by Lily Bailey
They have been searching for me all night.
They put me in a police van.
I am thrashing around, no, don’t take me, no, because excuse me but I have somewhere I need to be, actually—
And here comes the Blank Time, the part you’ll rack your brains to remember when you’re sober, but you never will, would you like to delete this footage? Voices telling you not to struggle, a half-developed image of your mother crying. Would you like to—
Yes.
Eyes open. Light, industrial in quality. Beeping. Body on a bed in a curtained cubicle. Body in a hospital gown, naked underneath.
Why? Where are my clothes? I try to sit up.
Mum to the left of me, hunched over in a plastic chair, making some horrendous attempt at sleep. She hears me stirring and turns to me.
Her face is puffy—like someone’s been at it with an air pump. Under each eye, a slick of purple.
“Thank god you’re okay,” she whispers, cheeks streaked with tears. “Thank god you’re okay. What were you thinking?”
Sometimes, there just are no replies.
But sometimes, people need replies.
“DON’T YOU LOVE US?” she cries. “Don’t you give a shit about us?”
Who is us?
“Dad, Oliver, and I have been out all night looking for you. Dad was searching the park. He thought you had gone there. He really thought you were dead.”
Oh.
“We’ve been beside ourselves. So now I’m asking you, what’s your problem? Don’t you love us?”
“I do, I do.”
“So why are you behaving like this? They had to sedate you last night! Why are you—”
Oliver comes through the curtain. He tells Mum to calm down; he says it’s not helping.
“We’ve been really worried, Lily,” he says. “We’re so relieved we’ve found you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Can we go?”
“The doctor will need to discharge you, I think.” Mum sighs. “Once he does, we’ll go home, pack a bag, and then I’ll take you to Chesbury.”
We wait in agonizing quiet—the loud silence of one thousand shiny arrows ready to be fired.
· 22 ·
Urine Test
When we arrive at Chesbury Hospital, and after leaving my stuff in my room, Mum says we should have a look around, so we traipse off to explore.
In the lounge, there’s a surprise. My mum stops in her tracks, and a middle-aged woman lying on the couch jumps up like a jack-in-the-box. “Helena!” She smiles manically and waves her hands in a frantic fanning motion.
“Paula . . . Hi!” replies Mum, before turning to a younger girl on the sofa next to Paula. “Are you here with your daughter too?”
“Nope! Haha! I’m one of the nutters. Surprise!”
“Lily . . .” Mum turns to me, possibly uncertain whether confidentiality applies to this sort of meet-and-greet, before seeming to have a fuck-it-who-cares moment. “This is Paula. We used to work together in the practice. Paula is an architect.”
“Oh, hi, Paula! Lovely to meet you,” I stumble.
“How’s things?” asks Mum.
“Oh great, really great.” Paula grins, but her eyes look hollow.
The conversation flags, as everyone takes a minute to acknowledge that “great” probably wasn’t the right word. Then, thankfully, Paula says, “Well, actually, the truth is, I have bipolar disorder. And I’ve been really ill. I’ve basically been in and out of hospital for the last ten years. I’m having a bad patch again. I maxed out my credit card and bought a ton of Macs and iPads with money I didn’t have. So I’m back here recovering. You must have known I was ill—I was always the loopy one at the office party! You should go. It’s not so bad here. I’ll look after Lily, don’t worry!”
Mum is hesitant, but takes Paula’s instructions nonetheless. She hugs me and goes to the nursing station to tell them she’s off. I run back to my room because my window overlooks the car park. I watch her driving away in her silver Beetle. She said she loved me earlier, no matter what. But how can she, when I’ve ruined so much?
I wonder whether she will come back.
I acknowledge I am a Patient at the Hospital and agree to its rules and regulations.
“Melanie, one of the nurses, will give you a tour later,” says the head nurse, Barbara, a robust, no-nonsense type. “She’ll show you the art room, the studio, and the gym.”
I picture the timetable:
8:30 a.m.: continental breakfast
10:00 a.m.: Tai chi
11:00 a.m.: group therapy
12:00 p.m.: luncheon (please notify the head chef of any dietary requirements)
1:00 p.m.: music therapy
2:00 p.m.: walking therapy or aqua-therapy
3:00 p.m.: artistic expression
4:00 p.m.: yoga and meditation
5:00 p.m.: dance and physical expression workshop
6:00 p.m.: lecture, “Building Bridges”
7:00 p.m.: dinner (please see menu)
10:00 p.m.: the only person in the whole building who hasn’t gone bonkers kills themself. The other patients cheer . . .
A nurse says they will need blood and urine samples. “Why?” I ask.
“We need to make sure there are no illegal substances in your body. It’s normal protocol when a patient arrives.”
“But that’s not why I’m here.” Perhaps she has made a mistake. “I don’t have a drug problem,” I clarify.
“I don’t make the rules, sugar,” the nurse says. “Now get back to your room.”
I do not want to have my blood taken. Imagine all the drug users here who’ve caught diseases; what if they mix up our needles? I am certain I’m about to contract HIV and die.
“Bloodz!”
A skinny Polish woman enters my room, the observation room near the nurses’ station, swinging a yellow hazardous-waste bucket.
“Sleeve up!” she commands.
I roll my sleeve up and look away. No one can say I am not trying to comply. I feel her jab me and imagine the HIV virus entering my body, swimming through my veins like tiny piranhas. Oh well, I sigh. You tried to kill yourself: surely you can’t care that much about getting ill?
Melanie comes in.
“Is it time for the guided tour?” I ask hopefully.
“Not yet, hon. Come do a pee in the pot for me first.”
When I ask if it can be done later, she shakes her head. “Not much point you doing it once you’ve detoxed, is there?”
“I’m not on drugs.”
“Mmm.”
I try a new approach.
“I just don’t want to give my pee away to anyone, because it belongs to me.”
“That’s a new one.”
“So I don’t have to do it?”
“Just get in the bathroom, girl!”
I make my way toward the toilet opposite my room, shutting the door as per normal when—BAM—quick as a flash, Melanie jabs her foot in front of the door so I can’t shut it.
“Is there a problem?” I whisper, a cold sweat prickling across my back.
“Yeah. I’m coming in too. Otherwise you could just use someone else’s urine, couldn’t you?”
“Someone else’s pee? How would I even—”
“Tubes, water bottles, your mouth—people are creative.”
Shutting the door behind her, she folds her arms and stares me down as I lower my pants and place myself on the seat. The odds of me peeing in front of someone are slim to none.
“How long does it take, girl?”
“I can’t do it with someone in here. I don’t need to go anyway.”
“Okay, fair enough, drink some water and you can try again in half an hour.”
I drink six cups, though I know it’s futile. I think I’m constitutionally unable to pee in front of anyone. Melanie escorts me again.
And again.
And again.
By now five hours have passed, and I understan
d why she’s suspicious.
“Look, if you’ve taken drugs, that’s okay. It wouldn’t be the first time round here, that’s for sure. You just need to be honest with us, okay? What was it you took? Go for a pee, we’ll run some tests so we can find out how to help you.”
I shake my head and look at the floor.
“Okay, play the hard game. You wanna be like that, fine. You’re only hurting yourself. I’ve got all day.”
They peek through a small inspection window in my door every ten minutes to see what I’m up to.
I’m told to go along to a “community meeting” in “the lounge.” Since I’ve only been here a few hours, I don’t have anything to contribute, but they encourage me to listen.
“For those of you who don’t know,” begins Barbara, looking at me, “community meeting is where we meet to discuss any . . . issues . . . and other things that are on our mind. So, who would like to start?”
A pause. For a second I think this might be one of those awkward meetings where everyone just pretends they aren’t there. But then the circus breaks out, and I realize how wrong I was. The pause was just the stockpiling of breath required for a verbal marathon:
“I want a remote for the TV—”
“I want fucking caffeinated coffee!”
“—it’s so dull having to get up every time you want to change the channel.”
“And caffeinated tea too! Don’t forget all the people who drink tea!”
“There should be a TV rota because—”
“We urgently need more board games.”
“—it’s really unfair how Celie hogs it all the time—”
“A remote would cost what—a tenner? And how much are we paying to stay here?”
“—cos no one else wants to watch back-to-back Sixteen and Pregnant.”
“We should be able to order in food!”
“Like I want to play Mouse Trap? Who remembers Mouse Trap? I’m so fucking bored of Monopoly.”
“And Risk!”
“The nurses need to stop waking me up in the night for checks—of course I’m still bloody there—”
“And Operation!”
“And sandwiches! In the day! Just on the ward—”
“—I’m not fucking Houdini.”
“Longer fag breaks!”
“—because you know, people get hungry between meals.”
“All right! All right, everyone, well, I think we’ve got lots of suggestions there and I’ll pass them on. Now”—she puts on what sounds like a nursery-teacher voice, and for a second I think she might be about to read us a story: “Annabel sat very patiently with her hand up while all of you were making your thoughts known, so I’m going to give her a chance to talk, and we’re all going to listen.”
She taps her ears encouragingly, in case some of us have forgotten where our auditory organs are located. Annabel begins.
“Well, it’s just like I woke up the other morning and I actually have really low blood sugar levels so I knew I needed something to eat right then and there and that I wouldn’t have the energy to get out of bed and get anything, so I rang my alarm bell. Anyway, no one came, and meanwhile my blood sugar was diminishing. So luckily I had some squirty honey in my room, but if I hadn’t had that, I think something very serious could have happened. So I’m just raising this as a suggestion that I think it would be a good idea if all the alarm bells were checked to see it they’re working so that I’m not put in danger again. And, yeah. That’s all I had to say.”
Barbara nods wearily. “Okay, Annabel, we’ll see if we can get the alarms checked. Right, then! That’s community meeting dismissed.”
Back in my room, my bladder feels like it’s going to explode.
Melanie sighs. “Surely you need to go now.”
“I do, I really do, but I . . .”
This is our sixth attempt. Every fiber in me wants to go, yet I can’t. I try “pushing,” but I’m not sure that’s right for peeing. I feel like crying.
Maybe they could use my tears instead? I don’t even really want to give them those.
“Drink five more cups of water,” instructs Melanie. It turns out she doesn’t have all day, because her shift ends at 6:00 p.m. She is replaced by a new nurse whose job is to make sure I don’t urinate unattended.
Unlike Melanie, Justine doesn’t escort me to the toilet every thirty minutes. She is Jamaican, and more laissez-faire in her approach to urine collection.
“You wanna go pee pee? No? Okay. When it happen, it happen.” She shrugs.
I feel calmer under the new pee regime. I stay in my room and try to read a book, feigning oblivion to Justine’s six glances an hour through the observation slat. I hope that pretending not to notice someone doesn’t make me a liar.
Right now I am preoccupied by four categories:
BITCH
LIAR
BODILY FUNCTIONS
and
PERVERT.
I recite the letters:
NS, D, BHB, E.
Here are the actions I must account for:
BITCH:
NOT GOING TO TOILET: Melanie is going to think I’m a brat who wants to cause trouble by not going to the toilet when told, in a pathetic act of rebellion.
SMILE: On the way to the toilet a patient passed me in the corridor and gave me a smile, but I was busy thinking about going to the toilet, and by the time I had realized she was smiling at me and made the right face to smile back, she had already walked past. It looked like I had snubbed her, which may make her feel sad.
LIAR:
DRUGS: Melanie will think I’m lying about not taking drugs—otherwise why would I not go to the toilet?
BODILY FUNCTIONS:
BREATHING: Was I breathing too deeply when Melanie was in the toilet with me? Did she hear because it was so quiet and think it was gross?
HAIRY LEGS: Melanie was watching me when I pulled my pants down. There was a bit of hair on the top of my legs because I haven’t shaved since I was in Ireland. She probably thought I was unkempt.
BODY ODOR: When I stood up to wash my hands in the sink, Melanie didn’t move from by the door, meaning we were inches apart. What if I have a really horrible smell to my body that I can’t smell but she could?
PERVERT:
EYE CONTACT WITH MELANIE: My eyes made contact with Melanie as I was sitting on the toilet. What if she thinks I was aroused by being in the toilet with my pants down in front of another girl and was making eye contact to see if she was up for it?
Eventually Justine knocks. “It’s eleven o’clock, girlie. My notes say ya haven’t peed for twelve hours. That can’t be healthy, girl! Where you putting ya pee?”
She pretends to look under my bed, which unnerves me.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” I say, wondering how best to explain the situation. “I don’t want to give someone my pee, and I definitely can’t pee in front of anyone, because that’s just too gross. But I need to go so badly, it’s possible I could compromise. If you wait outside and let me go by myself, I will . . .” I take a deep breath and summon my courage. “I will let you have my pee.”
“Ohhhh! The girl just wants some privaceee! Well, why didn’t ya say in the first place?” Justine laughs with a hearty belly gurgle.
Unlike Melanie, Justine clearly isn’t aware of the ingenuity of patients. I run to the toilet and give them what they want. When I present Justine with the pot, she pats me on the back. “Now that weren’t so hard, were it, girl?” she chortles, skipping off with her hard-won prize.
The day ends with a message from on high: Dr. Dax is changing my medication.
I ask Barbara if she knows the reason for the change. “Do I look like a doctor, hon?” comes the reply. “It’s probably just a trial thing. You can ask your doctor when she comes.”
I go to breakfast with Annabel, but don’t eat anything. She regales me with stories of her holiday home in Malta, and I try to nod in the right places. Afterward, it’s back to my
room. I’m soon joined by Tilly, a wide-eyed “therapy coordinator” who has come to help me organize my time. She hands me a list of activities.
“These are all the things you could do. Circle the things that interest you, and I’ll put together a personalized timetable for you. You’ll be assigned a private therapist, who will see you twice a week for CBT.”
“Do I have to do any of them?”
“Yes,” she chirps. “Otherwise you’re not complying with your treatment. Go on. I won’t watch.”
“Okay . . .” I look down at the list. I like walking, so I circle “Group walk in Bawton Park.”
“Oh, you can’t do that one! Walks are reserved for our safer patients.”
I settle for art therapy and hand back the sheet.
“You have to choose more than one. What about the drama workshops or yoga? You have OCD, don’t you? Okaaay . . . we also have a CBT group for OCD patients once a week.”
I have to choose a few more. By now I’ve built up so many routines, primarily about her proximity to me (she’s sitting on my bed), that I just want to get rid of her. I circle some activities at random.
“The stress discussion group, family support session, depression discussion group, and free time in the art room! Great choices!”
With a flourish, she whips the paper away and strides off in the direction of the door, turning around to give me a wink. “In the next couple of days we’ll organize some sessions with a private therapist, and Dr. Dax will visit a few times a week. I’ll have your timetable made up by tomorrow! You’re going to love it!”
Tilly closes the door, and I lie back on my bed, trying to neutralize the fear that I had bad breath when I spoke to her by reassuring myself that since I’ve already brushed my teeth seven times today, that’s unlikely.
I skip lunch, and stay where I am all day. At around 7:00 p.m., I venture into the kitchen to make myself a cup of decaffeinated tea.
A girl with black hair turns around, and I realize she smiled at me earlier when I didn’t react quickly enough to smile back. I make up for it now by giving a really good smile, and I feel like an IDIOT.