And back. Once. Faster. Twice. With ever-faster steps I go back and forth five times until I’m winded.
All this walking strains my legs. My muscles have already atrophied in the few days I’ve been lying around.
Still standing, I hike up the gown so I can look at my legs. I stretch one leg out onto the bed, then I take it back down and stretch out the other one to have a look. They’re thinner. They look funny. A bit like granny legs—hardly any muscle, white skin, and long hair. Ugh.
I hadn’t thought about that at all during the entire time here in the hospital. When you’re in pain, you don’t necessarily feel like shaving.
Now, though.
I throw myself onto the bed. Too hard. Despite the pills I feel pain rise from my ass up through my back. Take it easy, Helen, don’t flip out.
It’s nice not to have any pain and you want to keep it that way for a while. So watch it with the jerky movements.
I grab the phone and dial mom’s number. Answering machine again. Have they all gone on vacation in my absence? When was the last time I saw one of them?
It’s been days.
It’s difficult to figure out exactly how long it’s been. Or how long I’ve been here. Probably has something to do with the painkillers and the pain and with my general drug consumption. These gaps in my memory.
“It’s me again. Did you get my other message? If either of you is still even thinking of visiting me, do it fast. Tony, you haven’t come to see me at all. If you do come, can you bring one of mom’s dresses and a pair of her shoes? Thanks. See you soon. It’s already evening.”
Oh, man. It sucks when you have to depend on blood relatives. Now I have to wait until somebody brings me those things.
I get out of bed in slow motion and walk to the door. I open it a crack and peek out. There was some kind of noise coming from out there. Something’s going on.
Dinner service. They’re pushing around multilevel towers stacked with trays and stopping in front of each door. Maybe I’ll get some normal food tonight. Not the usual granola and whole-grain bread. If I were to tell them I’ve long since had a bowel movement, I’d get something better to eat. But I’m not saying anything.
I slowly go back to bed and get in to wait for feeding time.
There’s a knock at the door.
I offer a very friendly “Good evening.” It’s some female nurse. I can’t tell them apart. All of them unfuckable.
“Good evening. In a good mood, are we, Miss Memel? How are you—had a bowel movement yet?”
“Not yet, but thanks for asking. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Unfortunately just whole-grain bread for you. You know that’s the situation until your first bowel movement.”
“I’d rather have granola.”
I already have everything I need for that right here.
“What are the other patients having tonight?”
“The meat dish is a roast with peas, potatoes, and gravy. The vegetable dish is a cabbage stew.”
That sounds like paradise to me. For one thing because it’s warm. I only get cold food, and after awhile it leaves you cold inside, too. I’m on the verge of telling this nanny that I shat ages ago.
But then, although I’d get one warm meal, I’d just be sent home. That’s too high a price to pay.
I need some more time to figure out where I’m going when I leave.
“Thanks. I can mix it up myself.”
With slouched shoulders, I shovel three spoonfuls of granola into the bowl then pull the trail mix bag out of the drawer and put three grape creations on top. Tonight Helen’s having granola with tears.
When I can’t feel the pain, life is fun. I pop the aluminum cherry of the little milk container by sticking a hole in it with the plastic tube stuck to the side of the box. I turn the box upside down and squeeze the milk into the bowl until the box is empty. Dad used to lecture us about not using the word “straw” because the things weren’t made of straw anymore. But I can’t believe they were ever made out of straw. How could you pop the cherry on a drink box with a piece of straw? It would buckle immediately. Surely they were always made out of plastic and are called straws just because somebody thought they looked like stalks of straw.
I eat my cold dinner fast.
There’s a soft knock on the door as I’m downing the last bite.
That’s not a nurse. They always knock louder and more confidently. And nobody walks in. Definitely not a nurse. I’m betting it’s my father. He also has a weak handshake. Everyone complains about it. Guess he doesn’t have muscular hands. Not strong enough to knock solidly on doors, either.
“Come in.”
The door opens slowly. Man, oh, man, so gingerly compared to the nurses.
It’s my brother’s head. Must be genetic. Inherited weak hand muscles from our father.
“Tony.”
“Helen?”
“Come on in. You just missed dinner. Thanks for visiting me.”
He has a bag in his hand.
“Did you bring the things I wanted?”
“Of course. But what are they for?”
“It’s a secret.”
He looks at me. I look at him. Is that all the conversation we’re going to manage?
Okay, damn the torpedoes.
“Tony, you don’t like hospitals, do you? That’s why you haven’t visited me up to now.”
“Yeah, but you know that. I’m sorry, Helen.”
“Do you want me to tell you why you don’t like it here?”
He chuckles. “As long as it’s not bad.”
“It is.”
His smile disappears. He looks at me anxiously.
Go ahead, Helen, out with it.
“When you were really small, mom tried to kill herself. She wanted to take you with her. She put sleeping pills down your throat and took a bunch herself. When nice little Helen came home, you two were lying unconscious on the kitchen floor and gas was streaming out of the oven. Against mom’s will, I saved you guys before the house blew up or you suffocated to death. At the hospital they pumped your stomachs and you guys had to stay here a long time.”
He looks at me sadly. I think he already suspected it. His eyelids take on a light-blue hue. Handsome boy. But the muscles around his eyes are weak, too.
He’s silent for a long time. Doesn’t move an inch.
Then he stands up and slowly makes his way to the door. He opens it and, as he’s walking out, he says, “That’s why I always have those fucked-up dreams. She’s going to get hers.”
My family is even farther up shit’s creek than it already was.
Is that my fault?
Just because I told Tony the truth?
You can’t be silent forever. Lies. For the sake of keeping the peace in the family? Peace through lies. We’ll see what happens. With a lot of things I do, I only think about the consequences after I’ve already done them.
The plan to get my parents back together is now completely out the window.
This is driving me slowly crazy. I’m confined here and everyone else just comes and goes as they please. And I’m sure they’re all doing things out there I don’t know about. I’d love to be doing things with them, I think for a second. But that’s bullshit. Out there our family’s even more torn apart, each of us only out for ourselves. At least with my ass bound to this bed my relatives’ paths cross mine every once in a while.
There’s a knock and someone rushes in. I think for a second my brother has come back to talk more about his near-death at the hands of my mother.
But the person standing there is wearing big, white hospital clogs and white linen pants.
A doctor.
I look up. Dr. Notz.
He better not release me. I’ll chain myself to the bed.
“Good evening, Miss Memel. How are you feeling?”
“If you want to know whether I’ve had a bowel movement, just ask, please. There’s no point in beating around the bus
h.”
“Before I discuss your bowel movements, I want to know how you’re doing with the pain.”
“Fine. The nurse gave me some pills a few hours ago. Supposedly the last ones, if I understood correctly.”
“Exactly. You’ll have to get used to dealing with it without pills. And all this pressure to have a bowel movement doesn’t seem to be working, either. With some patients we have to abandon our usual requirement of their having a bowel movement with no bleeding here at the hospital. The pressure is too much for them and they get too tense.”
What? He’s just going to release me right now and have me crap at home?
“For that reason I’d like to suggest you go home and see how it goes in peace and quiet. And if it starts to bleed again, just come back. Our opinion is there’s no point to keeping you here.”
Our opinion? I only see one person. Whatever. Crap. What now? What am I going to do? My wonderful plan irrevocably ruined by Notz.
“Yeah, sounds sensible. Thanks.”
“You don’t seem to be as pleased as most patients are when they’re released. I like to deliver the happy news personally.”
I’m sorry to spoil your fun, Notz. But I don’t want to go home.
“I’m happy, I’m just not showing it.”
And now get out of here, you. I need to think.
“I won’t say ‘see you later’ because I would only see you later if something went wrong at home with the healing process. So, hopefully, see you never.”
Yeah, I get it. Ha ha. I’m not a moron. See you never.
“I’ll say ‘see you later.’ Once I’m better I’m going to become a candy striper. They already know. Do something meaningful with my life. I’ve already applied. I’m sure we’ll run into each other in the hall at some point.”
“Lovely. Good. See you later.”
Out. Door closed.
Think!
My last chance. To leave my family. I’ll call my father and tell him I’ve been released. He should pick me up tonight. I dial his number. He answers. He doesn’t apologize for not being there after the emergency operation. As expected. I tell him everything, tell him I’ve been released, tell him he should come get me.
Come on, Helen, what’s the point. Just ask.
“Dad, what do you do?”
“Are you serious? You don’t know?”
“Not exactly.”
Actually not at all.
“I’m an engineer.”
“Aha. And would you like it if I became an engineer?”
“Yes, but you’re no good at math.”
Dad often hurts my feelings. He never notices, though.
Engineer. I write it out in my head and read it back to myself.
I do the same with my mom. No asking her what she does. I already know that: she’s a hypocrite. I leave another message, telling her I’m being released tonight and that she needs to pick me up, preferably with Tony. It’s possible she never wants to see me again after what I told Tony. We’ll see.
Now, Helen, you have to do what you planned.
I get out of bed. Finally. I won’t be getting back in it. I pick up the bag that I’d previously hidden in the trash can.
I stuff all the clothes from the wardrobe into it. I throw in all the stuff from the bathroom. The bag smells a bit like old menstrual blood. But I’m the only one who would notice that.
I put the bag aside and lean over the bed. I snatch the Bible and rip out a few pages.
I go back and forth to the sink to empty the avocado glasses. I dump out all the water.
I stack the glasses inside each other, put them in the bag and wrap the leg of my pajama pants around them.
I leave the toothpicks in my babies and wrap each one in a page of the Bible. Wrapped up, I put them all in the bag.
Now to clean out the nightstand drawer. I’ll leave the crucifix here. I look around the room. I sit on the edge of the bed and let my legs dangle like I did as a child.
There’s no sign of me left in the room. It’s as if I was never here. All that remains are some invisible bacterial clues here and there. Nothing visible.
I ring the buzzer. Hopefully he’s still around.
It occurs to me that they may have actually been worried about me. That they may have thought I was holding it in out of fear of the pain. I’m sure that happens all the time in this unit. But for such an extended period of time?
I’d like to have seen whether they would try more aggressive measures at some point. Like an enema. It wouldn’t have been a problem for me. Let them come at me with their tubes and liquids. They couldn’t wear me down with that.
It takes a while for someone to come. Though I’m hoping it’s Robin who comes, not just someone.
I hoist my legs up onto the bed and turn myself around. I want to look out the window. Can’t see anything. There’s nothing out there. Just me and my room reflected in the glass. I stare at myself for a long time and notice how tired I look. Amazing how pain and painkillers break you down. They could go ahead and add some happy-happy uppers to the mix.
I don’t look good. Not that I ever do. But I really look bad now. My hair’s greasy and sticking up all over the place. It’s the way I imagine I’ll look when I have my first nervous breakdown. All the women in my family have nervous breakdowns. Not that they have so much to do. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m sure it’ll strike me like a bolt of lightning one day. Just sitting there doing nothing one minute, crazy the next.
Maybe before all hell breaks loose here I can wash my hair.
There’s a knock at the door. Please, please, nonexistent God, let it be Robin.
The door opens. Some woman is standing there. At least she’s dressed the same way as Robin.
“Has Robin already left?”
“His shift is over, yes, but he hasn’t left.”
“Could you do me a huge favor and ask him to stop by for a second before he takes off?”
“Sure.”
“Great, thanks.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Run. Fast. Little nurse.
There’s something brewing with the Memels.
If Robin’s gone, that’s it for my plan.
What’s this about washing your hair, Helen? Normally you don’t care how you look in a situation like this, right? Robin thought you were cute when you had a blister hanging out of a lesion in your ass. And that’s gone. Clearly an aesthetic improvement.
The greasy hair can function like my stuff-your-face position, to test whether he really likes me.
The hair stays dirty. I comb it down a little with my fingers.
The door opens. Robin.
“What’s up? I’m just about to head home. You’re lucky—you barely caught me.”
You, too. Because if you want to, you can take me home with you.
“You’ve packed up your things? Have you been released?”
He looks sad. He thinks he has to say good-bye now.
I nod.
He’s covered his white uniform with a light-and-darkblue checkered raincoat. Looks good. A timeless classic.
No time to lose.
“Robin, I’ve lied to all of you. I’ve already had a bowel movement. By that measure I’m healthy. You know—no bleeding. Well, in the front. But not in the back. You understand what I mean. I just wanted to stay in the hospital as long as possible because I thought I could bring my family together here. We’re not even a family anymore, actually, but I was hoping to get my parents together again in this room. But that’s crazy. They don’t want that. They have new partners whom I ignore so much I don’t even know their names. I don’t want to go home to my mom. Dad’s left. My mom’s so unhappy she tried to kill my little brother. I’m eighteen. I can decide for myself where I want to go. Can I come live with you?”
He laughs.
Out of embarrassment? At me? I look at him appalled.
He comes up to me. He stands in front of me and wraps his arms around me. I start t
o cry. I cry more and more. I sob. He strokes my greasy hair. He’s passed the test.
I smile briefly midsob.
“I guess you have to figure out whether it’s allowed.”
His jacket is tear-repellent.
“Yes.”
“Yes you have to find out whether it’s allowed, or yes I can come home with you?”
“Come with me.”
He picks up my bag and helps me out of bed.
“Can you take my bag to the car and pick me up? I have to clear something up with my family.”
“I’d love to. But I don’t have a car. Just a bike.”
Me on the back with my fucked-up ass. That’s the last thing I need. But that’s what we’ll do.
“Is your place far? I could make it a little ways on a rear rack.”
“It’s not far. Really. I’ll take your bag to the nurses’ station and wait for you to ring the buzzer. Then I’ll pick you up. I have your bag so there’s no turning back.”
“You won’t have to wait long. Can I get one thing out of the bag?”
I root around inside and find my pen. I need that. And a T-shirt and a pair of socks.
He caresses my face, kisses me, and nods at me a few times. I guess it’s supposed to give me courage to deal with my family.
“No turning back,” I say to him as he leaves.
The door closes.
I pull my mom’s dress and shoes out of the bag Tony brought me.
I stuff the bag into the wardrobe. Don’t need it anymore. It would only ruin the picture.
I lay the dress out on the floor with the neck opening facing the wall. I place the shoes below the bottom of the dress at roughly the proper distance.
The T-shirt I fold up so it looks like a piece of children’s clothing. I roll the socks a little so they look like kids’ socks. I lay these things next to the adult female “body.” From the Tupperware container I pull out two square gauze pads and fold them up. I lay them where the figures’ heads would be. Their pillows.
The larger figure gets long hair. I pull out one strand after the other from my head and lay them one at a time on the pillow. You can’t see them. I keep stepping back to see whether they’re noticeable if you’re just standing in the room and don’t know what you’re looking at. At some point I stop pulling them out one at a time. Taking too long. I yank hair out of my scalp in bunches and lay it on the pillow until I think you can make it out well enough. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Probably because of the painkillers. And now the child’s hair. It needs to be short. I can rip every strand I pluck out into three pieces of hair for the child. I lay enough short hair on the child’s pillow so it’s clearly visible.
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