Something Wicked

by Lesley Anne Cowan

  By the kinds of questions she keeps asking me, I can tell she thinks I tried to kill myself. Then finally she comes right out and asks it. “Melissa, do you think there’s a possibility that you took these drugs on purpose? Did you know that this amount of drugs had the potential to kill you?”

  “You mean did I try to commit suicide?”

  “Yes,” she answers with a warm and open expression.

  I think a little. “I don’t know,” I say. And it’s the truth. I mean, I don’t remember thinking, I want to die. But then again, I must have known that taking so much could be deadly.

  “Well, I think that’s something we should explore a little more, then.” She says she’s going to recommend that I stay on the “unit” for some observation time, and she’ll make a referral to a psychiatrist for when I get out to see about

  medication.

  “You think I’m depressed?” I ask.

  “I think it’s a possibility, Melissa,” she says gently. “I think you have a lot going on in your life, and that in some ways you’re doing a great job at coping, or maybe masking the sadness. But I think, given this last incident, your fights with peers, your recent breakup, and your family stress … it’s enough to constitute concern.”

  “I don’t feel depressed,” I reflect.

  “Depression isn’t always just being sad. It comes in a lot of shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s anger or apathy. Or sometimes it shows itself through the coping mechanisms, like drugs and alcohol or criminal activity.”

  Now that she’s talking about depression, I get scared. I don’t want to take any pills. “I’m not going to do it again,” I assure her, as if that will change anything now.

  “That’s good to hear, Melissa. I really hope not.” She smiles and then gets up, indicating our time is up. “I hope to have a chance to meet with you one more time before you go home.”

  I’m back in my bed in the emergency room, almost asleep, and my mom is reading a magazine on the chair when the social worker returns with a youngish woman. “Hello,” the ice queen social worker says, “this is Alexis, one of the CYCs from the fourth floor.”

  “Hi there!” she says cheerfully, waving at my mom and me.

  The ice queen turns to my mom. “So, we are accepting your request for an ASU bed for Melissa here at the hospital.” Then she turns to me. “We feel your ongoing risk-taking behaviour, Melissa, constitutes a significant threat to your own safety.”

  She moves in closer to my mom and lowers her voice slightly, as if I’m not going to hear. “Since there’s a history of aggression and threatening behaviour toward others, as well as a history of high-risk activities such as sex and substance abuse and possible suicide, we feel there is just reason to admit Melissa for a few days for a period of assessment, stabilization, diagnostic evaluation, and long-term planning. That way, she can see a psychiatrist and you can have the support from the crisis team.”

  She didn’t need to bother lowering her voice because even though I heard each word, they strung together as just one foggy blur in my ears. “Melissa.” She reaches out and puts her cold, bony fingers on my thigh. “We want to keep you safe for the next few days. We’re here to help you.” And then, without a goodbye, she’s gone.

  The bubbly girl claps her hands together. “Okay. So, I know this is a strange experience for both of you. Do you have any questions so far? Anything at all?”

  My mom raises her hand like she’s in school. “I do. What’s ASU?”

  The girl laughs. “Oh, I’m so sorry. We get used to saying these acronyms all the time and forget that the whole world doesn’t speak our language. ASU is Acute Support Unit, which is upstairs on the psychiatry ward. They take someone like Melissa for a few days of observation and assessment.Anything else? Please feel free to ask.”

  My mom shakes her head.

  “Okay. So, Melissa. I’ll take you to your room, where you’ll be for a few days. I’m sure you’re happy to get out of this place. Your room will be much more private. Do you have everything?”

  I nod and motion to the plastic bag on the bed that my mother brought for me, which I haven’t even gone through yet.

  “Great! Then let’s go,” she says, picking up the bag.

  We follow her. I’ll go anywhere, even the morgue, to get out of the chaos of the emergency room.

  “Where are my other clothes? My jeans?” I ask when we’re in the elevator. I’m standing among a bunch of people and all I’m wearing is a flimsy hospital gown.

  “I took them home to wash,” my mom answers.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be giving you another groovy gown to wear anyway,” the girl interjects, winking at me. I fake smile back. There’s something about her happiness that makes it seem inappropriate to be sombre.

  On the fourth floor, we walk down several corridors, past a security guard, and through a door that the girl has to swipe her card to unlock. “First, I’ll show you your room.” We follow her past a nurses’ station with a ratty fake Christmas tree in front of it and down a wide hallway of patient rooms with half-opened doors I don’t bother looking into. We turn into 44.

  It’s a basic hospital room. Bare. A curtainless window overlooking another building. A bed with sheets. A chair. A sink. A bathroom. No pictures on the walls. The only mark of human life is the piece of paper stuck to the cupboard door with rules that the girl puts her finger to and starts to read off, though I get only bits of it—no music, no phone calls, no visitors past eight.

  The girl—I can’t remember her name—unlocks the cupboard and starts to lay out the contents of my plastic bag. “Everything is locked up, Melissa. I know it seems harsh, but due to the nature of your admission, it’s important that we help you keep safe. If you need something, you just let me know.” She continues to lay out the rest of the contents—my hairbrush, face cream … She arranges the articles in a long, tidy row, lining the edges up so perfectly you could lay a ruler down.

  Even my tampons? What am I going to do, hang myself with the tampon string? Or maybe plug it down my throat? I think this but don’t say it aloud, because I just don’t have the energy to argue. And in a way, I just don’t care. They can do whatever the fuck they want with me. I just don’t care.

  “Okay, you’ll need to shower now.” She turns to my mom, who’s been uncommonly silent this whole time. “And while she’s doing that, maybe you could fill out some paperwork for us? Just basic info, but we do need a list of immediate family members’ numbers that Melissa’s allowed to call.” She turns back to me. “All your calls will be monitored. Someone will be holding another phone to listen in to make sure you’re staying safe. It’s just our policy.”

  Whatever. I just head toward the washroom like she’s telling me to do.

  “Oh, not in there. We’ll go to the common washroom for the first shower. Ms. Sullivan, I’ll show you the nurses’ station where you can get the papers, so it’s probably good that you say goodbye now until tomorrow.”

  My mom looks at me all sympathetic, and approaches like she’s going to hug me. “Call me if you need anything,” she says. I keep my gaze down, let her hold me but don’t hug back. Instead, I just turn to follow Alexis to the shower room.

  There are three shower stalls in the washroom, with strange dwarf curtains that only rise waist high. I wait for her to go, but she just stands there. “Sorry, I need to be here. We want to make sure you haven’t brought anything in with you. I know it’s uncomfortable. I won’t stand and stare, but I do have to be present.”

  Whatever. So I undress and get in the shower. I’m given some liquid soap and shampoo, and I turn my back so I can hide at least half of me. And I should probably care more, but I don’t really. I just shower and wash and turn off the faucet and dry off with a towel and put on the ugly thin yellow gown that has no drawstrings ’cause apparently I’d hang myself with those too. It’s huge and drapes off my shoulders.

  The girl passes me my underwear after she inspects them in fron
t of me. “My bra?” I ask, holding out my hand.

  “Sorry, I can’t give it to you. It’s underwire. You need to ask your mom for a sports bra or tank top with support.”

  Whatever. I walk past her, my feet still wet against the cold concrete floor. “Here!” She passes me paper booties that I obediently slip on. Then I follow her back to my room, get into my bed and under the sheet. I look outside. It’s already dark and it’s only about six P.M. I hate winter. I see a light turn off in the office window across the street. Then I stare up at the ceiling. Eyes open, but seeing nothing.

  The girl appears beside my bed. “Lights go off at 9:45. You’re on ‘constant,’ which means constant watch. That means we need to watch you at all times to make sure you’re safe—whether you’re in your room, in the washroom, or in the common room. It feels a little awkward for both of us, but we have to do it. If you want some privacy, just let me know and I’ll stay at the door. My name is Alexis, in case you don’t remember.”

  I look over at her when she’s finished talking, but I don’t say anything because really, there is nothing in my head to say.

  “So. Do you want time alone or do you want some company? We could play cards or something.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Or we could listen to music?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You choose.”

  “No, you make the choice, Melissa. What would you like?”

  “Whatever. It really doesn’t matter.”

  She smiles. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone. I’ll just be outside if you change your mind.” She walks out to the doorway and sits down on a chair. I stare at her a minute longer, wondering if she’ll be sitting like that all night.

  I stare back up at the ceiling. My eyelids click when I blink, like those plastic baby dolls with glassy eyes and frozen faces. I feel stoned. My head is cloudy and it’s hard to focus on any one thought. I fall in and out of sleep for some time.

  Click. Clack. Click.

  The fluorescent light flickers off. I don’t know if Alexis turned it off or if it just goes off automatically. I lie awake for a long time. The announcements blare through the loudspeaker in my room. So and so to come to the nurses’ desk. Something something about line two. Code red, blue, purple, whatever.

  I half sleep all night. Part of me, my body, tosses and turns under the tightly tucked-in sheets. The other part, my mind, sits all night on the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth, trying to squeeze out a thought as to how the hell I ended up here.

  Fifty-Two

  It’s like being dead. Don’t they get that? It’s like they give you exactly what you wanted before you came in here. They give you non-existence.

  In this hollow bone of a room, I am rid of all responsibility. All contact. All choice. I have no voice or purpose throughout the day. Even my body isn’t mine.

  I’m sure the world I used to live in has gone on without me. It’s like I don’t even matter. Right now, my friends are going to school. The same people are on my morning bus. FLOW 93.5 is playing the top seven at seven. Fortune is texting one of his many girlfriends. Eric is seeing a client. Jess is staring in a mirror, fixing her face for the zillionth time since she woke up. My mother is trying to squeeze on her size-six jeans and tie an elastic band around the waist button. Life goes on and on and on … and that tiny bump of me that existed inside the tiniest fold of time has already been smoothed over.

  And maybe that’s why I don’t care about anything. Because I (all that I know as “me”) am dead and this body is just a facade of the person I used to be. If it were the old me, I’d be arguing and fighting and planning my escape. I’d erupt in anger if someone had to watch me shit and shower and dress and sleep. I should be sad thinking about what happened, or about my pathetic life, or about Michael. But now it’s like I’m here but not here. And this person they are watching over is only a mass of energy held together by skin. Like I’m caught in some unthinking place, before birth and after death, some realm of existence where not only do you not care about anything, you just “do not.”

  My guard today, a pregnant lady with long black hair, suggests we go to the common room, where there are a TV and games. I don’t necessarily want to go, but I have no real reason not to, so I get out of bed and follow her. That’s where I see the others: three girls about my age watching music videos and two boys about ten years old playing a board game. In the hallway I had passed a couple more people: one really, really tall girl whose gown is like a miniskirt and a guy with bad acne.

  I wonder if they’re all in here because they tried to kill themselves. They all look a little nuts, but maybe it’s just ’cause I expect them to be. I think of the book One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest that we read in class. I imagine us escaping out a window and hijacking a bus. I’d be Jack Nicholson for sure. Or Angelina Jolie in Girl, Interrupted. Except maybe not. Not anymore. Maybe, right now, I’d just be Chief ’cause I haven’t spoken to anyone basically in two days.

  The pregnant lady makes me play cards with her. We play a mindless game called Skip-bo. And then she teaches me crazy eights. At some point, two staffers enter with a girl about my age. She looks like a wreck. It’s as if she was normal a while ago and then something really terrible happened. Anyway, they all take a seat and the staff talk to her like she’s a baby. They have a plate full of food on the table and they actually spoon-feed her. “Come on,Anna, just one more bite? Yeah! Atta girl. Great job!”

  I can’t help but stare. It freaks me out how weird it is, how she can’t even feed herself. What the hell happened to her?

  “Your turn,” the pregnant lady says, drawing me back to the game of crazy eights, which I suppose is a funny name for a game to play in a mental ward.

  I slap down my last card, winning the game.

  “Hey! You won!” she exclaims, but I really couldn’t give a shit.

  Fifty-Three

  I have a busy morning the next day. First I see the psychiatrist one more time. She asks me more questions about my mom and about living at home. And then we talk about Michael and Fortune and everything else, but I still don’t say anything about what happened with Giovanni. It’s an okay conversation, but really, what can she solve in one hour? At the end of the session she tells me about a psychiatrist appointment she’s set up for me once I’m out. I thank her, for what I don’t know, and then leave. Alexis is outside the door when I open it and escorts me to another office by the nurses’ station, where we wait for a “family meeting” with the ice queen social worker.

  I lean up against the cold wall, far away from Alexis so that I can think. I know I should have told the shrink about Giovanni since what happened is probably what fucked me up so badly. But what I did was so absolutely shameful I can never tell anyone. Not even Ally or Jessica. I can’t bring myself to think about it, let alone talk about it. Does everyone need therapy over one mistake? One moment?

  Icchh. I shudder each time the memory creeps into my head. I just can’t believe what I did, even if I was high. Of all the things to remember about that night, this has to be the most clear?

  I decide I will do my own therapy. I will chase the image from my mind each time it arises, until finally, one day, it just won’t come. Like a call-forward command on a phone, the thought will eventually be redirected without me being aware of it. If there’s a scratch in my brain causing the memory of my hands on Giovanni to repeat over and over again, why can’t I record over it with another memory to be stuck on?

  So each time the image pops up, I will chase it away with something beautiful. I will think of Bradley sitting on our old kitchen linoleum floor. In his hand is a string I tied around a plastic yellow duck. He is madly snapping the string, making the duck fly spastically around, until it hits him in the face, but instead of crying, he just looks up at me and laughs at the shock of it.

  The door of the office opens and I’m surprised to see that my mom is already inside. She looks at me and smiles, but it’s just a fake s
mile. I can tell she’s not okay. The Ice Queen greets me and asks me to sit down. She tells us that she has an update from the crisis management team. Apparently they say there are several options from this point forward. She explains all of this to my mom, as if I’m not even in the room. I don’t know what has happened. It’s like suddenly the two of them are a team against me.

  When she’s done, Ice Queen finally looks over at me. “Your mother really cares about you, Melissa. She’s been doing some hard work here with us. We have gone over all the options, one of which is you being placed in a temporary care facility, such as a group home. If you are refusing treatment and your mom is unable to control your behaviour, it’s really our only option. But your mom feels that if you are co-operative, it’s possible she could have you back at home with some community support …”

  “I can’t do it anymore, Melissa. Especially not now,” my mom interjects, and puts her hand on her belly. Her voice starts to quiver. “You almost died … I can’t live with all this stress. You not coming home. The drugs. Your temper. I just can’t do it.”

  “Then don’t,” I say matter-of-factly, staring down at my lap. My words aren’t angry, just tired. “I know where I’ll live.”

  “Where’s that?” the social worker asks.

  “At a friend’s place. Allison’s friend. This guy. He has a room he’ll rent out.”

  “Oh, God …” My mom buries her head in her hands.

  “Melissa, I’m afraid that’s not an option at this time. It wouldn’t be a good decision, especially when you’re in this state of mind. We want you to be safe. Your mom, if she wants, can sign something to make sure you go directly into care. Now, I don’t think that’s what either one of you wants. So if we can take this time to work something out practically, I think you both can find common ground. Shall we try?”