Low

by Anna Quon

  The doctor was a brown-skinned man with an English accent, wearing a white lab coat over a shirt and tie. The nurse’s expression had turned businesslike, as she helped Adriana sit up on the examination table. “Hello,” he said, diffidently. “I am Dr. K, the general practitioner. I need to give you a physical check-up before you see the psychiatrist.” Adriana looked at his shoes. They were worn and scuffed, comfortable shoes that reassured her somewhat.

  “Any physical complaints?” he asked, as he looked in her ears and mouth with an otoscope. Adriana shook her head. She was surprised to remember the name of the instrument, a word that Jazz had used in a game of Scrabble. “What medications are you taking?” he asked. Adriana thought a moment. She wasn’t taking anything. She shook her head. The doctor gave her a severe look. “Can’t you talk?” he asked in a loud voice.

  Adriana felt her face redden. “No,” she whispered.

  “Why are you whispering?” he demanded. The nurse turned around, with a suppressed smile on her face. Adriana, swimming in misery, said nothing.

  The doctor frowned. “I’m going to test your reflexes,” he said. He got out the hammer. “Just relax,” he said, brandishing the instrument, “It’s not going to hurt.” Adriana felt anxiety grip her. He struck her knee with a dull blow and Adriana’s leg bounced in response. She started to giggle nervously at what seemed like a cartoon version of a trip to the doctor, acutely aware that she had forfeited control of something essential to her.

  “You think that’s funny, do you?” the doctor asked, clearly displeased. Adriana was crying now, silently. The GP softened slightly. “The psychiatrist will see you shortly, Adriana.” he said “For now you can sit in the waiting room”

  Adriana returned to where her father sat, asleep, his head tipped back, and snoring. What had just happened? Everything was jumbled together—her bottomless sadness and humiliation and mortification, all of it tangled together like string inside her. Adriana was glad her father couldn’t see her cry. It didn’t seem natural, the number of tears in her. Outlandish was the word that came to her.

  She wished her father weren’t there. She didn’t want him there and she didn’t want to have to try to act as though nothing were wrong, though it was already a bit late for that. She felt hollow, her heart thrumming in her chest like grasshoppers in an ice cream bucket. Her arms felt weak and useless, as though, like her gall bladder, they once had a purpose but were now hopelessly outmoded.

  The places in her that had been strong and firm were dissolving, and inside her head, her illness glittered like black beads. She couldn’t stop the beads from clacking like an abacus.

  Mr. Song, awake now, gripped her by the shoulders. “Adriana,” he said. Her mind had telescoped to focus on the black beads, their noisy calculations. Wild-eyed, she pulled her mind away from them, like a dog on a leash

  A man had appeared in the doorway—the psychiatrist, Adriana thought, her skin suddenly clammy. Wearing a blue-striped shirt that seemed somehow ridiculous, he shook Mr. Song’s hand and then offered it to Adriana. “I’m Dr. W. You must be Miss. Song. I’d like to interview you in the next room,” he said—dry, cool and impersonal, much like his handshake. Mr. Song stood up. The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid I need to interview your daughter alone though a nurse will be present of course.”

  Adriana stood up as her father sat down, deflated. She walked into the hallway, following the striped shirt. It turned into a doorway off the long hallway and into a small examination room. A different nurse was there, ripping a long sheet of paper to place on the examination table. She smiled and sat in a chair in the corner near the door while the doctor settled opposite Adriana.

  “Now Adriana, I understand you tried to hurt yourself by overdosing on sleeping pills.” Adriana peered up at him as though from the bottom of a pit. His face was boyish, clean shaven and his eyes were sharp and shrew-like. “Is that right?” he said loudly. “Can you tell me why you took the pills?”

  Adriana looked up, bewildered. Wasn’t it obvious? “I wanted to die,” she whispered.

  The doctor frowned. “Was there something in particular that made you want to die?” Adriana remembered the darkness engulfing her mind after taking the pills. What had happened just before? She couldn’t think.

  “Come now, this is serious. Something must have happened to trigger you to take those pills.”

  Adriana remembered feeling like she had reached the end of a road, when Dr. Bob told her she needed to see a psychiatrist and take medication. But before that…the revelation that the mother in her head—familiar, dependable and severe as a winter storm—had been turned upside down by Bartholomew Banks.

  Dr. W. watched her from a comfortable swivel chair. He leaned back, flexing his fingers. Adriana cleared her throat. She sensed this doctor was getting tired of her, that he wanted to go on to someone more interesting. “I… I think I was… I don’t know,” she said, lamely. How could she describe her intolerable anxiety about her mother, who had taken up residence in the dusty back corner of her imagination like a spider? She felt guilty and bereft, traitorous and like one betrayed—a dilemma that she neither wanted to expose, nor thought anyone else would understand.

  Dr. W. had moved on. “Have you been feeling sad lately?” Adriana nodded. “Have you been sleeping more than usual?” Adriana looked down and nodded again. “What about your appetite?” She shook her head. “Does that mean you don’t have much of an appetite?” Nod. “On a scale of one to ten, with one being terrible and ten being great, how would you rate your mood?”

  Adriana tried to think. “Five?” she offered.

  Dr. W. raised an eyebrow. “Five is in the “okay” range. Are you really at five?” Adriana reconsidered “Three?” she ventured. The psychiatrist frowned and scribbled something down on his notepad. He raised his head to look at her “Do you feel like you might harm yourself or someone else?” Adriana held her head and began to sob, a slow, anguished, looping sound.

  “I think perhaps for your own safety, you should consider staying in hospital for a little while.” The doctor shifted the notepad on his knee. “Would you agree to being admitted to the Short Stay unit?” Adriana gripped her head in her hands. Her hair was damp and her skull felt fragile. “Adriana,” the psychiatrist said kindly. “Look at me.” Adriana looked at his shoes, embarrassed, her nose running. “There are some very good medications that will help you feel better, I promise you that.” Adriana nodded, unconvinced. Her mother’s eyes were on her, cold and grey.

  The doctor opened the door for Adriana. She walked out shakily, into the hallway. Her father was on the phone in the waiting area, his eyes squinting, fiercely concentrated on his conversation, but when he saw Adriana, he said a quick goodbye and hung up. Adriana figured it must have been Aunt Penny he was talking to. Now the Toronto relatives would know. A crushing blow to her spirit.

  Dr. W. addressed Mr. Song as though he were a customer. “Adriana has decided to stay in hospital for now,” he said. “Given her mood and mental state, I support her decision wholeheartedly. We’ll admit her to Short Stay for observation.”

  Mr. Song looked stricken. Through her tears, Adriana squinted at his shoes. He rubbed her back awkwardly, as she let her hair fall in front of her face, unable to look at him.

  “Alright,” said Mr. Song gruffly. “Alright.” He wiped his face.

  The door to the Short Stay unit at the end of the hall opened and a middle-aged man came out, dressed in a coat that looked too small for him, and what looked like a Russian fur hat with ear flaps. He wore tinted sun glasses, and his pot belly overflowed his trousers. As the doctor led the way toward the Short Stay unit, Mr. Song walking forlornly behind them, the man stopped in the middle of the hall, clicked his heels and gave a salute. “Long live Chairman Mao,” he said in a slightly garbled voice. “Are you Chinese?” he asked Adriana’s father.

  Mr. Song tried
to smile. “Don’t bother these nice people, Redgie,” said the doctor, shooing the man away.

  Redgie looked offended. “I’m not trying to bother them, doc,” he muttered and kicked his foot in the air as he continued erratically down the hall. The psychiatrist took no notice.

  Adriana stood on the threshold of Short Stay. If she crossed it she would become a mental patient. The nursing station directly across from the unit entrance was cheery, with a stencilled border of ivy leaves and a couple stuffed animals perched on the counter. Behind it, a heavy set middle-aged woman with a blonde perm smiled at Adriana. “You must be Miss Song,” she said in a hearty voice. “I’m Joanne. And is this your Dad?” she gestured toward Mr. Song. He nodded. “We’ll get you settled in,” she said, “and give your Dad some information.” Mr. Song, his eyes pained, let go of Adriana’s arm. She had a feeling of slipping away in a current, while her father stood on dry land, watching her go.

  Chapter 10

  Her father left, giving her a rough kiss on the cheek to try to hide his distress. Adriana stood in the middle of the hall on Short Stay, swaying a little. It was quiet, except for the television in the corner of the common room, which no one was watching.

  A woman came out of the bathroom wearing a johnny shirt, a purse on her arm. Her eyes were teary and her straight, thin brown hair wisped as she walked. She smiled weakly at Adriana and, as though in slow motion, walked toward one of the bedrooms. Joanne spoke to her as though to a child. “You going to lie down sweetie?” she asked in a loud voice. The woman nodded.

  Joanne opened the door to a small single room with a view of the harbour. Adriana gazed at the rectangle of light. She couldn’t see the water from the doorway, just the bleak light from the cloud-filled sky. The bed was smooth and cold looking, covered with a tawny bed spread, the white sheet beneath it turned over neatly.

  Joanne opened a closet door next to the room. “Here’s a couple johnny shirts and a pair of slippers,” she said briskly, bustling to put them at the bottom of the bed. Adriana looked around drearily. There was a chair, a bedside table with a drawer, and a locker. The tiled floor was waxed to a dull shine.

  “Your dad is going to bring you some clothes and things. If you need anything, just give me a shout,” Joanne said, slightly out of breath. “I’ll be your nurse till 7 this evening.” She departed, leaving the door to the room open halfway.

  Adriana sat on the bed looking at the door. She didn’t know whether she was allowed to close it or not. But just then, a man with dark skin and black sunglasses shut the door with a loud bang. Adriana startled, but did not get up. She heard other doors further down the hall bang shut, and Joanne’s angry voice yelling” Melvin, keep that up and you’re headed forTQ.”

  Adriana wondered wearily what TQ was. She sat on the bed, looking at her hands which were white and cold and useless. She got under the covers and curled in on herself. Her eyes were wide open, the clicking of the abacus of her thoughts, deafening. She lay that way for ten minutes until her eyes closed and the muffled sounds from the hallway blended into one another.

  Chapter 11

  Adriana woke the next morning, hollow. On the chair next to her bed was a bag with a few things in it. Some T-shirts and underthings, a pair of jeans, a tooth brush. Also a bag of chocolate covered peanuts, but the thought of eating made her nauseous.

  She looked at her watch. It was 10 a.m. and she’d slept since yesterday afternoon. Even though she’d just woken, the day seemed old and stale as a crust of bread. Maybe that was how things were here—dry and endless.

  Adriana doubted that the nurses would let her stay in bed all day. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door and Adriana expected to see Joanne’s blonde perm. But instead, it was a younger woman, a strikingly attractive one, who stuck her head in. “Feeling like getting up?” She asked, kindly from the foot of Adriana’s mattress, her honey-streaked hair still neatly pinned behind her head. Adriana felt a sudden pang. Her mother had never taught her how to take care of her hair. She looked away toward the dark scuff mark on the wall.

  “Someone’s been moving furniture,” the nurse said leaning forward to try to catch Adriana’s eye. “I’m Fiona. I’ll be your main nurse,” she said, smiling and twinkling. “We’ll get to know each other a lot better soon,” she said. “In fact I’m going to have to be completely impolite and get your weight and your blood pressure, my dear, before we’ve even been properly introduced. The doctor wants to see you this afternoon, so we need to get them before lunch.”

  Adriana closed her eyes and didn’t bother to answer. It didn’t matter to her whether they drained every last drop of blood from her body, really. Fiona was quiet for a moment then patted the bed. “You rest for now,” she said. “I’ll be back later.”

  Adriana lay there, but couldn’t close her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling tiles, which were full of little air holes, and she imagined snakes falling from them. If only she could sleep. The sunlight glittered on the surface of the harbour. To Adriana it was like a man cheerfully leering at her; the sun was so unreachable from the cave she inhabited, that its very existence seemed questionable. She closed her eyes and let the darkness of her own mind, a familiar darkness, shelter her.

  She woke to the sound of a telephone ringing in an empty room. Fiona stood at the foot of her bed. “I bet you’d sleep through an earthquake, what?” she said, smiling. Adriana blinked. The fire alarm was ringing. “It’s just a drill,” she said, “but we have to go outside.”

  Adriana got up and made sure her johnny shirt was tied in back. Fiona handed her another one to wear as a bathrobe, covering the gap in the back and took Adriana’s coat and boots, from the locker. “You’re going to need these,” she said. Adriana put them on. They were about all she had, until her father brought her things from home.

  The hallway was full of people. They gathered at the end of the hall near the fire exit. A nurse with a clipboard hurriedly checked to make sure all were present. “Okay, everybody, follow the dude with the red hat.” A male nurse wearing a red toque put his hand up and waved.

  Redgie, silent and stoned-looking, walked past Adriana without saying a word. The woman in the red parka clutching her purse, muttered something about the stupidity of the drill, and how she couldn’t even have a smoke, which was the only reason she’d even go outside. They were a motley bunch, Adriana thought, watching their strange, shuffling gaits in boots too big or two small, jackets open over their johnny shirts.

  They made their way downstairs and outside onto the back lawn. There were other groups of patients and nurses. Adriana could tell who the nurses were, sticking together in little groups, talking animatedly and laughing. The patients were the ones that seemed adrift, barely hanging on to the group. At the far end of the lawn was a swing set, where patients sat on the swings without swinging, their feet dangling on the ground.

  Redgie kicked at a tuft of grass. “Whatcha doing, Redgie,” a tall male nurse asked, his voice tinged with accusation. Redgie muttered something and walked away. “Stick with the group Redgie,” the nurse called, then started walking after him. Redgie broke into an awkward run, tripping and sliding down the grassy hill. At the bottom he stumbled, and ran again, as the nurse called for help. A couple security guards joined the chase and tackled Redgie when he got to the sewage pond.

  Adriana could hear the male nurse asking Redgie why he ran, and Redgie, sputtering with angry tears, shouting, “I hate it here. Why won’t you let me go?” A nurse nearby chuckled and said something in a low voice to Fiona, whose smile tightened. She didn’t say anything but moved away from the nurse to talk to the woman in the red parka.

  “Marlene,” she said. “Are you going to bake some more of those yummy oatcakes you made last week in Occupational Therapy?”

  Marlene thought about it for a moment. “Well, I was thinking of making brownies,” she said seriously, then smiled. “You liked my oat
cakes, huh?” She puffed out her chest.

  Fiona nodded, her eyes big. “But I’d take a brownie!” she said and gave Marlene’s arm a squeeze.

  Adriana felt mildly uncomfortable. Something about the way Fiona gazed at her, as if to make her complicit in this exchange. Adriana was alert to condescension even in its most seemingly benign forms.

  Someone shouted “All clear!” and people began to filter back inside. Adriana noticed her little group was much smaller than the two other units’ crowds of patients. Redgie went straight to stand in front of the med room door, but the nurses ignored him. Marlene sagged into the rocker in front of the television. Adriana stood in front of the nursing station, looking around her. The patients all seemed tired, while the nurses were energetic and chatty. Even Fiona, wisps of hair coming loose from her bun, was laughing as she worked.

  Adriana stood in front of the nursing station, looking around her. She felt like she wanted to talk to someone—well, Fiona actually—but she was almost embarrassed to admit it. Fiona was rushing around as usual. With an armful of bed linens, she called, “Upstairs, downstairs,” over her shoulder to another nurse who gave her an exaggerated grin and a wink. Adriana wondered who the upstairs people were. Not the patients surely? But who else’s bed linens would Fiona be dealing with?

  Adriana went to her room and got into bed, pulling the blankets up around her chin. The room reminded her of a shoe box, with the lid on tight. She was gripped by a wild fear that she’d never get out. But she continued to lie there, her heart beating against the ceiling, as though it would burst the lid off the place. Eventually she closed her eyes and after awhile, she fell asleep, as if it were the only solace and protection available to her in that place.