Talk

by Rachel Zachary

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  It was the beginning of March when I went to see Mary. She had checked herself out of the clinic and was back in her room at the hostel.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked her. “What happened? Is everything okay?”

  I’m fine,” she said from where she was laying on the bed. “I just got sick of everyone treating me like a freak.”

  “Mary nobody was treating you that way, they’re just trying to help. We’re all trying to help.” I said.

  Mary didn’t say anything, I sighed and sat down on the floor.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you.” I said honestly.

  “I don’t know if you can. If anyone can.” Mary said quietly.

  “So you still want to die?” I asked bluntly.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said softly. “Sometimes I just don’t want to exist, and sometimes I can’t even believe that I did something like that.”

  “Look Susie I don’t even know how to explain it, I don’t even understand myself. It’s all a mess.” Mary said. “I’m so embarrassed, it feels like everyone knows. that everyone can just see it on me, like I’m disgusting.”

  “You’re not disgusting,” I told her. “And you shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”

  “I just feel numb,” Mary said. She ran her thumb up and down over the thick scars on her wrists. “I don’t feel anything anymore. But I don’t think I want to die. Isn’t that weird.”

  “It’s not weird, it just scares the crap out of me that you feel like that,” I said. I was terrified that she was talking like this. There was no emotion in her voice, it was flat and empty. It felt like she was slipping away from me.

  “You should be scared, I’m scared,” Mary said. “The only one who isn’t scared is Mom.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “I called her once,” Mary said. “She told me she was too busy baking a cake for the church bake sale Bob was in charge of to come down and see me.”

  I didn’t even bother dignifying that with a response. That was Mom, she was always about appearance now, her new image, her new life. She didn’t want anything or anyone ruining it.

  “Have you been taking your medication?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Mary sighed. “The stuff for the anxiety and I still have to talk to my therapist.”

  “It’s not your fault.” I said.

  “I know. But it feels like it is.” Mary said.

  “Do you remember anything else?” I asked her hesitantly. “Anything new?”

  “I remember a lot of things,” Mary said. “Things I didn’t want to.”

  “Was Dad...did you see Dad?” I asked.

  “Yes, he was there, he was always there on top of me, inside of me grunting like a sweaty pig.” Mary said with a hand pressed to her face.

  “Was I there?” I asked her afraid of her answer.

  “Yeah,” Mary said. “I saw you.”

  “How did I look? What was I doing?” I asked her. My heart was racing.

  “I dunno, you were crying a lot.”

  “I don’t cry.” I said automatically. I had never been a big crier even when I broke my arm I hadn’t cried much.

  “Well you were when I saw you,” Mary said rolling to face me for the first time since I came in the room. “You were always crying. You just didn't’ make any noise you just kind of laid there with your eyes closed.”

  “Then how’d you know I was crying?”

  “Because you’re face was all wet screwed up like when you’re trying not to cry,” Mary said. “Like right now.”

  I left.

  I knew that I shouldn’t have.

  I knew that Mary needed me but I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t think. I took the train back home. I thought about work and all of the papers I still needed to grade and the lesson plan I had to adjust. The Spring Fling was just around the corner and I was supposed to help the kids put up their Homemade decorations. I thought about Adam who had called me this morning to ask if I was free tonight to go see a movie. I had a life, I thought. Every step I took away from Mary brought me closer to it. I felt like I was betraying Mary somehow by even thinking about it.

  Why had I been crying? God Dad, I thought what did you do? What did you do to us?

  ***

  Things got worse.

  I went to see Mary as much as I could but nothing I did seemed to be enough. She always seemed lost in her own world, just scraping by enough.

  I called Mom on a Sunday. It took three times before she answered.

  “Hello Susie,” Mom said.

  Susie with a sigh.

  “Let me guess you’re calling about your sister.” Mom said flatly.

  “Mom please,” I started.

  “No no go on, I want to hear what the latest problem is.” Mom said. I could hear a television turn up in the background.

  “Mary lost her job at the diner,” I said.

  “How’d she do that?” Mom asked.

  “She missed to many shifts,” I told her. “I don’t know what to do. She won’t be able to pay for her room.”

  “I hope you aren’t thinking about letting her move back in with you.” Mom said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, not willing to say that I had been.

  “Hasn’t your boyfriend been asking you to move in with him?” Mom asked.

  I blushed, Adam had asked me to move in with him a few weeks ago, I hadn’t said yes yet but I was thinking about it. His apartment was beautiful and things had been going great with us.

  “He did,” I said. “But what about Mary? We need to help her.”

  “That girl needs more help than anyone can give her, and you keep letting her use you as a crutch she will never get better,” Mom said. Which was a shock to me, it was the first time I had ever heard her sound this serious since I told her about Mary and I’s suspicions.

  “What do you think I should do?” I asked her.

  “Give her and ultimatum,” Mom said. “It’s the clinic or the streets. If she’s really serious about getting help then she’ll make the right choice.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.” I said.

  “It will,” Mom said chipperly.

  “Have you heard from Dad?” I asked. “We haven’t really talked since, well you know.”

  “You know we don’t talk.” Mom said.

  “Well he hasn’t called me.” I said.

  “And?” Mom asked me.

  “It’s weird,” I said. “We were talking almost every day and then I just stopped calling him and he hasn’t even called me once to see why. It’s like he knows that I know.”

  “I think you’re being paranoid,” Mom said. “That man doesn’t care if you call or not, he’s probably in a bar somewhere killing whatever brain cells he has left.”

  Mom was probably right but I was still worried. Part of me was glad that Dad hadn’t called because I didn’t know what I would say to him. The other part was just hurt; hurt that he hadn’t called me, hurt by what I was thinking what I was accusing him of, hurt that we might never talk again. There was no way I could confront him about Mary. About me.

  I knew that as soon as I did there would be no going back. I needed proof. I needed something concrete. Something tangible. Not a nightmare or a hazy memory. Not something that Mary remembered that I didn’t. I needed something more than the fact that it was Dad. I needed mom too but she had never been specific only that Dad would never do that and ‘you know how he is, he liked to play rough’. But it had been to long and there was nothing left except for memories.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky the day I decided to kill myself. I ate pancakes with berries from the diner on the corner. I called in sick. I went to the art museum, I returned all of my books to the library and paid off the overdue fines. I went for a jog in central park.

  I treated myself to a philly cheesesteak s
tew in sourdough bread, I called Mary and we talked for a few minutes (she was back in the clinic and doing okay, not better but okay) I said goodbye and finished my stew. Later, I bought two pints of ice cream and ate them at home on the sofa and watched Casablanca (I had never seen it before) brushed my hair, called Adam and talked till midnight and went to bed.

  I didn’t sleep, I hadn’t been for weeks now, the dreams, the flashbacks had become too much. It felt like I was just treading water. I didn’t want to go but I knew that I had to. I knew how Mary felt when she said she just wanted things to stop. I was tired of being afraid I wanted an escape and death seemed like the best way to do it.

  I had been preparing for a while now. I had written beautiful letters to everyone I cared about, I had recorded and hidden old tape recordings in a shoebox in the back of my closet so that they would never have to miss the sound of my voice (It was nothing special, I talked about my thoughts for the day, about the weather, the fun things I had done or would have liked to do, how much I loved everyone and would miss them).

  I had saved up on my sleeping pills so that I wouldn’t feel anything and had bought a brand new razor sharp paper cutter from the arts and crafts store (It was so sharp that when I pressed it against a sheet of paper it split in half and when I pressed it against a pillow the foam came spilling out) that was wrapped up in a napkin in the back of my dresser drawer.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  I took a shower and let the heat cook my skin until it was red, quickly used my hairdryer and brush until my hair was dry and fluffy. I pulled on my favorite thick wool sweater and a old pair of jeans. I spread the letters out on the table and took the tape recordings out and lined them up by alphabetical order on the kitchen table. I left the pills where I put them and took the paper cutter out from where I had put it. It was half past four. I played piano music drank a few mugs of hot cocoa and was relieved that it would be over soon. For the first time I felt like I was in control. That I didn’t, I wouldn’t be scared anymore. The sun was coming up over the buildings. I watched it climb higher and higher, walked over to the window and sat down. I didn’t think I would still be here to see it. I didn’t think it would be this hard.

  I picked the cutter up and pushed up the blade, and I started to panic as I realized what was going to happen and wondered for the first time where I might be going. What if there really was a heaven? Would I be forgiven for killing myself? Would I punished? What if the police kept the letters? Or what if my landlord took them when they found my body? What if they got the letters but they still didn’t understand why I had done it? What if they threw the tapes away? Or copied over them? What if they hated me?

  Why did I write one to Dad? I put the knife back down and started crying.

  I just sat there on the floor for hours and then got up, threw the knife in the trashcan, walked into the bathroom and washed my face. I didn’t know what to feel. I was too afraid to go through with it and I thought that I had made a horrible mistake by not going through with it. That afternoon I slipped on some old tennis shoes, grabbed my purse from the table walked down to the hospital and checked myself in. Within an hour I had met with a psychologist and a doctor, I told them I had been feeling suicidal and that I tried to kill myself but I hadn’t. I didn’t tell them why I had tried to kill myself.

  ***

  My first night in the psych ward was the hardest night of my life. All of my things were taken, my purse my clothes, my shoes (they checked to make sure that I hadn’t taken the laces out and kept) my belt. I wore grey, grey sweatpants, grey sweatshirt, grey socks. I blended into the walls.

  I stared at the nurse who had watched me get changed and asked when I could get my things back.

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said sympathetically. “You won’t get them back until you leave. We don’t allow our patients to have any items that they can be used to harm themselves or another person.”

  I went to bed but I didn’t go to sleep. My door stayed open, the nurses checked on me every fifteen minutes.

  One nurse asked me if I had anyone to call to support me. Dad wasn’t an option, Mom hadn’t even gone to see Mary, and Mary who was just starting to get the help that she needed didn’t need me dragging her back down.

  I spent the next week floating through the days through one session to another, I could feel myself shutting down. I didn’t have the energy to eat or to sleep. I could feel them pumping my bodies full of fluids and I had fought them when they tried to shove a tube down my nose promising that I would eat. On some level I knew that something was terribly wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it.

  ***

  By the beginning of May I had dropped down to ninety nine pounds. There was a stranger looking back at me in the mirror, a woman who looked like a ghost. I hadn’t bothered to wash my hair, I kept it pulled back in a messy ponytail. I sat in the visitors room and picked at the sleeve of my shirt while I waited for Mary. She had gotten out of the clinic a couple weeks ago and I had just called her last night to tell her where I was.

  Mary walked in. She looked good. She had put some weight back on, the dark circles under her eyes had faded. I could still see the scars on her wrists but she was smiling and I hugged her as hard as I could.

  How could everything had fallen apart?

  “Hey you,” Mary said smoothing my hair.

  “Hey you.” I said.

  “How are you doing?” Mary asked me.

  “I feel like I should be asking you that.” I said with a small smile. “But I’m doing okay.”

  “Have you been talking to anyone?”

  “I have.” I said. “It’s been going okay. I’ve been eating now just soups and I’m on some new meds that help with the anxiety.”

  “Are you sleeping?” she asked.

  “No.” I hadn’t slept more than a few hours a week.

  “Have you asked them for anything? They have stuff that can help, with the nightmares, to make you sleep.”

  “I will,” I promised her.

  “Does it help you?” I asked her.

  “It does yeah.” Mary said. “It really does.”

  “Do you remember anything?” she asked me.

  ***

  In my one-on-one sessions with my therapist I had talked for hours and she had just listened. The things I remembered terrified me.

  Dad was always there. Even when he was at work, even when he was out drinking, even when he just wasn’t there I could feel him watching us. It took me weeks of working with my therapist to accept that I knew it was only my imagination and well-earned paranoia that I was able to move past it.

  I thought about that dream I had when I had peed myself and Dad had yanked my pants and underwear down, to clean me. The way his hand had crawled up my thigh, the heat of it. The look on his face as he loomed over me. How he always seemed to be around when it was bathtime. The shame I would feel whenever I saw him. He wanted to see me naked.

  Chapter Thirty

  It was in the grocery store, two weeks after I had checked myself out of the hospital and tried to get back to some kind of normalcy it hit me like a bullet. I dropped the apples I was holding back into the box, fished my phone out of my pocket and called my therapist.

  In all of the pamphlets, the books, the studies and journals I had read about abuse, coping with abuse and trauma (first to help Mary and later for myself) I realized that my shame, my humiliation was a part of it but now I think that Dad didn’t want to hurt us. That the bloody horrific rape stories I had read and heard so much about had never happened to be, that Mary and I had never fought, we had never been beaten (not for that no) or held down. I thought about how familiar it felt to have an orgasm. I thought about Dad crying in the kitchen holding a butcher knife and realized he had tried to stop himself.

  ***

  That friday, Mary and I met for coffee.

  I told her everything that I remembered and what I thought had happened.

  “
Wow,” Mary said.

  “I know,” I said. “Sometimes I can’t believe that this is happening.”

  “Cathy,” Mary said quietly (Cathy was her therapist). “says that it’s normal for people to repress trauma.”

  “Do you think Mom knows?” she asked.

  I picked at my napkin. “She has to know.”

  “We shared a room for years, she didn’t want us to wear underwear, she never let us ask any questions, and she let Dad walk all over her for years.” I said getting angrier by the second.

  Mary had a funny look on her face like she smelled something rotten.

  “Sometimes,” I admitted quietly. “When we were younger in the winter we had to sleep with them because there was no heat.”

  Did Dad try and do anything then when Mom was there? Did she see it happening? Did she turn a blind eye to it like everything else Dad did as part of our ‘adventure’ or did she just leave us alone with him?

  I paid for the coffee and walked out of the diner frustrated, confused and ready to drop. It was starting to rain. I took the train back to brooklyn. I thought about Dad. even after everything that had happened I missed him. I thought about Mom. I wanted her to come, to take care of everything even though I knew she couldn’t and wouldn’t.

  Chapter Thirty One

  I couldn’t confront Dad directly so I did it indirectly, Mary hadn’t been able to find work since she had left the clinic and her hospital bills were piling up, I had used up all of my sick days for the rest of the year and had fallen behind on my own lesson plans and grading schedule. Mary had moved in with me but I didn’t make enough money to support the two of us. I thought about how to get money. Welfare was always an option but Mary who had just started to get back on her feet didn’t want to accept another handout. She had never liked the idea of being on welfare before, she said that it made her feel like a charity case and after going through therapy

  It was clear that we needed money, and that in the state Mary was in even if she was able to find a job I wasn’t sure that she would be able to keep it. I was looking for a side job but wasn’t having any luck, I couldn’t even find a job on the weekend as a dishwasher. We needed help. Mom had told me that Bob was taking her on vacation and she really had to pack before she hung up on me. Our grandparents were dead, welfare was out, Mom was useless, there was only one person left for me to turn to.