by Ashley Ream
“You’d do it for Ramona,” she was yelling at me. “You’d do anything for her, and I’ve done a lot for you. I have. You know I have.”
One click? Two clicks?
“We can take care of each other. We can.”
I looked past her into the street.
“What are you going to do?” she demanded.
I really had no idea.
“I really have no idea.”
“Decide tomorrow,” she said.
“What?”
“You could do that. We could just get in the car for now, and you could decide tomorrow what you want to do. Or the day after,” she added because why not buy a little time if you could?
“We can’t go back to my place,” I said.
“Mine then. Come home with me after the clinic. For tonight.”
I tried to think of a logical, reasonable thing I could say to explain why I could not wait for tomorrow.
“Your apartment is a dump,” I said.
“Yeah, my employer paid like shit. That means you should spring for the pizza.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“Yes, you did, and it’s only until tomorrow.” She took a deep breath and started to cry again. It must’ve taken a lot for her to hold it in that long. She’d really been trying when no one could’ve expected her to. “Now take me to the doctor.”
I clicked the button. Then I did it again.
Reading Group Questions for Losing Clementine
At its heart, Losing Clementine explores the breaking and re-forming of relationships within the storm of mental illness. It’s about families—the kind you’re born with and the kind you make. It’s about love and sex and marriage and food—and it’s really about art and the creative process. Losing Clementine is about a lot of things. Here are some questions for discussion:
1. How do you feel about Clementine’s decision to kill herself? Was she justified? Is there ever a justification?
2. Although Clementine is not a cook herself, food plays a prominent role in her life. Do you see any correlation in what she eats and her mental state at different points in the book?
3. Why do you think Clementine slept with Richard in Tijuana? Why do you think Richard slept with Clementine?
4. Was Clementine justified in defacing Elaine’s work?
5. Did the gallery deserve any blame for the knockoffs of Clementine’s work?
6. A major theme in the book is the effect serious mental illness has on the patient’s loved ones. Clementine was one of those loved ones while her mother was ill and then is the patient during the book. How do you think being on both sides of the issue affected Clementine’s behavior?
7. Do you believe Clementine acted responsibly in the way she planned her death?
8. How do you feel about Clementine’s relationship with her therapist? Do you believe this relationship played a part in her decision to stop treatment?
9. How do you feel about Clementine’s decision to tell her friends she has cancer? Was it a kindness or was it cowardly?
10. How important to the book is the city of Los Angeles? Could the story have been set anywhere, or did the city have an important role to play?
11. Richard wants to save Clementine and has wanted to throughout their relationship. How has this affected each of them?
12. Reflect on the art Clementine creates throughout the book—the perverted Americana scenes, the dying buffalo, the centaur figure. What symbolism do you see?
13. What do you think of Clementine’s argument that art always belongs to the artist?
14. The three main art world professionals in the book are Clementine, Elaine Sacks, and Carla—all women. Do you think gender plays a role in how they interact with one another?
15. What do you think about Jenny’s reliance on Clementine? Does it change in the course of the story?
16. Clementine’s father feels culpable in the deaths of her mother and sister. Is he?
17. Clementine spends most of the book attempting to disentangle herself from her responsibilities. How successful is she?
18. What do you think happens after the book ends?
The Real-Life Suicide Tourism Trip to Tijuana
by Ashley Ream
The first line of Losing Clementine was written in a coffee shop in Santa Monica, California, where I was briefly a regular. Followers of the Spiritualism movement would’ve called those first pages “automatic writing,” a state in which the author is a sort of secretary taking dictation from an otherworldly source. Writers just call it “the muse” or, as I prefer, “flow.” Whatever you call it, I hadn’t sat down to write about Clementine, had never before made her acquaintance, and, in fact, was working on another novel entirely (which was going rather poorly). But the moment she barged onto the page, threw open the window, and started chucking crockery out onto the street below, I knew two things: Clementine was an artist and she was suicidal.
Several reputable newspapers, including the New York Times, have written articles about the suicide tourism phenomenon. Proponents of right-to-die laws are providing travel information to patients with painful and debilitating illnesses who are planning their own deaths. Although tightly controlled in the patients’ home countries, a particular barbiturate used to euthanize animals can be had easily in Mexican border towns.
I wanted to find out just how easily, so I booked my own trip to Tijuana’s medical dark side. Despite easy access to specific information elsewhere, I chose not to name the drug. I also chose to inaccurately describe the recommended method of taking it. Those looking for a how-to guide will not be well served by this book.
In 2010, the year of my trip, a number of Mexican border towns were experiencing more than their fair share of drug-related violence. In 2008, a war had broken out between rival factions of a drug cartel in Tijuana. There were 844 homicides in the city that year. By 2009, it was believed the factions had reached a truce, and the crime rate fell. However, in the first eleven days of 2010, four youths were shot, four people were decapitated, and at least ten more were killed in drive-by attacks. In addition, there had been five kidnappings—all in just more than a week, according to the Los Angeles Times. It was putting a serious dent in recreational travel south of the border.
By the fall, most of what would become Losing Clementine was written. A research trip couldn’t be postponed any longer, and while no one thought it was a particularly good idea for me to go traipsing around alone inquiring about barbiturates, a line wasn’t forming to accompany me, either. So I called Eric Stone.
Eric, another recovering journalist turned author, replied, “I know a good place for carnitas down there.”
We loaded our bags into his aging Lexus and drove the 130 miles from Los Angeles to the Mexican border along Interstate 5. It’s easier and faster to cross on foot, and the last mile of American soil is filled with nothing but long-term parking lots and Mexican car insurance purveyors. We abandoned the car, piled our bags on our backs, and walked the last quarter-mile.
There were no guards, no ID checks, no sniffer dogs—nothing but a large metal revolving gate and a parade of buskers and overpriced taxi drivers on the other side.
Although Tijuana is famous for its all-access farmacias, which are designed less like stores than walk-up windows, suicide tourists seek out the lesser-known veterinary supply shops located well away from the touristy main drag, Avenida Revolución, and other sightseeing destinations.
Obtaining turn-by-turn directions to one of the veterinary shops, along with the going price for a lethal dose of the barbiturate, had taken less than an hour. I’d printed them out and took them with me as Eric and I set out from the infamous Avenida on foot. Leaving behind the zebra-painted donkeys, strippers, and barkers, we made our way east until one dentist became a dozen, and we found ourselves surrounded by medical offices advertising orthodontic work for bargain-basement prices—all listed in American dollars. On the edge of the dental district was the vete
rinary supply store, just as my directions promised.
Despite the name, the store didn’t give any indication of catering to anyone with a medical degree. It was small, narrow, and dark. The only light came through the front windows that were partially covered in long-ago faded posters, and it was as hot inside as it was outside. The only people there were a young woman who ran the place and a boy in her care. Both of them watched Eric and me, but neither spoke.
The front of the shop looked like a pet store that had recently experienced a holiday rush or maybe looting. More shelves, hooks, and displays were empty than were full, and there weren’t more than one or two of each item available. What was there were links of chain wrapped around spools and available by the meter, dog collars of varying sizes, one doghouse, one birdcage, and some bags of food. Toward the back, one wall was lined with a waist-high glass case like in a jewelry store. Without lighting, the interior was hard to see, which didn’t matter much as it was nearly empty. Behind the counter were shallow shelves with small glass vials and pill bottles that more closely resembled the farmacias we’d passed earlier. Some of the vials looked like the pictures of the barbiturate’s packaging I’d come across while researching suicide trips—all of it easily available.
Authorities in the news stories had promised to crack down on the purchase of these drugs for human use, which are supposed to be available only to veterinarians by prescription. Shop owners denied knowledge of buyers’ intent, insisting the drug was sold exclusively for use on animals. In any case, access didn’t appear impaired. Nonetheless, I let the vials on the narrow shelves behind the glass case be. I didn’t purchase any, and I didn’t smuggle anything across the border, leaving that instead to Clementine.
With all the information I needed in hand, Eric and I left the store, the woman, and the boy, preferring instead to spend our American dollars on carnitas, music, and local wine. We spent two days wandering the streets, exploring the city’s restaurants, clubs, and markets. The closest we came to seeing any of the drug war was listening to the narco ballads sung in the bars.
When it was time to return north, we piled our bags back on our backs and headed across on foot again. This time we stood in line behind hundreds of other travelers waiting to be admitted into the United States. Vendors took advantage of those in border purgatory, whether on foot or in cars. They offered fruit, candy, drinks, and kitschy souvenirs in case you hadn’t had quite enough during your stay. Travelers filed through an air-conditioned building that resembled airport security. We formed lines, answered questions, showed our papers, and walked through metal detectors. My bags and Eric’s were X-rayed but not searched, although they could have been. It wouldn’t have been hard for Clementine to get her vial across the border, but it would not have been without risk.
Without exception, Eric and I were treated well by everyone we met. The drop in tourism was hurting those who depended on it, and everyone was anxious for us to return as soon as possible regardless of why we’d come. Eric did return, traveling throughout northwestern Mexico the following year to research his own book on trafficking.
The phenomenon of suicide tourism continues in Tijuana and elsewhere.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book seems like a solitary pursuit, but behind me stood many people without whom it would not have been possible.
My husband, Austin Baker, and dearest friends, Janice Shiffler and Eric Stone, were my first readers and most trusted confidants.
My parents—Donna, Steve, Robin, and Joy—along with the entire “Gator in the Pool Gang” provided endless love and support.
My agent, Barbara Poelle, and editor, Katherine Nintzel, along with the entire team at William Morrow helped birth this book.
I am eternally grateful to all of you.
About the Author
ASHLEY REAM got her first job at a newspaper when she was sixteen. After working in newsrooms across Missouri, Florida, and Texas, she gave up the deadlines to pursue fiction. She lives in Los Angeles, where she works in the nonprofit sector.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph by Sniegirova Mariia/Shutterstock
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LOSING CLEMENTINE. Copyright © 2012 by Ashley Ream. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ream, Ashley.
Losing Clementine : a novel / Ashley Ream.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: “A new writer makes her fiction debut with a tale involving a renowned artist’s impending suicide”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-06-209363-9
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN 9780062093646
1. Women artists—Fiction. 2. Suicide—Fiction. 3. Life change events—Fiction. 4. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.E2247L67 2012
813'.6—dc22
2011027305
* * *
12 13 14 15 16 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pvt. Ltd.
25 Ryde Road (P.O. Box 321)
Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com