Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  But there’s something I never told anyone. I went to Greer’s that day to look at the coloured hairspray and plastic witch noses because, deep down, a part of me knew my mom wasn’t alive. It was a feeling. It’s hard to put into words. I walked around Greer’s and tried on some masks, lining up the eyeholes so I could see my reflection in the mirror, breathing in the plastic, chemical-y smell. And I thought how easy it was, to be someone else. It wasn’t a lot of work at all. All you had to do was think of yourself in another way. There are different people inside all of us, and sometimes, the pieces get larger and take over.

  I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.

  “Those masks aren’t for trying on,” the woman behind the counter said. “That’s how germs get spread, you know.”

  I yanked off the Frankenstein mask I was wearing and put it back on its hook. I bought a pair of red wax lips because I felt guilty for trying on the mask. And I liked to wear them and pose in front of my bedroom mirror, pretending I was a movie star. Someone beautiful. Glamorous. Someone not me.

  I took the small paper bag from the cashier. Then I headed home.

  * * *

  I’ve decided to die in the Richardsons’ small rowing boat. It reminds me of a poem I read once called “The Lady of Shalott” about a woman who is forbidden to look at the real world, only the reflection in her mirror. But one day, a hot prince comes by and she turns to look at him and then her mirror cracks and she gets into a rowboat and dies.

  I’ve looked too long at the real world too.

  I’ll row to the centre of the lake in the early morning mist, swallow my twelve pills and then die in my cradle, rocked by the water, the rising sun’s light spreading across my lifeless body.

  That seems like the best way to die.

  In History class, we learned how the Egyptians left things behind in the tombs of loved ones who had died. Trinkets and statues and gold coins to take with them to Egyptian heaven (or whatever it’s called). I like this idea, so I brought the things that mean the most to me. My mom’s old key ring. The stuffed parrot I made in Home Ec class. The photo of my mom and father at the fair. It seems so stupid when I lay it out on the table. Maybe that’s what everyone’s life comes down to. Pieces of plastic, paper, fake fur.

  I get up from the table and gather everything. Looking at these things makes me sad. I go outside. The sun has just begun to crack over the horizon, but night is still hanging on. Things are in the in-between stage. The birds have begun to chirp. The raccoons are making their way home after a night of scavenging.

  I walk down from the back deck. The Richardsons’ cabin sits on top of a slope that leads to a lake. There’s a path that zigzags down and I’m careful not to trip. I don’t want to commit suicide by breaking my leg and starving to death. I’m nervous about the unseen things around me. But now that I’ve reached this final hour, there’s no reason to be afraid. A shield surrounds me. Danger no longer matters. The animals sense that. They know to keep their distance.

  I hear something a few yards away. A soft licking sound. It reminds me of the sound of me and Mike kissing. I know where the sound is coming from, in this night/not-night world. I can smell it, waiting for me.

  The lake.

  * * *

  I knew something wasn’t right the minute I opened the door to the apartment. There was a stillness, a quiet cloud, hanging in the air.

  “I’m home,” I said and turned to shut the door, sliding the chain link across the lock, like I always did.

  “Mom?”

  There was no answer.

  From where I stood, I could see my mom’s bedroom door. It was shut.

  what stays shut, stays hidden

  Just like it had been that morning. There was a blanket on the couch and cushions on the floor, which meant that my mom had come out of her room at some point, because they weren’t there when I left for school.

  I put my knapsack on the floor and told myself that my mom was probably sleeping. I’d knock on the door to wake her up. But not yet. I wasn’t ready. I went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of apple juice. Then I sat down at the kitchen table. There were bills and magazines and other pieces of paper lying around. I picked up an envelope addressed to “Ms. Heather Goodman.” A telephone bill. I sighed as I looked at the numbers, the same way my mom did whenever she looked at a bill. I took another sip of juice and felt very grown up.

  The bedroom door stayed shut.

  I opened a few more bills, even though none of them made much sense. I looked through a Sears catalogue that my mom must’ve picked up from work. Everyone inside was smiling, even the old people who needed special toilets and adult diapers. One of the photos was of a young girl, around my age, leaning against her mom’s shoulder. The girl was looking at her mom and the mom was looking at a picture in her lap. They were laughing.

  After a while, I got up from the table and rinsed my glass in the sink. Then I dried it and put it back in the cupboard. I never used to be able to reach the shelf, but I had no problems doing it since I’d started fifth grade.

  “You’re getting so tall,” my mom had said. She sounded surprised.

  I understand why people might think I would’ve gone to the bedroom by that point. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat down on the sofa, turned on the TV and watched a bit of Scooby-Doo. The door was behind me and I didn’t turn to look at it once, even though I felt it, like a shadow on my neck. It was only when the credits started to roll that I knew I needed to get up.

  I had to go to the door.

  “Mom?”

  I knocked and waited. There was nothing. I knocked again. Silence. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I went to the bathroom and found a bobby pin. I stuck it into the small hole of my mom’s doorknob. As I fiddled with it, I was hoping my mom would call out, “What are you doing, Toby?” or “Stay out of here!” But there was nothing, and that made me stick the bobby pin in harder, in and out, in and out, until I heard a clicking sound and I knew the door was unlocked.

  I took a deep breath. It was hard to explain, but I knew life was going to be different as soon as I opened that door. I waited a few seconds, my hand on the doorknob, counting to ten.

  I understood that as soon as I finished counting, one of us would still be here. And one of us wouldn’t.

  So I counted very slowly.

  Chapter 23

  I make my way down to the lake. There are all kinds of rocks and stones I have to navigate around, and my ankles flop this way and that. At one point, I almost fall, but I grab a low-hanging tree branch and steady myself. Soon, the sound of water gets closer and the sky starts turning purple, then dark pink.

  Across the lake, there are trees and other people, still sleeping at this hour, or maybe awake. But I don’t see any lights. The lake is a black mirror of everything around it. I see the boat, a flash of silver poking out from under a tied tarp. It’s upside-down.

  It’s going to be a beautiful day. I look up at the leaves and think of the lace tablecloth that Grandma Kay used to put out for Christmas dinner. It’s been packed away for years. Grandma Kay never uses any of her nice belongings. Her china has been sitting in the cabinet for as long as I can remember. She didn’t even bring it out for dinner the other night. Not that the company deserved it. The way Arthur spoke to Grandma Kay was terrible. To show up, after all these years, and use those words?

  More than anything, I’m hurt. He barely said two words to me, his own daughter. He didn’t ask what my favourite colour was or what I was taking in school. He didn’t say anything about my hair or my eyes. He didn’t apologize for never contacting me. For not coming back.

  He didn’t say sorry for pretending I didn’t exist.

  And now that I know that, now that I’m left with the cold fact of him, I understand that it would’ve been better if he’d stayed away.

  Because now I can’t dream about him.

  I untie the tarp and pull it off the boat. I flip the boat over, half
-expecting an animal to come racing out. Nothing does. But it’s filthy and wet and smells rotten. This isn’t what I wanted at all. This doesn’t fit into my plans, this crappy, stinky boat. I don’t want to die in filth. I look around to see if there’s another boat, but there isn’t. I almost start to cry, but I manage to stop myself.

  “Don’t lose sight of the big picture, Toby,” I tell myself. “Keep focused on what you need to do.”

  But why, even at the end of my life, can’t I have just one thing that I want? Why am I always denied every time I reach for something?

  I walk back up to the Richardsons’ cabin. I think about going into the woods, but I don’t want animals to find my body. I don’t want to be torn apart by bears. Then I think I’ll do it inside the cabin. But what if my body starts to smell? What if they can’t ever get the smell of me out of the air? So I’ll have to do it outside. On the back deck, on one of the lawn chairs. It’s not what I wanted at all, but it will have to do.

  Besides, I’m used to settling for less.

  I get back up to the deck, sit down in one of the chairs, which is damp with dew that soaks into my jeans, making me even more annoyed, and take the pills out of my pocket. They’re very small and it’s hard to believe that something that size, even twelve of them, could do the trick. I put the first pill in my mouth and realize I didn’t bring anything to drink. I can’t believe I’m so stupid. I go into the cabin and grab what’s left of my beer and bring it back outside. I take a sip and swallow my pill. The beer tastes even more disgusting now, but I know the combination of alcohol and pills will help speed things up. I put another pill in my mouth and take another sip of beer. The pill goes down but I almost gag. I take a third pill. I don’t feel anything, but I know these things take time. Death won’t come that quickly. But just how long, I wonder, as I slip the fourth pill past my lips? The beer isn’t getting any easier to drink. What if I pass out before I finish taking all the pills?

  Pill five.

  * * *

  The first thing I noticed was my reflection in my mom’s dresser mirror. I’d been growing my hair, but I hadn’t paid too much attention and I was surprised to see it that long. It curved into a pair of S’s at my shoulders, like the hard ribbon candies Grandma Kay puts out at Christmas. I saw my mom’s perfume bottles and makeup and her necklaces hanging from the corner of her mirror. And then I saw my mom’s pink bathrobe on the floor and the chair she never sat in because it was always piled with clothes. I saw my mom’s fuzzy pink slippers, sticking over the edge of the bed. I saw my mom’s ankles and a part of her leg. I saw my mom’s hair. It was brown, like mine.

  I heard the ticking of the Big Ben wind-up clock next to my mom’s bed.

  I stepped into the room, reminding myself not to be afraid. It was only my mom in the bed, not a stranger. I walked to the other side of the bed and looked down at my mom’s face. Her mouth was open, and her lips looked like she’d rubbed blue eyeshadow on them. I held my hand in front of my mom’s mouth, waiting for a faint breeze, but there was nothing. My mom looked like a painting, someone from another time. You’d look and wonder, who is this person and what was she like?

  My mom didn’t have her gloves on. Her hands were scratched and red. Her fingertips were purple.

  I went to my mom’s dresser and found the picture that she’d shown me, of her and my father at the parking lot carnival. It felt like the most important thing in the world. Without this picture, I wasn’t real.

  I went to the living room and called Grandma Kay.

  “You need to come over,” I said. “My mom won’t wake up.”

  I heard Grandma Kay scream and even then, I didn’t cry. Grandma Kay said she’d call an ambulance.

  “Stay there, Toby,” she said. “I’m on my way. Don’t panic.”

  But I wasn’t panicked. I wasn’t anything.

  I went back to the bedroom and lay down on the opposite side of the bed. I saw the empty pill bottles on the night table. There were three of them. I reached over and picked one up. A red-and-blue pill fell onto my sweater. I picked it up and held it in front of me. Did my mom take all of these pills? She was only supposed to have two a day. I heard Mr. Whitlock tell her that. I put the pill back into the bottle.

  After a while, I heard sirens. I kissed my mom on the cheek because that was what she did every night before I went to sleep.

  “I love you, Mommy,” I said. I knew this would be the last time I’d be alone with her. Then I got up and walked to the door of the apartment. I slid the chain link off the lock and opened the door all the way.

  what stays shut

  Then I sat on the couch and waited for help.

  * * *

  I won’t miss the cows, not all their pooping and peeing and watery, marble eyes. I don’t think they’ll miss me either, even though Grandpa Frank says they know who I am.

  “Cows recognize voices,” he told me.

  Maybe that’s true. But it doesn’t mean they liked me.

  Pill six.

  Everyone will be better off without me. I’ve never been more certain of anything.

  Pill seven.

  Pill eight.

  I’m getting sleepy now. I’ll have to take the rest of the pills before I pass out.

  Pill nine.

  Pill ten.

  They are taking effect now. My blood is poison.

  Pill eleven.

  They abandoned me. I couldn’t keep anyone. I wasn’t enough. I’ve never been enough.

  My mom meant to take all of her pills. She couldn’t wait to get away from me, from our life together.

  I need to lie down. The sun starts to spin. Somewhere, a bird screams.

  No one ever wanted me.

  Pill—

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Toby!”

  I’m behind a mask.

  “Toby!”

  A stone.

  “Answer me!”

  I’m nothing and no one. Darkness wraps me, a black blanket.

  “Tob-eee!”

  Call all you want. I’m already gone.

  Chapter 26

  Scratches.

  Burning.

  Fire.

  Chapter 27

  Open your eyes!”

  There’s nothing worth looking at.

  “Stay with me, Toby.”

  Chapter 28

  Hands pressing into me. Taking pieces of me. I don’t need anything.

  “Hang in there.”

  My stomach. My ribs. Give them to someone who can use them.

  But not my heart.

  It doesn’t work.

  Chapter 29

  Something bright. My eyes crack open.

  A small star.

  I made it.

  Heaven.

  “Can you tell my mom I’m here?” I ask the light.

  Chapter 30

  I didn’t die. I can’t even kill myself. That’s how much of a failure I am.

  From my hospital bed, I watch the cars roll in and out of the parking lot on the other side of the window. I’m in a room with two other women. There are four beds, but one is empty. Waiting for another nutcase to take a bunch of pills at her best friend’s family cabin. One of the women is named Meg. She looks around fifty. The other woman is younger than Meg, but older than me. I heard she has a couple of kids at home. She doesn’t speak to anyone, so I don’t know her name.

  Meg hasn’t slept for two weeks, even though she’s convinced she sleeps all the time. The nurses keep telling Meg she hasn’t slept, but she says they’re full of it.

  “That’s what they do, Tina,” she tells me. She never gets my name right. “Tell you things that aren’t true. Try to make you feel crazier. That way you can’t ever leave. Make sure they know that you can’t be fooled.” She raises her finger in the air. Her eyes look like she squeezed lemon juice into them.

  “Beat them at their own game.”

  Then she goes to the nurses’ station to ask for a cup of coff
ee, which they tell her she can’t have.

  There’s only one hospital in Tilden, but I’m not in the regular part. I’m in the section where the doors are kept locked. There are no mirrors, only rectangles of flat, silver plastic screwed into the walls. The windows are double-paned, so no one can throw something through them. The furniture is made heavy. Too hard to lift.

  There are no electrical cords.

  We can’t be trusted. We’re like alarm clocks and the nurses have to keep an eye on us because you never know when the alarm will go off.

  I just want to die. I keep imagining the bed swallowing me up, like it’s a mouth. And when the nurses come to give me my medication, they’ll be so shocked to see I’m gone, all the pills meant for me will drop to the floor and roll away.

  * * *

  It’s hard to keep track of time, but I’m told I’ve been here for two days.

  “Are you up to seeing visitors?” the psychiatrist asks me. Her name is Dr. Singh. She’s Indian. It must be hard for her, living in a place like Tilden. There aren’t many non-white people. I think about what Shirley said, about the three Chinese people living in Tilden. Was I really over there just last week? Everything feels upside-down.

  “Not really,” I say to Dr. Singh. I feel stupid and ashamed. How can I look at Grandma Kay? Or Grandpa Frank? How will I ever be able to face anyone ever again? I need to stay here, hidden away. I want everyone to forget about me.

  “Are you sure, Toby? It might do you some good. And your grandparents are worried about you. No one is angry. But they want to understand. Do you understand? Why you did what you did? What drove you to think that was your only option?”

  I try to find some words, but none come. When I was a kid, I remember running through the laundry that Grandma Kay hung on the line. Sheets and blankets and towels. And sometimes, the wind would pick up and the laundry would swoop and cover me. Like the bedsheets were trying to stop me from seeing where I was going. And I’d start to panic because there were all these sheets in my face and I couldn’t find my way out.