by E. C. Bell
I’d met his wife a time or two. She was a nice middle-aged woman who had liked to knit while she sat with Richard in the rec area, watching game shows.
That was all he’d wanted to do with his wife while he was alive. At least while I’d known him. And I wondered where all the sex talk had come from. I wasn’t sure Matilda would even know how to do some of the stuff he was describing, and I turned to Phillipa, hoping she’d put a stop to his tirade, but she just sat there with a greasy little smile on her face like she was enjoying the show. She looked up and caught me looking at her. Grinned, and pointed at Richard as if to say, listen up, boy. You could learn a lot from him.
Well, if Phillipa wasn’t going to do anything about Richard’s ranting, I would.
“Richard,” I said. “That’s just about enough—”
“We can talk about anything we want in the circle,” Richard snapped churlishly. He turned to Phillipa. “Can’t we? I thought you said—”
“I did say we can talk about anything,” Phillipa said. “This is a safe space, Jasper. You know that. Let Richard finish speaking.”
“But he’s dead,” I said. It felt like both of them were missing the whole point of this exercise. “He can’t do that stuff.”
“Now wait just a minute, young man,” Richard said, his lips tightening. “I read about ghosts that have sex with the living—they’re called succubus or something—and if they can do it, so can I.” He grinned, and I hated the lascivious look on his face. “Matilda wouldn’t know what hit her.”
Phillipa snorted amused laughter, and the rest reluctantly joined in.
“All right,” I said. “Point taken.” I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest, wishing I was anywhere but in that room. Maybe if I thought about it hard enough, I could disappear in a puff of coloured smoke.
Richard finally wound down, looking like he wished he could have a cigarette, and turned to the next person to speak. It was Regina, a truck driver from the city who’d hit a cow on the highway and never quite got over it. She began describing, in horrifying detail, hitting the cow, and I tried to fade out a bit, so I didn’t have to listen to it again.
I’d decided I wasn’t going to speak. Phillipa could let the rest blather on about wish fulfilment and cow deaths, but I didn’t need to contribute.
However, when everyone else was finished, Phillipa turned her attention to me. “Jasper,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I have nothing to say tonight,” I said.
“Hmm,” Phillipa said. “You’ve been talking to that person. Mary or whatever her name is, too. Haven’t you?”
She knew very well I’d been talking to her. I’d told her earlier. And she knew her name, too. “You mean Marie?” I asked. “Yes, I have.”
“Well, I think we should discuss that,” Phillipa said. “I don’t think you should do that anymore.”
I was going to tell her to mind her own business, but that was not what came out of my mouth. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean that I think you should stay away from her,” Phillipa said. “After all, she has issues. Bad enough issues that the cops brought her in here in shackles, for heaven’s sake. I heard she killed a man.”
A twitter through the rest as they discussed man-killer Marie in shackles. They reminded me of chickens. They really did.
“She didn’t kill anybody,” I said. “Besides, what does it matter how she was brought in? Some of us were shackled when we first came here. Weren’t we?”
Nods and clucks as the chickens around the circle agreed with me. Phillipa looked furious for a second, but pulled herself together.
“It’s just that you need to be protected,” she said, and for the moment her voice sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “You know how delicate you are. How prone to depression.”
A moment of silence as all the chickens turned and stared at me, to see how I was going to respond to the “delicate” shot.
She almost got me with that one. My mother had always called me delicate, and I hated it. “You’re an artist,” she’d say. “That’s why you react so strongly to the world outside. You need to be protected, because you’re delicate. Stay with me.” Until she dumped me at this place, of course.
I glared at Phillipa, then shook my head to clear it. I didn’t need to play her game. In fact, it would be better for me if I didn’t.
“What about you, Phillipa?” I asked. “You’ve already been to see her once. Maybe you should stay away from her, too. For your own good, of course.”
“I can handle her,” Phillipa said, and I could hear the edge creep back into her voice. No more butter melting for her. “I think I can use her to get us more leeway out in the world.”
I didn’t like the idea of Phillipa controlling Marie. She was a beautiful flower that needed to be loved and adored. She was not a tool for us to use. Well, not for all of us to use, anyhow.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. I tried to keep my voice calm, reasonable, so Phillipa—and perhaps some of the others—couldn’t say that I was losing control. All Phillipa did was sneer.
“And what’s wrong with that idea?” she asked. “Most of us died in Building Thirteen, so I think we should be able to go back to it, and do the things we want to do, without the interference of the living.”
“Phillipa, this is about the TV, isn’t it?” I asked. “Well, that’s just nuts—”
Phillipa reacted the way she always reacted. Explosively. “I am not nuts!” she yelled. “You’re the one who’s nuts!”
I’d gone too far and I knew it. I was going to say a quick “I’m sorry,” but she glared at me, looking like she wished she could tear me apart with her bare hands, so I kept quiet.
“You aren’t the one who should be dealing with her,” she said again, her voice sounding as strained, as barely in control, as she looked. “I’ll do it. I’m stronger than you. Stronger than her. I’ll deal with her.”
She looked around at the rest, and not one of them met her gaze. Even Miranda looked like she was counting calories in her head—one of her favourite pastimes—to make absolutely certain she did not lock eyes with Phillipa.
“See?” Phillipa said, looking back at me. “They all agree. Don’t go near her again, until I’ve made sure she’s not a danger to us.”
“I’m not staying away from her,” I said. “I don’t know what your game is, but I’ll see Marie whenever I want.”
“I don’t think you will,” Phillipa replied. “I think you’ll do what’s right.”
“Screw you!” I cried, and finally got up the courage to leave.
But as I walked away, I knew that wouldn’t be the last of this issue. Phillipa wanted to have Marie to herself, and so did I.
“We’ll see who wins,” I muttered.
Marie:
My Schedule
THE FIRST NURSE I’d dealt with was back the next morning, and she pulled me from my latest round of nightmares with a quick shake.
“Stop the noise,” she said. “You’re upsetting the rest of the floor.”
“Sorry,” I muttered as I tried to pull myself together. I felt like I hadn’t had a bit of sleep, but the nightmares were still rolling through my head, so I knew that I’d at least been unconscious long enough to have them. My mouth was pasty dry and I felt a head ache forming behind my right eye. “Can I have a drink of water?”
“Help yourself,” she said, and then she watched me carefully as I pulled myself upright and scrabbled with the plastic pitcher. At first, my hands couldn’t remember how to work but I finally managed to get a bit of water into the glass. I drank, and it felt like ambrosia to my poor parched throat, then set down the glass and sighed.
“I’d love a cup of coffee,” I said.
“No. Sorry,” she said. But she didn’t sound sorry, and I decided I hated her just a little bit. “You get breakfast. And I’m going to stay with you to make sure you eat every bite.”
> Ah, so the eating disorder diagnosis on the fly had made it to my file. Delightful.
“Am I getting out of this room?” I asked.
“After breakfast,” she said, and turned on her heel. It squeaked, and then she was gone. I was pretty sure I hadn’t heard the lock engage, but before I could pull myself together enough to check, she was back, with a tray. She set it on the small bedside table.
“Eat,” she said.
So, I did.
Actually, it wasn’t too bad. I was absolutely famished, which helped, but even though the oatmeal—sans milk, because apparently, I was still a vegan—tasted like brown sugar infused glue, it filled me up. There was a small can of something next to the oatmeal bowl, and I picked it up and shook it. Liquid.
I looked at the nurse, but she didn’t respond past saying, “Drink it.”
So, good little soldier that I was, I did.
The ghost with the eating disorder was right. It tasted like chocolate flavoured chalk, but it filled the space in my stomach that the oatmeal hadn’t, and for the first time since I got here, I felt full.
“Thank you,” I said. “That hit the spot.”
If I was hoping the nurse was going to give me an “Atta girl”, I was sorely mistaken. All she did was pick up the small container full of pills sitting on the tray next to the empty oatmeal bowl. She handed them to me, her face stern like she was expecting an outburst from me.
“Take them,” she said. She didn’t even offer me water like Nurse Melodie had, so I reached past the tray and poured myself another small glass. Threw the pills into my mouth and downed them with the water, which no longer tasted like ambrosia but like stale plastic.
“Open your mouth so I can see you aren’t cheating,” she said. After I obediently did so, she picked up the tray and walked through the door without another word. This time, I did hear the lock catch. And then, I was alone.
She’d said I was getting out of the room after breakfast and I’d done everything she’d asked, but here I was, still locked in this frigging room. The oatmeal and chocolate flavoured chalk drink formed a lump in my stomach that felt truly horrible.
A ghost I’d never met before wandered in. He was a middle-aged guy, in pretty good shape aside from the ugly twist to his neck that told me he’d broken it. He was wearing the regulation blue pyjamas, and he smiled at me.
“My name is Richard,” he said. “But you can call me Dick. I heard you can talk to us. Can you?”
“Yes,” I said. I took another small sip of the dead tasting water, to pull myself together. “Do you need something, Dick?”
He tittered. “I do indeed,” he said. “I need you to get a note to my wife, Matilda. She needs to know that I’m here, and that I’m in need.”
“In need of what?” I asked.
“Why, sexual release, of course,” he said, and smiled brightly. “Will you help me?”
Oh God.
IT TOOK THE damned pills a lot longer to kick in than they should have as far as I was concerned, and I had to listen to Richard—Dick, and now I understood why he preferred to use that name—tell me everything he wanted to do to his poor wife.
He didn’t even give me a chance to tell him to shut up, or anything. He just kept droning on and on about oral sex—her on him, I noticed, not ever the other way around—culminating in “the final act,” which seemed to involve a swing and leather boots.
Finally, his voice started cutting in and out like an old-time radio, and then I couldn’t hear him anymore.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” I said. I saw him mouth “Dick,” and I nodded. “Right. Dick. Sorry. I can’t hear you anymore. It’s the medication they’ve got me on.”
He looked disappointed, like he had a bunch more he wanted to tell me to write down in that note I was supposed to get to his wife, even though I didn’t have a pen or paper. Then he shrugged cheerfully, and waved good-bye.
I felt my heart drop when he mouthed, “See you later.” But finally, he was gone, and I was alone again.
I heard the lock click open, and then the nasty nurse was back. “Why haven’t you tidied up?” she said. “You have morning group, and if you don’t hurry, you’ll be late.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize—”
“Well, hurry,” she said, cutting me off. “At least do something with your hair. You look like a wild woman, and that will not do.”
“Sorry,” I said, but I wasn’t. I was pissed. She hadn’t told me what was happening next, and now she was giving me hell for not being ready? That wasn’t fair.
I flailed my way off the bed, went to the small dresser, opened the top drawer and pulled out my brush. I did my best to calm my hair down, then looked for my housecoat. Finally saw it hanging over the metal footboard of my bed and pulled it on.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“About time,” she replied. “Don’t make me wait again.” Then she marched out of the room without looking back at me once. She’d left the door open so I surmised, quick study that I am, that I was supposed to follow her.
I stumbled after her, the wide hallways and shiny floors messing with my head just as badly as they had the day before. But this nurse didn’t turn around to see how I was doing. She just marched along, double quick, to the rec area and then beyond, and I had to stumble behind her, trying to keep up. A waking nightmare.
She finally stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway.
“In here,” she said, pointing at the door.
“You’re not coming with me?” I asked. In spite of the fact that she was being a real bitch about everything, I felt a sudden thrill of fear. Who was in there, waiting for me?
“No,” she said. “Just you.” She smiled, but there was nothing comforting about it. “Get in there and meet your group,” she said.
So, I did what I was told. I opened the door and walked into that room, to meet my therapy group.
SHORT VERSION? IT was kind of horrible. The ten people sitting in a circle all turned and stared at me as I shuffled into the room.
“Marie?” one of them asked.
He was dressed in suit pants and a dress shirt, with a wildly coloured tie and a white lab coat to bring his look all together. He was the big kahuna. The doctor who was running the show.
So, I smiled my best glad to meet you smile. “Guilty as charged,” I said.
He plastered a gentle smile on his face. I guessed he thought it would help, but it really didn’t. “You’re late,” he said. “Please try to be on time from now on.”
“You do know that I’m in a locked room, right?” I replied. “So, it’s not really up to me.”
His smile tightened as he pointed to the only empty chair in the circle. “I understand,” he said. “Please sit, so we can get started.”
I sat, and he introduced everyone to me. Basically, what I got was a first name and diagnosis. A guy named Wilbur, who sat next to me, was there because he had suicidal ideation, whatever that was. Brigette, who sat next to him, was a cutter. That’s not what the doc called it, but I could see the scars on her arms, and guessed. Then Cindy, who believed her dog was trying to kill her, and Ralph, who believed his wife was trying to kill him, and then Otto, who was schizophrenic.
“Yep,” he said. “I hear voices and the whole nine yards. Glad to finally meet someone else who has those abilities, too.”
Was he talking about me? I couldn’t tell, because he didn’t look at me. He looked at Cindy and sneered. “Like a dog can talk,” he said. Cindy shrivelled into herself, whining and chewing on her knuckle.
“That’s enough,” the doctor said. “I’ve told you before—”
“Don’t look down on the bizarro shit of others,” Otto said, and smiled.
“Now you know that’s not what I told you,” the doc said. “Please, Otto. Be polite.”
“Will do, Doc,” Otto said, and sat back in his chair. He was obviously well pleased and cackled laughter so loudly to himself, I missed
the next couple of names and diagnoses. The doc eventually gave him the “Stop it now or you’ll get some quiet time,” talk, and that finally shut him up. I wondered what quiet time was and decided I didn’t want to know.
“And here beside me are Jill and Nancy,” the doc said, pointing vaguely at the two women in the chairs next to him. One was young, one was old, and neither of them looked up as he said their names. I watched them both carefully as the doc told us what was wrong with them, but neither of them moved. Just stared down at their slippers, their lank hair hanging over their eyes like curtains blocking the rest of us out.
“And my name is Dr. Erickson,” the doc said.
“Gonna tell her what’s wrong with you?” Otto cackled, and the doctor’s smile tightened even further.
“What did I tell you, Otto?” he asked.
“That if I didn’t shut my mouth I’d get quiet time,” Otto said, and for once there was no laughter in his voice. “Sorry, Doc.”
Dr. Erickson ignored him and turned to me. “Can I ask you to introduce yourself to everyone?” he asked.
“I guess,” I said. I looked out at the rest of the group and saw that only half of them were paying attention to me at all. The rest had gone somewhere else, staring at the floor, or their shoes, or, like Jill and Nancy, hiding behind their greasy brown hair. “Should I stand up?”
“Not necessary,” Dr. Erickson said.
“OK. My name is Marie,” I said. “And, it’s nice to meet you all.”
That got their attention. Well, the ones who were willing to look up at me, anyhow. I thought I heard an impatient noise from the doctor and turned to him.
“What?” I asked.
“You must tell them why you are here,” he said, gently. “Your reason for being in group. And in the hospital.”