by Noël Alumit
Then I felt my hair being pulled, a clump of my hair being ripped from my skull.
“What the fuck are you doing, you little shit,” a voice said.
I looked up and Monty had disappeared, the pissed-off face of the nurse was what I saw. His face red and furious. His dishwater brown hair standing like forest trees.
“I said, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’”
I saw his undone pants. And so did he. His mouth, a tight grin, opened into a disgusted silent scream. I felt my head hurled to the ground, my skull slapped the floor. I laid there on the rust-colored linoleum, looking up at the male nurse. He reached down and picked me up by the center of my T-shirt. He stood me up like a stuffed pillow, my feet barely touching the ground.
I saw his knuckles come at me like an asteroid, my head shooting back.
“You little faggot,” he said and hit me again.
I thought of Monty, and saw the ugly face of the nurse glaring back at me. I didn’t want to see him. I wanted Monty back. I wanted him to make everything better. I grabbed the face of the nurse with both hands, digging fingers into flesh. I wanted to rip his face off, tear it from his skull, hoping, praying Monty was behind it. I dug my hands into the sockets of his eyes, the nostrils, the ears, pulling until I felt a shattering pain in my groin.
“He tried to kill me,” the nurse said, “the prick tried to fuck me, then he wanted to kill me.”
I curled up like a baby. Other nurses came by and took me to my room.
It was worth it. I held Monty, tasted him. It was only for a little while, but it was worth it.
•
It started with an itch. That’s all. I swear. Just an itch. I was asleep, dreaming of my father. Father touched me. His long bony fingers touched me. His nails scraped against my skin, leaving an itch, a slight itch. I scratched myself, but the lingering feeling of his nails on my skin stayed. So I kept scratching. I scratched with a fury until the feeling was gone.
I awoke with raw, bleeding skin. Brainwasher had me restrained when I slept. He also started me on Prozac.
“How do you keep in contact with Montgomery Clift?” Brainwasher asked me.
“I see him around sometimes. He visits me. We meet when we go out. But I keep in contact mostly through letters.”
“Letters?”
“Yes. I write to him.”
“Do you mail them?”
“I’m not stupid. I have no place to send them. I keep them. I’ll just start writing a letter on a piece of paper and put it away.”
“Does he write back?” Brainwasher said this like he was talking to a child.
“No, you moron,” I said. Brainwasher, or Dr. Butterworth, thought I was psychotic; he thought I wasn’t in touch with reality. He had been dispensing various anti-psychotic drugs to me. They had no effect. I told him the drugs didn’t work because there was nothing wrong with me. But I had to explain myself to him, hoping he’d let me go. “Montgomery Clift tells me things, makes things happen. He makes me feel good. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No. What would happen if you stop writing letters?”
“Don’t know. I’ve written him for a long time.”
“You’ve become dependent.”
“Huh?”
“You can’t live without this activity,” he said. “Writing letters.”
“I guess not.”
“Maybe we should break you of this habit.”
“Do you pray?”
“Yes.”
“A lot of people pray. They go to church regularly. They say certain prayers, right?”
“Right.”
“Would you ever tell them to stop doing that?” I asked.
“Of course not.”
“Then why should I?”
“God…religion is an accepted form of spirituality.”
“I’m not going to stop doing something because what you say I’m doing is wrong. What’s wrong with having something, someone to believe in?”
He had to think about that. “Your religion is a 1950’s movie star. There is something absurd about that.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I said I believed in Christ, would I? If I told you I believed in Jesus, and He works in my life, and I pray to Him, I would be considered a good Christian person. Whether it’s Jesus or Monty, they’re symbols people turn to in times of crisis. I can pray to whoever I want, believe in whoever I want.”
“Jesus and Montgomery Clift are two different things.”
“Are they? I come from a part of the world where the dead are revered and prayed to. A dead uncle or aunt is just as precious as a saint or some other form of deity. I don’t deserve to be locked up because you don’t agree with my form of spirituality.”
“The difference is you see and touch this Montgomery Clift.”
“Other people claim to see and touch Jesus Christ all the time. They’re allotted time on television, some have their own TV shows. Yet they’re allowed to roam free.”
Dr. Butterworth smiled at this. The West has an accepted form of religion or spirituality. Praying to ancestors is not one of them. The West thinks that once a person is dead, they’re dead. Kaput. I don’t believe that. I believe the Dead can choose to stay, and watch over us. That’s why I saw Monty. That’s why I saw my father in my dreams. I felt Monty close by, loving me.
•
I was tied to my bed for going to the No-Name Place. I struggled to get free, but only exhausted myself in the process.
It all started when I met with Brainwasher for my weekly session.
“Why are you so angry? You’ve been angry for months. Frankly, the staff is sick of it. You refuse meals, yell at the nurses, throw things—”
“I don’t like being locked up for no reason.”
“We have to do something. You won’t take your medication.”
“That Prozac shit makes me sick. I won’t to take it anymore.”
“All right. Let’s change the subject. Let’s discuss your attempted suicide.”
“I’m not suicidal.”
“You hurt yourself. I’m not convinced your accident was accidental.”
“It was! I drank a little too much, I lost control of the bike.”
“Montgomery Clift had an accident, didn’t he? Ruining his face. Do you think you’re Montgomery Clift?”
“Of course not. There was only one Monty.”
“Why do you hate your parents?”
“I don’t hate my parents; I worship them.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Arangan have tried to visit you a number of times, but you won’t see them.”
“They’re not my parents…”
“All right. Let’s talk about your other parents…”
Silence.
“You’ve avoided talking about them. You won’t tell me much.”
“They’re wonderful people.”
“I understand they’re dead.”
“They’re not dead.”
“You have a knack for keeping dead people alive.”
“My father is dead. He was killed in prison camp, but my mother is still alive.”
“Does your father visit you like Montgomery Clift?”
“Sometimes. In my dreams.”
“Is that why you refuse to sleep?”
Silence. I’d been doing that. Trying to stay awake. When my father visited, he asked me why I wouldn’t cry for him. The nurses force-fed me sedatives so I could go to sleep.
“Is that why you refuse to sleep?” he said a little louder.
“Yes. My father comes to me in my sleep, because he’s dead. Monty comes to me because he’s dead, also. I don’t want to sleep, because…”
“…because…”
“Because if I sleep I may see my mother in my dreams. If I see her, then I know she is dead, too.” And I don’t want to believe that.
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
“Where is she?”
“Somewhere. Maybe she’s sick. Or she ca
n’t get to me somehow. But she’s alive.”
“Could she be dead, too?”
“No.”
“But she’s disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Could it be she doesn’t want to see you?”
“She loves me. She wants to see me. She loves me.” I got upset. I stood up, and Brainwasher stood up, too. He thought I was going to hurt him. We stood looking at each other. He looked at me, as if he was daring me.
I kicked over my chair, and he pressed a button on his desk. I ran to his shelf and threw books on the floor, I opened his books, searching for page 168, ripping them out. I had done this with three of his books, when someone pulled me to my feet, dragging me to my room, shooting a sedative into my arm. I watched the dim glow of the lamp by my bed, a piece of sun wrapped in glass.
•
I cried. I thought of my father and cried. I was in my bed staring into the bulb of the lamp. I put my hand over the light, grasping the glass in my hand, feeling the warm light bulb grow hot. I squeezed the light bulb and it shattered in my hand. I held the warm glow in my palm. Electricity bolted through me, like scalding water surging through my veins. I jerked, and jumped.
“Stop it,” I said to no one in particular, “Stop it.” And I thought of my dad. I wondered if this is what it felt like. When they electrocuted him, it wasn’t enough to kill, just enough to hear himself scream. I wondered if this is what he went through.
And I cried. Because at that moment I was my father. And I saw the faded bruises on my arms, the ones I gave to myself: They were blue, no longer purple, a soft haze of green surrounded the blueness.
And I cried. It seemed the electricity chased me away, chased all the feeling from my body, chased the thoughts of my parents, chased my anger at Amada, chased the regret, chased the loneliness, making me hollow. Hollow and tired. Until all I had was my voice, a whisper, “Stop it,” I said.
I thought of my father. The electricity. I was grateful. I cried. I cried for my father.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
A Brilliant Hole
Dear Monty, 1992
I don’t know what day it is Ever since that light bulb incident the nurses watch me carefully, taking away anything that could cause me to hurt myself, including pens or pencils I couldn’t write you for months
Today they let me draw using crayons I’m huddled against a corner as I write this to you I don’t want the nurses to see, but they have to watch over me
I just want to let you know that I love you And I appreciate you sitting by my bed at night guarding me
Dear Monty, 1992
During our sessions Dr. Butterworth sits and watches me
We’ve spent most of our sessions just sitting there looking at each other
I wonder what he sees It has been almost two years since my accident My face has healed, but I still look thrashed Does he see the scars that run down my face Or the deep purple marks that don’t seem to go away
I like my face this way
Those days were a blur, a blotch like Mrs. 45, But Really 60’s paintings. I’d sit by the window of my room entranced in my world with Monty. We didn’t speak, but sat together. He wore an outfit from From Here to Eternity: slacks and a Hawaiian shirt.
Monty took me places without ever having to leave my room. The drab white walls transformed into boundless skies and endless acres of trees or sand or water. We’d sit on the shore of an island, our feet buried in moist sand, watching seagulls fly past us. Ocean mist wafted toward us like friendly spirits. The crashing surf was the earth’s heartbeat. It seemed like the beginning of time, or the end of it.
I’d find myself with Monty in the California desert, dry and barren. We’d find a shade in a cluster of cactus trees, shaped like deformed hands. He wore a cowboy hat, jeans, and a plaid shirt. He’d pull out a cigarette and the smell of tobacco drifted past my nose, a taunting smell. The drumming hooves of horses could be heard nearby.
Sometimes, we were at a cotillion. We were dressed in tuxedos with shiny black shoes; golden cufflinks held our sleeves together. He’d serve me punch and we’d sit quietly in an ivy-embraced gazebo. I held a dance card and his name was written on it, over and over. He was to be my dance partner for all of the evening. The jumping rhythms of a piano filled the air.
I would willingly go with Monty. Hours, days, weeks seemed to pass. When I returned, I’d find liquid food crusted dry around my mouth or dripping onto my shirt. I don’t remember eating or being fed.
“C’mon, Bobby boy, eat it all up,” said one nurse, a spoon halfway in my mouth. I blinked and startled her. “I hate when you do that,” she said, “your mind coming and going. Don’t know how you’ll be from one moment to the next.”
I didn’t know either.
•
Brainwasher wanted me to see another doctor, a new one.
“Frankly,” he said, “our sessions haven’t been very productive. A new doctor joined our staff recently. Perhaps she could be more helpful. She’s worked with people like you, people who self-mutilate.”
With that, I began my sessions with Dr. Chapman, a divine woman. We sat and talked about old movies. She was a big fan of Vivien Leigh and Alfred Hitchcock. She’d seen some Monty Clift movies, too.
“I thought he was wonderful in The Heiress,” she said.
My sessions with Dr. Chapman ended too soon. I liked her Indian accent. She was born in Bombay and had been in the U.S. for ten years. She was a newlywed; pictures of her wedding day sat on her desk. Her elegant brown face beamed alongside the paler face of her husband.
After two months of talking about movies and music, she got serious, telling me about myself, things I didn’t want to hear.
“There are things you don’t want to know or feel,” she said, her eyes focusing on me, her eyebrows coming together, almost creating a perfect V. “Self-injurers do that. I didn’t have to read your file to know that one or both of your parents were absent in your life.”
Absent. She didn’t say dead, she said absent. I adored her for that.
“I also know,” she said, “there was some kind of abuse when you were a child. I don’t have to read your file to know that, either.”
I thought of Auntie Yuna and her beatings. I never thought of what she did as abuse, but I guess that is what it was. A hole opened up in me, a brilliant hole.
“I know about your parents and how you don’t want to talk about them. Not talking about them makes you not deal with it, you don’t feel anything. Hurting yourself makes you feel something. Am I right?”
I couldn’t say anything. I simply nodded because what she said was correct. I wanted her to shut up because it was too much. Instead she continued, “When you bruise yourself, you see how much pain you’re in? If you purposely got into that motorcycle accident, you must have been suffering quite a bit.”
I was quiet for a long time, wondering if she was psychic. I asked her, “How do you know this?”
“Let’s just say I’ve known a few people like you. It’s typical of people who injure themselves, cut themselves, bruise themselves.”
Dr. Chapman started me on a new drug; it’s for depression. It’s only been out on the market for about a year. She said a lot of doctors are afraid to use it, but she thinks I might benefit from it. It was called Zoloft.
•
I saw Amada. Not in person, but on TV. She was on a show about detectives. She played a secretary in a monolithic downtown building, and told a detective to “wait here” while she got her boss. She had about five seconds of screen time.
Her hair was pulled back with a black barrette. She wore a gray suit; the collar of a white blouse peeked out from under the lapel of her jacket. Silver hoop earrings dangled from her ears like pendulums.
She looked happy, happy to have a part on a TV show, happy to have a cake of makeup on her face. If I didn’t know her, I would have thought she was a lucky woman who led a charmed life. I know people believe what they see on TV
sometimes. Amada came off as a self-confident, ambitious executive secretary, making a hefty salary working for a hotshot corporation.
Amada sparkled in her scene. She didn’t look like the woman who betrayed me, told doctors that I went nuts. She didn’t look like a struggling actress or a woman who had an abortion at seventeen. She looked like an important woman with interesting people to meet and colorful places to go. It seemed she had another life, another world where she belonged, a world that wanted her there.
•
Dr. Chapman asked about Monty. She asked how he was doing. “Is Mr. Clift obliging you?” she said.
I thought she was mocking me, mocking Monty. “He’s fine,” I said cautiously.
“Good. You know my mother visits me. I know she comes. I can feel her. Sometimes, I’ll ask her for advice and somehow I manage to make the right decisions when I do that. Is it like that with you and Mr. Clift.”
“Exactly.”
“Americans,” she said, writing something in my file, “why do they fear the dead so much? I had a grandmother who saw ghosts; she was the wisest woman I knew. Next time you see Mr. Clift, tell him hello from me.”
“I’ll do that.”
She read my file and couldn’t believe I’d been so troublesome. The Zoloft was really working; I’d calmed down a lot. I didn’t know if the Zoloft was working or if it was Dr. Chapman. It didn’t matter. I felt more comfortable, more secure.
“Were you always this rebellious?” she asked.
“I have a history of rebels in my family, Dr. Chapman.”
“Meaning your parents?”
“Yes.”
The room became quiet, only the sound of her wall clock ticked.
“Let’s talk about your parents.”
I hated it when she brought my parents up. She had tried to ease our sessions in that direction. I wanted to tell her I didn’t want to talk about them. One was dead, the other was missing.
“Your father was tortured?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“He had bruises all over his body, I’m sure.”
I knew where this was heading.