Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love

by KL Evans

  You sat in a chair facing an elderly man propped up in bed, the both of you gesturing wildly at each other. He appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, and you had mentioned your grandfather had died long ago, thus he likely wasn’t related to you, so maybe you had friends after all. They were just friends you’d made at the hospital. You suddenly made a hand gesture I recognized and it dawned on me you two were conversing in sign language.

  “My, my,” I said under my breath. “You are just full of surprises.”

  As if hearing me, you glanced up and a wide grin stretched across your face. You tapped the man on the shoulder, signed something, and then pointed at me. The man took one look at me, chuckled a rusty, old chuckle as if I were a great joke, and then signed something that looked like it might have offended me if I understood it.

  “C’mon in, Seth McCollum,” you called to me, waving a hand toward yourself.

  I entered the room, bracing myself for when and if you decided to kiss me hello, since you’d obviously either convinced yourself we were an item or just told everyone at the hospital so. But you didn’t; I stood next to you and you simply smiled.

  “This is Bashir,” you said to me, signing your words. “He’s from Mosul. He came to the US in 2014 to live with his family because it got super dangerous over there and he lost his leg.”

  I nodded at him and you continued.

  “He also lost his hearing because of an explosion and his family couldn’t communicate with him, so he came to live here late last year. He’s getting pretty good with his signing.” You smiled and gestured jovially at him. He chuckled and you turned to me. “I had to brush up a little.”

  “You know sign language?” I asked, and my cheeks ached because apparently I’d been smiling like an idiot since entering the room.

  “I learned in high school.”

  “I see. How long have you been coming to visit him?”

  You looked at me for a beat or two as another smile stretched wide across your face, but there was that shadow of sadness darkening your eyes again. It darkened to the point that it drew a well of tears to the rims of your eyes.

  “April,” you squeaked through a closing throat while signing what I guessed was the word.

  “What’s wrong? What happened in April?”

  You forced a pitiful laugh and shook your head. After eyeballing the both of us, Bashir clasped your hands between his and patted them. He released one of your hands to wag an admonishing finger at me while uttering something in Arabic that sounded garbled from his impairment.

  I grimaced. “What did I do?”

  You laughed that pitiful laugh again and signed something to him before squeezing my arm and shaking me. “Nothing.”

  You signed something else and he clasped your hands for a moment before pointing at me again and raising his bushy eyebrows. Utterly bewildered, I gave a fake understanding nod.

  “Bye, Bashir,” you said, standing up and waving. He waved back and you grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of the room.

  “What was that all about?” I asked in the safety of the hall.

  “He thought you weren’t being supportive enough.”

  “Charlie,” I said, snagging your elbow and pulling you to a stop because I was going to nip this masquerade in the bud before it had a chance to put down roots and grow. “What did you tell him about me? And what did you tell all the nurses in the ICU? Because it seems like you’ve been telling everyone that we’re—”

  You were suddenly kissing me. Right in the hall, in front of several random by-passers, and that was one hundred eighty degrees from what I was attempting to accomplish right then. The kiss wasn’t quick either; not like the first one in the car. Also unlike that time, you didn’t taste like coffee and stale alcohol. This time it was more like citrus with a hint of lavender, and the pillow-softness of your lips was still there, and I told myself I wasn’t kissing you back, but then your lips parted, and I felt your tongue stroke mine, and I got a little lost.

  My eyes closed and that had to be a reflex because what else do you do when someone kisses you, even when it’s someone whom you’re not supposed to be kissing? I refused to touch you, but I also didn’t seem to stop you. I told myself I was merely caught off guard. And to top it off, you were the one who pulled away.

  “I said don’t call me that, Seth McCollum.”

  And then you were gone.

  I stood stunned for a second and then darted after you through the exit. Outside, you were nowhere in sight, as if you’d evaporated in the dry heat of late afternoon.

  “God damn it.”

  Rush hour traffic kept me from getting to White Settlement until nearly six. After checking the bar, the gas station, and driving slowly enough through the liquor store parking lot to look through the windows and ensure you weren’t inside, I went back to your house, fully expecting you not to be there. After unlocking the door knob, letting myself in, and to my utter astonishment, I found the tiny house bustling with the subdued activity of a single person.

  Standing in the doorway, I resolved I wasn’t going to leave until I got what I needed. What I didn’t know was you were not only expecting me, but had also resolved you weren’t going to let me leave until you got what you needed. And one of us was going to lose.

  Hour Thirteen

  The house was filled with the music of a despondent acoustic band drifting from the bedroom and an overpowering scent of flowers spliced with ammonia and whiskey.

  “Charlie,” I announced myself above the music. “It’s Seth.”

  “Can you lock the front door?” came your totally unfazed reply from the direction of the bathroom, as if I’d just called, Honey, I’m home, when’s dinner? “And how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? Jeez.”

  I spun the lock and told myself there was no turning back.

  “Have a drink,” you added. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

  It seemed like a good idea at the time and I made my way into the kitchen. As usual, there was no sign of food anywhere; only a large bottle of that rank, cheap, Canadian whiskey sitting on the counter like a clingy new acquaintance who couldn’t wait to chat me up again. I found a small glass in one of the cabinets and ice in the freezer, and poured three fingers, eyeballing the mess in the kitchen.

  Two empty Lone Star cans sat on the counter next to the sink full of empty glasses and half a dozen more cans perched precariously on the top of the overflowing garbage. Peeking inside the refrigerator because you’d given me a house key, I found half a case of Dr. Pepper, a bag of coffee, two and a half jugs of water, and a box of baking soda. No food at all. Upon closer inspection, the counters were clean. And why wouldn’t they be? There was no food anywhere to leave crumbs or residue. I opened the other cabinets; there were only five total and they encased dishes.

  Maybe she’s just poor, I thought. How much can she possibly make at AJ’s? Clearly, she prefers drinking to eating and maybe everything about her is why. Maybe that’s understandable.

  A bluesy bass guitar moaned from the speakers and I sank into the couch with my drink.

  “Why don’t you like your name?” I called across the house.

  “Uggghhh…” was your only response before you stepped out of the bathroom wearing a pink robe that was way too short, made of silk that was way too thin, and I immediately fixed my gaze on your face. Your hair was shiny, wet, even darker than usual, and twisted into a fat knot on top of your head. You used a small cloth to rub away dark spots at your temples and forehead and held a glass of whiskey.

  “So you do dye your hair,” I observed.

  “Yup.”

  “What’s your natural color?”

  You shrugged. “A totally unextraordinary shade of medium brown.”

  “Why do you dye it?”

  “Because it’s totally unextraordinary,” you said through a tipsy giggle before taking a large sip.

  “And why don’t you like people using your name?”

&n
bsp; You smiled coyly and leaned against the bathroom doorframe. “Why are you in my house?”

  “You gave me a key.”

  “And I see you used it.”

  “Not for the reason you’re insinuating,” I clarified, focusing more on keeping my eyes glued to your face than on what I was saying. “I want you to talk to me, Charlie. No more answering questions with questions. No more talking in circles. No more evading. Just talking.”

  You rolled your eyes, downed your drink, and disappeared back into the bathroom.

  “And I’m not leaving until you tell me everything!”

  “You are so nosy, Seth McCollum!” The sound of the shower running drifted into the living room. “You’re lucky this was basically love at first sight for me. That’s the only reason you’ve got that key in the first place.”

  I’d finished my drink and started on my second one by the time you reemerged. You still wore the too-short, too-thin robe, but then your newly-dyed hair was damp and hanging loose over your shoulders, and you were dangerous. You plopped on the couch next to me, stretching out your long legs to rest on the coffee table, and I was in trouble.

  “Well,” you said, squeezing some lotion out of a tube and into your hands. “Go ahead then.”

  “Okay,” I began, and briefly forgot everything I ever knew about you and anything else. The scent of lavender was more intoxicating than the whiskey, and the sight of you smoothing the lotion onto your leg was distracting, and my mind chose that moment to recall the feeling and taste of your lips from earlier. The whole situation was a horrible idea and I leaned back against the cushion and stared at the ceiling. “Tell me about your first arrest.”

  “I ran a stop sign. I was in Oak Cliff and I ran a stop sign, that’s all. It was a bad neighborhood.”

  “Whose name did you give the police that time?”

  “My si-sister’s.” Your voice broke and I glanced at you, but you didn’t look at me. You rubbed the lotion into your leg like you were sanding a two-by-four, lips pulled firmly between your teeth and now sporting a pink nose. I couldn’t decide if that was from you being drunk or on the verge of tears.

  “Jade,” I said in a much gentler tone.

  You nodded, downed your drink, and went into the kitchen. I heard the sound of liquid pouring and you came back with a half-full glass, and that glass was going to be empty and refilled again in short order. What I really wanted to ask you was how the hell you could stomach so much alcohol without killing yourself, but that wasn’t the story I was there for and I had to remind myself I was there for a story.

  “Why didn’t you give them your name?”

  “I couldn’t. It was a bad neighborhood.”

  “Why not? And what does the state of the neighborhood have to do with it?”

  “I didn’t want to be in jail longer than I had to be.”

  “But they found out your real name anyway.”

  You shrugged. “Better for the booking people to find that out than street cops.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  You gulped from your glass and began smoothing the lotion on your opposite leg. The inside of your calf and knee and thigh were on full display and I stared at an old TV sitting atop a large cabinet across the room.

  “What don’t you understand, Seth McCollum?”

  “If they were going to find out your name anyway, why didn’t you just tell them?”

  “How ‘bout because I didn’t want to get molested by cops? They would claim ‘reasonable suspicion’ and do an invasive pat down.”

  “So you’re afraid of the police?”

  “I prefer to call it a healthy respect.”

  “I suppose that’s understandable. How many times have you been arrested?”

  You laughed. “I can’t even remember now.”

  “What type of things have you been arrested for? Other than weird stunts like the fountain and the bridge.”

  “I’ve never done anything really bad, Seth McCollum.”

  “Never been busted for DUI?”

  “Okay, just because I drove home drunk one time doesn’t mean I do it all the time,” you said defensively, waving a lavender-scented index finger in front of my face. “I just needed to get away from Dave that night. He was getting pushy.”

  “Fair enough,” I said through my teeth.

  I could sense you eyeballing me and then you chortled. “You really don’t like him! You seem kind of jealous or something.”

  I scoffed. “Jealous of what? He’s a shitbag.”

  You laughed again. And then snorted. And then laughed harder, and I rolled my eyes.

  “You know, Charlie, if I hadn’t happened to be here the other night he would’ve done something pretty awful to you, right?”

  “I know. And you were there and you didn’t do anything awful. Which is why I love you.”

  “I think you’re confused about what it is we’re doing here.”

  “I’m not the least bit confused,” you said, eyes hooded from intoxication and an over-the-top attempt to look seductive.

  “You are. And now a bunch of people at the hospital are too. I’m trying to interview you for an article. We’re not seeing each other.”

  “I see you right now,” you informed me as you crossed your legs toward me and leaned close.

  “Okay,” I interjected hastily and shifted sideways away from you. “What about school?”

  “What about it?”

  “Why did you drop out of your program right before you finished?”

  You squinted. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “I’m a reporter, remember? It’s my job to figure these things out. Esther Harrison told me about you being in the EMT program and how you dropped out. I went to the elementary school after I read about Jade’s accident online. I read about that after I read about your Aunt Lynette and your dad. I know all about your dad, Charlie. The fact that he was manufacturing and selling meth out of that pile of rotting wood next door. The fact that he was sentenced to sixty years and then died in prison two years later. The fact that—”

  “So if you already know all of this stuff, why the hell do you need to talk to me?” you shouted in a voice much bigger than your little body, jumping off the couch and standing across the room from me. “Just write your stupid article, Seth McCollum. You’ve already got all the info.”

  “I have most of the info, yes, but the point of this is to understand how you feel about it. And why have you been doing all the stuff you’ve been doing? Why you’re this sweet, smart young woman—and I know you’re a sweet, smart young woman, Charlie. You wouldn’t have been pursuing a career in emergency medicine or talking sign language to a deaf old man or sharing M&Ms with a janitor if you weren’t. I know you’re a good person, what I don’t know is why you are so hell-bent on getting into trouble. All of those stunts might not seem like a big deal by themselves, but if you add them together you’ve got a growing criminal record. If you keep it up you’re going to throw away your future. If anything you should be stepping up and getting your shit in order since Jade is going to depend on you for the rest of her life.”

  I am a presumptuous asshole and I shouldn’t have said that—or at least, I shouldn’t have said that like that because your face crumpled and your eyes welled up. And then I braced myself for the excruciating uneasiness of watching a woman cry and not knowing what to do about it because I swore to God you were about to start sobbing, but you didn’t.

  “You sure do have a lot of opinions about the way things should be and what people who aren’t you should do, Seth McCollum,” you inserted, proving there was a part of you, even if only a miniscule part, that was of mettle.

  And where is that part of you now? Was it so small that you misplaced it somewhere? Because both of us could use it in this particular moment.

  I shrugged. “I just think operating from a place of pragmatism is the best way to avoid a lot of unnecessary hardship.”

  “I don’t t
hink you,” you said, folding your arms across your chest and approaching me with a very suspicious, very slow gait, “have any clue about hardship.”

  “Well… personally, probably not. But I’ve seen plenty of people deal with unnecessary hardship and I hope you’d be smarter than that.”

  You stopped right in front of me and barely paused before you climbed into my lap, straddling my legs, clutching the couch on either side of my head, and trapping me in place. I wasn’t exactly trapped. I had at least sixty-five pounds on you and could’ve hoisted you off, but I didn’t. And I told myself it was because I couldn’t put my hands on you.

  I stared at an opposite wall to avoid looking at you. “Charlie, you need to get off. I’ve told you a hundred times I can’t—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  I met your gaze. “What’s the deal with you hating your name?”

  Your answer was to grip my face and kiss me. More evading. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t kissing you back, but it was obvious even to me that wasn’t the case. So then I blamed the alcohol.

  Your lips moved from mine to the spot just below my earlobe and you spoke in a flippant, breathy whisper.

  “You want to know how I feel about everything.”

  I anchored my fingers into the couch. “Yeah.”

  “How ‘bout because I’m totally depressed?”

  “Then why aren’t you taking your meds?”

  You scoffed and lipped my earlobe. “Wow, snooping through my medicine cabinet, too, huh?”

  “You gave me a key.” I tried to convince myself that having a key somehow made all of this just fine and not the train derailment that it suddenly felt like.

  Again, you kissed me. Again, I told myself I wasn’t kissing you back. Again, I knew that wasn’t the case.

  I opened my eyes and attempted to focus on my grip on the couch. My knuckles were white and then you tugged the thin belt of the robe and it draped open. I immediately shot my gaze to the ceiling and gripped the couch even harder to keep my hands glued in place. In the half second prior, however, I’d managed to see… everything… for the second time ever, but this time I had a front row seat.