Agatha would kneel by the sofa and yak non-stop, looking for the right words to keep her mother close. She talked about school and friends and the farmyard, rattled off made-up stories, but eventually “all that monkey chatter” wore her mother out, sent her back upstairs for peace and quiet.
The summer she died began badly. Agatha’s teacher quit being lenient about her school work and held her back. (The other students weren’t sympathetic, merely curious: “Is your mom dying? My mom says so.”) Agatha’s father, forgetting to be sarcastic, told her that only a dummy could fail grade three. She’d let him down and couldn’t have the pony he promised; she didn’t deserve it.
Some of the cattle sickened and died before the vet discovered a treatment, and Agatha’s father couldn’t get through a day without blowing up. He even snapped at Mrs. Grimm, a woman from Santa Maria Church who was only doing her Christian duty, coming over once a week to clean, make meals, run the washing machine. “That high and mighty Stanley Hubick,” she muttered one afternoon, grabbing the soup bowls and dropping them into soapy water. Next, the cutlery crashed into the sink and Agatha, half-afraid she’d be lifted from her chair and tossed in too, took off to a shed. She couldn’t find the new litter of kittens, and thinking that their mother, Mimi, must’ve moved them to a feeding box, Agatha checked the barn. Her father was inside with a sick heifer.
He didn’t look up. “Kittens? Their mother ate ’em. Cats do that sometimes.”
Stick in hand, Agatha searched everywhere, but Mimi, too, was gone. Lucky for her, because if Agatha had caught her, she would’ve beaten her into a furry pancake.
By July, Agatha’s mother wouldn’t leave her bed, and it became Agatha’s job to empty the chamber pot. She knew this was another punishment; she had a talent for disappointing her father. Terrified of slopping on herself, she clung to the smooth bowl, slid her feet along the carpet, storing electricity that sparked from her head when she used it to bump the bathroom light switch. Although she held her breath while pouring, she couldn’t help seeing what came from the bowl, all that thin, bloody soup.
Nurse Edie arrived and took over. When she set herself up in the sickroom (a cot at the end of the bed; her few clothes in a small case; toiletries in a zipped bag) she didn’t respond to Agatha’s aggrieved: “I had to empty the pot.” Nurse Edie informed Agatha’s father that she did not approve of children in a sickroom: they got underfoot, demanded attention and asked questions.
Agatha was allowed one visit a day. She’d sit on a chair by the bed and speak in a calm, hushed voice; her mother’s voice shaky as a wind-whipped telephone wire. The first day she refused food was also the day she spoke her last words, and those were to Nurse Edie: Let me out.
The morning of the funeral, Agatha sensed this was the day the crows would come, and they came, all right, swooped in while the coffin was being lowered into the hole. A great, shivering cloud beat back the sky, muffled the rest of the day in darkness.
~
The darkness wants back in. It circles the house like a feral dog looking to bite.
The dog’s dish is on the floor and Karin squats to scoop soft food from a can.
Agatha’s mind hasn’t yet made it into high gear. She gets a cup from the cupboard and pours herself another coffee. “There’s this neighbour down the road. You’ve met him. Big Tony.”
Karin snaps a lid onto the can. “Roland and I went to his place for supper. You wouldn’t go.”
When Roland reaches to refill his own coffee cup, he makes a point of nodding at Agatha’s. “Haven’t you had enough?”
He means enough caffeine, enough yipping, but Agatha’s off to the races, her mind snapping like firecrackers. “Big Tony’s cat had kittens. One was small, a runt, and sick all the time. Well, one day Big Tony starts burning trash in his barrel and next thing he knows, this cat comes out of nowhere, jumps right into the barrel.”
Karin waves the can. “If this is about the smoke alarm going off when I went outside, you need to get over it. If you hadn’t been upstairs sleeping it off, I could’ve told you to keep an eye on things. The meat burned, but there wasn’t any fire.”
“I had a migraine.”
“Whatever.”
“The reason Big Tony’s cat jumped into the fire barrel was that the stupid thing didn’t know any better. And just like that cat, there are people who get themselves into trouble because they don’t have a lick of sense.”
Karin opens the fridge and sets the dog food inside. “Roland, do you know what your mother is babbling about this morning?”
Roland reaches past her and plunks the lemonade pitcher inside the fridge. Jars rattle. He rubs at his chin as though he can force the day-old whiskers into his skull.
Agatha looks out through the screen, where a warm breeze floats dead leaves along the patio. Last fall, pruners cut away most of the old crabapple tree, yet missed, on its highest branch, a shaggy cocoon. This thing now sways like a chunk of grey fur.
Roland pushes the screen door aside. “Someone else can think about lunch. I’ll be busy.”
If only Agatha could comfort him the way she did when he was a boy. She calls out to his retreating back: “There should be enough chowder from yesterday.”
When she turns, Karin’s playing wifey, rinsing the juicer and knife, setting them on the dish rack. Then she starts sorting the horticulture magazines Roland left scattered on the table.
Agatha grabs the dishcloth and rubs lemon juice from the granite counter. “I’ll make lunch. That way my house won’t burn down.”
“There you go again, whacking out about nothing. Like when you charged out of the house just because Baby dug a little hole.”
One smack with the cloth is all it would take to shake loose those fuzzy eyes.
“You were the one with the shovel.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t have a shovel. When Roland got home, all his shovels were right where they belong. I was trying to stop Baby – oh, what’s the use of talking.” Karin drops the magazines and picks up a paperback, one of several whodunits she leaves all over the house. She takes her mutt outside and it takes off running. Karin plunks herself at the patio table with her feet up like a queen.
Roland’s not in sight. He’d have a fit if he came in now, and saw Agatha head for the liquor cabinet. “Northern Comfort” was what her father called his whiskey those evenings he settled in the living room with a newspaper, slogging back while Agatha’s mother rested upstairs with her magazines.
The funny thing about drinking martinis is that by the time Agatha’s on her third, she can smell rhubarb pie, the way its steam filled the house one morning when Mrs. Patsy came over to get at the cooking and cleaning.
With her skinny legs, yellow dress and short socks, she reminded Agatha of a Hilroy pencil. Busy taking the pies from the oven, she didn’t see Agatha slip into the pantry, hide behind the partially closed door with a bag of white sugar between her knees. The back door squeaked open; her father’s heavy boots hit the floor. There were whispers and funny noises. She sucked at her fingers, rubbed sweet granules against the roof of her mouth with her tongue while the kitchen table went thump-thump against the wall.
Several days later, Mrs. Patsy fell from the top stair, rolling far enough to fracture ribs and snap two bones in her right arm. She claimed someone pushed her, but there wasn’t anyone in the house except for Agatha who, her mother insisted, had spent the entire morning at her bedside. Mrs. Patsy didn’t swallow that one. “Since when do you give the poor girl more than five minutes of your precious time?” and was fired on the spot.
If only Agatha could fire Karin.
There’s Roland, a Tilley hat shielding his face as he digs in a flower bed next to the driveway, the dark ground soft after being rototilled. He turns over a plant and taps the container with the back of a spade; sets the released plant into a hole. Karin’s yelling at her dog and there it goes, hellbent on running down some animal, tearing through th
e trees like a mad thing with Karin right behind.
It’s the same path Erik took the last time he left the house, striding into the dusk, trailing cigar smoke and the tail end of Agatha’s screaming. During the decades he worked overseas, he must’ve forgotten about her hair-trigger temper. Sell everything and split the money so he could shack up with a woman in Arabia? This was her thanks for all the years Agatha held down the fort while he worked overseas, gone for months at a time. She rented out the land; looked after the house; raised their son, and on the cusp of his retirement, Erik went into a song and dance about another woman. Next time he left, it would be for good.
Only he wasn’t expecting to be gone that soon.
The best thing Erik ever gave her is kneeling in a flower bed next to the driveway, making the yard pretty, looking after things the way he’s done for Agatha ever since he moved back home. But for some reason when it comes to doing something about Karin, a raisin’s got more juice.
Roland’s probably worked up a thirst by now. Agatha drops ice cubes into a tall glass and takes the lemonade jug from the fridge. There’s a single lemon seed floating on the juice, but when she tries to fish it out with her fingers, it slips away. Oh well, it’s only one seed. She dries her hand on her shorts. She’s halfway to the front door before she remembers to duck back into the powder room, rinse with mouthwash.
She carries the glass outside. Paving stones warm her bare feet until she reaches the grass along the driveway and there’s her boy, patting at the raw soil with his hands.
Later he’ll smooth the ground between the plants with a rake before he gets out the watering hose.
“I brought you lemonade.”
Roland leans back on his haunches and looks around. “Where’s Karin?”
“Chasing her mutt.” Agatha waves toward the trees, takes a step sideways and bumps the rake with her foot. Although the tines dig harmlessly into the ground, he reminds her to be careful. Dear Roland. Looking out for her. Like he did last night when he moved Erik’s body.
Roland stands and knocks dirt from his bare knees. He drinks most of the lemonade in one swallow, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You haven’t changed your clothes. Did you take your meds?”
“Don’t you get tired of asking me that?”
He looks at her a long moment, but with the sun behind him, she can’t see his eyes. He says, “I get tired of a lot of things. Good try with the mouthwash, but I can still smell the vermouth.”
The old panic rattles through Agatha’s chest. “You won’t leave me, will you?”
“Stop it.”
She grabs his arm as he turns away. “Did you hear that?” he says. “Sounds like the crows are back.”
And she hears them too, all those jagged, coughing cries.
“Here they come. I wonder why they’re late this year.”
There are enough crows to block the sun, enough wings to tear down the clouds, thrash the blue from the sky. At that moment Karin comes through the trees, makes a beeline toward them. “Roland, help me look for Baby. I can’t find her.”
A flicker in the shade of the pines, and a dark form darts across the lawn. Roland points.
Karin tries to catch her stupid dog, but it keeps going until it reaches Agatha. It circles, stops in front of Roland and drops something at his feet.
Karin runs up, out of breath. “What’s she got?”
The dog wags its tail like it’s a hero, some kind of champion. All three bend at the same time, but Roland gets there first, nabs what the dog’s dropped and closes his fists around it.
Karin works at prying his fingers loose. “It looks like teeth. Are those dentures?”
Roland tries to pull away, holds the thing against his chest. “Now, Karin, let go.”
But she won’t. A woman like her won’t ever let go.
The Madwoman Upstairs
Tuesday, January 4th
At last! I’m allowed to wear clothes again. Seems like I’ve been wearing pajamas forever. Yesterday Mrs. Shrink said she couldn’t understand why the shock treatments made me hyper. She thinks that’s a sign I could have some other problem besides depression. The six zaps did the trick. But now I want to grab the other patients’ hands and hug everyone in sight. Mrs. Shrink ordered me to be kept isolated in my room with a nurse so I won’t bother anyone. Nurse Sarah says I can’t see reality.
There’s a guy here I’m crazy about and I wish he loved me. Yesterday and today I asked the nurses several times to allow Curtis to visit me. I’m still waiting.
I can’t sit still. My emotions leapfrog all over the place. One minute I’m on top of the world and feel like I can do anything. Five minutes later I burst into tears. And I still can’t sleep.
And what do the nurses tell me? Marie, you have to take care of yourself. Get lots of rest.
That’s nice work. If you can get it.
Wednesday, January 5th
What I have to remember:
1. My role is me as the patient needing wellness.
2. Social contacts with other patients only. I am not the nurse.
3. Think before acting about the appropriateness of:
- environment
- familiarity with subject
- safety, because I do not know the reaction of
others (could be dangerous!)
4. Consider if action is maladaptive
5. Do calming things, think calming thoughts
6. Allow others ownership of their feelings (theirproblems are not my problems)
If I laid the instructions under my pillow, would my spongy brain absorb them overnight?
Thursday, January 6th
I slept four hours last night, even after two sleeping pills and something for anxiety. Mrs. Shrink restricted me to the upstairs ward. It’s boring here. But she did give me permission to go to the drink machine downstairs.
Nurse Sarah complimented me today about having better control around men, especially Curtis. Hope he likes the improved controlled me. I took a walk in the hall with Nurse Sarah – BUT – tried to help others instead of thinking of myself (oops!).
The staff from my office sent over a huge gift basket, full of special foods and teas. The nurses are jealous.
Jeffrey came today. Nurse Sarah allowed me to go to the cafeteria with him. I know it’s terrible for Jeffrey, losing his brother and now having his mother in the loony bin. When he left, I bawled.
Someone told me I should feel grateful I still have one son, but it’s Mark I think about all the time. Now I understand about those people who put bodies into freezers. I used to think only a crazy person would do that. But if I’d frozen Mark’s body, I’d still have him.
Friday, January 7th
Yesterday morning I was allowed to attend the 9:30 group. A couple of people hugged me and I felt cheerful. This feeling lasted all day, and then in the evening I was allowed the privilege of watching a large-screen video. The nurses wouldn’t let me downstairs until 7:59 and not without Nurse Sarah.
I was so excited about getting off the upstairs ward that I hugged her. I thought she was used to my arms about her, but she said, Marie, people will think we’re fruits.
Before we left my room, Nurse Sarah pointed out how my thinking about Curtis is obsessive and I’m not in the hospital to solve his problems. She said that, although I had an excellent day yesterday, I need to concentrate on getting myself well.
But I don’t know how to stop helping people. Can’t she see how much pain the world holds?
Saturday, January 8th
I have to remember the reason I’m under close observation – my impulsiveness.
Mrs. Shrink told me I’m improving. She’s putting me on tranquilizers to calm me and make it easier to sleep. I told her I didn’t have any trouble sleeping before the shock treatments.
She said, “The shocks took away your depression, Marie. You tried to kill yourself, remember?”
When she sounds like my mother, I wa
nt to knock Mrs. Shrink’s glasses right off her fat nose.
Sunday, January 9th
I’m tired. Not enough sleep. Last night I was given a new pill called Stelazine. It’s supposed to organize my obsessive thoughts.
Tried to self-mutilate by cutting my wrist with a breadknife. Didn’t even break the skin. When I told Nurse Sarah, she said people who self-mutilate are turning their anger against themselves. I suppose now they’ll limit my privileges even more. I was just sorry the knife didn’t hurt.
Monday, January 10th
Awake at 4:33 a.m. Impossible to sleep. Listened to music and danced around my room. My nerves feel like distinct wires ready to jump out of my skin. One minute I think everyone is crazy about me and everything’s going to be all right, and the next minute I bawl my head off. When Mrs. Shrink told me I could go out for the group walk, I jumped into the air.
Later I waited next to the nurses’ desk for the breakfast trays to come up. A new guy who looks twelve months pregnant said to me, “You gotta go downstairs for the food.”
I told him the nurses make me eat in my room. He whispered, “Do you mind me asking if you’re diabetic?” I told him I eat alone because I tried to commit suicide. He started swinging his arm up and down. “You gotta realize you can’t kill yourself with a fork or spoon! It’s the knife that’ll do it!” I thanked him for sharing. The desk nurse shook her head, and then corrected me: “Marie, you have to eat in your room because you bother the other patients.”
Went to Activity Therapy for one hour and tried making a dream catcher. I had to give up because I couldn’t concentrate enough to tie the knots. I can’t read for long. All I can manage is a bit of writing and colouring. I have a packet of doodle art drawings and pens that Jeffrey bought me. I was colouring when he walked in. I was so glad to see him, I cried. He only stayed for half an hour.
After supper I coloured for three hours. The evening went on forever. I hate being in the upstairs ward. I need to wander around, play shuffleboard or Ping-Pong, watch movies, chat with friends. I felt sorry for myself and told Nurse Sarah I was packing up and going home. She told me a doctor committed me and I can’t leave without permission. How come no one told me this?
Sweet Life Page 14