Her grandmother had been tied into one of those wheelchairs when she’d started singing and wouldn’t stop. Her wail had become a grotesque aria. But Claire had thought it was beautiful. The nurses tried to stop her. She was so loud. They put their sweaty hands over her mouth. They tied her down and wheeled her away and Claire could hear her voice ringing down the halls.
Through the door beside the wheelchair was a treatment room—just a tub and a reclining chair like at a dentist’s office. She’d heard the words “hydrotherapy” and “cold packs” on her visits. But she hadn’t known back then how the nurses would wrap her grandmother up in wet sheets, then submerge her in a tub full of ice.
The weather echoed. Rain pounded on loose windows. Claire walked into what appeared to be a gymnasium or theater or both, a small wooden stage at the front and rafters in the back. Handwriting was scribbled all over the walls, huge looping letters. Names. So many names.
The patients here hadn’t quietly given themselves over to institutional life. They hadn’t faded away. They came in with numbers on their sleeves and gave themselves new names. They organized and rallied, insisted on payment for their labor. Claire’s grandmother had sent her fair share of letters to the president of the hospital, demanding to be discharged. Every letter went unanswered. But it didn’t matter. Their numbers didn’t stick, and their names still covered these walls. Her grandmother had been part of this community.
Claire had once been resigned to the fact that she would one day go mad. Was she disappointed, as Nicolette had long ago suggested? Could the act of going mad be a form of rebellion? Her grandmother’s singing or poetry—was that defiance? There was a thin line between rebellion and resignation.
A rustle as a rat skimmed the length of the wall. Elsa was out in the car. How long had she been in here? The rusty light gave no clue; there were no clocks. Time inside these grounds happened like the weather happened, or the erosion of the earth.
But she knew: It had been too long. And the first time she’d left Elsa alone. Perhaps she should panic, she thought calmly. Elsa wanted to die. What if she found a way? And if her mother were to die—
She raced back the way she’d come, from the gymnasium, down the hall, out the doors to the main path. Within seconds, she was drenched, hair flattened to her forehead and stinging her eyes. And if her mother wasn’t in the car? If she’d walked off to the woods like an escaped inmate? Claire flung herself through puddles, past the lake quaking with rain, slashing through the grass. Why had she left her in the car? Why had she taken so long inside? Did a part of her want her mother to escape? It was the most horrendous gift she could think to give and no, no that was not what she wanted. If all that was left of Elsa were fingerprints on the car window, what then?
But if her mother was still safe in the car, if Claire was given this gift despite her carelessness—then it would mean she’d made the right choice for Elsa, to not let her go yet. She raced down the path toward the stone wall. She believed in the stones and the path. She believed in her mother and the person she had become. She believed in loving this woman whom she wouldn’t let die. She would do anything to be right this one time. She would be good. She might even believe in God. She would live. She would love life. She would do everything.
Through the downpour, the rain in her eyes, she glimpsed the stone wall and beyond it, there was Elsa, rising out of the car and turning away from Claire. Elsa hadn’t seen her. As Claire attempted to cross the wall, her shoe caught in a stone and she tried to pry it loose. When she looked up again, Elsa was walking steadily into the woods. Claire ran, one-shoed, calling out her mother’s name, straining to catch up to her.
May 19, 1946, Ovid, New York
Claire finally visited yesterday. We were expecting her weeks ago. We were, in fact, expecting her for years, but that is another matter. She gave me a kiss on either cheek, because that is what the French do, she said. She must have read this in a magazine. She did not embrace me. I was so upset I went to my room and said I did not feel well. Later, she wanted to go to the grocer, to get some exotic ingredients she had learned to cook from her new city friends, though she assures me she does not live in the city. She and Ernest made a plan for the three of us, though they didn’t consult me, to have a fancy dinner and pretend we were at a restaurant on the Riviera or somewhere. But I put my foot down and said I did not want her going to the store with me.
She wrote me a grocery list: artichoke, hearts of palm, mango, avocado, swordfish. We were alone in the kitchen. I said I did not think they would have those items. She asked me about her grandmother. I told her she had died of pneumonia several months ago and if she’d come home a little sooner, she might have said goodbye. I only told her the truth. She made as if to hit me. But I caught her arm before she could, and I slapped her face. It hurt my palm, I was surprised at that. I had never hit her before. She ran from the room crying. I thought, yes she is acting her age now, rather than the age she thinks she is.
A woman at the store, she is Italian, has always had eyes for Ernest. She asked after him. I called her a whore under my breath but she did not hear me. I am afraid I have it in me to kill a person who would take something that is mine. But Ernest has eyes for no one aside from me and Marlene Dietrich. And even for her, only ears. She is good company to keep, and I tell him that I would leave me for her as well if I had the chance. I bought the foods Claire has always liked. I made her favorite dinner—breaded schnitzel and cheese noodles. She ate as if it pained her. Only then did I think to ask about her husband. I had forgotten him. He was busy with work, she said, and could not visit but sent his love. I thought: he is afraid of us. She refused to speak of her house or new town, when Ernest asked. I was glad. I did not want to hear those stories.
I have made up my mind to not be kind to Claire as Ernest is. She must know how much she has hurt us, and he will never tell her. He is too kind. He opens his arms and his heart and she throws rocks and spits at him. I think of when Ernest bought me a box of watercolor paints for my birthday. I asked for them, but I believe he would have known to buy them anyway. Claire was a baby then. I was stupid and left them on the floor for only a minute while I went to the toilet. Claire got her fingers in them and ate them. She smiled and laughed. She did not think they tasted bad. I was tempted to taste them myself, her pleasure was so great. Then I thought perhaps she was poisoned and it was having a stupefying affect on her, so I stuck my finger in her mouth and it came up blue and she thought this was very funny until she started to cry. I did not know what I was doing. I remember thinking, what if Ernest were to come home and find Claire poisoned by paint? I was sure he would leave me. That was what I thought. I did not think, what if my baby dies? I did not know what I was doing with a baby. Perhaps I also thought: if she does die, maybe we will have enough money to survive. I was only twenty years old. I was unqualified. Still, I am unqualified yet cannot be fired or quit.
PART VIII: WHAT A BEAUTIFUL PLACE TO HATE YOURSELF 2004
My mom is hard to miss, even in the crowd at the airport. Her frizzy hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and catches the light, little frills haloing her face. She’s wearing a T-shirt with an abstract drawing of a woman’s privates that says, BUSH GET OUT OF MY BUSH. My mother: never changing, or changing as imperceptibly as our evergreens.
“Look how long you let your hair get,” she says. My hair is not long at all. “It’s so stringy. I’ll have to cut it while you’re here. Let me look at you.” She does, and I’m afraid she’ll walk right out of the airport and into the street and get run over by a truck. Anything to get away from me.
We haven’t seen each other since before I was diagnosed.
Then she hugs me. And she keeps hugging me, moving slightly to catch her footing or maybe she’s crying. “You’re too handsome,” she says. Wisps of her hair get in my eyes and make them water. “Am I embarrassing you yet?”
Over her head, I scan the crowd for any sign of the Hasidim. One security off
icer is eyeing me funny, like he’s hypnotized, but he makes no move for his walkie-talkie. Here, with her, for a moment, I’m safe.
“Not yet,” I say. She’s three inches shorter than me and in that moment, looking down at the top of her head, I’m watching a painting of her and she doesn’t know I’m seeing how beautiful she is.
“Is that for me?” she asks about the Christmas-wrapped tube.
“No.”
“Oh, of course. What was I thinking? You come on a surprise visit to see me and the present you bring is for someone else.”
“It’s not for anyone.”
She doesn’t ask me why I’ve come, and so last minute. It’s enough that I’m here. Maybe she’s talked to Jules. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll leave if she presses.
We drive west in quiet in her beat-up van, around the southern end of the Puget Sound then up toward Port Townsend, our little logging vs. hippie town on the Olympic Peninsula.
“How have you been feeling lately?” she asks without looking at me. It’s the closest she’ll get to asking about my brain, which is just as well.
“I guess Jules called you,” I say.
“You disappeared on her, and now you show up here with hardly any warning—”
“Now I’m in trouble for visiting you?”
“No one’s in trouble. But you can’t blame her for worrying.” She glances at me then away. “She made me promise to take you to the hospital in Seattle.”
“But you’re not going to, right? You know how hospitals are. They make a zombie out of you.” These are my mom’s own words. I give her my most winning smile. “I have some things to do, and I want to spend time with you.”
An undercover police car drives slowly by. I shield my face with both hands.
“You’re a cheese ball. You didn’t get that from me.” She sighs dramatically. “We’ll see. I never know what’s going on with you two. All I have is my imagination. It’s not fun to think of all the horrible things that can happen to your children.” She smiles at the road. “But it’s my turn for surprises. I have something for you.”
I’ve never liked her surprises. Insects suicide into the windshield. One swerves around inside the van, looking for a feast. I swat my arms and legs in anticipation of a bite.
But at least it’s not dangerous—the insect or my mom. Of all the people in my life, she poses the least threat. She’s bottomed out the dangerlevel chart, paler than the palest, safest green. How much she annoys me demands its own color-coded system.
“So Jules didn’t tell you any news?” I ask.
“About what?”
“Nothing.” I curl both lips between my teeth and bite—I will not tell her that Jules is in trouble. Or pregnant. There’s no point in worrying her. “You think Dad’s around?”
“Something is different with Jules though,” Mom says. “She used to call at least once a week.”
Just as I’m thinking of my dad, we whiz by the dairy he worked at when I was a kid. He used to pack me lunch-boxfuls of those black cookies they use for ice cream sandwiches, sans ice cream, when he could snatch a few pounds of them from the processing room. When Mom was depressed or too busy with her protests, that’s what I’d get for lunch. But every kid in school wanted to trade, so sometimes I ate two sandwiches if I got a good deal.
The roadside forests whip by unblinking. She says, “You can talk to me about stuff, you know. I’m seeing a therapist. She says you have the tools to talk to me and you choose not to.”
We pass the paper mill where my dad works now, close to town. You can’t see it from the road, but we get a big whiff of it—the wind is just right. The smell fills our part of town, piling up in the air on humid days, blanketing everyone, no matter how thick your windows.
“Smells like home,” I say.
“So talk to me. You’ve been feeling good? Everything’s okay?”
“I’m fine. Jesus.” I cross my arms. She thinks I’m lying.
I’ve been worrying about seeing my old friends, but hadn’t thought my mom would be one of the people who would look at me differently, a specimen. Now she’s searching for some change in my face. Waiting for me to do something psycho. To her dismay, I sit here like any normal person swatting at imaginary bugs. But she doesn’t need to worry—she’s never believed in medication, and now I’m almost off.
We veer onto a gravel street, abandoned toys sprawled across and bikes with tires stolen in years prior, tied to chicken-wire fences.
“It’s not the greatest, but it’s home,” she says, pulling into the driveway of a small yellow shack just as a Volvo drives by. I squat low in my seat so I can’t be seen. But not every car is an undercover police officer working for the Hasids, not here anyway. I’m one step ahead of them.
It’s Mom’s third rental since Jules and I left. I hadn’t thought of that—how will I return to my origin if I can’t go to my childhood home? But calm down, Nicolette is calling out to me through time. She wants to be found! The house is edged with unkempt shrubs, tying its sides in the shadow-sleeves of a straitjacket.
“Don’t you want your surprise?” she says.
I really don’t. We climb out; she struggles with the house keys, drops them twice and laughs. “I guess I’m nervous.” When she finally gets the front door open, I step ahead into a small, barely furnished living/dining room connected to a grimy kitchen. There’s cat hair billowing along the edges of the floor. It reminds me of fake snow used for storefront Christmas decorations. So much fur but no cats in sight.
“How many do you have now?” I ask.
“Only four. Scaredy-cats, all of them. Come on.”
The landline lets out a whiny ring.
“Don’t answer it,” I say.
“Why would I? Someone trying to sell me something. Don’t they know I’m broke?”
“Might be the cops.”
“Very funny.” She throws my messenger bag on the couch—I swear I see a plume of dust rise up around it—and I set the painting tube carefully on top. Then she leads me down the hall to the second door. She takes her time, attempting to be dramatic. “Ta-da,” she sings as she swings it open.
And there is my childhood bedroom. I’ve stepped back in time, just like that. My old desk is against the wall, the top covered with messages I’d carved out to my future self when I was young. I tiptoe to it and run my hand over the rough markings, all the scissor stabs and whirlpools. My old comic books are in their plastic sleeves and special filing case. And I used to have a bin of—there it is, right where I left it—broken electronics. Machine parts I’d taken apart and tried to put back together—a broken telephone, a lamp skeleton. Even my toy cars are crammed in a box with my sister’s shabby dolls, which I always preferred over the cars. The only difference is a poster with a large dove reaching its wings around the world—my mother’s touch.
Like a museum installation, or a crypt, here is my childhood, replicated inch by farcical inch. The room could be one of Nicolette’s installations. It’s something she would do. And this time, that’s not just a whimsy-lovey thought. She had a hand in this.
It must be the portal. This is how I find her.
“Look.” My mom almost hops to the desk chair where she’s draped my old jean jacket. “I found it in a box in storage with the rest of this stuff.” On the back are hand-painted cows standing in a field. Over them, in bubbly cloud-letters, are the words, Not until the cows come home. “You wanted to be a cowboy, remember that?”
Is that the point of original pain? The object ascribed to it? I remember the jacket as the prop for my first act of independence. I remember my sticky elementary school like an extraneous organ. Third grade—my teacher told me to put on my coat for recess and I said, No. It was probably freezing outside but that wasn’t the point. It was the moment when you realize you’re not so powerless to mother or teacher as you previously thought. I will not be put up for adoption or tossed to the side of the road like an unwanted cat if I say no.
“I hated that jacket,” I say, and immediately regret it. Mom looks like she’s about to cry. She’s so sensitive I want to twist her nose for it. Is causing her pain getting me closer to time traveling? It’s how I sometimes acted back then. But, no, I’ve always appreciated her sensitivity.
Is that act of independence when we first begin to know ourselves? Is that first knowing the original pain?
My mother folds the coat with her eyes closed, trying not to cry.
Or do we not know ourselves until later, when defiance runs deeper, when we’re aware we’re happiest when that spell of dependency is severed completely? At sleep-away camp or the second day of high school. Or is it when we dissolve our dependency to something more abstract, like reality? Is it when we learn to lie?
A cat slinks in and rubs against my ankle. Her gray fur has a hundred vortexes swirling in it. But when I reach down to pet her, she runs away.
“Mom.” Say something nice. Why is it so hard to say something nice to her? “Thanks for this.” I gesture around the room. “I like it.”
My mom smiles at me sadly. “You stay here as long as you need, honey. No one’s making you go to the hospital.”
And when did I start unknowing myself?
2 pills left, 112 species of wildflowers in the state of Washington, all fashion trends 2 years behind on the West Coast, 2 hours of indigestion, 4 dying cats, 1 dial-up Internet connection.
As soon as I can get away from my mom after dinner, I lock myself in the bedroom. My bare toes fold over the end of the mattress and my head touches the wall. Some kind of animal is screaming outside my window, being murdered. I wait. And wait. But the portal hasn’t been activated. Why? My stomach curls from Mom’s “famous” tuna noodle casserole. Is that what’s blocking the portal? No, it’s exactly right. My body is replicating a physical state from my childhood, struggling to digest this particular form of horrible: Mom’s cooking.
I could not be nearer to finding my origin. This room, a replica of my childhood, it has to be the portal. It cannot be a coincidence that my mother did this at this moment in time. But it’s locked. Fragments of my past are spread around me—my old jacket and toys, feeling the same old frustrations with my mother. Could they all be part of it? A code of sorts.
The Suicide of Claire Bishop Page 26
