes to count. “Good, excellent,” he says when he’s done. “Dr. Alvarez said you were feeling a little light-headed.”
I nod.
“Still?”
“Yeah, a little, but not as much. I mean, it’s hard to tell … I just woke up.”
“Well, good, then. Excellent. I’d like to keep you on this higher dose of the Aripiprazole for now, but I’ve had them decrease the pain medications. Those tend to be a more likely culprit. And you probably don’t need them any longer.” I nod again, wondering if I should tell him about the hallucinations. But, I don’t want him to think I’m crazier than I must be, because who knows where they’ll put me then.
My eyes dart for the crow and the red-bearded man, but thankfully, they’re not around.
He undoes the cuff, jams it back in his pocket, and reaches into the opposite one, extracting a penlight.
“Look here,” he says, moving the light from right to left, then back again. My eyes follow. “Good,” he says. “Any blurred vision?”
Turn off that fucking light, asshole!
I shake my head, dislodge the memory. “No,” I say, “I don’t think so.”
“Excellent, I think we’re good for now.”
Whatever you say, Doc.
He slips the penlight away, puts his hands on my throat, and gently presses at my glands. His fingers are soft and cold. The cold feels good on my skin.
“Sore throat?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Right, good.
He looks at me and waits. I look away.
“Are you sleeping at all?”
“Yeah, a lot. But I wake up constantly … my dreams are vivid, and weird.”
“To be expected. You’ve been working with Dr. Alvarez.” A statement, not a question, so I nod. “Good. Excellent.”
I almost laugh. Apparently everything about my situation so far ranges from good to excellent.
He writes something in my chart. Paranoid, I stare hard at his pen.
“Mr. Alden, make sure you eat.” He looks down his glasses at me and frowns. “It will help if you keep your stomach full. But for now, I think we should stay the course. Looks like everything is adjusting nicely.”
“Okay.”
“Let Dr. Alvarez know if you have any additional concerns.”
“Right,” I say. “I will.”
He puts his hands back in his coat pockets and tsks at the window beyond me. I twist around to see. Construction equipment has lumbered into view. “A shame,” he says, indicating a large excavator that may as well have parked in front of my window. “It’s been this way for months. An earache and an eyesore.” He shakes his head at the yellow, prehistoric silhouette. “All right, son, I think we’re good for now. We’ll see how you’re feeling tomorrow.” The word “son” makes me flinch. “Holler if you need something.” He heads toward the door.
“Okay, thank you. I will.”
The door closes slowly behind him all but the last few inches.
I lie back down and stare at the excavator, then close my eyes, grateful for its noisy rattle and hum.
Dr. Ram is right: Except for the part where my father is gone and I’m lying here alone in the Adolescent Psychiatric Center at Northhollow missing Sarah so bad I can’t breathe, everything is adjusting just fine.
Day?—Evening
“Come to me my melancholy baby…”
The room is dark, and Sarah is crawling again.
“Cuddle up and don't be blue
All your fears are foolish fancies, dear…”
I sit up.
Not Sarah. I’m in bed. In the Ape Can.
But there was a noise.
Someone is in my room.
But when I switch on the reading light, the room is empty, the rolling table pushed over, alongside my bed. A note and a two-pack of Yodels sit there.
I pick up the paper and read:
Welcome to APCN.
You’re early to bed so I’ve left something sweet to welcome you.
Hope to chat with you soon.
It’s signed:
Sister Agnes Teresa
I pick up the Yodels and turn them in my hand, not trusting if they’re real or some looped-up-on-drugs hallucination. Whatever the case, I’m starving, so I rip open the wrapper and scarf them down.
Day 3—Morning
Sunlight streams in the window.
Someone has let the shades up. I’m not usually such a heavy sleeper.
I move my tongue around and glance at the table. The note is there, and I still taste the chocolate in my teeth.
Not a hallucination, then.
Maybe I’m stabilizing. I do feel a little more like me.
Is that a good or a bad thing?
I roll my head to the side and stare out the window. The tree branches sway in a breeze, their shadowed silhouettes dappled cave paintings that play across the canvas of the shades. I sit up and search for the yellow dinosaur, but he’s beyond the scope of my view.
Something else I notice now, too: There are no strings or cables on
the shades. They lift and lower by touch. The better not to hang ourselves with.
A salmon-colored breakfast tray sits on the bedside table next to the note and the empty Yodels wrapper. A too-sweet syrupy smell emanates from under its lid.
What day is it? I count forward from Saturday trying to keep track. Wednesday, I think. Already Wednesday.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed, walk to the window, and look out. In the far corner of the courtyard, the yellow excavator hulks, neck extended high, but digger slack-jawed, saw teeth down. A brachiosaurus, time-traveled through history to get here. Just me and a dinosaur, in this place where we don’t belong.
But, I do belong, don’t I? I did what I did, so I must.
I move my hand to the bandaged itch that’s my ear.
Who am I kidding? Of course I belong here.
Beneath the excavator, a trench is being dug. Across from that rests a giant spool of thick black cable.
I’m overwhelmed by the urge to walk outside, climb up into the excavator’s cab, and push all its gears and levers, making its jaws plunge down and bite into earth, bringing up chunks of concrete, dirt, and sand.
It occurs to me that I don’t know if I’m allowed to leave this place at all, even for a walk. I have no idea what the rules are. I’ve just been plodding around like some crazier-than-fuck zombie, numb from the shoulders up.
This is my life now. This is what I have to look forward to.
Except, deep inside, I don’t believe it. I know I’m not crazy.
At least I don’t think I am.
I stare past the brachiosaurus to the grassy courtyard, to the trees starting to show off their purple-red buds. Technically it’s spring, and it’s bright and sunny outside. I should get dressed and walk out of here, prove to myself I can. Do something normal for a change.
The thought slams me hard: I’m not normal. When is the last time I felt like I was? Was it with Sarah, or not since my father died?
But I did, right? There was a time when I felt happy and normal. I want to go back there, back a year ago—more—back to my city, my home. Back to when I had friends, and had fun.
Back with Cleto and Dan.
* * *
“Where’d you find this place?” Dan asks. “It’s a chick magnet!”
Dan is hyper, per usual, talking too much, and messing up metaphors. Hopping up and down like an idiot. Fake IDs or not, he’s going to get us kicked out before we get in. We’ve been on this line for an hour, and we’re finally getting close to the door.
“Take it down a notch,” Cleto says, putting a hand on Dan’s shoulder. “I told y’all my cousin works here. But you need to let me do the talking when we get up there. He ain’t gonna let us in if you act like a fool.” Dan shuts up. He would never listen to me that fast, but he listens to Cleto. Cleto has this power over people. “Y’all need to chill. I know I’m asking a lot of you assclowns. But humor me. Try to seem like you’ve done this before. Not like you never set foot in no bar.” To prove his chillness, Cleto pulls a water bottle from his jacket pocket and swigs some down. It’s vodka, not water, we know. But he drinks it down easy, which is part of his charm.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, holding my hand out for a swig. “I’m just standing here.”
Cleto nods. “Right, be like Alden, here. Nice and cool.” He hands me the bottle. I take a sip, alcohol burning my throat as I pass it on to Dan.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Dan says. “I’m cool. Swear. Thanks for getting us into this place.”
“We ain’t in no place yet,” Cleto says. “That’s the point I’m trying to impress upon y’all.”
The place, for the record, is some new kitsch bar down on Sullivan Street called Hi-Ho Silvers! that is frequented by everyone from ironically Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle T-shirt-clad biker dudes, to stuffed-shirt Wall Street types who want to prove they’re something other than that, to the hottest college girls from nearby Cooper Union and NYU. Cleto’s cousin said it got popular because Taylor Swift and some of her friends came in one night. We don’t usually go for the trendy places, but then again, we don’t usually go for the bar scene at all since the fake IDs are a pretty new acquisition. We’re not even sure they’ll fly. So knowing someone who can put a good word in for us is key. And, according to Cleto, despite the physical heft of the very intimidating bouncers at the door, they’re pretty lax about checking IDs.
“So long as you have one,” Cleto had told us, “my cousin says he’ll make sure we get in. It ain’t like they gonna be quizzing y’all, just don’t act like no jackasses.”
Dan still seems nervous. I am, too. I don’t exactly feel like getting kicked to the curb in front of a bunch of people, including girls who may or may not be Taylor Swift’s friends. But junior year has been crushing us with its months of SATs, AP exams, and college visits, and we just need to blow off some steam.
I glance at Cleto and try to emulate the way he looks and stands. Cleto was born to do shit like this. Nothing rattles him. He knows how to get anyone to buy what he’s selling. I’m guessing it’s the southern accent. He’s originally from Alabama. His real name is Jared, but we started calling him Cleto after Cletus, the stereotypical hillbilly character from The Simpsons. When we first met, he was always going on about how it was his favorite show. He was always quoting it and shit, so we figured he wouldn’t get mad.
He didn’t. He thought it was so funny, he calls himself Cleto now, too. Like I said, laid back. Take the whole drinking thing. He’ll be the first one to tell you he’s been drinking since the tender age of ten.
“And, not your fancy liquor store bullshit either,” he likes to remind us. “Homemade rotgut hooch. The kind that’ll literally singe your nose hairs. You pussies would be dead after one sip.” He doesn’t drink that much, but still. Sometimes I do kind of worry about him.
Dan passes the water bottle back to Cleto as we move a few spots closer. I fumble for my wallet, trying to figure out if I should leave my fake ID in its clear plastic slot and flash the whole thing, or pull it out in advance.
When we finally reach the head of the line, Cleto flashes his ID and mentions his cousin’s name. Dan and I follow suit, and the bouncer just lowers his shades (Ray-Bans even though it’s nighttime) and waves us in.
“That’s it? Motherfucker!” Dan exclaims before we’ve even cleared the door, causing Cleto to give him a death glare.
The place is crawling with people. Dan is hyper again, sure that he sees Taylor Swift. Cleto elbows his way to the bar and orders us drinks I’ve never heard of, and before you know it, we’re standing next to some cute girls, flirting and getting buzzed.
Life is good, everything is good, until I realize I’m more than a little drunk, like close-to-puking drunk, and the room is starting to spin.
“Cleto,” I say, leaning in and nearly falling on him, “I thinkh I needa geh air…” I motion toward the door, but Cleto just laughs and turns his back on me, says something to Dan, who is holding his own with a spectacularly pretty red-haired girl. I tap his shoulder again. “Cle-oh … for real…”
I must look desperate because he says, “Gimme a minute. My sister here can’t hold her liquor. We need to get her some fresh air.” He gets up and steers me toward the front door, which, one second I’m super happy and relieved to be headed toward, but the next, I’ve decided I’m sober enough and we should go back to the girls.
I say this to Cleto, but he says, “It’s okay, Romeo, I think we should get you outside.”
I try to twist away from him—he’s a skinny motherfucker, so I can usually break free. But drunk, not so much, and when he refuses to let go, I haul off on him, missing completely, and slamming my fist into the chest of a life-size stuffed bear that stands off to the side of the front door.
I take the bear out. I mean, the motherfucking animal goes flying, me with it, and we both land several feet away, facedown, on the beer-sticky floor. Cleto stands over me, laughing.
“Ti
me to go home, man.” A thick hand drags me up without effort, and I’m staring into the face of the Ray-Banned bouncer.
I hold up my hands in surrender, but Cleto steps in for me. “He’s okay now,” Cleto says. He nods toward the bar. “Farkus is my cousin. But, we’re leaving now, I swear. We’ll make sure to get Ole Revenant, here, home in one piece.”
“The Revenant!” Dan has righted the bear, and he’s growling and moving it toward me, and a crowd has gathered, and pretty much everyone is dying laughing.
“Go, Leo!” someone yells, and someone else shoves Dan and the bear into me and I stumble backward, the bear landing on top of me as the crowd breaks into an uproar.
Now Ray-Banned Bouncer is back, and this time he’s got both Dan and me by an arm.
Dan looks up in all sincerity and says, “Hey, chill out. You can’t just boot the Revenant, man!”
And then I’m laughing, and Cleto is laughing, and Dan is laughing, and we’re all kicked out, and we’re rolling with laughter toward home.
The whole thing was hilarious. The goddamned funniest thing that ever happened. So why am I crying thinking about it now?
I miss those guys, Cleto and Dan. And that’s on me, not them. I’m the one who dropped the ball. After I moved. Even before that. After my father died. They tried, but I shut down. I blew them off. They didn’t know how to help me anymore.
They tried, though. They texted. They called.
“Can’t, dude. Sorry. Next time,” I’d respond. I made no effort. I wanted to make plans with Sarah instead.
I screwed up.
Because I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t be us. I just couldn’t feel it anymore.
Across the room, I walk to the bureau and slide open its few flimsy drawers, one after another, though I don’t know what I’m looking for. Nothing, really. I’m just looking. Like I’m at a hotel and I’ll find a nice brochure or something. Glossy, with photographs of pristine rooms and smiling visitors. Some catchy slogan: Things to Do and See During Your Stay at the Ape Can. Instead, I find a small laundry sack (no drawstring or ties) and three books: a black paperback Bible with gold lettering, a pale blue book called Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, and a navy blue paperback that looks like it’s from the 1970s called One Day at a Time in Al-Anon. I pick up the twelve-steps one and open to the first page: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.”
